The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven

by Peter Orullian

  A pace from him, she stopped and bowed her head. She did not raise it again until the man had softly touched her shoulder with his crook. Something seemed odd to Tahn about the gathering. Perhaps it was the meekness of the gestures they used to communicate with one another, nothing like he’d seen of the Far in her dealings since coming to the Hollows. But that wasn’t quite it. Something else.

  Mira spoke to the man, her words inaudible to Tahn. Then she stepped back, and Vendanj strode forward, his tall frame commanding even in the depths of the great hall. He humbly bowed his head to the man, who quickly touched the crook to Vendanj’s shoulder, the speed of the gesture seeming to indicate respect. Vendanj looked up for only an instant before turning to rest the rest of the assembly. He did not immediately speak, his gaze passing over each Far.

  He realized what had seemed strange to him. As Tahn followed the Sheason’s gaze, not one of the Far could be any older than either Sutter or himself. Looking closer, he saw that some appeared several years younger. Many wore experience outwardly, giving their faces a cast of years beyond what their bodies might indicate. Not one showed the innocence of a melura, though each also sat with a placid brow as though forever untroubled. And each in his or her own way was as beautiful as Mira, perhaps, he thought, because of their youth, or perhaps because they all seemed to have a sure sense of themselves.

  The renderer finished assessing his audience, his bright eyes ablaze, reflecting the light of the light-bearers’ lamps. He took the vertical hems of his cloak and drew them back over his shoulders, exposing the three-ring pendant that hung from the short chain around his neck. A rustle of movement swept through the Far. No words came, no exclamations, but the stirring of feet and straightening of backs to take full view of the Sheason bespoke the same surprise.

  “Children of Soliel,” Vendanj said. “Thank you for sheltering us against the storm and the shadows walking upright in the land. I ask your patience for one night, then we leave you to your duties here.”

  Vendanj stopped, and Tahn thought the Sheason might be considering the duties of which he spoke. The renderer nodded, as if he had just come to some decision.

  “Your stewardship becomes more dear today with the news I bring. No record ever speaks of a time when you have not honored and kept your First Inheritance: a life lived only until your Standing, your spirits thereafter going to what lies beyond death. As reward for keeping your commission to safeguard the Language of the Covenant, you’ve been given the blessing of another life after leaving this world, where you may gather your family around you. And you have carried this trust well.” Vendanj’s brow darkened. “But the Whited One grows restless after countless ages in his tomb. His misshapen creatures slip through the veil at the Shadow of the Hand, crossing from the Bourne in the west. They would rob you, rob all of us, of the hope you guard.”

  Sutter whispered to Tahn. “What’s he talking about?”

  Tahn shrugged.

  “Keep still and you may have a sense of it,” Grant said quietly over their shoulders. “Nothing so alerts another of melura as the opening of its mouth.” Tahn thought it the closest thing to a joke the man from the Scar had uttered, but he held back a grin.

  “I’ve seen the dolmen across your shale, and others yet toppled to the ground. It is a desecration unique to the Quiet who’ve come against you. Even in this shale valley you are not safe. You know this. It is inevitable that the spill from the Bourne will widen, and its hazards seek you out specifically.”

  Vendanj stepped closer, capturing them with a serious gaze. “But they have already struck deep into the land. This fortnight the Library at Qum’rahm’se was burnt to cinders, destroying generations of scholarship on the covenant language. Other repositories exist, but the library was protected by more than its mountain, with Sheason wards round about it.” Vendanj paused. “And it contained the only other copy of the Tract of Desolation beyond that held at Descant Cathedral. The knowledge of the covenant tongue is now gone from the hands of men. Your stewardship here over the Language of the Covenant is more crucial than ever, more endangered.” Vendanj looked past them, his eyes growing distant. “If Quietgiven made so easy a task of it at Qum’rahm’se, I fear for the coming of Delighast … the end of things.” He paused. All the Far listened, attentive.

  “Whatever action men take to answer this threat, you mustn’t fail here to keep your commission: The Language of the Covenant must never be destroyed or stolen. No shrouded night amidst the shale is as black as what awaits us if it is.” He paused again. “I fear the threat will come to Naltus again … stronger this time…”

  It was the only time Tahn could remember Vendanj not finishing a thought.

  The Sheason stepped back beside Mira. The young man with the crook placed the small staff upon the table behind him. The Far assembly rose as though formally dismissed and quietly took their leave. The light-bearers placed their staffs in holes in the floor before likewise exiting the room. Moments later, the hall stood empty save for Tahn’s companions and the one Far who’d borne the crook.

  He sat on the edge of the table. “It is good to see you, Vendanj. You are a worthy reminder of men to us. You are always welcome here.” Tahn thought he heard a request more than an invitation.

  “Thank you, King Elan,” Vendanj said, nodding his head in gratitude and respect. “But there is more to say, and I would that we held this conversation without your captains.”

  “I suspected as much,” the king replied, a wry half smile quirking his lips. “Shall I have water drawn?”

  “They need it,” Mira answered, nodding to indicate Tahn and the others.

  Elan turned to look at an attendant standing post at the rear wall and half raised an arm. The attendant went straight out, returned quickly with two carafes of water and a tray of small glasses, placed them on the table, and withdrew immediately.

  Elan poured the water, inviting them all to take a glass. As Tahn drank, he stared at Elan, realizing he was seeing not just the living king of the Far, but one who had taken his army to battle more than once and had returned victorious every time. When all had drunk, Vendanj paced to the center aisle of the chairs and pivoted sharply on his heel to look back at Elan and the rest of them.

  “There are a dozen other places of study between Naltus and Qum’rahm’se, and the Quiet will likely visit them all. But should they ever take possession of the Tract of Desolation…”

  Elan drank again, his forehead smooth, unconcerned. “Recityv will hold.”

  “It is not so easy as that,” Vendanj continued. “Already the Given have come near the city, one coming…” The Sheason stopped, his eyes alighting on Tahn. “They have walked without regard into the Hollows, those hallowed groves consecrated during the Age of the Tabernacle. The land grows barren.” Vendanj shared a look with Grant. “The balance of Forda I’Forza is upset. It is not a battle with a front this time, Elan. Yours is a crucial role, but we are as strands laid across a loom, and one miswoven thread flaws the whole.” Vendanj grew quiet for a moment, his eyes downcast in his own thoughts.

  “Did you come all this way to bring this news, and with a child no less?” Elan looked at Penit, a disconcerted look clear upon his features, as though he recognized something in the boy that Tahn could not see.

  Vendanj looked up from beneath a lowering brow. “We pass this way into the Saeculorum … to Rudierd Tillinghast.”

  Elan shot Vendanj a look of horrified surprise. The Far turned to stare in the direction of the mountains where the storm raged. Still looking away, he said, “This is unfortunate news, Sheason. Quiet so deep in the land, attacks on the vaults of wisdom, these are alarming…” Elan turned back toward Vendanj. “But men returning to Restoration … that you will test the mountains is the darkest jest known to the Far; that you believe you must go to Tillinghast disheartens me. What can be gained by this?” He awaited an answer.

  Vendanj blinked slowly. “The Far keep their First Inheritance, Elan, living
without the shackles of consequence because you return to your earth before your Standing. Restoration may return to you nothing, for nothing can be restored to one for good or ill who hasn’t felt his own Change. But for man it has ever been so only in his youth, and even there he is not protected as you are by your covenant. And beyond the day he Stands, the Heights become something altogether different. The abyss that presses in at Tillinghast is the substance of things unseen, the formulation of Forda I’Forza. And it will ask of those who alight there the most profound question…”

  What question? More unfinished thoughts. Tahn was yet more alarmed.

  He tried to ferret out the answer. The Sheason was taking Tahn to this place, the mere mention of which had the power to disturb the stoic countenance of Elan. What is the most profound question?

  Interrupting his thoughts, Vendanj said, “We must know the answers to understand how we will face the servants of the Whited One and every hoof or foot that steps forth out of the Bourne.”

  Elan sipped at his water, his eyes again distant as though remembering something. “The Heights are too pure, too supernal for the flesh of men. The great cloudwood trees grow there only because they are as hard as iron and can withstand the mists. They are older than recorded history, and their roots reach to great depths to secure their trunks against the winds.”

  “Nay, more,” Vendanj added, with deep reverence. “Their roots at the Heights of Restoration grow into the mists themselves, forming new soil. It is a marvel. There is special providence in the cloudwood. No mere tree is it.”

  “And how unlike this tree is a man,” Elan said. “Your hopes may wither with the very decaying of human flesh when it comes in contact with the mists of Tillinghast that churn beyond the Heights. The pure potential that exists there will tear out the heart of a man who is less than the full promise inherent within him.”

  Vendanj nodded agreement. “These are necessary risks. What awaits us in the seasons ahead must be met by those whose very life is a gift of Will. We cannot know this about anyone who has not stood at Tillinghast. And anyone who actually walks away from the Heights has perhaps earned nothing more than a fated death if the Whited One escapes his sepulchre.”

  Elan raised a sober eye. “Yet you ask these here to have restored to them the memory and consequence of all their own choices, so that you can be satisfied of their worthiness?”

  The Sheason frowned at the Far king. Elan did not retreat, but a look of uneasiness filled his face. Vendanj stared back with grim resolve.

  Tahn felt a flicker of betrayal at the revelations that continued to unfold about his part in the journey to the Heights of Restoration. He’d always hated to be deceived, even when it came in the form of surprise gifts. But the fire in Vendanj’s eyes was unrelenting, showing no mercy for whatever sacrifice must be made.

  A peal of thunder reverberated around the great hall.

  “Your pardon, Sheason,” Elan finally said. “I do not question your intentions. But our own history shows more than a few who have perished in the mountains that rise from the Soliel. Their beauty is savage and deceptive. What thrives there is not edible by man, and the life that feeds upon it has crept from crags and pits where the work of creation is imperfect.”

  “How can that be?” Wendra cut in. Tahn started at the intrusion of a new voice, and turned to find concern in his sister’s eyes. “The cycles of life are as steady and certain as the turn of the greater light. The mountain cat is a fierce predator, but part of the balance even when it kills.”

  Elan faced Wendra. “Imperfect, Anais, only because the change and growth wrought in the mountains near Tillinghast is not meet for your survival. New life there is born out of the mists and the potential they bear. It is the irony of Tillinghast that it be used to discern balance, and yet is surrounded by a terrain that threatens the harmony of man.” Elan looked again toward the wall that faced the mountains to the north. “Tillinghast,” he whispered. “Its purpose is not wholly known; its secrets are well preserved. Even authors who claim to have been there do not agree. Restoration it grants, that is sure, but—”

  “Enough,” Vendanj said, softly putting an end to Elan’s words. “Fear of Restoration has crippled the efforts of otherwise good men. Generations ages past have labored to know how the Whited One could ever slip his bonds, and their search led them round to their tails while the rancor and legions beyond the Bourne grew. The Shadow of the Hand lengthens, and today’s rumors hint toward the commencement of Delighast. Enough!” Vendanj’s voice boomed in the large hall. “The blood of many stains my hands, as it does the hands of those who bear me company. Even their families were asked to follow painful paths. These sacrifices will not be mocked or go unremembered.” His voice turned cool and even. “But it is part of our weakness that most in this current age are no longer willing to sacrifice to answer the threat of the Bourne. Our great ‘civility’ breeds indignation at the thought, or worse, disbelief and complacency.” Vendanj stopped, and cast his eyes upward. Tahn heard the Sheason take a long inward breath. When Vendanj lowered his head again, an indomitable expression lit his face. “It will not be so this time.”

  Goose bumps rose almost painfully across Tahn’s skin. He had the feeling that the Sheason was implying that Tahn and the others might be called upon to sacrifice something more before this was over.

  Mira looked at Tahn, a kind of empathy in her eyes he had not seen before. It both comforted and frightened him.

  The Sheason pulled his cloak about his shoulders and weighed the looks of those around him. Only Grant seemed to have no expression at all. The exile out of the Scar sniffed and waited. Any other time, the callousness in Grant’s eyes might have bothered Tahn. But the stillness that followed the Sheason’s words fell like a pall over everything.

  “You’ll have rooms at my home,” Elan finally said, shattering the silence. “Sheason, I must insist that you take attendants into each room.”

  “To sleep with us?” Sutter blurted.

  The Far king smiled. “Not to sleep. It is custom that visitors to Naltus be watched over continually, even at rest. It is rare that human boots tread Far shale, but the custom has always been observed, and I’ll not diverge from it.”

  “Wisely said,” Vendanj interjected. “My regret is that in harboring us you put yourselves at greater risk.”

  “We accept the responsibility of our stewardship.” He looked up at Vendanj. “It would not be the first time that Quiet has come against us. And if they do, we will be ready.”

  Vendanj turned to Mira. “You will sit with Tahn. The others will be attended by members of Elan’s guard.”

  The Far king nodded, took up his crook, and strode away. Vendanj followed. In a dozen paces, his long, powerful strides brought him abreast with Elan. The two conferred as Mira motioned for the rest to come after her. Sutter said nothing. He just shook his head with a wry smile.

  Tahn looked back over his shoulder at the great hall, seeing the light standards, the rows of chairs, and the mezzanine where he’d first seen the map showing Rudierd Tillinghast. He thought about the things Vendanj had said to Elan’s captains. Somewhere in those words, he felt there were answers for him, at last; yet at the same time, he thought maybe he no longer wanted to know.

  At the door, Grant put a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he urged him through.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  One Bed, the Same Dream

  Mira stepped past Tahn and surveyed the chamber: bed and chest of drawers to one side, and a table and chair set beside the window on the other. Tahn never got past the bed—there was only one. A thrill raced through him, followed quickly by anxiety. Slowly, he shut the door. When he turned, Mira had already seated herself in the chair beside the window and had taken out her oilcloth to clean her blades. As she set to wiping down one of her swords, Tahn unshouldered his bow and threw off his cloak, tossing it over the foot of the bed.

  Beyond the window, lightning still flashed against
the darkness to the north. Gouts of wind buffeted the eaves, whistling like thin reeds. A single lamp burned on the table, its wick so low that the oil threatened to extinguish the flame.

  Tahn turned up the wick, brightening the room, and put his hands near the glass as though to warm them. He then sat beside his cloak, and shifted to look at the Far. Mira seemed to take no notice of him, running her cloth evenly over the edge of her weapon, which caught reflections of the flame.

  Questions spun in his head, things he wanted to ask but did not dare: How much of all this did she know from the beginning? Did she think it was possible that a boy from the Hollows and a Far girl …

  Tahn regarded her in the lamplight. No delicate square-cut blouse overlaid her bosom as the women of the Hollows wore when spring came full. Mira’s cloak remained clasped at her neck, the grey folds cascading around the chair to the floor. No tincture colored her lips or eyes. But the glow of the flame gently touched her skin, giving it warmth even over her determined features. In contrast, white flashes burst from the sky, starkly lighting half her face for brief moments.

  “Something on your mind?” she said, turning over her blade to inspect both edges.

  Tahn groped for words. “I don’t know. Yes.”

  “You should say it, then, so that you won’t waste sleep wondering if I might answer.”

  “All right. I left the Hollows because I thought being there put the town in danger. I know now that Bar’dyn and Velle hunt me. But I don’t know why.” He leaned toward her, emboldened by his words. “And the only time I learn much about this Heights of Restoration is when I hear Vendanj telling someone else about it. He could kill me with a wave of his hand, but I’m tired of being the last to know just what, by my father’s name, this is all about.”