The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven

by Peter Orullian

  It did not sound to Wendra like a formal question, but the man raised his eyes from the list when Seanbea did not immediately respond.

  “I’ve never been asked that before, sir. Can it matter who they are?”

  Impatience edged the inspector’s tone. “There’s been trouble lately with all the … immigrants. We like to know who’s … visiting.”

  Seanbea nodded. “The boy’s name is—”

  “I’m Penit.” The boy stood up in the back of the wagon and put a thumb to his chest. “I’m going to run in the Lesher Roon.”

  Seanbea smiled. “That’s right. And this is Anais Wendra, who’ll be a student of the Maesteri as soon as we arrive at Descant.”

  The soldier gave Wendra a skeptical look. “She will, will she?” he said with displeasure. “For all the good their songs have brought us, I’d tell her to do her work in a tavern. Better pay.”

  Seanbea maintained his smile. “There are all kinds of wages. We’ll make out just fine.”

  The inspector handed back the bill of goods and looked past them to the next cart while waving them inside. Seanbea thanked the man and released his brake, taking them into Recityv.

  Wendra thrilled at the buildings, her own surprise as vocal as Penit’s. Seanbea seemed to enjoy their innocent delight at the immensity of the city around them. He pointed out certain inns, shops, and merchant exchange houses, sometimes adding a bit of history in the telling. Wendra sat in the bed of the wagon, clinging to the side and gathering in one sight after another as they rolled onward.

  They passed a hundred treasures as the throng of people pressed in around them like water around an island. Then gradually, the elegance of the edifices on either side of the road diminished. Stonework seemed older, more often in disrepair and stained from seasons of rain and sun. The buildings themselves were not as tall, their mortar crumbling and leaving gaps in their facing, like missing teeth. Awnings tilted over entries to various establishments; many windows looked like sharp-toothed maws where shards of glass rimmed an opening once completely paned. Even the livestock here reflected the general dishevelment of the structures around them, horses with deep-swayed backs and ungroomed manes and tails, dogs coated with burrs and mud. People went about with heads bowed, their coats and breeches puckered from poorly mended tears, their boots creased by too many strides to remain comfortable. The streets themselves remained unpaved here. Muddy pools stood in potholes and shallow ditches at the edges of buildings where rain fell from rooftops and beat their stale troughs, which filled, too, with slops thrown from windows—the smell of human filth rose from more than a few of these.

  Between buildings, pigs and goats had been penned in narrow alleys awaiting a cook’s pleasure for butchering. Wendra pulled her coat up over her nose against the smell of livestock and piled table scraps untouched by the animals. Flies sought waste to lay eggs, humming at a pitch that rose and fell as Seanbea drove Wendra and Penit past the many poor inns and dilapidated trade shops. She couldn’t imagine this place being a part of the same city they’d come through after entering at the gate. Hers and Penit’s delighted exclamations fell to disappointed silence.

  Then the Ta’Opin turned down a cross street, and Wendra suddenly forgot to hold her coat over her nose and mouth. At the end of the avenue rose a grand building in the midst of the squalid surroundings. Four times higher than the closest building, the majestic cathedral ascended in a series of spires and pitched gables that left Wendra with the impression of a castle. The roof and cupolas shone green in the afternoon light, resplendent and luminous.

  “Wow!” Penit remarked.

  “Descant Cathedral. I told you,” Seanbea said.

  Each turn of the wagon wheels brought them closer, making the cupolas seem higher and the face of the great edifice loom larger. High in its darkened stone, colored glass caught the sun and glinted violet, crimson, gold, lapis, and emerald. Nearer still, the green cupolas disappeared from view. As she looked up, the spires seemed to angle toward the sky like spears thrown toward heaven.

  The wagon creaked to a stop, and brought Wendra’s gaze earthward. At eye level, the windows showed none of the magnificence of those higher up. Slats of wood boarded them over, either protecting the colorful mosaics or filling gaps left behind by a vandal’s work.

  Yet despite the unattractive windows and the aged stone covered in patches by lichen and withered vines, the cathedral made Wendra forget the distasteful quarter around it. Descant pressed up and out like a monument of strength and nobility. It seemed to both know the future and preserve the past.

  They had only been stopped a moment when a large set of double doors swept inward, and two men bustled out and down the stone steps toward them. Each wore loose breeches tied with a wide crimson sash knotted on the left hip and a simple coat with a pocket over each breast.

  “We’ll bring you in under time,” one said cheerfully, arriving at the wagon and ignoring Penit and Wendra as he pulled off the tarpaulin and hefted some of Seanbea’s load.

  The second man paused on the bottom step, taking note of the extra human cargo. “What’s this, Seanbea? I hope you don’t expect additional pay for these.” He pointed fingers toward Wendra and Penit, and smiled.

  “And hello to you, Henny, Ilio.” Seanbea jumped to the ground. “These are friends of mine. I intend to introduce them to Belamae.” The Ta’Opin leaned against the side of his wagon and smiled as though holding a secret from the two men.

  “That’s nice,” Henny said, and bowed awkwardly before turning to pack his armload of instruments into the cathedral. Despite his rush, he handled them with great care. “Come on, Ilio, we’ve work to do.”

  Ilio did not take his eyes off Wendra as he lifted two small boxes from the wagon. “Is she spoken for?” he asked, inclining his head toward the Ta’Opin, his stare still locked on Wendra.

  “I don’t think she heard you,” Seanbea mocked. “Speak up and perhaps she’ll answer you herself.” The Ta’Opin bent over to hide his laughter.

  Ilio gave Wendra an embarrassed smile. His face flushed. Holding the boxes against his chest, he rocked side to side, seeming not to know what else to do. He started suddenly, as though just hearing Seanbea’s taunting laughter. His reddened face became angry.

  “You’ll be responsible for them,” Ilio said, leaning out over his boxes. “Rooms, rations, clothing … manners.” The man scurried up the stairs after Henny.

  “I’m sure you impressed her,” Seanbea called after Ilio. He turned his smile on Wendra. “Pardon me, Anais, but I simply can’t resist the opportunity to see Ilio’s face turn that color. If I could duplicate it, I’d make a fortune in textiles.”

  Wendra caught the infection of Seanbea’s laughter as the Ta’Opin helped her down from the wagon. Penit giggled brightly, joining in, though he seemed hardly to understand the joke. Seanbea hoisted the boy down, and waited a moment for Henny to emerge again before climbing toward the doors.

  “Will you see to my wagon and team?” Seanbea asked the man.

  “Surely,” Henny replied.

  Seanbea patted the man’s bald head, and led Wendra and Penit to the double doors, now open to admit them.

  “It is a special place,” Seanbea said, speaking as much to himself as to either Wendra or the boy.

  At the top of the steps, the doors seemed much larger, and bore engravings Wendra could not read. The scars of time made them appear to her more like skin than doors. Past them, cool, mild air caressed her skin with the scent of cedar incense and fruit rinds, and something else … the faraway echo of song that came from no one direction, but seemed to emanate from the walls themselves.

  “What is that?” Wendra asked, putting her hand to a pillar and looking up at the ceiling of the vestibule in which they stood.

  “It is the Song,” Seanbea said with a deeper reverence in his voice Wendra had never heard. The Ta’Opin moved further into the cathedral without any further explanation.

  Penit trotted pa
st her to follow Seanbea. Wendra lingered a moment, feeling the hum through the marble pillar. Under her fingers, the beautiful stone felt vibrant, imbued with life by the uttering of words and music deep within it. Pulling away proved difficult. But she sensed that the song touching her fingers—just a whisper in her ears—came from voices somewhere deeper within the cathedral. She wanted to hear it, every word, every note.

  Beyond the vestibule, three hallways sprouted, each passing beneath great stone vaults and housing a few cherrywood tables bearing silver urns. Intricate scrollwork had been carved directly into the stone walls. The doors were heavy and panelled. Candles burned in long glass hurricane tubes, lending the halls an intimacy and guarding the light against the air of loud voices. Brass handles and fittings had the look of small arms and hands drawn out of the stone itself; they had grown dark with time. Their footsteps echoed flatly down the clean marble floors.

  Wendra caught up to Seanbea and Penit, who had angled left and paused briefly before an oil painting—the first of many—that adorned the hallway wall. The image shone beneath the warm illumination of a candle and revealed a man holding a piece of parchment in his hands with the same type of ink notes as the sheet Seanbea had given Wendra. A thin fringe of hair circled his head just above his ears, and he peered at them with kindly patience. The gentleman sat in a modest chair, wearing a long, white robe.

  One by one, Seanbea stopped at each painting, never speaking or offering insight or names. Wendra marked the same patient look in the aspect of every portrait. Some showed women dressed in the same style as the men. A few held instruments in their laps, and a few sat reposed holding a kind of baton.

  As they silently proceeded down the hall, Wendra thought the music grew louder. Each step excited her. Something in this melody felt familiar, though she was sure she’d never heard it before.

  As she tried to remember, three women turned into the hall ahead. The one in the middle wore a thick white cloak, the hood up, her arms wrapped about herself as though she fought the shivers. On either side of her, the other two walked attentively, supporting the one in the middle as if afraid she might fall. When they drew close, Seanbea stepped into their path.

  “Sariah?”

  The woman in the middle looked up. “Seanbea?” Her voice sounded weak and tired, but pleased.

  “It’s good to see you. I thought when we arrived that the voice of Suffering I heard might be yours. But you’ve just finished a turn at the Song. Our reunion can wait until you have rested.”

  Sariah hugged Seanbea anyway, allowing his strong arms to hold her for several moments. Wendra watched the young woman’s face lay against the Ta’Opin’s chest, and saw a kind of concern and frightful wisdom that didn’t belong in the face of one so young. It was something she thought she recognized from her own recent past.

  Then finally she drew back. “Therin sings now. He’ll want to see you, too, before you go. Can you stay until his turn at the Song is complete?”

  “Of course,” Seanbea said. “You’ve a fine voice, Sariah. And I didn’t even hear the transition from you to Therin. Nicely done.”

  The young woman smiled, and the two girls beside her helped Sariah continue toward a set of doors Wendra guessed were personal quarters. Wendra didn’t understand it all, but gathered that the song she heard was sung without ceasing, one voice taking over when another was exhausted. And Seanbea had said “the voice of Suffering.” Could this melody she heard now in the very air and stone of Descant Cathedral be the Song of Suffering?

  Just as she opened her mouth to ask, Seanbea pointed at the last painting at this end of the hall.

  Wendra gasped, covering her mouth against her outburst.

  She knew this face: the paternal smile, the patient eyes.

  The visage at once warmed and frightened her. It was the face of the man who had appeared to her when the fever visions had found her in the cave near Sedagin. She’d nearly forgotten the counsel he’d given her, the comfort, the instruction. Seeing him in this portrait gave the memory a reality that caused her to tremble.

  She’d doubted that simply singing the song from her songbox had healed her. Even the events in the mountain meadow near Jastail’s cabin had blurred in her mind. But in the presence of the eyes looking out at her from this painting, Wendra considered that perhaps her song was more than mere melody. And the burden of it burned in her. Singing had forever been an escape and source of solace. Now it seemed it might bring consequences with it, reshaping the world around her. The thought turned her mood black. After all she had lost, this one private pleasure and reminder had become something more. She looked away from the painting with a scowl.

  Behind her, Wendra heard the soft rapping of knuckles at a door. As she turned around, she saw the door open, revealing the face of the man in the painting, the man from the cave. He looked out and past Seanbea, directly at her.

  “You’ve found your way,” he said.

  Wendra gave him a look of surprise and wariness. The elderly man’s studied gaze retained its benevolent smile, but one brow rose as though he noted her caution.

  “Well, Seanbea,” the man said, shifting his attention to the Ta’Opin. “Always good to see you. Am I to thank you for shepherding this young woman to us?”

  “There’s no fee on it, Maesteri,” Seanbea said, smiling. He embraced the old man, who gathered the large Ta’Opin in his white robed arms like a mother bear cuddling her cub. The gentleman stood an apple taller than the Ta’Opin.

  Releasing Seanbea, the man said, “And who’s this?” He bent over to look Penit in the eye.

  “I’m Penit. I’m going to win the Lesher Roon.”

  “Is that right?” The old man winked. “I like a confident tone. Well you’ve arrived just in time, then; the race is tomorrow.” The Maesteri then glanced at Wendra. “And you came along with Wendra, did you?”

  Penit looked back at her. “We kind of watch out for each other. The others—”

  “That’s enough, Penit,” Wendra interrupted. “Let’s not plague anyone with our problems.” She stepped beside the boy and put her arm around his shoulder. “Seanbea says you might let us stay a night or two. I can work to earn our meals.”

  Both Seanbea and the man in the robe gave Wendra a puzzled look.

  “You are both guests here,” the old man said. “You will stay the night and rest for Penit’s big race tomorrow. I am Belamae. I teach the art of music for the Descant.” He watched Wendra closely, appearing to expect her to acknowledge him. She kept a careful ambivalence. “We’ve plenty of room and food, and you’re invited to partake of the music given voice within these walls.”

  “I see they’ve added you to the wall,” Seanbea said, indicating the portrait. “A dandy likeness, I’d say.”

  Belamae gave a somewhat self-conscious smile. “Not my idea,” he said. “And the placement is kind of conspicuous. But I am honored to be numbered among the Maesteri. They were rather forgiving with my nose, don’t you think?” He chuckled warmly.

  Seanbea joined him, while Wendra made another survey of the painting. The Ta’Opin’s voice drew her attention back to Belamae.

  “She creates,” Seanbea said, an odd tone to his words, “new song such as I’ve never heard.” He pulled a roll of parchment from an inner pocket and unfolded it before handing it to the old man.

  With a gentle smile, Belamae began inspecting the sheet. Wendra caught a glimpse of the unique musical notation and knew Seanbea had transcribed for himself a copy of the duet she had sung with him some days ago. Slight embarrassment mingled with resentment. What she had sung spontaneously from her heart was now copied and recopied and set before the old man’s eyes for approval and inspection. She felt scrutinized, naked. She glared at the Ta’Opin, though he did not see.

  Belamae’s smile faded, the light in his eyes flickering like a candle in the wind. Wendra might have thought the man had just read a warrant or elegy. His eyes rose from the parchment and locked Wendra in a ser
ious gaze. She returned the old man’s stare, partly arrested by his inscrutable eyes, partly out of defiance. After a long moment, he stepped back inside the room and motioned her to follow.

  “Take the boy to the kitchen and get him something to help him grow,” Belamae directed. “Give us an hour. Then we’ll join you.”

  In each corner of the room, stands and easels stood overflowing with large books opened to more of the musical notation like that on the parchment Seanbea had given the Maesteri. Beside each, instruments lay carefully set on pedestals uniquely crafted to receive them. On the walls hung more paintings, smaller portraits and a few of landscape and nothing more. In the middle of the room sat a large desk with twin lamps burning brightly, one at either end. The entire study shone with a great deal more light than the hall, the several easels and pedestals casting washed-out shadows across the floor like veins under skin. Directly opposite them, another door remained closed. Wendra thought the sound of the distant song emanated more strongly from behind it. The sound still came vaguely, audible only in the silence. But it never ceased.

  Belamae took a seat behind his desk and folded his hands in his lap. “Please sit down,” he said.

  Wendra sat and surveyed the scattering of music sheets and quills and drawing graphite. Near one lamp lay a metal instrument like a small horseshoe attached to a handle. Seeing her interest, Belamae picked it up and struck it against the edge of his desk. The tines hummed and vibrated a single musical pitch.

  “Can you match the sound?” Belamae asked.

  Without thinking, Wendra hummed the sustained note.

  “Harmonize with it.”

  Wendra shifted her pitch several times to sing different harmonies on the chiming fork. She caught herself relishing the feat because the fork did not vary, and she could easily find and sing a musical dyad that rang in perfect intervals.

  “Can you name the separate harmonies you’ve just created?” Belamae asked, deadening the instrument with a touch.

  Wendra shook her head. “My father taught me how to create harmony, but I don’t know their names.” She looked down, embarrassed by her lack of understanding.