The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven

by Peter Orullian

  She bustled past them, her cane metering out time as it tapped against the marble floor. Wendra went to Penit and gave him a gentle squeeze as they all followed the regent through the door and down the many steps toward the Court of Judicature.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Preserved Will

  Wendra could hear the court chamber before they came anywhere near it. The voices of speculation and discontent rose like the buzzing of a hive. Attendants fluttered in and out of view, hastily performing errands and delivering messages. Guards stood stoically beside the entry, many more milling about in the open halls, some clustered in small groups, whispering and shaking their heads. As the regent passed, these men stood at attention. She ignored them completely.

  The court chamber doors opened at her arrival, sending a wave of chatter and noise over everyone. Helaina paused a moment and drew herself up. Then the door guard led her in, raising standards once she’d passed out from beneath the covered entryway and entered the room proper, whereupon the entire assembly rose to its feet and bowed. The regent acknowledged the crowd with a wave of her hand, and went forward into a great ringed amphitheater. All around them rose circular rows of seats, each bounded by a low balustrade. Not a seat was vacant. Even the aisles teemed with gawkers hunkered down or seated on the stairs. Men and women, old and young, pressed cloth and rumpled shirttails, sat beside one another. The smell of expectation and the heat of cramped bodies filled the chamber.

  On one side of the floor, a number of men sat behind a long, burnished hardwood table coated with a deep chestnut lacquer. These gentlemen wore high-collared coats woven in black tightcloth and trimmed with white epaulets. Before them on their table rested dozens of books and mottled scrolls in hasty disarray. Four of them sat in utter silence, their faces gaunt and unsmiling. Wendra thought that beneath the austere visages the look of a trapped animal wrestled their near impeccable control.

  On the other side of the round chamber rested a second table identical to the first. In its lacquered surface were reflected the grim stares of Vendanj and a second man Wendra did not recognize. Behind them, against the short wall that raised to the first row of the theater, sat Mira and Braethen—the Far a statue, Braethen with wide, amazed eyes.

  They made it!

  Wendra was stunned. She realized that part of her hadn’t expected to see them again.

  When the shock wore off, she could barely restrain herself from rushing to Braethen and embracing him. But now was not the time. Vendanj had noted them with a nod, as had Mira. Braethen mouthed something before Mira put a hand on his arm to end it. Wendra understood. Braethen was asking about Tahn and Sutter. Wendra shook her head.

  The regent crossed between the two sides and mounted a low set of stairs to a modest platform and an old wooden chair lined with a horsehair fabric. The chair was chipped and marred, but its stout legs did not grumble or budge as Helaina eased her weight into it. She took a moment to gather her breath before propping her cane and settling her gaze upon the men wearing the formal counsel gowns across from Vendanj.

  Still no one spoke. With the inclination of her chin and the intensity of her eyes, the regent set the mood for the entire room. The gossiping and accusations and excitement of a life hanging in the balance of the deliberations of free men all ebbed, replaced by the power of the regent’s presence. Even as elderly as she was, she commanded attention merely by the way she looked and comported herself. Wendra wondered if the woman became regent because of this quality, or if being regent had imbued her with it; having heard her speak before, she believed the former.

  The guard closed the doors to the Court of Judicature; the boom of it reverberated in the hall. Wendra and Penit and the others quickly sat upon the floor in the covered entryway.

  “This is a matter already put to bed, written upon the ledger.” The regent directed her comments to the first counselor, who wore a white braided rope slung over his shoulders, its ends knotted above a series of thin fringes. “Why are we convened again upon it, First Counsel?”

  The man stood and cleared his throat. He came around his table and assumed a posture of oration. “My Law,” he said, addressing Helaina, “indeed this matter was heard and ruled upon. The offender sits this day in chains he has rightly earned. I, for one, have no desire to put the argument to the Court of Judicature again. And you may make an end of it here and now—”

  “I know my authority, First Counsel,” the regent said curtly.

  “Your pardon, my Law.” He bowed.

  “To the point,” the regent said with rising impatience.

  Again he cleared his throat, his thin, aged cheeks puffing as he did so. “Our ruling has found a challenge. An old one to be sure.” He looked back at the dusty scrolls upon his table. “But we’ve not found sufficient cause to disregard it. We may circumvent this, my Law, if you will delay the hearing until we may read upon it.”

  “The dissent?” the regent asked.

  “Preserved Will, my Law.”

  A sudden flurry of whispers and gasps rose like the soughing of wind.

  The regent raised her eyes to the many circular rows and brought the crowd to silence. Wendra watched Helaina, and could not tell how the regent herself felt about the challenge. Not until she looked down at the table of the challenger, which she’d carefully avoided to that moment. Then her face showed all its age, and the stern, ruling set of her brow and cheeks slackened. Her face bore a mask of terrible remembrance and guilt. The look quickly passed, though, and the regent regained her composure.

  “Can you prove this?” the regent asked, locking on Vendanj with a strict gaze. Wendra noted Artixan seated beside her, nodding his own answer.

  But it was not Vendanj who rose. Instead, the other man with him stood, coming around his table and taking a wide stance in the center of the Court of Judicature chamber. He looked from his far right to his far left, seeming to want to meet every set of eyes. Finally, he leveled his grim regard on the regent. “We can, my Lady. We will show you today how honest men suffer in the prisons you create for them.”

  The regent looked on with quiet intensity. “You will hoist yourself up on your own rope, Counsel, if you intend to disgrace this Chamber.”

  “I intend no disgrace to the Chamber,” he said, unduly emphasizing his final word.

  The insult was plain, but as Wendra watched, the regent let it pass. Wendra had the immediate sense that this challenger, who shared Vendanj’s table, had known the regent before today. She likewise sensed that, history or not, Helaina would not suffer another subtle slight. To do it would undermine her authority in the minds of all those present. The challenger appeared to know this as well, and retook his seat.

  “Your books,” the regent said, returning her attention to the first counsel, who had maintained his orator’s pose. “What do they say on this? We’ve not had it spoken of here in a very long time.”

  “This is the issue, my Law,” the man replied, his thin cheeks uninvolved in the formation of his words. He spoke in a dour, pessimistic tone. “The use of it is well beyond the memory of most of those gathered here. Tradition holds that laws so long out of use are not always of particular relevance to our ruling body, my Law.” He bowed again.

  The challenger rose from his seat again. “Tradition also holds that laws granted in the Charter supercede the wiles of crafty counselors or the reformations of government.”

  The regent would not be distracted and continued to hold the first counselor’s eyes. “Have you established the rightness of this dissent, then, Pleades?”

  The counselor seemed caught off guard by the use of his name. But he nodded. “Indeed, my Law, if you’ve no mind to controvert it, we have no place to deny the audience of a hearing to examine their argument.” The man sounded defeated as he made his report. “But you may give us leave to review it more closely, my Law, and some things … pass away, as time permits.”

  Wendra heard an ominous note in the way the man finished. She r
ealized that whoever was being held would likely be dead before the Court of Judicature reconvened to discuss him if the first counselor succeeded in persuading the regent to grant this review.

  “No,” Helaina said. She turned to Vendanj. “And you sit attendant to this challenge, Sheason?”

  Vendanj nodded.

  “You are aware of the strictures placed upon your order within the walls of Recityv and throughout the nation of Vohnce.”

  “I am,” Vendanj said.

  “We will accept as evidence all that our esteemed first counsel has brought to light through his good efforts and the light of Will in the first argument on this offender.” She refocused her penetrating gaze upon the challenger. “What can you add to dissuade us from the proper course we’ve taken? And watch that you do not trifle with our time or patience. We do not abide liars or miscreants here.”

  “I’ve no time for either, my Lady, today any more than in years past.”

  The regent nodded primly, and signaled the entry of six men and six women through doors Wendra had not seen, on either side of the regent’s chair. The new entrants stepped formally down the stairs, men to the left, women to the right. From their shoulders flowed long robes in the colors of Recityv, a white emblem of the tree and roots over each breast. Wendra could see pant cuffs beneath the robes, shirt sleeves and collars, as though these people had donned their outer ceremonial garments hastily. They filed to separate rows of chairs similar to the regent’s that were set on the first ring from the hall floor, and sat with hands cupped and resting in their laps.

  When they had settled themselves, the regent lifted her cane and struck the marble with a loud crack, signaling the first counselor to begin. She then sat back into her chair. Wendra followed Pleades’s long gait as he clasped his hands behind his back and paced before the men seated at his own table. Several moments passed, and low chatter began to rise in the high seats of the circular chamber. The first counselor’s face held a scowl, the thick skin of his forehead bunched over his thin white brows. Abruptly he stopped and folded his arms. He squared himself to face the challenger.

  “The ledger needs your name,” Pleades said. There seemed a hidden ridicule in the simple request that Wendra could not discern.

  The challenger stared unblinking, his skin dry and lustrous dark from long exposure to the sun. Then a smile appeared on his lips and he nodded appreciatively. “A fine gambit, First Counsel, worthy of every book of logic you’ve studied to earn your post. Adding my name hurts our credibility, given my history in this court, is that it?” He shook a finger at him in a playful mockery of scolding. “What say you to putting the name of the three-ring, Vendanj, on your ledger? I shall merely be the voice to this challenge.”

  Pleades began to protest.

  “Ah-ah.” The challenger cut him off. “The records don’t require that they be the same, so let us dispense with clever ploys to discredit me before we begin, and instead redress this abuse of power.”

  The first counselor threw up his hands, exasperated, it seemed, with his adversary’s disrespect for the Court of Judicature.

  “Very well,” the challenger said. “Now, log his name as you find time. I don’t want to bicker with you while innocent men languish in your dungeon. You have arrested and imprisoned two melura for thwarting your effort to execute a leagueman accused of conspiracy to violate the regent’s law. While tradition holds that melura are not accountable in spirit for their errors, they may be punished for them in body.” The challenger pointed a savage finger at the first counselor. “You mean to put to death this Archer and his friend for interfering with your rite of justice, and likewise hang the leagueman he saved because you believe the leagueman sought the assistance of a Sheason to heal his dying daughter. Have I my facts straight?”

  “Facts, yes. Deportment, no,” Pleades said tersely.

  From the gallery, a murmured laughter ensued.

  The challenger stepped into the center of the great round and turned a slow circle, as though casting a momentary glance into every set of eyes in the amphitheater. “Our challenge is this: that the actions of this Archer are not punishable, because the leagueman is innocent.”

  A rustling hum flared in the audience: gasps, sighs, denial, speculation.

  “In the rush to assign blame, the counselors overlooked the most obvious evidence available to them: a witness.” The challenger shook his head and began walking in a slow, tight circle, still addressing the assembly of citizens, as though deliberately refusing to acknowledge those seated in counsel robes against the walls beside the regent.

  The challenger then raised his hands and closed his eyes. He mumbled something to himself, and Wendra thought she saw the word “Charter” on his lips. Eyes still closed, he went on. “Let’s start simply. You have, in the city of Recityv and the nation of Vohnce, a law known as the Civilization Order, which holds that any Sheason who renders the Will, or any citizen who seeks a Sheason to render the Will, are guilty of a crime. This crime is punishable in many ways, including death.”

  Assent came with the nodding of heads.

  “So,” the challenger submitted, “if the leagueman did not ask or conspire with this Sheason to render the Will, then he is not guilty and does not deserve death. And if he was spared the punishment of a false charge by this Archer and his friend, then these melura you’ve condemned did what any men of conscience should.”

  “Your logic is sound,” the first counselor admitted with a tone of reservation. “But someone should have informed you—and spared us all a lot of time—that the accused confessed to this crime. He chose to not even speak in his own defense.” The counselor then paced away, deliberately turning his back toward the challenger in a show of contempt. “Something you’d have done well to choose in your own trial many years ago.”

  Wendra recoiled at the dark look that gripped the challenger’s features. Just then, she feared for the first counselor’s life. Mira actually sat forward in her chair, as though preparing for a physical outburst. But the challenger did not move. All the chamber fell silent. Penit reached over and took Wendra’s hand.

  The challenger stared blankly at the counselor’s back, then turned to face the council in their crimson robes. “Mark me,” he began, and Wendra fought a chill spreading down her back. “You hold three men accountable for crimes they did not commit. You’ve sentenced them to death, or will see them die as you deliberate their fates. I will answer for my own transgressions … will you?”

  No one spoke for several moments. The first counselor finally retook his seat and attempted to look busy reviewing parchments lying on the table. His hands shook as he did so. Finally, the challenger turned and nodded at Mira, who stood and went to another door near her own chair. The Far went through the door, and promptly returned with a young girl adorned in sooty rags, her hair pulled back in a frayed band to keep matted strands from falling in her eyes. At the urging of the Far, she hesitantly came forward. The challenger went to her; Mira passed the girl’s hand to him, and gently the challenger led her to the center of the circle. He whispered into her ear. The girl cowered, then stared at the floor as she gave witness, the challenger standing behind her with a supportive hand on her shoulder.

  “My name is Leia,” she began. “It wasn’t my father who went to get the Sheason … it was me.”

  The gallery erupted in shock and shouts. For a full minute the regent could not restore order. Finally, the pounding of her cane against the marble floor brought silence to the court. “Go on, child,” the regent said.

  “I know Rolen,” Leia continued, “because I help him give out food to the poor on beggar’s row. I’ve done it for months because it makes me feel fortunate for what my family has. And Rolen always gives me a loaf of bread for my help. When my little sister, Illia, got sick, and Mother couldn’t help her and we had no money for a healer…”

  “Go on,” the challenger urged.

  “I thought of Rolen, because I know Sheason c
an use the Will to make people better. I knew mother and father would never go to Rolen because of the law. Or, at least, I didn’t think so. But I couldn’t just let Illia die. And Rolen is so good to me—”

  Before the girl or the challenger could say more, another of the counselors at the other table stood. This one wore the emblem of the League below his epaulets. He steepled his fingers under his chin and showed the girl a fatherly smile. “Are we to reverse the dignified resolution of this council on the words of a child? It is notable that she would lie to preserve her father, but hardly admissible.”

  “And why not admissible?” the challenger demanded. “Why are you so eager to execute a member of your own fraternity when I am here to tell you he is innocent? That he did what any father would, accepting the blame for a sin to save his child?”

  The league counselor fumed a moment before a retort occurred to him. “Let me answer with a question: Why are you so eager to substitute the fatherly valor you speak of with the life of the girl here to answer for this crime?”

  Again the gallery murmured with the turn of logic. And Wendra found herself in agreement. This challenger sitting with Vendanj seemed to be arguing that the lawbreaker who should hang was a young girl, maybe twelve years old. She looked down at Penit, realizing again how fragile safety really was.

  The man with the deep brown skin standing behind the girl put his other hand on her empty shoulder. He stood as a father might, in full support of what the girl was about to say. “You have not heard the end of it,” he announced, and waited patiently for Leia to resume.

  The girl trembled; she could look only at the floor, terrified of what must come next.

  With a voice cracking with emotion, she spoke. “Mother has tended us many times when we’ve gotten sick. She’s not a healer or a sodalist, but she knows about sickness. She asked us if any of our friends had been ill, or if any of the beggars on beggars’ row had looked sick when I went to help Rolen pass out bread. She says you can get sick by being around them. But Illia and I told her no. It wasn’t until after they took Rolen away that I remembered Mother telling us that eating too many sweets and fruits could give us stomach pain … that, and the gifts Illia and I had gotten that morning.”