The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven

by Peter Orullian

  “That is only part of it, but yes.”

  “The others do not accord the opinions of the Maesteri much consideration, but I will return to my seat there if you wish it.” Belamae patted her knee again. “So now I must tell you the truth about these rumors. There is word of Quiet in the land again, yes? That is at the heart of it.”

  Helaina nodded.

  “Then I will tell you that I believe it is true.” The Maesteri uttered a weary sigh, and scrubbed his woolly brows. “The Leiholan are tired. There are few of them left, Helaina. The gift to create with song does not come as often to the family of man as it once did. I have less than a dozen who can sing the Song of Suffering, and they are mostly young and inexperienced. You know the song is long—the entire Tract of Desolation sung without pause takes seven hours, and it must be sung constantly. One Leiholan rests a full day after performing it.”

  “Belamae,” Helaina said, staring at him straight, “do they falter?”

  Her old friend looked back. “Some days, yes.”

  Empathy swelled in her for the keeper of the tract, even as utter dread gripped her. “Then the veil weakens, and the Quiet slips through.”

  Belamae said nothing.

  Helaina handed back the parchments. She did not blame her old friend. The gift of Leiholan was rare to begin with. And not all who possessed the ability to create with song could even learn the Song of Suffering. Fewer still could endure singing of the horror described in the Tract of Desolation. The act of singing it took a heavy toll on the Forda of the one who sang. In some ways, it was remarkable that there were even a handful who could do so.

  And now, this last bulwark against the Quiet, hidden among the rags and filth of Recityv, had begun to fail. The Song kept the veil in place. Without it, the veil would fall.

  “It is time,” Helaina finally said, breaking the ominous stillness that had settled around them.

  The Maesteri met her confident gaze.

  “Time for what, Helaina?”

  She cleared her throat and spoke as the iron hand. “I have recalled the Convocation of Seats. Suitors with dangerous ambition flood our gates, looking for position and alliances. This will take time. And the League has its own agenda. I have instructed General Van Steward to begin recruiting to build his army. But now…” She paused, taking her own fear in hand. “Now the veil, our best defense against the Quiet, is at risk, and I am convinced the Quiet does come into the eastlands. I will leave no request unmade, however dangerous. Do you still deal with the Ta’Opin?”

  Maesteri Belamae nodded in grave understanding. “Yes.”

  “Then send word that I wish an audience.” She took a deep breath. “It is time that we seek the Mor Nation Refrains. Their warsong is written of in the Tract itself, is it not?”

  “It is,” Belamae affirmed. “Helaina, once we start down that path, we cannot turn back from this. Are you sure?”

  The regent fell quiet, listening again to the distant hum of the Song of Suffering. In truth, she’d started down this path long before she’d arrived at the cathedral. She reached out and placed a hand over his. “How soon can we speak with the Ta’Opin?”

  “You know that the refrains are just a part of the need. You still have the problem of finding Leiholan to give voice to those hymns.” He glanced down at the parchments of music—the Song of Suffering—in his other hand. “It isn’t known if the Ta’Opin have kept the Leiholan tradition alive. I’ve had but one Ta’Opin student in many years that has come to me.”

  Then Belamae offered a gentle smile. “But I have not been neglectful of my stewardship … or the changes of late in the Song of Suffering. Even now, I have voices on the roads of men seeking records that might help us find those endowed with the talent.” He squeezed Helaina’s hand. “And there is at least one bright hope out there, my Lady. I have seen her.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The Wilds

  The day cleared steadily as the greater light rose high toward the meridian. Tahn and Sutter walked their horses through Stonemount toward the northern rim. In the full light of day, the empty city left Tahn feeling hollow. Somehow, in the brightness of the sun, the place felt even more alone. The iron-shod hooves of their mounts clopped on the stone street, echoing loudly against the walls. Spaces between the stones showed dead grass, riffled by an occasional gust of wind. That is what it had come to—the glorious city that Tahn imagined as a vibrant center of thought and skill and family still stood tall, but at its edges unruly grass grew and died. All the craftsmanship had become a mere shell left behind when the lives that inhabited it were gone, and each street felt rather like a bone left after a body had decayed.

  They crossed a wide bridge near a riverhead. The weathered emplacements were as solid, Tahn thought, as the day they’d first been set. Along the crystal clear waters, broad granite stairs descended into the river. The stranger paused at the bridge railing and looked out across the river’s course.

  “A place to take comfort from the heat,” the mysterious man said. “Can you practically see the children wading in the water there? Splashing one another and running to hide behind a mother’s legs?”

  The image hit Tahn forcibly. He could think of no better use for the long stone terraces. Along the stair, a number of decanters lay overturned, some broken, many still whole. He imagined that water was fetched here for use in the homes of Stonemount. The simple task of bringing in water to prepare supper reminded him of the Hollows. Though his hometown was far less grand in design and size, its needs, some of them anyway, were every bit the same. Yet the people of Stonemount had left this paradisiacal home. He found himself wondering what their strange companion might discover about their demise. Or what he knew that he wasn’t telling them.

  The water could not be resisted. Tahn dismounted, jogged ahead, and rounded the last bridge post, hopping down the three wide stairs to the water’s edge. He could see the bottom clearly. The scent of the clean, fresh spring caused his mouth to water. He cupped his hand into the stream and drew several mouthfuls. When he finished, Tahn pulled the cap off his waterskin and dipped the opening into the flow. Waiting for the skin to fill, he watched the mirrored reflection of the sky above in the surface: the tops of the tallest buildings west of him, the sky, the bridge, Sutter, and … where was the stranger? Tahn looked more closely, a cold chill running up his arms and down his back. He could see nothing more in the glassy surface.

  His waterskin was full, but he kept it submerged and casually looked up. He saw the man striding from the bridge without looking at Tahn, his movements swift and effortless. It might be foolishness, but he’d thought the man had been standing beside Sutter. He didn’t know what, but there was something dreadfully wrong with this stranger. He turned his attention back to his waterskin, drawing it up and corking it again.

  As casually as he could, Tahn stood and climbed the steps to the end of the bridge, where Sutter joined him.

  “What’s wrong?” Sutter said immediately.

  Tahn shook his head, looking away at the stranger, whose back was still to them.

  “Later,” Tahn whispered and swallowed. “But let’s just keep an eye on our new friend, huh? There’s something about him.”

  “You think that’s news?” Sutter said and threw a light tap to Tahn’s chest with his knuckles. “I don’t trust anything I can’t dig whole from the ground.”

  “Come,” the man called back without sparing them a glance. “We’ve a way yet to go, and the roads get tricky from here on. But never fear, once we reach the wilds, I’m a sure foot to get you to the north canyon.”

  Tahn slung his waterskin over his head and nudged Sutter. He fell in behind the man again, but allowed several extra strides between them this time.

  Late sun was touching the last outbuildings when they suddenly came upon a narrow strip of unoccupied ground, beyond which lay a profusion of trees and brush.

  “The wilds, lads,” the man said in self-congratulation. “I t
old you I would get you here.”

  “It’s late,” Tahn said. “We can sleep in one of the houses close by. There is no need to rush into the wilds tonight.”

  “Nonsense,” the man replied. “You can be clear of them while light still clings to the eastern rim. Besides, a Stonemount bed is a hard thing to sleep on. You’d do better with a plot of earth.” He grinned broadly. “Never mind me,” he said. “I’ve overstated their danger. I’m not entirely sure the Stonemounts even called them the wilds. Come, come, I’ll show you the way.”

  The man started again, a decided clip to his step. Sutter shrugged and fell in after him. Tahn felt for the sticks in his cloak. The sooner they arrived at Recityv, the better. Twenty strides on, the trees rose up around them.

  The thick hardwoods of the wilds were coated with damp, mossy lichen, and the air rolled with the smell of rot after the rain. Root systems snaked along the ground, as though unable to find purchase deep in the soil. It made for uneven footing and labored walking. Branches did not naturally grow skyward, seeking the sun, but reached in strange directions, seeming to turn at random, many growing back toward the ground, where they took root or continued to grow laterally. Tahn wondered if, in time, the whole of the forest would be an impenetrable wall of wood.

  Soon, the light diminished, obscured by the densely interwoven branches overhead. The trees bore small, budlike leaves, hardly enough to provide shade, but the profusion of limbs, having grown together in tangled knots, more than compensated for the lack of foliage.

  Tahn listened for the natural sounds he’d become accustomed to when hunting in the Hollows. Instead, he heard a low sound deep in the woods, like a mallet striking a hollowed-out timber. Infrequently, he heard the stridulation of a cricket, but the chirp never lasted, cutting off for several moments before repeating the same halting cadence. As they passed deeper into the wilds, a musky fog began to rise from the loam.

  “Never mind the fogs,” the man assured. “The heat and cold battle in the topsoil; it will settle soon.”

  “You said this was the Stonemounts’ defense against attack?” Sutter asked, picking his way over a confluence of roots.

  “Effective, don’t you think?”

  “Seems to me it offers an enemy cover while he comes closer to battle,” Sutter said.

  “There’s more to the wilds than trees, adventurer.” The man stopped and turned in a full circle, nodding as he surveyed the trees overhead. “The wilds have a way of turning a man around, making him forget himself. Many graves lay within the wilds, but none are marked, because none were planned. There are glyphs in the city that say the square came first, and others that say the wilds came first. Whichever is true, this dark grove has stood here for a long time. I suspect it reminded the Stonemounts to be humble as much as it warded off malefic trespassers.” The man smiled at his own insight. “How glorious a people. How enlightened. Beside the measure of their ingenuity and monument in stone, they allowed this grove to grow untamed, its natural state a marker to measure the height of their advancement.”

  Sutter gave the man a curious stare.

  “Or perhaps they are just trees,” the man said unconvincingly. “Perhaps I’m too long in my documents and studies here to have remained objective.” He turned a bright eye on Tahn. “You see, this is precisely why I hoped to escort you to the north canyon. A good student of the past must test his conclusions against the sensibilities of living, breathing … adventurers. Does that not seem right?”

  Tahn nodded and surveyed the woods around them. The light fell in weak, diffused patterns. The tight weave of successive branches above them left him with the impression that this was as light as it ever got in the wilds, and that night would be deeper and darker than he imagined.

  The man whipped his cloak around as he spun and continued deeper into the wilds. His route wound like a snake, and Tahn, even with his keen woods skills, soon felt completely lost. The land dipped and heaved, the roots growing more closely together and leaving little ground between. All about them was wood: roots underfoot, dark bark upon the trees, and a low ceiling of branches. A cavern of it. In every direction, Tahn could see nothing but the deep dark of endless trunks, grown black in the shadowy confines of the wilds. The smell of rotting wood hung thick in the air.

  Then, in an instant, the light vanished. The dim half light fell nearly to utter darkness, the sun gone behind the western rim. Distantly, the strange sound of wood striking wood echoed in deep tones that Tahn felt more than heard. And, strangely, the cricket song ended, leaving a deathly quiet in the grove that undid even Sutter’s natural smile.

  “I suppose we aren’t going to make it to the north canyon,” Sutter said with sarcasm out of the dark.

  “It isn’t far,” the man replied, “but travel at night in the wilds is … ill advised. Don’t fret. I’m a cautious one, and I’ll see you through.”

  “I’ll build a fire,” Tahn said. The abrupt darkness had brought with it an attendant chill.

  “If you must,” the man answered. Tahn thought he heard a quarrel beneath the man’s assent, though it may have been that the damp feel of the wilds and the gloom that enfolded them had put Tahn himself in an objectionable mood.

  Carefully, he shuffled his feet, seeking an open section of ground clear of roots. Sutter gathered a few fallen limbs and shortly they had light again, and warmth. Tahn sat on a humped root and pulled out some bread for himself and Sutter. The firelight glistened darkly on the nearby bark. Sparks from the fire drifted up on the heat, and winked out against the tight weave of low branches. Their guide sat close by, watching the fire and looking alternately at Tahn and Sutter. He produced nothing to eat.

  “Do you trust me sufficiently now, after coming so far through the wilds,” he began, “to share with me your true vocations?” He cocked an eyebrow at Tahn.

  Sutter put down his own crust of bread. He fixed the man with a hard stare until the stranger turned his eyes to meet it. “I dig roots,” Sutter said with fierceness. “Or did,” he added. “But now that I spend my time listening to tiresome stories, I long for the roots again.”

  Tahn tried to quiet Sutter with a look, but his friend would not meet his gaze.

  The man looked back at Tahn, undisturbed. “And you?”

  “I’m tired,” Tahn said.

  “Nonsense,” the man rebuffed. “Going into the wilds is easy enough. I’ve no particular care for your true labors, but they’re surely more interesting than your pretense of being adventurers. Life itself is adventure enough, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Tahn studied the easy smile on the man’s face. The stranger likely suffered from a lack of companionship, and was intrusive only because of it. His jeweled scabbard, long cloak, and tricorne hat were the affectations of a man not sure of himself. He spoke with an elegant confidence, like the polished way a trader spoke. But he hadn’t anything to gain from helping Tahn or Sutter, and Tahn could sympathize with the feelings of lonelieness.

  “I would,” Tahn answered. “I hunt game and watch after the forest near my home.”

  “And where is home?” the man asked.

  Tahn did share a look with Sutter then, his friend shaking his head in a nearly imperceptible motion to warn him off. “Reyal’Te,” Tahn said.

  The man nodded to the small reservation. “At the edge of the Mal. You’re a long way from home. Maybe there is a bit of adventurer in the pair of you, after all.”

  Their guide sat comfortably, looking rested after a day’s walk, and vital without a speck of food. The night air grew colder still. Tahn and Sutter circled closer to the fire, warming their arms and chests and cheeks while goose bumps from the cold rippled on their backs. Their guide seemed equally content in the dipping temperature.

  Something had been bothering Tahn about their route through the wilds, and it occurred to him as he rubbed his hands near the flame. “How do you mark your passage through these woods? You can’t have learned the way after one trip.”

/>   “Oh, I’ve been here a very long time, my fellow,” the man said. “The irony in studying the past is that we too often boil an entire generation into the notes on a single page. If history is properly studied, I do believe it may take as long to learn it as it did for others to live it. And if I am to discover what became of them, what led them to vacate this beautiful city, I must learn all the things a citizen takes for granted: the multiple meanings of words that are used to insult, edify, and produce laughter; the unwritten standards of behavior that show respect or intolerance; if the attitudes of their populace were harmonious with their poets or if the poets spoke individually, rebelliously.”

  “I don’t see the purpose of it,” Sutter chimed in. “I mean no disrespect,” he added cautiously. “But they left, one way or another, and the world went on without them.”

  Their guide’s face fell slack, the convivial look gone. He shifted his eyes to Sutter without turning his head. “You have answered your own question, root-digger. How does it escape you? Today we stood in the vaunted square of the most glorious city ever erected. From its central fountain to the edge of the graves around it, you walked the streets of a city that showed no despair in the architecture of its least citizen. The whole of it is a lasting tribute to unity, equality. This people literally traded on the understanding they accumulated by such common fellowship. And then they disappeared without a trace of contention or a single indication of where they went.”

  The man stared at Sutter with wide eyes, clearly feeling as though his point should be obvious. Sutter shook his head. “Maybe they were invaded. If they were overwhelmed and taken captive, they could all have been led away somewhere. That would explain the city being deserted but showing no signs of war.”

  Their strange guide continued to stare quietly for some time. It was his turn to shake his head.

  “Boy.” It was spoken with utter evenness, an insult more searing than a curse. “Look at you, far from Reyal’Te, searching for something, I assume, keeping your little secrets because you don’t trust me, but ashamed of the life and work that held you there. And now you wear a sword and walk the highroads seeking more. Doing whatever you will, crossing the Ophal’re’Donn Bridge and sauntering down the Canyon of Choruses as though you’d earned the right. And yet you fail to see the miracle of Stonemount, that those who lived here overcame the kind of arrogance that makes you feel deserving of more than you have, overcame the combative nature such arrogance creates. In so doing, the Stonemount people outgrew their own city of rock and mortar, and when they left for something better, nobler, the world did indeed go on.” The man paused, the crackle of wood seeming suddenly very loud in the silence. “I want to know what they knew, go where they have gone. I am tired…” He stopped, a genial smile returning to his lips. “I apologize, I get very passionate about my studies.”