The Unremembered

by Peter Orullian

  Wendra steadied her eyes in an unflinching stare on the obvious leader of the small band and gave a knowing smile. “Well, perhaps you also know where I might find him.” She reclined a bit to show her lack of concern.

  Straightaway a wide grin spread on the man’s lips. “I think we might, my lady, but how could we ask you to travel these dangerous roads alone.” He paced past his men to one side of the small clearing.

  “Do I look like I need your help?” Wendra asked. “Unless, of course, you mean me some harm.” She lowered her gaze to the man’s sword, holding her smile. Inside, panic gripped her, but she knew she mustn’t show it. “I seem to be doing just fine in this suspicious land you describe. Not a jot of trouble, not a curious word … until now.”

  The man bowed persuasively. “Well said, my lady, well said. Allow me to introduce myself, and then you and I will no longer be strangers. Jastail J’Vache.” He held his bow, but inclined his head to watch for Wendra’s approval.

  Wendra nodded. “A man of breeding,” she said, her words laced thinly with sarcasm. “How fortunate that I met you, if, as you say, the world about is so corrupt.”

  “My lady,” Jastail said. “You’ve not yet given your name.” He stood, his devilish smile too large on his rugged face.

  “I’m Lani Spiren,” Wendra said. “Make yourselves warm.” Wendra knew they would have stayed regardless. Whatever their intentions, her game with Jastail would at least allow her to retain some freedom, for a while anyway.

  Because these were highwaymen. She could feel it.

  And if they did know where Penit was, then she’d have to convince them to tell her where or take her to him. She rubbed her stomach from habit.

  Jastail eyed her closely. He then motioned his companions to a fallen log. The men appeared disgruntled, but obeyed. One of them produced a bottle of wine, and the two began to whisper in harsh, sibilant exchanges. Jastail sat with a flourish near Wendra.

  “Be true, my lady. Why would you travel alone in open country?” He looked away thoughtfully, relaxing as though he shared a fire with an old friend.

  “I’ve told you,” Wendra answered, not needing to pretend. “I’m searching for a small boy.” She turned to him. “But you’ve not said where I might find him.”

  Jastail laughed aloud, and his two comrades reached for their weapons in a start. When Jastail stopped, they resumed their muffled whispers and sidelong stares. “A sharp eye and reason besides, Lani,” Jastail said. “But would you also expect me to share with you all my secrets so soon?” He grinned suggestively, the smirk a mix of wit and wisdom Wendra knew must serve him well. “And would you have me believe that I know all I must of you?” Jastail continued. He held up his hands to stop Wendra from repeating her objectives.

  “Yes, yes, I know you seek a boy. But how carefully you dance around the fact that you’re alone in this endeavor. Something, lady, is missing in your story, and I forgive you for not coming straight out with it. Just as you must forgive me for guarding my secrets from a stranger. However,” he leaned in and spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice, “my friends there are not as inclined as I am to extend courtesies. They listen to me most of the time, but as with men who walk the roads, they don’t trouble much with questions of civility or morality. They understand what they can touch, what they can take, what they can buy, and the work that brings them money to do it.”

  He put a hand gently on Wendra’s leg. “I may even grow to be fond of you, Lani. But paid men mutiny when their salaries are threatened. And gifted as I am, I can neither remain awake all the time, nor predict their true intentions.”

  Her mind raced with Jastail’s veiled threats. This highwayman was clever. His eloquent language always traveled two steps away from its truest meaning. But she forced herself to wear her own smile.

  “You undersell your persuasiveness,” Wendra began. “You convinced me to invite you to my fire. And your concern for me,” Wendra raised her voice so that the others would hear her, “makes me confident that these hirelings will obey your wishes when it comes to me.” She put her opposite hand over Jastail’s own. “You’re right that I keep secrets. A lady is allowed.”

  Jastail’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you’re right, Lani. How clumsy of me to forget. You must never allow me to interrogate you further about such things. My concern for you, however, is quite genuine. Whatever brought you here alone, and whatever the boy flees from or runs toward, is beyond our control.” He placed his other hand over Wendra’s. “But I must insist on conveying you safely to your destination.”

  Wendra spared a glance at the men across the fire. They had ceased talking, dazed expressions on their faces, their eyes fixed on her and Jastail’s clasped hands. She couldn’t be sure that they would lead her to Penit, or that they had even seen the boy. But playing Jastail’s game might afford her an opportunity to escape.

  The dark memory of her rape threatened to surface, but she pushed it back.

  He had started by saying that this place bears fruit, perhaps his only mistake, suggesting that they had discovered someone, maybe Penit, here, just as they had discovered her.

  Finally, her forced smile became natural, widening, and she put her second hand over Jastail’s, trumping him and coming out on top. “And together we will find the boy,” she concluded.

  One side of Jastail’s weathered face tugged into a bright, fetching grin. This one, Wendra thought, had more the look of real humor. “And we’ve better than a gambler’s chance at that, my lady,” he said, noting the final position of their hands before withdrawing his own and beginning preparations for supper.

  But something in the way he used the word “gambler” left disquiet in Wendra’s heart.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Wall of Remembrance

  The thing for us historians to remember is that King Baellor believed Layosah would cast her child down on the steps. If he hadn’t, he’d never have rushed out. Never have established the first Convocation. There’s something more to these “wombs of war” than we’re seeing.

  —Transcript notes from the Conclave on Democratic Response held at Dalle in the wake of the third Mal War

  Helaina took private counsel in the darkness before the dawn. With her walked her most trusted advisors, the Sheason Artixan and General Van Steward. Somewhere out of sight, shadowing them, were a half dozen of her Emerit guard; they would never be seen, but were always as close as a word.

  They walked the street that encircled Solath Mahnus. They walked the Wall of Remembrance. The wall rose the height of three men. Fashioned of granite, its face depicted the history of the city. Or perhaps it was the history of the world. Carved in relief were events that should not be forgotten.

  Beyond the wall rose the Halls of Solath Mahnus, a palatial expanse at the center of Recityv. At its pinnacle, her High Office stood outlined against a spray of stars. But walking the wall helped focus her thoughts. Her own High Council stood in disarray. Unless she put it right, she would lead from a weakened position when Convocation commenced, and when she needed to defend the Maesteri and their Song of Suffering.

  That’s what bothered her most now. She needed to find a way to secure Suffering against Roth.

  “The League has begun to politick with those still loyal to you,” Artixan said. The Sheason kept his voice low in the stillness. “Some will remain faithful regardless. But others have weaknesses that Roth will exploit. And though they’ll hate themselves for doing it, they’ll vote against you when Roth asks it of them.”

  Van Steward nodded. “League lieutenants have been lurking around our garrisons. They’re taking inventory of our strength.”

  “Are you concerned about a coup?” She continued to walk, noting the histories in the wall to their left.

  “No, my lady. We’ll hold. But anyone gathering information on the size and readiness of your army should be seen as more than a political adversary.…” Van Steward let the rest go unsaid.

  “Th
e inns of Recityv begin to fill with the retinues of those answering your call to Convocation,” Artixan added. “They’re taking their own inventories.”

  “Of what?” she asked.

  “Of you,” Artixan replied. “Many of them know you by reputation, some only by name. But all will want to take their seat at Convocation knowing your own seat is strong, that you have the support of your High Council.”

  “They’ll want confidence that you have the strength to draw them together,” Van Steward added.

  Artixan made a noise of agreement in his throat. “There’ll be alliances, Helaina, even before Convocation begins. Indeed, in some ways Convocation has already begun.”

  Helaina said nothing. She’d guessed as much. But hearing it from her friends made it real.

  She stopped on the stone-cobbled road, and surveyed the Wall of Remembrance. Scenes from the Wars of the First and Second Promise played out forever upon the stone. She could see Layosah with her child raised above her head, ready to dash it against the steps of Solath Mahnus rather than send another child to war. The sculptor had given the figure an attitude of resolve Helaina could see even in the darkness.

  Layosah. A womb of war. Willing to take any measure …

  “Your recommendations?” Helaina asked.

  “Dispatch Roth,” Van Steward said without hesitation.

  She looked around at her general, at his uncustomary joke. The three chuckled lightly in the darkness.

  The general spoke again. “Put the call out to bolster the army. As peacekeepers we’re competent. But we haven’t taken to the field in war in a long time. If that’s coming, we should train a contingent twice the size of what we have. It will also give you more weight against the League’s politics.”

  “Are there men in Recityv to answer such a call?” she asked.

  “No. But I would invite the whole nation of Vohnce to our ranks. And if we still fall short, I’ll recruit beyond our borders.” Van Steward spoke with passion. “There are men who have no allegiance to their crown. I can find them.”

  She heard secrets in her general’s words, and considered pursuing them, when Artixan placed a gentle hand on her arm.

  “You would expect me to ask you to try and rescind the Civilization Order. But it’s not the time. The League needs to believe it remains in control of the Court of Judicature. Roth’s propaganda has convinced the people that the League is their advocate. While you fortify the Halls of Solath Mahnus with alliances, don’t give your people cause to question you.”

  “It’s an immoral law, Artixan. You know how I feel.” Her anger rose.

  “I know. And the time will come. But not yet.” The Sheason himself looked at the Wall of Remembrance, his gaze growing distant. “Begin with your own council, Helaina. Roth is right that many of its members are not leaders, certainly not if war comes.”

  “Are you suggesting that I remove members of the High Council?” she asked.

  “Replace,” Artixan corrected. “Many of them will be relieved to go, I promise you. And you’ll have the advantage of qualifying their replacements. You need to employ the shrewdness that won you the regent’s mantle to begin with. We need you to be the fist in the glove more now than ever.”

  As he said it, they again passed the carving of Layosah. It stirred Helaina. Her own womb had been barren until the miracle of one child. The thought of dashing her baby against hard steps to rouse a king to his duty …

  Helaina’s legs were tired. Silver hair and arthritic hands were reminders, too. But she would be the iron fist of Recityv again, by Will or War.

  “General, begin your recruitment,” she said. “I’ll draw up the Note of Enmity before the day is done. But don’t wait for the Note to begin; get started the moment you return to your offices.” She turned to her closest friend, and most powerful ally. “Artixan, find those who have come already to answer the call of Convocation. I will see each privately to either discover their allegiance or create a new alliance. I’ll take those audiences in the High Office, where the glory of Recityv can be seen from the windows to inspire their honesty … and choice.”

  She thought a moment, considering her next words. “As for my own High Council, these are old friendships. I’ll speak to them myself, in their homes, to see if they have the will to lead.”

  Helaina nodded with her own renewed purpose. A firm council would help her when Convocation began, but it would have an equally important role regarding Suffering.

  “And we will fill again the council chairs that have been vacant too long,” she said. “The authors will be recalled. And the Maesteri. It’ll be good to have them when Roth brings his argument to silence the Song of Suffering.”

  Helaina then considered one last seat at her table. “And announce that we will once again seat the Child’s Voice. Prepare for the running of the Lesher Roon. The winner of the race will speak for the children, as it used to be.”

  Artixan smiled in the darkness. “Roth will take exception to it as another false tradition better left in the past. He won’t care to listen to the opinions of a child.”

  She spared a last look at the Wall of Remembrance, where she saw the granite image of the Lesher Roon being run by countless children. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn what Roth cares to listen to.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Widows Village

  Did it ever occur to anyone that while we go round and round trying to unlock the secrets of language and the literal power it might hold, that its simplest, most important purpose is a name? Not a name with inherent power. But something we might use with affection toward someone who needs our care.

  —From the journal of the ranking scrivener over the investigation of the Tract of Desolation at the Library of Qum’rahm’se

  Braethen’s muscles ached. He, Vendanj, and Mira had ridden hard for three days, sparing little time to rest. Late the third day, under gathering clouds, the hills rose up to the north and east. Through a dispersion of oaks they entered a village of humble dwellings thatched together of tares and plant husks and rough wood. The shacks huddled against the ground.

  The threat of rain came with peals of thunder. Perhaps the storm would sweep away the smell of neglect. The sparse village looked abandoned. The residents had likely retreated indoors to escape the coming downpour. Yet the windows held no lamp or candle, cold and unfriendly in the grey twilight. A gentle breeze tugged at their cloaks. The sizzle of rain falling on the hills began to drone like a distant hive.

  They passed through the center of the village, coming to a longer building at the far end. A woven rug hung from the cross-brace to serve as a door. Vendanj lashed his horse to a post and rapped on the lintel as rain cascaded into the streets behind them. Nothing stirred, and no light or fire shone through the windows. Mira and Braethen tethered their mounts and came up behind the Sheason.

  Vendanj rapped again, the sound of it meek and hollow, nearly lost in the hammer of rain on the thatch of the small building.

  Several moments later, a woman drew back the rug and stared coldly at them. She wore a featureless smock the color of clouds at night. Around her shoulders she’d wrapped a shawl of the same shade. Its weave was so coarse it looked incapable of holding any warmth, and appeared abrasive besides. But it was her face and eyes that evoked Braethen’s pity. Her ashen skin lacked the flush of womanhood. The plain, unexpressive face could be described only as haunted.

  She looked at each of them with indifferent eyes. Then she stood back, and held the rug aside, motioning them in.

  The room within seemed smaller than it appeared from the outside, and yet might be a town common room. A table with a few bottles set to one side served as a little bar or kitchen. The hearth opposite the bar sat cold and silent, the hollow sound of rain echoing down its flue. One lone table stood at the room’s center, three chairs at each side and one on each end. A gourd in the middle of the table held an unlit candle. In the rear wall there was a second doorway, also hung with
a shabby rug. The floors were clean. And despite the abandoned feel, he could see no cobwebs or dust anywhere. A feeling of habitation resided there, but not life.

  Penaebra, he thought, an old word that described the disembodied spirit. This place felt like a body, a husk, left behind when its panaebra had gone.

  Vendanj took a seat at the low table. Mira sat beside him. Braethen at the end. The woman shuffled past him and sat opposite the Sheason. The rain began to fall hard, pounding the world outside. The hollow sound of drops hitting the window filled the room. Middle-aged, the woman made no attempt to speak, only stare.

  Vendanj showed her a look of understanding. “How are you, Ne’Pheola?”

  “Too young to suffer your pity, and too old to do anything about it.” It wasn’t a joke.

  “Not pity, empathy.” There was something new in Vendanj’s voice—deference, kindness.

  She accepted that with a nod. “Why have you come?”

  Vendanj hesitated a moment, looking long into the woman’s eyes. “A list of names. Every Sheason spouse who’s come here.”

  “The residents of Widows Village have no use of names. You know this.” Ne’Pheola lit the candle between them. The flare of light made Braethen squint.

  “You still answer to yours,” Vendanj observed softly.

  “So I can take such grand company as yours,” she returned. “The severed halves of Sheason marriages come here to live quietly. It’s a desolate heritage, Vendanj. Leave them be.”

  Long moments passed before Vendanj said simply, “I can’t.”

  Braethen thought he heard a tremor in the Sheason’s voice. A personal note.

  Ne’Pheola reached out a hand and patted Vendanj’s fingers. “You’ve taken a sodalist to your side.” She then turned to Braethen. “What do you think of this place, my young man?”

  Her question caught him off guard. But he felt this wasn’t a place for false flattery. “Anais, I’m in a dreary place. And forgive me, but one I hope soon to leave.”