The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven

by Peter Orullian

  After several minutes of consideration, Gynedo put a placard down on the table in front of him. Both Jastail and Ariana looked surprised at the play. The placard held the image, rendered in red, of a serpent with great wings.

  “To you, then, Jastail,” the old man said, taking pleasure in his pipe and smiling around its stem.

  Jastail spared a look at Ariana, touched one placard, then quickly removed the leftmost one in his hand and set it before him. It was Gynedo’s turn to show surprise, but only in the raising of one brow. The old man nodded, then shook his head, still smiling around his pipe.

  Ariana’s face showed nothing, and she did not hesitate in making her play, immediately putting down a placard bearing the same symbol as Jastail’s.

  “One round,” Gynedo said. “What have you to carry you to the next?”

  Jastail removed an earring from his belt that bore the likeness of a tall woman.

  “Most impressive,” the old man said. “It was you that did it, then.” He nodded appreciatively.

  Ariana turned baleful eyes on him. Jastail did not favor her with a return look. The woman’s composure failed for only a moment, though, before she removed a glove from a small silken bag tied to her wrist. Woven of metal shavings, the warrior’s glove shimmered in the light.

  “He went to battle for you, dear Ariana,” Gynedo said. “How better suited to play the game is a woman, don’t you agree, Jastail?”

  Wendra’s captor looked at Ariana, whose obvious hatred now burned through cold, inscrutable eyes.

  “We shall see,” Jastail finished.

  The old man laid a small drawing on the table, rendered in an unpracticed hand, like that of a child’s. A hush fell over all who saw the wager. “That gets me to round two. Does anyone disagree?” No one spoke. “I will accept that as my invitation to continue.”

  Another round of placards was laid down, and again each of the players produced an item that seemed to shock those gathered to watch. Wendra didn’t immediately understand the significance of the objects being used to buy the players an opportunity to present another placard, but her mind danced close to understanding that they represented people in some way, and that the literal value of the item was secondary to what it signified.

  Around they went, laying six cards on the table. Each time was followed by some token that appeared to be the personal effect of someone the wagerer had known.

  Then Wendra understood, looking at the pile of items on the table: a mourner’s kerchief, a child’s diary, an author’s quill, a worn doll, a stringless fiddle, and more. Things she’d seen them presenting and discussing in the back room before the game began. These were tokens of loss, of emotional pain, of death, the voices of which were the sounds of silence and sorrow, of life’s sacrifice and bereavement. And somehow these gamblers were the cause or custodians of these moments of grief and regret, gamblers whose souls were so hardened to the effects of money and wine that all that remained worth betting—that could stir their desire to wager—was the despair and tragedy represented in the offerings heaped on the table before them.

  Only human suffering seemed able to move them, and perhaps thereby convince them of their own lives.

  Wendra’s heart ached with the knowledge.

  “Young friends, you’ve played well,” Gynedo said with a hint of condescension. “But your placards don’t make a strong bid against your last play.” He leaned back and drew deeply on his pipe. “There is only small shame in getting up from the table. But to do so, I require you to take back your wagers.”

  The few men who had first gathered to watch gasped. Gynedo seemed to be demeaning their efforts to play the game and devaluing their wagers. Wendra guessed that in doing so, the players lost more than the game, they lost reputation. Gynedo was mocking them.

  Then Jastail smiled, as wicked a smile as Wendra had yet seen upon his lips. “Not I, old friend. I will turn my last placard.”

  Ariana studied the placards on the table, appearing to weigh her chances. She looked at Jastail and Wendra, then nodded that she, too, would play to the last.

  “Your will to do,” Gynedo said. “Then what shall be the prize that gets you your last turn?” He took his pipe from his mouth and watched Jastail with curious eyes.

  Jastail looked at the old man, his cunning gaze holding back something, a secret that he seemed to enjoy not immediately sharing. Ariana leveled her icy glare on him, an angry beauty in her that Wendra admired. The entire area again fell silent, players pausing to hear the last turn even if they could not see the play.

  As he leaned forward, Jastail’s chair creaked loudly in the suddenly quiet room. He seemed to want a close look at Gynedo’s face as he put in his last wager.

  He slowly reached for Wendra, taking her again by the wrist and drawing her toward the table. “And with this, I buy my last turn.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Names of the Dead

  Vendanj sat across from Ne’Pheola in the darkest, smallest hours of the night. By the light of a solitary candle, they worked. Through the rug door, the cold encroached, leaving his writing hand slightly more pained after the cramp of putting the stylus to such long use.

  But he would have none other write these names.

  It took time, because he would not add a name to the parchment until he’d asked Ne’Pheola to relate the story of both the one that was gone and the one left behind. He would know of the severed union, and to do so, both halves must be understood. These marriages, which had borne a promise binding two people together beyond this life, had also been torn asunder by the the power of the Whited One. For Vendanj, perhaps the most nefarious of Quietus’s evils was that even in his victories, he would not leave those fallen a happiness beyond death.

  And so one by one, in the soft tones of mourners, Vendanj and Ne’Pheola told the stories of the fallen, and the barren life of the other half that remained behind. The long hours stretched, but Ne’Pheola went on, and Vendanj recorded the names thoughtfully.

  For much of the night those names were drawn from wars with the Quiet. But after a time, the names on the page reflected the will of men to execute Sheason for the use of their gift, even when done in service.

  Ne’Pheola drew a tepid cup of water to wet her dry throat and to steady the emotion that crept there as the names now were friends, even her own. “I still do not understand, Vendanj. What power is there in this law that should make the execution of a Sheason everlastingly final for him and his wife?”

  Vendanj paused, laying down the stylus at last and putting his fingers near the candle’s flame to urge some warmth into them. “I do not yet know,” he answered. “I used to believe that part of it was that, as servants, we have bound ourselves to honor those we serve. That we should not act contrary to the laws they use to govern themselves and define what is right and good.”

  “But you—”

  Vendanj held up a hand. “I know. That is why I say I used to believe this. It is at best only half an answer. I have not been able to discern the reason.” Then he said lower, “I am sorry.”

  The widow stretched a cold hand across to him, and they locked fingers beside the candle. They remained unspeaking for some time.

  “If the law was rescinded,” Ne’Pheola asked, “would it remake the bonds that have been severed?”

  Vendanj looked into her eyes. They were etched deeply with lines of grief and sorrow felt over many years. She had once been beautiful, once the flower of Estem Salo. He wanted to give her hope, wanted to see the radiance again, as he had long ago. Her warmth had once done much to make serving as Sheason a more joyful and estimable calling. But he would not give her false hope, for such was the torment of the damned.

  “I don’t know, Anais. I do not believe so. Some things cannot be remade. A nail can be removed from a piece of wood, but the hole it created remains. I cannot see if repealing the law would also give the wood its wholeness again.” Vendanj saw despair etch itself deeper into the li
nes of her face, and he couldn’t leave her with that. “But I will hope with you,” he said. “And I am on my errand to do everything in my power to put an end to the Quiet that threatens all our futures.”

  Then briefly, he saw it. The flower of Estem Salo. And in that small hope, he was doubly paid for any loss he might suffer farther down the road.

  “You have much to give, Anais. Why don’t you return to the Halls of the Servants? There is yet wisdom and strength in you that could train a new generation—”

  It was Ne’Pheola’s turn to raise a hand, cutting Vendanj off. “They are kind words, Sheason, but I do not think my heart could bear it. And more than this, these here”—she tapped the parchment on the table—“have need of whatever strength I have left. Some days are a struggle to convince them that they should want to see another sky.”

  Vendanj did not press. This he understood well enough. Yet he also understood that this list might bear fruit when he carried it into the Scar, where yet others bore the sentence of endless, lifeless days.

  And so after a long moment, sharing without words the separate griefs and burdens they each bore, Vendanj again took up his stylus and they resumed recording the names of Sheason widows. With each name the magnitude and toll of their service mounted, the document growing. The weight of it thickened the air.

  The list they created whispered of the abyss, and he wished that there’d never been need to create it.

  Wished especially, as the last name he put to it would be his own.

  * * *

  Mira leaned against the outer wall of Ne’Pheola’s home in the dark of predawn. She surveyed the street, the land beyond the last homes, the sky. Now she understood why Tahn took to the dark for his moments of solace. The peace of a sleeping world before lying tongues and dire threats came into the day was something to be savored.

  In those few moments Mira forgot the Quiet, forgot even the changes coming for her and the Far. Mira stood in the still serenity with no need to do other than breathe and listen.

  “You don’t sleep, do you?” Ne’Pheola shuffled into the street to stand beside her. Her voice, though soft, seemed loud in the silence.

  “Return to your bed. I will watch here,” Mira said.

  “I’ve been up at this hour for more years than you’ve drawn breath, Mira Far. That’s not going to change now.” The old woman leaned against the wall with Mira, and stared out upon the unwaking world.

  Together they shared the calm for some time before the widow spoke again, her words so soft this time that Mira had to strain to hear her.

  “Do you know where your road ends, my girl?”

  Mira understood that she meant the journey they all had undertaken. “If it ends prematurely, no.”

  Ne’Pheola might have smiled in the darkness. “You will go into the belly of the Quiet if you would see this thing done. And for my part, I hope that’s where you go. It’s selfish of me, but I believe I’ve earned a wedge of selfishness for my own burdens.”

  “I think we’re all going to come to the belly of the Quiet before we are through.” Mira did not say it lightly. She’d thought on this.

  “We might at that,” the widow said, nodding. “We might at that. But here’s the question: Is it your intention and heart to stand at the Sheason’s side to see it done?” Mira started to answer when Ne’Pheola held up her hand. “I don’t need an answer, girl. I only want you to have considered the question. Vendanj will make an enemy of himself to most before this is done.”

  “Enemy,” Mira repeated. It wasn’t a word she’d ever attributed to the Sheason. He was a hard man at times, driven and uncompromising. But those qualities were the reason she’d joined him some four years ago.

  Ne’Pheola looked up, surveying the stars above Widows Village. “The world is changing. The things a Sheason stands for, his service and sacrifice, are considered by many to be at best irrelevant, at worst criminal. The Quiet stirs, and this, Mira Far, is not simply another war. The very instruments we have always had to protect ourselves—the Song of Suffering, the Tract of Desolation, the Will itself—are under attack from within our own borders.”

  Mira followed the widow’s gaze skyward. “You speak of the League.”

  “Not only of the league, my girl.” Ne’Pheola sighed. “If you intend to stand beside Vendanj to the end, you will stand not only against the secrets held deep inside the Bourne. You, child, will stand against nations and kings. Yes, the League, as well. But before it is over … the very Order of Sheason.”

  Mira stared intently at the old woman, waiting for her to explain.

  Ne’Pheola remained silent for a time, taking in those stars as if she’d never seen them before. Then she looked at Mira again. “I have seen and felt this even just this last evening as I sat with the man. A terrific burden he has placed on his shoulders. You must decide if you are truly yoked with him to carry it. Yes, you’ve brought hope out of the Hollows.” The widow paused, a grave look passing over her eyes. “But hope often fails. Vendanj knows this. He seeks to surround himself with those hardened enough to come against these threats and who will not falter. And that, my girl, will mean looking into the faces of those you’ve esteemed as friends and being willing to do what is necessary.”

  Ne’Pheola stopped. She rubbed her eyes slowly, then looked heavenward again. “Before it is done, your friend there will likely become a fugitive, and yet his heart will remain fixed upon the goal. A goal that would see the world safe again. Safe from the Quiet. These things, Mira Far, are not trivial. And one who makes them his purpose must know on whom he can rely. This is why he can be cruel; there is no middle ground. His foot is upon a path from which he will not stray. And it is why this old woman will carry a thought of hope for her lost family when you leave here.”

  Mira pondered all Ne’Pheloa had said. At times she and the Sheason had disagreed, and while he trusted many things to Mira, if he set himself on something, there was no further debate. In fact, that quality had made them compatible.

  But Ne’Pheola’s words fell like prophecy on the stillness of Widows Village. Standing against Sheason, looking into the faces she’d esteemed as friends and doing what was necessary—these were dark portents to Mira’s heart. It amounted to a war against all of creation on both sides of the veil. There could be no victory for them in such a cause. How the widow could feel hope against such hopelessness escaped Mira.

  But that was not the question.

  Had Mira considered where this ended?

  The answer came when Ne’Pheola spoke again into the stillness. “And what of your own family, Mira Far? You are come to the age to bear your own heritage a child, are you not?”

  Mira remained undecided on the choice her king would put to her when next they spoke. And the thought of it brought fresh sadness about the death of her sister. But regardless of what Mira decided about bearing an heir, the larger choice seemed clear. The Far would need no heir if the purpose she set out to aid the Sheason with fell to ruin. On the other hand, perhaps the Far and their commission would have a larger part to play in Vendanj’s plans than she could now see; and if so, they would indeed need an heir.

  She desired to go into the belly of the nightmare on either side of the veil to stand beside the Sheason and the children out of the Hollows. But Mira knew that part of her motivation was selfish, even as Ne’Pheola had just self-ascribed; only for Mira, her selfishness had more to do with escaping family than preserving it.

  Mira wondered, though, about Ne’Pheola’s other words. She wondered which friends she might be called on to lift her sword against.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Inveterae

  Cheers continued to erupt to the right, noise and laughter and applause rising from the great luminous tents. But Tahn ignored them, shuffling Sutter away from the throng. The feeling changed as they walked toward a distant part of the field. Tahn’s skin began to tingle with goose bumps—a warning and expectation. What is in there? But he di
d not falter, and the two friends made their way to the low, darkened tent hoping to find help from the Bourne.

  “Some taste in entertainment you have,” Sutter slurred, and nearly fell.

  His weight hung on Tahn, making it difficult to walk. But Tahn managed to get them to the flap of the tent, where he stopped dead, staring at the most captivating woman he had ever seen.

  She stood leaning against the stand at the tent’s entrance. A sign nailed to the front of the stand read: STAY TWO STRIDES FROM THE CAGES.

  Her long curly hair was drawn back in a tail. Tight-fitting leather trousers, cut extremely low across her hips, clung to her calves and thighs. Her blouse plumed in the sleeves, but stretched across her bosom and ended above her ribs, showing a lean stomach. She could only have been a few years older than Tahn and Sutter, but the experience he saw in her face made her look more exotic yet. Her brow rose with impatience over large, brown eyes and a delicate nose.

  “Find what you’re looking for?” The woman used the tip of a knife to clean her nails, sparing an occasional glance at them.

  Regaining his composure, Tahn wasn’t sure how to ask. If she knew his desperation, the lucre in this woman’s eye might be beyond his ability to pay. She was tenendra-folk, after all. He could see her already sizing them up. Before he could concoct a lie, she uttered a warning.

  “I suggest you speak true words when you open your lips, boy, or your friend here is likely to gather some scars.” With her dagger she delicately caressed Sutter’s lips, which now hung loose, wet with spittle.