The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven

by Peter Orullian

  The challenger turned, then, to look at the league counselor, who’d gotten to his feet yet again. Wendra thought the man appeared a shade paler. He addressed the regent, “Your Law, the child is emotional and should never have been forced to come here. And, despite her love for her father, this is a waste of the Court of Judicature’s time. We should—”

  “Sit down,” the challenger interrupted. “The girl will say what she has come to say.” He did not ask the regent for leave to say it, nor did he look to her for assent. He merely gave the girl a reassuring pat on the shoulder to continue.

  “Illia and I were behind our home, playing. Some of Father’s fellow leaguemen came into the yard. It didn’t really startle me, since they often came by for supper or just to gather Father on their way to a watch. But that morning, they brought Illia and me each a gift. They gave me a sheaf of flowers and told me I was growing into a fine woman. And to Illia they gave a box of sugared sweets…”

  The challenger gave Leia another paternal pat on the shoulder, this time whispering something to her so low that it could not be heard. Then he raised his head to the robed council. “The trial record of the Sheason Rolen states that he testified of a poison in the body of child Illia—”

  “Don’t you dare suggest it!” The league counsel shot to his feet a third time. It was his turn to point a savage finger, thrusting his hand at the challenger.

  The challenger turned to look directly at the man as he said, “I submit that the conspiracy in this affair is not the imprisoned leagueman’s, nor this child’s solicitation of the Sheason to heal her sister. The conspiracy belongs to the league itself, who poisoned a child to force the family of one its members to make an impossible choice: the death of a four-year-old girl, or loyalty to its immoral law.”

  A torrent of speculation, rumor, shock, and jeering cascaded down on the floor of the council from the gallery. Even the jury showed concern on their customarily impassive faces. The regent appeared to have need to speak, but could find no words.

  It was the league counsel who finally found words. Composed again, he stared back at the challenger. “With all due respect, we still have only the word of a young girl, one who’s emotionally distraught with the imprisonment of her father. A girl, I might add, who appears to have been prepared for her testimony by our esteemed challenger. A man, as we know, who has no respect for this council, and who seeks the freedom of those who tried to save the girl’s father.” He smiled. “It doesn’t take much reasoning to determine what is really going on here. And I can assure that you any league confection is not only harmless, but actually quite tasty.”

  Mellow laughter rippled in the hall.

  To this, the challenger whispered again in Leia’s ear. The girl reached into the pocket of her ragged smock and pulled out a small wrapped morsel. “Illia gave me one of her sweets before she ate them all. I was saving it for a special occasion.” She extended it in an open palm before the Court of Judicature.

  The challenger took the sweet from her hand and walked to Pleades’s table. He held it up to the league counselor. “Do you recognize the emblem on this wrapper? Unless things have changed in the last few decades, I’m going to guess that only members of the league can procure this confection.”

  The league counselor’s eyes never went to the sweet. “And anyone could have tampered with it in the weeks since the crime,” he observed.

  The challenger reset his feet. “The seal is unbroken. Let’s make this even simpler. Eat this. Eat it and prove that a simple gift to a child was not the instrument of conspiracy and death.”

  Whispers rushed like seeping winds. The league counselor again opened his mouth to rebut, but words failed him. The challenger had woven a trap, and his opponent had ensnared himself. Several times he started to speak, giving him the appearance of a brook trout pulling water through its mouth and past its gills. Finally, he managed to say something.

  “This is an author’s tale. A child’s fancy. Aside from which, where Sheason are involved, anything with this sweet is possible.” The league counselor looked over at Vendanj.

  Vendanj rose for the first time. He looked across the aisle at the leagueman. His countenance shone with a terrible frown. Wendra saw genuine concern in the faces of even the regent and Artixan. The air felt charged with an imminent threat.

  The force of the words resonated in the very stone, though spoken softly. “You will not make this intimation again. The court will not consider it in its deliberation. And I will not suffer false accusations upon my character, regardless of your laws. Am I understood?”

  The league counselor could only nod.

  “Eat this,” the challenger repeated.

  The counselor picked up the sweet and turned it over in the air before his eyes. “I will not,” he concluded. “This is all so much speculation. I think we have heard enough of this dissent for the jury to render a decision on its merits.”

  “I’ll have that back,” the challenger said of the morsel. With some hesitance, the man returned it. Immediately, the challenger turned to the regent. “Your Law, what is your confidence in your league counselor? Would you risk partaking of this confection? Prove that the court’s trust in this man is justified?”

  Silence crept over the entire hall.

  The regent stared back at the challenger with royal disdain. “We are done here,” she announced, and tapped her cane. “Make your final argument or let this matter lie.”

  The challenger motioned the girl back to Mira, and turned to look first at the regent, then at the league counselor. Into the thick stillness he said, “You have benefited by the imprisonment of the Sheason Rolen. The opinions of the people turned to your favor in the wake of his purported crime and conviction. To such as yourselves, the life of one man means less than the directives of your leadership. And with all this distraction, you have caused men to forget the threat out of the Bourne that rushes toward us.”

  The league counselor ground his teeth at the challenger’s rhetoric, his jaw flexing muscles near his temples. “There is no threat—”

  “Do not interrupt.” The challenger turned back to the council. “The League was worried that this family was sympathetic to the Sheason, perhaps because it knew or had heard that Leia had spent time helping Rolen distribute bread, or perhaps for other reasons. So, they devised a way to test where this family’s loyalties lay.

  “Either that,” the challenger said, “or this man’s family served as pawns in a larger scheme. One to reassert the Civilization Order or to divert the people’s attention from rumors of Quiet in the land. And the reasons the League would seek such a diversion should make us all worry.

  “But I am not here to expose plots. I am here because two more are now touched by this shameless ploy, two boys who freed a man innocent of the crime that nearly condemned him. It is provident that they came along. They must be set free. They may have interfered with the execution of our regent’s order. But in doing so they answered the higher law of the Charter, and for that they must be held blameless this day. Or have we forgotten the foundation that stretches back through all ages?”

  “This is careful logic,” the league counselor exclaimed. “We still have only the word of a child against the conclusion of the Court of Judicature. We have a man defying the law—”

  “We have,” the challenger broke back in with renewed vehemence, “one of your very own, preserved, and you stand ready to see him hanged before you’ll let me prove his innocence. What logic in this offends you?”

  “No one is more pained than I at the prospect of one of my civil brothers going to his ground before he could do all that he might have done,” the league counselor said, affecting a visage taut with dismay. “But among all else we do, we stand behind the rules that give us order and peace. We do not exempt ourselves from these things, even when they affect us heavily and personally.”

  “That is good to hear,” the challenger said, his voice betraying his true feelings. “
Nevertheless, we have a witness, the young girl Leia, who testifies that the man you prepare to hang is not guilty of seeking the Sheason’s help. And we have leaguemen arriving at his home where the poisoned girl had just been healed by the Sheason, as though they were anticipating his arrival and prepared to pounce upon him. The timing is interesting—”

  “The circumstance of the timing suggests nothing of conspiracy in this matter,” the league counselor said forcefully. He folded his arms.

  “The question before the Court of Judicature,” the challenger continued, “is this: A Sheason saving the life of a poisoned child, an innocent man accused of seeking that Sheason’s help, and two boys preserving the Will and life of the accused are all caged in the wet stone of your catacombs.

  “You may argue that the Sheason still violated the law, to which I would ask you to consider how he came to do so. Because if he is to die, then you must make an inquiry into the leaguemen who gave tainted candy to the girl he chose to save.” The challenger’s voice lowered to a whisper. “And the only other lawbreaker here is Leia, a sister who sought help to save her sibling. The law condemns her for seeking the Sheason’s help. But I put it to you now: Is she truly guilty? She would not have had need to seek help were it not for the fatal sweets given her sister. Or perhaps in a simpler way, do you hold her guilty for preserving the Will of a loved one, regardless the circumstance?” A long pause stretched throughout the assembly. Then the challenger finished. “Surely you will set them free.”

  The challenger sat again beside Vendanj, whose face betrayed no emotion, though Wendra thought the Sheason seemed satisfied. The challenger’s words seemed to ring in the round chamber. For long moments afterward, no one spoke or appeared to move. The counselors across from Vendanj’s table stared blankly at them. Slowly, low voices muttered to one another. No one attempted to quiet them.

  Wendra watched the robed council, their faces unreadable. Seanbea leaned back and spoke into her ear. “The council will not rise until they are prepared to render a decision. They have been known to sit for three days in deliberation.”

  “They do not discuss the new evidence?” Wendra asked, looking past the Ta’Opin to the colorful robes of the council.

  “Each member decides alone and makes a ruling. The largest number of votes prevails.” Seanbea followed Wendra’s gaze. “The regent may overturn their decision, but it is so rare that I cannot recall it happening. Though stories tell of trials in seasons gone by when the regent defied the court.”

  Wendra nodded and settled back to await the decision. Braethen looked on intently; Mira stood next to her chair, which she’d given to the witness. The challenger and Vendanj, subtle contempt visible on their features, looked out across the intervening floor at the line of court counselors.

  The whispering continued, often interrupted by a self-remonstrating attendant shushing the congregants. By turns, the air thickened, growing dense with heat and a mix of human smells. Wendra caught a glimpse of Artixan seated against the wall just behind her. The Sheason eyed Vendanj closely. He blinked slowly as if unconcerned with the trial, some inner question claiming his attention.

  Abruptly, one of the council members stood. Her robe fell in long deep folds. Then other members stood, one by one. The deliberations concluded, the regent nodded and the council member on the far left raised an arm in the direction of the counselor’s table. The man next to her did likewise. In turn, each lifted an arm, the wide sleeve hanging in a low arc beneath his or her wrist. Each arm pointed toward the first counselor and his companions. The chatter of those assembled grew with each vote, gasps of surprise and delight and uncertainty escaping hundreds of mouths at once, followed by a renewed furor of speculation.

  The accounting continued, council votes pointing toward the distinguished men in their fine black attire. Looks of self-assurance replaced the austere severity in their hollowed cheeks. Every hand confirmed the merits of their prior judgment. All save the last, whose arm lifted calmly toward the challenger. Uproar ensued, which quickly quieted before the regent could quell it. But the shock stirred the chamber, all eyes falling on the final voter. This last council member looked directly at the man with deeply tanned skin, then at Vendanj and Braethen and Mira and the girl. She did not seem to seek approval for casting her vote in their direction, but Wendra thought the woman sought to have them know of her resolve apart from the extension of her robed arm.

  The challenger nodded appreciation, though the look of disgust and defeat contorted his lips and brow. A small man raced forward and produced a ledger into which he began to make an inscription.

  “Your pardon,” Vendanj called with his resonant voice.

  The Court of Judicature became instantly silent, and the diminutive recorder lifted his pencil from his book.

  Vendanj pushed back his chair and came round the table. He disregarded the counselors opposite him; he disregarded those still holding their arms to designate their votes. All the assembly seemed outside his consideration. He approached the regent as a sole individual with a stride of sure defiance. He came to the foot of the marble stair and placed one boot upon the first step. He stood staring at the regent, who returned his fixed gaze for many moments. The two appeared locked in a contest of wills.

  As Vendanj began to speak, Wendra heard restless shifting behind her from Artixan. The old renderer muttered under his breath. Wendra could not make it out, but the tone was one of approval.

  “Regent Storalaith, I invite you to look past the dictate of this Court of Judicature and appeal to your privilege as regent.” Vendanj lowered his voice a note. “Set these men free. There could be no greater injustice than to uphold this ruling.”

  “Sheason,” the regent said, “I still do honor what your emblem represents. I have championed the seat of your order at my table. But this council is just. I will not allow it to be subverted in the performance of its calling.”

  “My Lady,” Vendanj persisted. “Is it not possible that after all the words are spoken we have not yet arrived at the truth? Or that what is lawful is yet not the proper course?”

  “I’ll not argue philosophy with you, Sheason.” The regent spared a look at the table of counselors and the challenger over Vendanj’s shoulders. “But if you ask me to rule according to my conscience and ignore the mandate of this Chamber, you’d not like my conclusion. I am unconvinced. I would spare you the humiliation of requesting my privilege only to have me send you away twice denied.”

  Vendanj did not immediately reply, seeming to consider alternatives. He half turned and looked at Wendra and Penit, then Braethen. The flinty look in his eyes and press of his lips unsettled Wendra, the brief hesitation. Why? Then he turned to the regent and spoke in an even tone.

  “Will you follow us to his cell,” Vendanj pointed toward the challenger. “Look upon the accused once before closing the ledger on this matter?”

  The regent lowered her chin. She held Vendanj’s eyes, seeming to search for his motivation in such a desire. Abruptly, she raised her chin again.

  “No.” She summoned the recorder, who rushed to her side with his tome and his graphite. As the book was placed in her lap, she pointed her cane at the counselor’s table. “You are dismissed.” She then looked up at the ascending circular rows of the assembly. “You have seen the work of justice and reason. Now go into your homes and keep yourselves clean of any offense that might bring you here.” Her voice rang like iron from a clear throat, though the skin of her neck hung loose.

  The hall began to empty. Vendanj did not move. The council folded robed arms and passed back through the doors by which they’d entered. Wendra and the others stood and flattened themselves against the entrance walls to allow the attendees to exit. In moments, the great round chamber had been vacated. Wendra rushed to Braethen and, of a sudden, found tears in her eyes. Penit stuck out a hand and greeted the sodalist in formal fashion. Braethen smiled and shook the boy’s outstretched hand.

  “You are well,�
� Mira commented, surveying first Wendra and then Penit.

  “Fine,” Wendra said.

  “Very fine,” Penit added.

  Braethen held onto Wendra’s hands. “There is so much to tell you.”

  “We’ve stories of our own,” Wendra said, rolling her eyes in exhaustion.

  “Enough time for that later,” Mira cut in, turning as Vendanj and the regent crossed toward them.

  Seanbea then hugged Wendra and promised to see her later before taking his leave. Wendra returned the embrace, wondering if it would be so.

  Helaina called the door guard to her. “Escort the girl home,” she said, indicating the witness. “See that she is not troubled for her testimony here today.” The witness bowed and followed two soldiers out of the chamber. Then Helaina turned to the challenger. “I can’t believe it is you, Denolan. You’ve not aged.”

  “I am Grant, Regent,” the challenger said coldly. “And you’ve not changed any more than I.” He looked upon the empty council chamber to emphasize his meaning. Wendra suddenly had the thought that the two had met together in this place before.

  “Belay your insults,” the regent said icily. “I have adjourned the council because it will not do to meet the demands of strangers in our highest assembly of law. But I will accompany you to look upon this archer in deference to the order that serves me still.” She glanced at Artixan, who stood a few paces off, then back at Grant. “Vendanj requests that you accompany me into the prisoner’s cell. I will allow it. But do not think that your years of exile have earned you a place in my ears for bitter accusations and angry words. I won’t hear it.” She did not raise her voice, but no room remained for disagreement. “Follow close,” she said to the recorder, who held his book across his chest as though it might fly away. “Artixan,” the regent said, motioning the old Sheason close, “Dwayne will take the Child’s Voice at my table. Watch over him until I can speak with him privately.”