The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven

by Peter Orullian

  Girls and boys alike seemed appareled for the race, though always near to the age of twelve, with longer legs and more visible coordination than the younger runners. Some of the potential entrants to the run had begun the growth of their stripling years and stood much taller than the rest—more than one boy had the beginnings of facial hair and a thickening in the chest. Wendra didn’t see how the younger runners could compete. But that was just as well. She did not want Penit to win; she was, in fact, glad to see competitors who so clearly overmatched him.

  Through the thronged streets they wove, keeping an eye on the upper spires and domes of the Halls of Solath Mahnus on its low hill, towering above the surrounding city. As the time of the race drew near, movement became difficult, people jamming the thoroughfares and halting all progress except by foot. Soldiers in Recityv colors could be seen everywhere, their cloaks and helmets a constant reminder of the purpose of the race.

  The Ta’Opin moved effortlessly through the masses, his powerful shoulders twisting to slip through narrow openings, sometimes creating more room for Wendra and Penit. Seanbea seemed to share the bubbling excitement, a constant smile exposing his teeth.

  They moved past men and women with entourages—standards raised on poles staked an area of the street for a family of station or a member of the gentry. People crowded around acrobats, but peered away often in expectation of the race. Penit occasionally jumped to gain a view of what lay ahead, his small hand slick and sweaty with anticipation.

  Seanbea led them down two less-crowded alleys and brought them out onto a wide concourse that crossed to the wall that separated Solath Mahnus from the rest of the city. “This is part of the course,” he said. “The children follow the line engraved into the street. It takes them around the Wall of Remembrance and through a few of the old streets of Recityv where the first regents lived. The race passes beneath their verandas. Then back here, ending at the gate to the courtyard of Solath Mahnus. Those with runners are allowed to stand against the wall to cheer them on. The rest line the outer half of the streets; the General’s men keep them well in hand, but it is largely unnecessary. Since, though it’s been a long time since the Roon was run, few would interfere with the race—the tradition and stories of it are often and fondly recounted.”

  Wendra listened distractedly. She searched the crowds for signs of Tahn, Sutter, and the others. People milled around and were gone so quickly she soon realized the folly in hoping to chance upon them in such a vast city. But she still looked, even as Seanbea began leading them toward a table set near the inner city gate.

  While they stood in a line of parents giving last-minute instructions to their children, others called cheers and encouragement to the kids. A few slurred voices offered less fitting support, but most hailed them and wished them well.

  “A regent’s right lad,” one yelled.

  “The truest voice at the High Table, you’ll be,” another called. “Don’t let them intimidate you.”

  “Hey, Simba’s jaybird is small enough,” one fellow bellowed. “Don’t that qualify him to race?” Those around him bellowed with laughter.

  Wendra couldn’t help but smile, naturally assuming the meaning of “jaybird.” In no time, they stood at the table, where two men sat with pleasant, intelligent faces.

  “Are you running today, boy?” one asked.

  “Yes, please,” Penit enthused.

  “Very well. Is this your mother?” The man looked up at Wendra with thoughtful eyes.

  Wendra froze. She stared back at the man blankly.

  “That’s right,” Seanbea interjected. “She’s a little overwhelmed here. Their first time in Recityv.”

  “Ah, well, don’t let it frighten you, Anais. We’re a little crowded these days, but Recityv goes on because its people are decent. Isn’t it so?” The man turned to his partner at the table.

  “It is,” the other said. “May we have your names?”

  Wendra gave hers and Penit’s names to the recorder, who wrote them in a ledger. After their names lay scrawled upon the page, the man gave Penit a blue pin to place on his shirt. He then leveled a serious gaze at the boy.

  “Run hard but run fair, son. The only loser is the one who doesn’t give the Roon all he has. But the cheater disgraces the Roon, and earns himself a month in the regent’s stables as a helpmate to Gasher.” He turned to his partner. “Would you ever want to work for old Gasher?”

  “Oh, my, no!” his friend said. “He’s an awful crank. Every minute would be drudgery. Wouldn’t want that.”

  “I won’t cheat,” Penit put in. “And I’ll win. You’ll see.”

  “A champion’s attitude,” the recorder said. He winked at Seanbea and Wendra and motioned for them to move to the left.

  The children lined up behind a broad ribbon stretched from the gate to a building across the concourse. A line of guards held the crowd back on the far side. More of the soldiers were beginning to clear a number of streets branching from the main thoroughfare where the Roon tailed away from the wall and took the racers through several city blocks. A man holding a baton came forward and offered to escort Wendra and Seanbea to a place along the wall from which to observe the race. She looked down at Penit, the boy’s eyes brimming with confidence.

  “Just have fun,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

  Penit nodded and suddenly cried out, “Dwayne!” He rushed to a boy amid a host of other children. He talked excitedly with the other boy, the two jabbering over each other about things Wendra could not quite discern. Then the man with the guiding baton led her and the Ta’Opin to a place along the wall right near the gate to the courtyard.

  For nearly an hour, more contestants gave their names and were herded to the ribbon. The mass of children stood a hundred across and perhaps ten deep. Some of those waiting there stood no more than six years old, eager parents enrolling them in the Roon with vain hope. The largest boys bulled their way to the front. Girls made up nearly half the runners, some taller even than the largest of the boys.

  The racers fidgeted and looked over their shoulders toward parents who continued to shout instructions to them over the din. Youthful faces wore unsure expressions but nevertheless nodded understanding; other children shook their heads side to side in confusion. Penit stood in the middle of the pack with Dwayne, the two still avidly talking. Neither met the largest boys in height, but neither was short. He wouldn’t finish last, Wendra thought gratefully. I can make him proud of his placement.

  The hum of the crowd rose suddenly to a roar as trumpets blared into the sunny air over the wall. The men at the table closed their books and drew their instruments back from the street into the courtyard. A stiff-looking man with a thin mustache appeared from the inner gate door and began to speak. His first words were lost beneath the tumult, but the gathering quickly quieted.

  “… this running of the Lesher Roon for the Child’s Seat at the High Table, to sit at council with those who speak for their constituents. So then, do we, by tradition and law, draw our Child’s Voice from this worthy field of contestants.”

  Another roar rose from the throng. The man went on, but his words ended before the people quieted again. The gentleman walked in stately fashion to the head of the ribbon and solemnly cast his gaze upon the runners. Over the frenzied speculation and last-second admonitions of parents, Wendra could just make out the same exhortation that the recorder had made of Penit: “Run hard but run fair.”

  Then, from above them, confetti rained in the air, streamers fell from the windows and rooftops. The trumpets blazed, calling a triumphant fanfare, and the children hunched, ready to run.

  The man strode to the wall and lifted his baton, taking the ribbon in hand. At the far side of the concourse, another did likewise. Amid colored confetti and shouts and horns, the two men dropped their batons simultaneously, letting go of the ribbon. In a spurt, a thousand children dashed ahead to claim the coveted prize of the Lesher Roon.

  Several fell as
legs locked and intertwined, but each quickly jumped up and joined the lurching mob. Without realizing it, Wendra was caught up in the thrill of the race as she watched the children find their pace. She could still see Penit, his head bobbing with quick steps. He ran firmly ensconced in the pack. The same excitement and anticipation that always attended the Kottel Rhine now swept through her, and she forgot her reservations and raised a cheer for Penit. The shouts and exultation of the masses overpowered Wendra’s own, but she waved toward Penit’s back as the first children rounded a corner in the wall.

  When all the runners had disappeared, Wendra looked up at Seanbea, who gave her a quirky smile. “Gets in you, doesn’t it?”

  Only slightly abashed, Wendra nodded and turned in the opposite direction, where they would next see the children. The crowd simmered, their jubilation falling to murmurs and bubbling expectation. Men and women continued to fill the air with confetti and streamers as the crowd awaited the return of the children from around the outer wall of Solath Mahnus. In the distance, the roar of spectators rose in a moving wave as the runners passed them in their course. The sound of it grew more faint as the race approached the far side of the hill.

  “What will you do if the boy wins?” Seanbea asked, interrupting her auditory tracking of the race.

  She started as the question penetrated her concentration. “He won’t win,” she answered, disappointed in herself for the sentiment. “He’s fast, but the older boys will have the day.”

  “The Roon goes to the runner with the largest heart,” Seanbea countered. “There are tales of a girl three years younger than the tallest, strongest boy finding speed in her legs that even she hadn’t believed existed.” His eyebrows lifted to mark his point. “The Roon chooses who bears the seat, Wendra, not the child. It is a race, yes, but after all the child can do, something more aids the winner in crossing the ribbon.”

  “It sounds like a legend, like that of the White Stag or the Pauper’s Drum.” She stood on her tiptoes and looked in the direction the children would come.

  “Legends come to us for reasons, Anais,” Seanbea said. “Like the legends of songs that do more than entertain.”

  Wendra shot him a hot glance, but the Ta’Opin stood firm under her glare.

  Far away, the cheering from the crowd began to cycle back toward them. As the roar of the crowd drew closer, those around Wendra and Seanbea began to fidget and call, the excitement of the race coming before it like leaves stirred by a wind presaging the storm.

  Moments later, a pack of children rounded a corner and broke into a sprint down the long concourse. Twelve youngsters ran, their arms pumping, their hair whipping in the wind of their own speed. Across the cobbled street they flew, feet pounding in an impossible rhythm. Hands and arms rose in support as the runners raced past. Twenty strides behind them, a second group of children came around the corner and caused another surge in volume from the onlookers. Behind this cluster of contestants, more children came in staggered formations, each individual racer working feet and knees and arms in ardent strain.

  The first grouping came into clear view. Wendra rose up again on her toes and scanned their faces. At the back of the pack, Penit and Dwayne labored to keep pace with those at the front. Sweat streaked their cheeks and temples, matting hair to heads. Two boys ran at the head of the lead group, effortlessly sprinting and seeming untaxed in their exertion. A handful of girls made up the middle of the pack, ponytails flipping to and fro with each long stride. A few more boys flanked the girls, eyeing their counterparts as they drove their legs forward. Penit and Dwayne ran with the third at the back of the group, their strides shorter and quicker then the long, graceful strokes of the others.

  Wendra yelled Penit’s name, but she could scarcely hear her own voice. In the midst of the deafening noise, she suddenly wondered if an unheard song held any power. But the thought fled her mind in the exuberance of cheering Penit on. The colored bits of confetti showered like a blizzard in the street, swirling around the bodies of the children as they passed. Some small bits sticking to the sweat on their faces and forearms. Whistles pierced the din, noisemakers popped and rattled, and a few celebrants blew horns of their own.

  Then the first pack turned and followed the course down a narrow side street. The crowds lined the route there, too, jostling one another for a view of the children as the first runners dashed past them. Now innumerable voices rose all around Wendra, racers passing constantly in a long procession, the throng lifting its roar down the streets where the Roon snaked into the city. The sound reverberated off stone buildings, and Wendra fancied it the voice of Recityv, a multitude of pitches and words commingled to one great, giant voice.

  The last runners passed them and followed the course down the street to Wendra’s left just as the return route began to thrum with the excitement of the lead pack. Wendra clutched her bodice, trying to will her heart to slow, but to no avail. The thrill resonated through her, in her. Every beat in her chest fell like the blow of a hammer.

  The intensity of the crowd might have been nothing to what it now became. Every onlooker howled and cheered with the fullness of his own lungs. Taken together, it felt like the air must surely rend. Or else the density of the noise might have weight and substance enough of its own to be touched. The force of the volume pressed at Wendra’s eyes and raised every hair on her body. She felt simultaneously like one dropped into a winter river and one roasting on an oven spit, but none of it was painful. Instead, she felt buoyed, as if she might raise her arms and float upward.

  Then Penit appeared on the return avenue.

  His shoulders were bent, his arms driving with sheer determination. He emerged from the byway ten strides ahead of Dwayne. He’d found his own sure stride, his legs churning like a champion horse in long, powerful rhythms. His feet glided across the cobblestone, his heels never touching the ground. Tears of pride welled in Wendra’s eyes as she added her voice to the incredible chorus of exultant celebrants.

  Through the wide concourse Penit sprinted, seeming to gain speed with every stride. The crowd knew their winner, and reveled in anticipation of the ribbon, now again raised by the men bearing the batons.

  Through the riverbanks of proclaiming attendants Penit ran. Their own frenetic energy contrasting the smooth, elegant pace Penit kept as he dashed down the open concourse toward the finish line. He came closer, and Wendra could see the calm but determined set of the boy’s features—the same one she’d seen when he’d gone out to find her help from the cave. She gloried in his impending triumph and all that had transpired to bring him safe to Recityv. Forgotten were her fears of what winning could mean. She held her breath and embraced the joy that raced her heart.

  Suddenly, a strange look passed over Penit’s features, a kind of thoughtful concern. He looked back over his shoulder at Dwayne, now twenty strides behind him, and the rest of the lead pack just emerging from the far avenue. His legs carried him forward, but Wendra thought she saw in his eyes a realization not yet communicated to his feet.

  Fifteen paces from the ribbon, Penit stopped.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Winners and Wisdom

  Penit came to a skidding halt, his breathing labored, his eyes regarding the ribbon so close ahead.

  The crowd erupted with frustrated expectation. Some jeered, others roared in confusion. Wendra noted the pitch shift to something deeper, less appreciative. Violent gestures exhorted Penit to finish the race, continue on. A few heads shook in annoyance. Wendra was sure this had never happened in all the history of the Lesher Roon.

  Penit could have jogged the remaining distance and still won the contest. Instead, he turned and watched as Dwayne came racing on. His friend gave him a curious look. Penit nodded, lending a contented, reassuring expression to Dwayne, who passed him with a brief glance.

  A moment later, Dwayne broke the ribbon. A roar of victory followed, and the boy was snatched up and extolled by those gathered in the streets as the next Child�
��s Voice to the High Table. Other children buzzed past Penit to finish for honor’s sake. Some slowed and stopped, moving off to rejoin parents.

  The crowd filled the street, many seeming to forget Penit as they rushed to congratulate Dwayne. A few sauntered close and gave him bewildered stares. Wendra fought through the wall of people to Penit, and heard harsh, critical comments aimed at the child before she gathered him close and silenced the critics with a scathing glare. Seanbea forged a path for them back to the wall near the gate, where she knelt and embraced Penit for several moments before realizing he was not crying or otherwise upset.

  She drew back and gave him a guarded look. “Penit, why did you stop?”

  He peered over her shoulder, presumably at Dwayne, his face a study in satisfaction that burgeoned into a smile.

  Wendra turned to follow Penit’s eyes and found the race coordinator marching toward her, baton in hand. Behind him a number of attendants vested in city colors surrounded Dwayne and escorted him watchfully. She thought the man intended to pass them with his brusque, sensible stride. But he came to an abrupt halt next to them.

  “You will come with me, all three of you,” he said, pointing at Wendra and Seanbea while keeping his eyes fixed on Penit. “I’ll have no discussion about my race. The regent and her table will hear an account of it from both you and Master Dwayne, and let her say out upon it.”

  He paused long enough to indicate which ones they were to his staff with a wave of his baton, then stepped smartly away, heading for the gate. The men in bright Recityv crimson enfolded them in the circle they formed for Dwayne and a shifty-looking man Wendra thought she recognized but couldn’t place. Together, the five of them passed through the inner gate and onto the smooth surface of the Solath Mahnus courtyard. The stone clacked beneath their heels. Long slate slabs had been meticulously fitted together, rendering the yard virtually seamless. Dark marble benches edged the perimeter, here and there occupied by men in full armor and women in neatly pressed dresses. Planters stood on both sides of each stone bench, where manicured trees offered little shade, but prim decoration.