The Unremembered

by Peter Orullian

  “You think you can keep up?” she asked.

  Tahn took her hand just as the music changed to a slow tune played on a deep-pitched fiddle. He put his arms around Mira and they swayed in time with the music.

  “You’re not very good at this, are you?” Mira looked down where Tahn’s feet had pinned her own to the grass.

  “Just need more practice. I’d think you’d be used to that with me by now.”

  She smiled and they turned slowly under a canopy of stars.

  “Your sister,” Tahn asked. “Did she have children?”

  Mira drew her head back and looked him in the eye. “You’re a clumsy dancer, but you’re perceptive.”

  “If she’s a queen, and she’s childless … you’ll be expected to bear the line an heir. That’s the decision you were talking about, isn’t it?”

  “It’s possible. Authority means something different to the Far than it does to others. It’s not dominion. Or even just leadership.”

  Her eyes held a distant look. She usually lived so completely in the present that to see her so distracted unsettled him. A young boy and girl, no more than eight, danced by, a bit fast and not in time with the tune.

  “Do you want a family?” he asked.

  The Far looked down at the children passing them. “It’s not a question of what I want. I am Far. For us, even the most favorable conditions leave a mother but a very short time with her child. And our idea of family is different than yours.”

  Tahn caught her attention. “I didn’t ask about all the Far. I asked about you.”

  Mira stared back at him. They’d stopped dancing, and now were sharing a set of impossible questions without speaking. And except for when she sat vigil in the depths of the night over his sleeping friends, it was the only time he could remember seeing her motionless. He believed her heart stirred, mostly because his own told him it must.

  A desire and ache for what one might wish but could never have.

  For them both.

  But Tahn wouldn’t let go the hope that had begun in his heart. Not yet.

  * * *

  Just before Sutter set to impress Wendra with his dance skills, he saw her rub her stomach with her free hand. It was a habit she’d developed while carrying her child. Was she even aware she was doing it? The motion clearly comforted her, and mentioning it would be a bad idea.

  He smiled, took her other hand, and found the rhythm of the song. As good as he was with his fingers in the dirt, he thought his sense of dance was better. Hopefully it would put him on good footing when he came to his question. He’d wanted to ask about it for the better part of a year.

  “How are you?” he began.

  Wendra’s gaze sharpened on him, her mouth almost a smile. “What do you really want to know?”

  Sutter executed a perfect turn to a fiddle run. “You know how I feel about you—”

  “You’re not even through your Change yet,” she said, letting her smile come.

  “Yes, yes. I’m melura, sure. But … I want to set things right, Wendra. The man who … the man who … He needs to be held responsible. And I want to be the one to put his name before the townsmen.”

  Her smile faltered. And he wished he hadn’t brought it up. What in all the names of dead gods had he been thinking, reminding her of her rape. She seemed angry, but also to understand his desire to help. She shook her head. Then her expression changed, softened. “If you want to do something for me, make me laugh. Here, sing me something to the fiddle. Your voice is awful.”

  He didn’t waste a beat, and began to sing, making his usual bad attempt at song. And she did laugh, the sound of it musical in the midst of his own several clumsy efforts.

  Over the next moments, he felt closer to her than he ever had.

  Then someone tapped his shoulder. He turned to see a Sedagin man he didn’t know.

  “I’ll have a turn with the lady,” the other said, and started to move in.

  “Not this time.” Sutter angled between the man and Wendra.

  The Sedagin raised a hand, and the music stopped. He stepped close. Sutter gently dropped Wendra’s hand.

  “You are low born,” the Sedagin said with derision.

  “I don’t know what that means to you,” Sutter replied, “but it sounds like an insult.” He modulated his tone to threaten action.

  “So the lowlander can reason,” the other mocked. “But you don’t deny a bladesman a turn with a woman.” The man spoke like a court counselor.

  Sutter looked for Tahn. He found him, locked eyes. The silent message was clear: If you need help …

  Then he looked to their table, and found the face of the Sedagin lord—a ready contempt for what might come next. That turned Sutter’s anger more black.

  He’d throttled men for mocking his trade—always there were jokes about his dirty hands. But this. This somehow made him angrier. The interruption, the presumption of it.

  “Hoping to find a friend to take your challenge for you?” the bladesman taunted, following Sutter’s gaze.

  Sutter shut his eyes, his jaw working as he bit back a retort. Another word and he might explode. He knew the foolishness of it, standing here in the middle of a plain filled with Sedagin. But by all hells, he would not yield on this. Not because he meant to prove himself a man to Wendra. Not because of the Sedagin’s arrogance or any of that.

  But because he had to believe that a boy left by his parents to a life of root farming wasn’t any less than a member of a blessed, vaunted nation with a glorious history of promises and honor in war. Otherwise he could have, should have, stayed in the Hollows.

  A hush fell over the company, the plain now quiet as it had been during Jamis’s toast. Only the sound of burning wood filled the air.

  Sutter opened his eyes and shifted his gaze to the Sheason. Vendanj didn’t appear ready to offer assistance. But somehow looking at the man he was reminded of his da, of something he’d taught Sutter a long while ago. A good farmer lets the land tell him when it wants to yield.

  Sutter’s jaw relaxed. His fists unclenched. A smile softened him further, and he looked back at the Sedagin standing close.

  “And what of the lady’s choice?” Sutter asked in a low voice, his words nearly lost in the crackle of the fire.

  “You’re suggesting she would rather dance with you than with one who is high born, given in blood to the Promise.” The man chuckled.

  Sutter choked back more anger, then shook his head. “So close to the sky, the sun has withered your wit,” Sutter offered dryly. “I’m suggesting that she ought to have been asked, not me.” He stepped closer, his face only the width of his fist from the Sedagin’s nose. “What is this First Promise that you claim gives you rank above me? Is it possible that it was meant for such a use?” It was Sutter’s turn to chuckle. “I think I’ve learned more honor nurturing life from my soil, than you have in all the grandeur of your sword and oath.”

  “You tread close to death, lowlander.” The bladesman’s face tightened, and he took a wider stance.

  “Then we will have ourselves a fight,” Sutter said evenly. “And either your arrogance will come to an end, or my dirty hands will fall defending the will of another. Poetic that it’s a lowlander to do so, don’t you think?”

  Sutter counted himself a good fighter. Threshing-strong from eighteen seasons on his da’s farm. But he was no match for the Sedagin’s skill with a blade, if it came to that. Fear rippled through him.

  The longblade reached for his sword.

  Tahn was moving fast toward them.

  “Hold,” Vendanj said, speaking to Tahn.

  “Or,” Sutter said, his smile returning, “you could ask Wendra if she’d like to dance. Does your Promise allow for such civility?”

  The man paused with his hand on the hilt of his blade. He looked across at Jamis, who nodded. The man unhanded his weapon and turned to Wendra. “Anais, would you care to dance?”

  “Anais,” the old term of respect for a
woman. That’s more like it.

  Wendra’s face shone as she looked at Sutter. Then she diplomatically answered, “Yes.” The longblade took her hand and the music started again, as festive as before. Sutter was turning to leave when the bladesman grabbed him by the wrist. Sutter wheeled about, ready to fight. Before he could think to strike, the man forced something into his hand. Sutter looked down, confused. When he glanced up again, the Sedagin nodded and returned to his dance with Wendra. Sutter ambled back to the table and sat, inspecting the present.

  Tahn was there a moment later, and leaned close, looking at the gift—one of the Sedagin gloves. A wide leather bracelet of deep green, a thin cord meant to loop up and around his third finger.

  “You’re expected to wear it,” Jamis remarked. “Mutual respect.”

  Sutter put it on, and flexed his hand into a fist. Jamis appeared pleased, but he didn’t speak of it again, returning to food and conversation.

  “I thought you were going to lose your nails,” Tahn said, as Sutter continued to study the odd glove. “You’re lucky it didn’t come to a fight.”

  “Maybe,” Sutter replied, finally picking up the last of his wine and finishing it. “But they’ve never fought a man from the Hollows before.” He laughed and refilled his goblet.

  Tahn shook his head, then shook Sutter’s arm, splashing wine on them both. “What happened?”

  “He wanted Wendra to dance. Forced himself in,” Sutter said, trying to sound incredulous.

  “So you defended your love,” Tahn remarked, as one deducing a great mystery.

  “What else?” Sutter smiled.

  “And what if she takes a stronger liking to the longblade?”

  “I’m sure his blade is the only thing about him that’s long.” He laughed. “Besides, I won the challenge, didn’t I? I used his own virtue to defeat him.” Then, softer, “I wish my father could have seen it.” He flexed his hand again, pulling the string tight over his fist. “I think he’d have been proud.”

  The night deepened. And sometime later the musicians laid down their instruments and took a break. In the lull, Wendra turned to Penit. “Let’s have a story,” she said. “Play one of the rhea-fols for us.”

  Sutter groaned. He’d never cared for the pageant wagon plays. Not since learning his birth parents had been troupers.

  Penit’s face lit up. He stood and rushed to the fireside. “What story do you wish?”

  “Anything,” Wendra said. “Something stirring. Something funny. Oh, you choose.”

  Penit eyed Vendanj and Jamis, as though something they might have said gave him an idea. He cleared his throat. Raised his chin, just as Sutter had seen him do atop his stage-wagon in Myrr. Then the words came, taking a form scripted by a gifted author, no doubt.

  “Years ago,” Penit began, with the tone of a storyteller, “the Great Court of Recityv convened to rule on the life of a man condemned, the people said, because he held no regard for life.” Penit took a step toward the fire, adopting an orator’s pose.

  Wendra chuckled enthusiastically. Tahn and Braethen smiled at the words so eloquently fashioned. Vendanj and Mira watched. The fire cast shadows around them.

  “Go on,” Wendra enthused.

  With another tilt of his head, Penit resumed, this time raising an open hand to dramatize the tale. “Our man in this account stood beneath the weight of his accusation, while the gentry, the ruling seats, and the merchant classes all looked on.” Penit lowered his voice to a whisper. “And the words he spoke are said to reverberate still in the Great Court of Recityv.

  “And so it goes,” Penit said, as if ready to tell one of the greatest rhea-fols he knew.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rhea-Fol

  A Sheason’s authority to render the Will—to cause change in body and spirit—isn’t license to do as he pleases. For example, the dead should remain dead, no matter how painful to those left alive. To do elsewise is to arrogate to godhood.

  —From The Tenets of Influence, a mastery work in the Sheason canon

  “And so it goes,” Penit said, and turned a circle where he stood. When he’d made one full round he held a grave expression and tightly folded arms, his eyes stern and turned earthward toward the fire. The flicker of the flames lent much to the look of condemnation the boy wore.

  “You are accused here of high treason, Denolan SeFeery,” Penit said with a surprisingly authoritative voice. “You are aware of the crimes that bring you here?”

  Penit turned a circle—a character change—and stared upward into the starry night, defiance clear in the set of his chin. “I know why you’ve brought me here, my lady,” Penit said with firm resolve and a second adopted voice, this one calm but implacable. “But it’s your arrogance and ignorance that call my actions crimes. Stop these proceedings before you condemn yourselves in your haste to place blame. I’m no traitor.”

  Penit whirled, again with arms folded. “Enough!” The vehemence of the command caught Tahn off guard. “You will answer as you are asked, and nothing more.” Penit pointed an accusatory finger toward the fire, disgust curling his upper lip.

  “There is ample evidence that I might wish to forgo these … pleasantries … but I will obey the law before all else. Counselor, lead on.”

  Penit turned again, dust pluming at his feet and drawn into the stream of heat now rising from the fire. He spun to a new stance two paces from where he’d been, a calm, calculating expression in his features—the counselor. “Two nights ago our good and noble regent gave birth to a child. Trumpets heralded the arrival. Celebrations had begun. But a secret was kept by the regent’s closest servants.” Penit paused, his eyes narrowing further. “The child arrived without breath.”

  Penit spun in one long turn back to the place of the accused. With an upturned face and the poise of one beyond his years, he said, “These words weave a deception meant to demonize me, my lady. No such jubilation existed in the city. The regent’s child is not heir to her seat—”

  Penit shuffled in a tight spin to his first position. “Silence.” Clear hatred shot from Penit’s eyes toward the fire. “You’ll have your chance to speak. Now, go on, Counselor.”

  Again Penit turned, the cool, intelligent gaze returning. “Yes,” he began, confident. “The child had no birthright to rule. That’s not our way. But it’s not the threat of losing a monarch that brings you here.” Penit grinned with malice, and shook his head. “Rather, you must answer why you felt it your place to stop the restitution of that child’s life by the benevolent abilities of the Order of Sheason. I might add, trying to stop the Sheason from saving the child is not so different from murder. For to take life and to prevent its reclamation are close cousins, are they not?” A snide look passed over Penit’s face.

  In the darkness, Vendanj appeared to scowl, his own arms crossed in front of him as he watched Penit’s dramatic telling.

  Penit again performed his circular dance, and landed in the guise of the accused. “Though framed as a question, sir, I take it you didn’t mean it so. I’ll leave the question to its own destruction by every man’s common sense.”

  Once more the boy twisted around to the place of prosecutor, a thin haze of dust floating in the circle around his feet near the fire. “Very well. A semantic discussion for another time.” Penit paced back and forth a few steps before cocking his head and staring inquisitively into the flames. “How is it that you knew where the ceremony would take place?”

  Penit turned, this time more slowly, his form casting shadows. As a defendant he spoke toward the sky, “I lead the regent’s Emerit guard.”

  Penit turned. “I see.” His eyes shone as a child’s that had captured something with which to play. “Then by her confidence, you knew when and where the Sheason would minister to the child to give it a chance at life. And with this knowledge you undertook not only to deny that chance, but to contravene the wishes of the regent. Is that,” Penit said, raising a dubious brow, “also a weave of deception? Or have I
fairly described the circumstance and your intentions in its regard?”

  Tahn watched the change in expression take place as the boy came to the position of the accused. “It is … incomplete. It’s true that there’s little I didn’t know about the affairs of the regent. And I became perhaps the only one able … or willing,” Penit said as he looked back to where his questioner might be standing, “to tell her she was wrong.”

  Wendra and Sutter let out a gasp. Tahn found himself looking in the direction Penit did when addressing the judge, attempting to see the object of Penit’s fancy.

  For a long moment Penit let the words hang over the fire and his rapt listeners. When Tahn spied Vendanj again, the Sheason had not moved, shadow playing across his darkened features as the fire spat and surged, glinting dully over his three-ringed pendant. He knew the story; recognition was clear in his eyes. But something more rested there, something inexorable like floodwater in a spring of heavy rains.

  Penit then stepped twice, gracefully completing his turn to change his guise back to the counselor. A thin smile spread on the boy’s lips. “Tell her she was wrong, you say. With an adversary like you, SeFeery, I hardly need to present evidence here.” Penit let his grin fall. “And in any case, wide is the gulf between the liberty to provide strong counsel … and taking measures to obstruct the regent’s wish. We have witnesses to your actions. Do you wish to hear their testimony, or will you concede their words as truth?”

  Penit twisted back and raised his eyes in calm compliance. “I’ve read their written testimonies. They are accounts of what they saw.” One eyebrow rose as Penit said, “But I admonish the Court of Judicature on this point: They are of no use in determining whether my actions were right.”

  With a short step and a quick turn, Penit returned to his first position, a harsh glare on his face. “We’re not here to determine if you believe in the correctness of your actions. Should we ignore the law in exchange for a criminal’s earnest belief that he was justified in his crime?” Penit approached the fire and bent close. He glared down with disdain. “You, fellow, would be a handful of coins in an assassin’s purse if I … could feel justified in my actions.”