“The creature shrieked, his howls shattering the stone around him and causing my flesh to ache. Even in the grasp of Tillinghast, Zephora reached out to transfer his own pain, and its touch tugged at my skin. Shafts of light began to shoot from his nails, and his eyes, and soon he was so bright that I could no longer look at him. He blazed a moment in a state of sheer brilliance. Then the light abruptly faded, and Zephora fell to the ground. The mists receded, but you did not move.
“As the ground began to shake so that I considered pulling you back from the edge … it stopped. The mist became at once still, the wind gone, the ground quiet. No further flashes of light or dark, only the soft light of the mists.
“And you collapsed. I could not revive you, and so went to get Vendanj.”
“What happened in the pass? The last I saw, a great blast rose out of the mountain. It pushed me to the ground.”
Sutter chimed in, his eyes alight with a tale to tell. “Zephora shoved his hand into the soil. A circle began to spread, stripping color from the dirt. His eyes blackened and then a great burst threw us back. It felt like what I imagine the Bourne might be like. I suddenly felt all my desires drain away. I could feel myself being lifted and hurled by the force of the blast, and knew I would soon strike stone, but in that moment, I didn’t care.”
Sutter swallowed hard. “It was like that time when Haley Reloita, Shiled’s son, got trapped in the well just before the rains came. Do you remember?”
Tahn nodded. No one had been able to get Haley out. The well was too narrow for men, too dangerous for a child. Haley’s fall had brought loose well-stones down upon him, half burying him in the stagnant, shallow water at the well’s bottom. Hours later, it began to rain, swelling the river, and from an underground tributary, the water in the well, too. They watched as the water rose, and Haley cried. Frantic men lowered ropes that Haley could not hold firm enough to pull him from the stones. Eventually, the water covered him completely.…
“That was the way I felt in the darkness,” Sutter said. “I’ve never had anything hit my chest harder than the force of that blast, but I’d take twenty such blows to not feel the anguish that crawled inside my mind as the blackness surrounded me…” Then Nails smiled weakly. “Just give me my roots back.”
“The veil weakens,” Vendanj said in an ominous voice. “The First Ones created the Tract of Desolation to form a veil which might hold the malefic ones at bay. It is safeguarded and sung by Leiholan at the Descant Cathedral. Its design is to restrain all those sworn to Quietus, but especially those capable of calling upon the Will. That is why we’ve known only Bar’dyn in the Land for some time. Zephora’s emergence into the light of men represents a threat we cannot imagine. It means other Draethmorte may soon pass through the Hand.”
“It means more than that,” Grant added, his voice gruff. He looked at Vendanj, then at Wendra. “It means the Tract has been compromised somehow. Or the Leiholan fail.”
Tahn’s sister turned an icy look on the exile, seeming to take his words as an indictment.
Vendanj did not respond to Grant’s grim theory. Instead he focused again on Tahn. “And you, are you resolved to stand evermore as you did at Tilling-hast?”
What real option did he have? He clenched his teeth at the thought. But sitting in the company of Sutter and Braethen, and to a lesser degree, Wendra, he realized he would do what he had always done. He would speak the words and he would rise in the earliest moments of dawn, while the world remained dark, and imagine a sunrise to light the sky. And though he had no reason for it, he took the smallest comfort from these patterns of his life.
Returning Vendanj’s severe gaze, Tahn mustered his confidence and said, “I will give my best.”
“Then give me your cane,” Vendanj replied.
He handed the branch of cloudwood to the Sheason, who took it and hefted it twice in his upturned palms. He then clasped his fingers around it and closed his eyes. The wood began to reshape itself, coming alive in the renderer’s hands. Slowly, it turned, moving as though alive, but drawing itself into a definable shape. Within moments, the branch had become a sleek bow, fashioned of the ebony cloudwood.
“Newly fallen from a live tree, the branch still courses with the nourishment of Restoration.” He handed the bow to Tahn. “I have sealed the mist inside, giving the branch eternal vigor. It will serve you when you draw fittingly.”
Tahn admired his new bow for a moment. Then his mind returned to where they had been interrupted by Mira returning from the ledge. “What is Quillescent?”
Vendanj gave him a penetrating look. “Let us speak of that another time, Tahn. Be glad in the knowledge that you have survived Tillinghast. Whatever comes will not come uncontested. This is mighty, and will surely anger Quietus. For now, let us rest.” With that, the Sheason eased himself onto his side and closed his eyes.
Still keeping secrets. Well, I’ve now secrets of my own. Tahn patted his tunic where he’d pocketed the necklace he’d lifted from Zephora’s dead body. That, and the results of choices he’d witnessed at Tillinghast which lingered in his mind—the ends of choices yet to make.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
A Refrain from Quiet
The stars still held sway when Tahn stirred awake. Gentle dew coated his face with freshness he took a moment to enjoy. Around him, the hulking shapes of fallen trees rose up. Tahn folded back his blanket and crept past his companions to the end of a nearby cloudwood. There, he used the snakelike roots to climb atop the tree, where he stood and surveyed the world around him. In that broad valley, he became the highest point, and quietly mourned for the forest now blanketing the ground. Looking up, the sky shone with stars Tahn did not remember ever seeing. For a moment, he felt as though he stood between the earth and sky, the strength of soil and the hope of the untouchable.
And there, he imagined the coming of the sun, a slow, beautiful dawn that turned the skies a hundred shades of blue.
He shut his eyes and took deep, deliberate breaths, not allowing the intrusion of other thoughts, and briefly recaptured a portion of the peace the ritual had long ago given him.
“There’s a kind of glory in it, isn’t there?”
Tahn’s eyes snapped open, and he whirled around to see the Sheason standing a few strides behind, watching him.
“In what?” Tahn asked, discountenanced by the intrusion.
“In the coming of another day, the awakening of the world from its slumber.”
Tahn turned back to his view of the valley. “A small comfort, yes.”
“And why small?” Vendanj asked, his tone calm, almost fatherly.
Taking a moment to survey the devastation around him again, Tahn said, “Morning sun used to thrill me, the very look of it on a farmer’s neatly planted field, the hazy way it fell through the leaves, dancing in patterns on the frosted ground below. I liked the idea that things were made visible again, that the light held a promise of reuniting friends, shared meals, and that one’s dreams might find their form in the light of a new day.”
He waited, feeling suddenly ungrateful. “But the covenant we make with the sun is not what I once thought … I still seek its return to the sky, but now only for warmth and a sure place to put my feet.”
“And where is the smallness in that?” Vendanj persisted.
Tahn exhaled a deep breath, watching it cloud the bracing air. “There are days that the warmth of my blanket is enough for me, days when I fear the path the sun lights for us.” Tahn turned to face the Sheason. “I don’t know why it matters to me to witness the birth of each day. It does not feel to me that we are a world watched over.”
Vendanj seemed to weigh the things Tahn said. He regarded him for a long time without moving. Finally, he spoke, his voice firm but low. “The Council of Creation is said to have ended with the First Ones abandoning their work on behalf of men, because they thought the work was lost. Once Quietus had been sealed up and whited, the land was given into the stewardship of those who would
have it; our lives are our own. But the work of the Artificer had already tainted that stewardship, and has pressed in upon us since recorded time.
“In all the ages past, we have warred with each other, warred with the Quiet, and so perhaps you wonder if we deserve another day, if the Quiet that would blight our world is not inevitable.”
Tahn nodded. “And what difference can the bow of a simple hunter from the Hollows make when added to the nations, the armies, that stand against the darkness that comes at us from the Bourne?”
Tahn saw something in Vendanj’s eyes: knowledge, perhaps comfort. The Sheason spoke of neither. “There is more to you than your bow, Tahn. You know this about yourself. However desperately you wish to be only a woodsman from the Hollows, it is folly to cling to such obvious self-deception. Your moment at Tillinghast should have taught you as much.”
Tahn remained mute. In response, the Sheason’s brows rose perceptibly in surprise. Seeing that look, Tahn realized that even at Restoration, the Will had controlled the moment, obscuring revelations Vendanj had apparently expected Tahn to have. Still, the renderer said nothing of it.
As if in response, Vendanj narrowed his gaze as a father might to reprove a willful child. “It is the opportunity of free men to choose their own path, to direct their will as they deem fit. But freedom is not license to waste the gifts bestowed on you.”
“And what might those be?”
Vendanj settled back as a father does when he sets out to explain. “Shall I name all those who have raised their arms and placed their lives in the breach in order to safeguard the land that houses your narrow tract in the Hollows? Men and women who knew not the politics, nothing of the old war or the ancients, who put themselves in harm’s way and went to their final earth because they were called to it by nothing save their desire to be free, to preserve their children’s morrow?”
Vendanj showed Tahn compassionate eyes. “I am well pleased in your triumph at Restoration. But now you have been qualified, selected to act as the Will would have you. Don’t ever make demands or assert your own needs, or you will have undone what we came here to do.”
After a moment, Tahn offered meekly, “Is my life not my own?”
Vendanj’s features softened to a paternal smile. “Every answer to that is true, Tahn. Make peace with them all.”
Vendanj stood in Tahn’s company for some time, then began to take his leave. As he strode away he spoke. “Keep safe the token you hide in your tunic. It may serve you well someday.”
* * *
The evening of their second day, they spotted the Soliel Stretches beyond the lower peaks of the last range of mountains. Their rations gone, Sutter dug some roots he recognized, and they drank from a nearby stream. Tahn sought an opportunity to talk with Wendra, but his sister still kept her distance, speaking only occasionally to Braethen. Like Wendra, Sutter was changed, too, but Nails seemed to fight that change, turning their minds toward home.
“Can you imagine the welcome we’re going to get from Hambley?” Sutter licked his lips. “I can taste his roast duck already. Hey, Woodchuck, maybe you can hunt us up something good for him to roast in those magic Fieldstone ovens. This time, we’ll be the ones people buy spiced bitter for. I think I’ll take a glass of warmed cinnamon and some plum brandy to wash it down with.” As he spoke, Sutter casually rolled his own sword in his hands, its use seeming to have become increasingly familiar to him.
“Well, so long as you put some fine roots beside that duck, root-digger, I’ll spare not the carafe.”
Distantly, Tahn could hear Wendra using her voice, drawing more water from the stream, and choosing songs both high and low to test her vocal limits and strength. If nothing else, it gladdened his heart to hear her sing again.
Braethen wore a quizzical half smile, his books for once put away, and only his sword in sight, lying near to hand. “Hollows men,” the sodalist added, “you will place another plate at that table, and a handful of cups for me alone.”
Sutter gave Braethen a look of pleasant surprise. “And when Hambley sets the glasses down, will our resident scop favor us with an emotional retelling of the events since Northsun?” Having baited him, Sutter waited expectantly to see how the sodalist would respond.
Braethen cleared his throat, preparing to orate something, but with his first word broke down and laughed. His laughter was contagious, and soon they all were laughing as they had not since Tahn could remember.
“That’s all right, sodalist, after all,” Sutter said, standing and drawing a deep breath as though he meant to issue a battle cry, “you are you!”
That got them all laughing again. Tahn rolled off his rock, holding his stomach, while Sutter struck a noble pose.
* * *
The Far king shifted around abruptly, and gave the Sheason a despairing look. “Then the floodgates are nearly open.” Elan glanced over them all in his central hall, quickly searching their faces. Lighting on Tahn, the king asked, “You made it to Tillinghast?”
Vendanj answered. “He did. And is come again into the land.”
“Then we have an instrument to be grateful for.” Elan smiled crookedly at Tahn, though Tahn did not like being described in such a way. “Still,” the king added grimly, “I fear there is not time to sire a larger generation of Far before…”
Tahn saw Mira’s discomfort at the turn of the conversation. “Whatever else you decide, you should know Mira’s actions made my stand at Tillinghast possible.”
No one responded, though understanding came to Elan’s face. He nodded at Mira, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.
“They will seek the covenant language, and Naltus is now its sole repository. But they will not make their ambition dependent on that alone.” Vendanj leveled a serious look at the king of the Far. “It will be necessary for you to place a select few of the Far in areas that will prove critical should the Shadow of the Hand be laid fully open, or should the Veil fail utterly. First though, the convocation. It is necessary for you to occupy your seat at Recityv. Tahn has survived Restoration, but that is only our first step. The time is short now before convocation begins, if it has not already. We need your leadership, Elan. The politics of kings, the subterfuge of the League … the coming of the Quiet. You must not stand idle.”
Attending closely the Sheason’s words, the king nodded in such a way that Tahn knew he would consider all Vendanj asked. But concern stayed in the Far king’s aspect, causing Tahn to wonder if Elan’s burdens amounted to more than even a Far could manage. In that instant, Tahn felt empathy for King Elan, a kinship he decided they shared as creatures given a role that left them few choices for themselves.
* * *
That night, after all the details had been shared, they were treated to hot baths, assigned beds, and allowed to sleep, this time, without the company of standing guards—an exception the king made in order to give the weary companions some privacy. Braethen went with Vendanj, a fealty having grown in the sodalist for the Sheason. Grant went with Mira to the training yards, where immediate work would begin to instruct the Far in battle techniques unfamiliar to them. Wendra took her own room, saying a soft good night to them all before taking a loaf of bread and some freshly warmed milk to bed. Tahn and Sutter bunked together, opening their window to let the night air touch their chests as they had always done on hunting trips into the Hollows.
“What’s next?” Sutter asked, staring over the foot of his bed at a bright moon through the opened window.
“I’m sure they’ll tell us,” Tahn remarked, lending both contempt and humor to his words.
Sutter raised his hand that bore the unique glove of the Sedagin. “Do you suppose I’d be welcome back into the High Plains again?”
“Sure. You make a wonderful impression wherever you go.” Tahn chuckled and turned likewise to view the risen moon.
Sutter laughed.
It felt good to banter with his friend again, even if the familiarity of that banter did not
put him completely at ease. Looking at the moon, Tahn recalled the last room he shared with Sutter, and the disturbance at their window that had caused Nails to take refuge under his bed. The memory of the leagueman’s charity and his friend’s vision sent a chill down Tahn’s back, and he drew his covers up over his chest.
“Do you think Wendra will ever forgive me?”
Sutter exhaled into the cool, comfortable air. “I’ve never seen her this way,” Sutter said thoughtfully. “But I have faith in her. And why not; I intend to marry her one day.”
Tahn gave his friend a playfully quizzical look. “Do you suppose she’ll return to Recityv?”
“I think Vendanj would like that,” Sutter replied. “But I’ve a feeling Wendra will make up her own mind. What I want to know is if Braethen intends to tag along with the Sheason now forever.”
“Not me,” Tahn shot back. “That’s a secret I’ll gladly let them keep.”
“The real question,” Sutter said, a smile audible in his voice, “is what you intend to do about Mira. I mean, a Hollows boy finding romance with the elusive Far. I’m starting to think you’re keeping things from me.”
“I don’t have any secrets from you,” Tahn said. But that’s not true anymore, is it?
“Well don’t delay, that’s my advice. A ripe root goes soft if left in the ground too long.” Sutter belly laughed.
Tahn joined him, unable to resist Sutter’s infectious laughter. When they’d finished, Sutter wiped his eyes free of mirthful tears, and asked, “What do you think happened to Penit?”
The mention of the boy’s name caught Tahn off guard. “I hope he gets away,” he said. “If there’s a lad in the world who could do it, it’s Penit.”
The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven Page 94
