The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven

by Peter Orullian

  “To be confirmed a Sheason,” Vendanj went on, “is to accept the responsibility of wielding the power of the Will. The authority cannot be claimed; it must be conferred by those who already possess it to a pupil worthy to bear such a mantle.”

  Mira tossed two pieces of wood into the fire. “It is a noble call, sodalist, but not all those who receive it live to know its worth.” She stared at him across the fire, her grey eyes bright and knowing.

  “She is right,” Vendanj said. “But you must understand this first.” He touched an open palm to his chest. “We ourselves are Forda I’Forza. Our physical bodies are one half; thought and feeling the other half. For some this second part is known as the spirit or soul. In the covenant language, it is called us’ledia. But it is all Forda.”

  He lowered his eyes and took a handful of dirt from the earth between his feet. “The Will was not intended to be drawn upon and used to influence this age, or any age since the High Season when the Noble Ones walked among us and used the Will to give form and variety to the land. It was their first hope that there be balance sufficient in this world that men would strive together to know the Will without trying to manipulate it.

  “But while the Great Fathers yet held council at the Tabernacle of the Sky, the One put at odds all they had hoped to achieve. The peace begun in that blessed age started to fail.”

  Vendanj looked away, the words distasteful in his mouth. Flaring eyes returned to Braethen.

  “It was the Sheason who kept the dream of the Fathers alive. The Sheason were those who served the First Ones with untiring arms and perfect conviction. No power did they wield, only the desire to serve, to assist, to sustain. Sheason means ‘servant’ in the covenant tongue.” He took a deep breath and let the dirt slip from his palm as though it were sand in a time-glass. Then he gathered Braethen’s attention with a hard stare. “The world all but surrendered itself, becoming wicked and craven, and the age that followed the departure of the Fathers was given its name for it. It was a dark season, when the veil was thin and the emissaries of the One wrought havoc and destruction over most of the kingdoms south of the Pall.

  “When all seemed lost, a Sheason known as Palamon rose in battle against Jo’ha’nel—the first dark messiah out of the Bourne—and defeated the beast. Palamon was a simple servant who had studied the writings left behind when the scola—the first disciples and scholars of the Framers—fled their colleges after the Fathers departed. He learned how to vender the Will, to use its power to direct change and organize matter. But he could do so only because he had been deemed a servant by the First Ones, and so was conferred the ability to render.”

  Vendanj paused, lending weight to what he said next. “That ability came with a price.”

  Several long moments later, he continued. “Since matter and energy can be neither created nor destroyed, to draw upon the Will in order to change things as they are requires an expenditure of Forda I’Forza. The Sheason were ordained to serve the land and its people; they were entrusted with this authority by the Fathers, and Palamon would not abrogate that trust. So he drew the power of the Will from himself, costing so much of his own Forda I’Forza that he could never fully recover. All those who have come after him have honored this covenant of personal sacrifice.”

  Braethen stared with wide eyes in amazement. “Then each time you draw upon the Will, you die a little?”

  Vendanj said nothing, but Mira’s eyes answered Braethen plainly. The Far rose and glared across the fire at Braethen. “Mark well what has been added to your understanding this night, sodalist. It is dangerous knowledge. It inspires your compassion and admiration, I can see, but joining yourself to this cause has put a price on your head.” She stopped, the sound of her words replaced by the yowl of coyotes in the prairies to the west and the crackle of pine boughs in the fire between them.

  Braethen’s hand tightened instinctively upon his blade.

  Mira noticed his whitened knuckles. “Well enough, sodalist. Tomorrow then. We will show you better use of that steel.”

  Mira left the fire, disappearing in an instant beyond the circle of its glow. Braethen knew he would not see her again until morning. He still had so many questions. Some of the gaps in the accounts he’d studied had been filled, but what of himself? What of the Sodality? And he desperately wanted to know what had happened in the mist when he’d taken hold of the sword.

  He turned to Vendanj. “What of me? What of—”

  “Not tonight, sodalist,” Vendanj interrupted. “Sleep. We will talk of these things again. But now we need our rest. We have a longer route to Recityv than the others, stops to make.”

  “The Scar,” Braethen said.

  “And before that, Widow’s Village.” The Sheason’s voice became thoughtful, soft. “We have names to record.…”

  The Sheason lay down and soon his breathing slowed. But Braethen’s mind would not be quieted. For hours into the night, he sat pondering the words Vendanj had spoken. What was Widow’s Village? What names did he speak of? But mostly, Braethen worried that every time he used the sword lying in his lap, the darkness would return.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Tenendra

  The land and sky turned bronze as the sun began to fall toward night. Shadows lengthened and the hazy light of end of day rose over the full-bellied roll of the land north of the High Plains. The trees became dark shapes, and the whir of cricket song came as the heavens exposed themselves again.

  But Tahn and Sutter did not fully stop until Sutter fell from his saddle.

  They’d ridden for many hours, pausing only when the horses’ legs had flagged beneath them. They’d allowed their mounts a brief rest to drink and graze a bit. Then they’d continued toward the east. Tahn had ridden with his injured foot free of the stirrup. The pain of the spines in his sole sharpened with Jole’s every stride, but bothered him less with his foot unrestrained. And unable to concentrate, Tahn followed Sutter’s lead.

  Until his friend tumbled.

  Tahn jumped from Jole’s back, taking care to lessen the impact on his damaged foot. He got to Sutter’s side. His friend lay on his stomach, his nose in the dirt, the spiked ball bloody and still protruding from his back. But the bleeding had been relatively light. Sutter’s fall had not resulted from loss of blood.

  “I feel weak.” Sutter’s words came soft. Too soft, even after having fallen.

  Something on the spikes?

  Tahn looked around, panic seizing him.

  They were alone. There was no help.

  “Let’s sleep here,” Sutter said. Something in his voice struck Tahn’s mind like a warning. Don’t let him slip into sleep. Keep him talking.

  “How about you stand your lazy ass up? I could use some help. My foot’s killing me.” Tahn jostled his friend.

  Sutter managed to look up with a tired smile. “Ah, Woodchuck, stuff that swollen foot of yours into your mouth so I can’t hear you complain.”

  Tahn needed to get Sutter back on his horse. But he’d never do it still hobbled by these spines in his foot. He carefully removed his boot and stocking. The coppery smell of blood rose from the wool sock, sodden with sweat and blood. In the dim twilight, his wounds did not appear too serious. Tahn slowly probed the sole of his foot. He winced when his fingers brushed the entry marks.

  “How about some help with this little prize in my back?” Sutter spoke from behind Tahn, his words slurring a bit.

  “I think it suits you fine. I say we leave it for a while and see if it grows on you.”

  Sutter laughed, and immediately groaned. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts too much.”

  “Never thought I’d hear those words from you.” Tahn stood on his one good foot.

  “Only when you’re telling the joke, Woodchuck. Now about my back.”

  Tahn drew his knife and doubled his cloak in his hand to pull the ball out with a quick yank and toss it aside. It fell to the ground with a thud. Sutter bit back a curse before Tahn tucke
d a cloth in Nails’s shirt and patted his shoulder. “Good as new. You’ll be stooped over the dirt again in no time.”

  Sutter returned a wry half smile and stood, the pain dispelling some of whatever had gotten into his blood. Tahn sat and took a drink from his waterskin, then washed his foot.

  “Ah, Dust and Wind!” Tahn exclaimed.

  “What you whining about now?”

  “I can’t even see the spines. They’re too deep inside.” Tahn continued to probe, grimacing as he touched each buried needle.

  “I can get them out,” Sutter said. “But your cries will be heard all the way back to Hambley’s if I do it.” His lips tugged into a lopsided grin.

  Tahn mocked him. “It’s all those marvelous years plucking twigs from the ground that qualifies you to do surgery on my foot. Is that it? Because if that’s what you’re thinking, forget it. I would rather burn the foot off. It would be less painful.”

  “Your will is your own, Woodchuck.” Sutter made a show of two good feet by stomping down hard on the ground. “My father taught me how to use a short knife to remove the slivers that a professional root-digger such as myself is bound to get working the soil. And those spines are a great deal larger than some of the barbs and thorns I’ve coaxed from my hands.”

  “Have you any of that balsam root to dull the pain?” Tahn asked.

  “I think there’s a bit left if your womanly foot is too delicate to stand for man’s work.”

  Tahn smiled defeat through gritted teeth. “Find the balsam root.”

  As Sutter looked through the saddlebags, Tahn had his first moment of quiet and calm since they entered the mists of Je’holta.

  By the Bourne, what have I done?

  He looked west, the way they’d come, as though he might see Wendra even now in her own flight from the Quiet. Only the hues of sunset there. He thought of her, of the simple life they’d led in the Hollows, of the awful moment of her childbirth … of abandoning her defense then, of leaving her in the dark mists a few hours ago … He hoped she was all right.

  He chastised himself for allowing the mists to get inside his mind, to send him fleeing recklessly away from his friends and causing himself and Sutter to be separated from the others. He wanted to go back and find them, to make sure Wendra was safe. He owed his sister that much.

  But he needed to get Sutter and himself to a healer. Even now he could see his friend’s hands trembling as he searched for the balsam root. Still, the guilt of abandoning her again plagued him. What would Balatin have said? Tahn examined his throbbing foot, delicately fingering the wounds. Sharp pains shot up his leg. Balatin would tell him he was no good to anyone unless he was whole.

  He needed help.

  With unexpected suddenness he missed the Far. He had grown used to her certainty, to seeing her at the edge of camp looking out into the night. He had become accustomed to her unsmiling way, and the sureness with which she moved and spoke and knew what to do.

  If nothing else, Wendra would be safe with Mira and Vendanj to protect her, though unlike the thought of the Far, recalling the Sheason did not comfort him. Tahn sensed that Vendanj had sought him out because Tahn might prove useful or important, not out of regard for his safety.

  Then like a crack of thunder, the images he’d seen in the mists flashed violently in his mind. Tahn pushed them back, refocusing on his sister. He should have made her stay in the Hollows. Whatever danger the Sheason placed him in, Wendra should not share it. But even as he had these thoughts, Tahn knew them to be false. Despite the danger, it had felt right for her to come. He just wanted to find his way back to her as soon as possible. Because after all, perhaps being near her had less to do with keeping her safe and more to do with the mutual comfort they could give each other. As they always had. And moreso now than ever: She with the recent loss of her baby, and Tahn with his growing dread of where this journey was leading him.

  And the sacrifices it may require.

  Tahn then considered Penit, the boy his sister had grown so fond of so fast. The boy’s presence troubled him. Why would the Sheason permit a child to accompany them? The dangers were very real, and this orphan belonged on the boards of a wagon-bed, performing. Now he accompanied a renderer. The Sheason surely had a use for him. The thought of Vendanj’s manipulation burned in Tahn until Sutter returned, hefting two roots in his hand.

  “Here,” Sutter said, and threw a root at Tahn.

  The root hit him in the stomach. “Such compassion.” The words came out more bitterly than he’d intended—thoughts of the Sheason still lingered in his mind.

  Tahn stripped the shoots from the main root, then broke the root in two. He ate the first half, grimacing at the bitter taste.

  “You’re a picture of loveliness,” Sutter said, pulling a short knife from his own boot.

  “And you’re a credit to dirt everywhere, Nails—” Tahn gagged on the root. He forced himself to swallow.

  “Eat the other half,” Sutter admonished. “It’s a thin root. You’ll want it all if the pain is as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

  Tahn frowned and put the second half in his mouth.

  “Chew it,” Sutter said. “It works faster that way.” Sutter took his own root and gobbled it up.

  Tahn bit into the balsam and quickly chewed it into small pieces before swallowing. “How long until you can start?”

  “The balsam won’t dull the pain of getting them out, just the throb once we’re done.” Sutter was slurring his words again.

  “Come here,” Tahn said. “Let me check your back.”

  Sutter turned. “Why?”

  Tahn slapped Sutter’s wound, eliciting a yowl. “What in all your days was that about?” Nails complained.

  “Something was on those spikes, Sutter. I don’t know what it was, but you’re slurring your words and your hands are trembling. The sting keeps you sharp. Now, get these spines out, and try not to enjoy causing me pain. Then let’s find some help for us both.”

  A look of disbelief on his friend’s face quickly changed to worry. Sutter sat, lifting Tahn’s foot to the last light of day. The smile left Nails’s face as he carefully put the blade against one thumb and started on the punctures near the toes. He folded back a flap of skin, and pressed the knife into the wound. Terrible pain shot up Tahn’s leg. He muffled a cry, and in a second, Sutter lifted the first spine for Tahn to see.

  “Not bad for a root-digger, wouldn’t you say?” Sutter commented, though his face held no hint of humor.

  Tahn gritted his teeth against the next operation. One by one Sutter removed the other spines, and as he did he began to speak in a faraway voice. This, Tahn thought, was not the poison on the spiked ball, but remembrance.

  “This was my father’s knife when he was a boy,” Sutter said, holding up the bloodied blade along with another spine dug from Tahn’s foot. “He gave it to me when I saw my tenth Northsun. Told me a good knife and a bit of root knowledge was all a man needed.”

  “He’s a good man,” Tahn offered.

  “I know.” Sutter nodded, returning to his task. “And he was always good to me. Never said a bad word about the parents that left me. Never asked more or less of me than he did of Garon.” Sutter was quiet a moment, as if thinking of his stepbrother. “He needs me on that farm,” he said, mostly to himself.

  Tahn heard guilt beneath the words.

  “We’ll go home eventually,” Tahn offered.

  Sutter looked up and caught Tahn’s eyes, a question passing unspoken between them: Neither of them knew if they’d ever get home again. He worked another spine out of Tahn’s foot. Then he stopped, and stared at the knife. “It wasn’t for shame of him or my mother that I never said anything about being adopted, Tahn. I want you to know that. Never of them. It was … it was the parents who left me to begin with. That’s what I didn’t want … I love my father, my mother. I wanted to come with you, yes, but I love them … I do. They were never anything but kind to me.”

  �
��You’re a good son to them, Sutter.”

  “Am I?” Tahn’s friend squeezed back sudden tears. “They don’t deserve the hardship of that farm without my help.” Then softer. “Maybe the Sheason is right. Maybe putting my hands in the loam should have been noble enough.”

  Sutter’s words were painfully clear. No poison, Tahn thought, could have dulled them.

  “Your secret is new to me,” Tahn said, “but it’s not the reason you left the Hollows. Remember what Vendanj said. Staying there would have put them in danger.” Sutter looked up. Tahn nodded. “They know you love them.”

  In the dying light, Sutter looked at Tahn a long moment, then nodded. His grimy face showed the vaguest hint of a smile.

  “Now, can we get on with it?” Tahn concluded, pulling them out of the past. Sutter’s smile came on full.

  The last two spines felt as though they slid from bone-deep inside Tahn’s foot. The pain in the flesh of his sole was excruciating. When Sutter finished, Tahn’s body fell limp. His foot throbbed while his friend gently wrapped it with several lengths of cloth torn from the hem of his shirt. Sutter then helped him into his saddle, and the two friends turned east and rode hard enough that the jouncing of their mounts kept their pain fresh.

  * * *

  The terrain undulated in long, rolling hills and vales. As darkness descended more fully, the pain in Tahn’s foot grew. When they came upon a road stretching north and south, Sutter reined in his horse. As Tahn looked both directions, Sutter handed him another balsam root.

  “Eat and be well, Woodchuck.” This time his friend’s words slurred badly.

  “Your face is pain enough to need this bitter medicine.”

  “You’re feeling better, I can tell. Any thoughts?” Sutter pointed up and down the road.

  “Yeah,” Tahn replied. “But your face would still be ugly.” Tahn looked both directions again and turned Jole north. After another hour, they crested a low rise and found a town nestled in a narrow vale. Firelight flickered in windows like light-flies, and people ambled along the streets. A few rode in overland carriages—the type built strong for long journeys that might encounter highwaymen.