The Unremembered

by Peter Orullian

  Dagen gripe was one of many ailments that had a simple remedy. A combination of herbs. Herbs he knew sat in earthen jars on his father’s shelf.

  A’Posian never said anything to him. Braethen might have preferred the man’s wrath or reproval to the quiet consequence of that mistake. Instead, Braethen lived with the memory that he might have saved his mother. And with the memory of that awful look of disappointment and loss on his father’s face. In truth, he’d disappointed both his parents.

  Nothing feels worse than disappointing someone you love.

  It was the feeling of the Scar.

  And someone lived here—this Grant. It left Braethen’s heart cold and anxious. What kind of man could endure such a place every day? What penance could keep a man here? He wanted to meet this man as badly as he wanted to flee the Scar and never return.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Qum’rahm’se

  It’s becoming increasingly clear that simply knowing the meaning of a word as it’s written in another tongue is the least part of translation.

  —Dispatch sent by the Tract investigator to scrivener leadership

  Tahn looked up the escarpment and saw a man sitting high above. Sutter raised his sword toward the destroyed cliff face. Tahn pulled a full draw.

  “And what damage would you do that hasn’t already been done?” the man asked with sad sarcasm.

  The fellow had seen maybe fifty years of life. He wore both an unkempt greying beard and spectacles perched on a protuberant nose. A feather stood tucked over his ear and several more had been fixed into his vest, which buttoned over his right breast. Beside him lay a staff. Not far behind him, plumes of smoke issued continually, flakes of ash rising into the air in a steady stream.

  They waited for the man to speak again. Instead, he just sat, saying nothing. He only lifted a small book secured to his waist by a rope and heaved a sigh.

  Whispering, Sutter said, “Let’s get out of here. He may be more dangerous than he appears.”

  Tahn stepped over the black crust of glass at his feet. “What happened?”

  The fellow’s head cocked, then made a long survey of the world around him. “I should think it was evident.”

  Tahn nodded. “The Quiet?”

  Hefting a small stone, the man threw it at them weakly. “Go away.”

  Sutter laughed in spite of himself. “I like him.”

  “Are you all right?” Tahn asked.

  Tahn seemed to have unnerved the stranger. The fellow glared back at him, then began to pick his way carefully down the cliff. As soon as he got to level ground, he stomped across the charred earth of the clearing, crusts of glass cracking beneath his boots.

  He stopped directly in front of Tahn and stared up in open defiance. “You mean ‘how did I survive, when no one else did,’ don’t you?” the man said, his voice a mix of self-loathing and anger.

  “That’s not what I—”

  “I’m Edholm Restultan,” the man said, giving his name as if to the strong law. “I was a scrivener here at Qum’rahm’se.”

  “Silent hells, Tahn.”

  Tahn was feeling it, too. A sense of helplessness and loss.

  The scrivener looked back over his shoulder, and was quiet a few moments before telling the story.

  “Early this morning three Velle came into this clearing. I supposed they were couriers from Recityv as have come more frequently this last cycle. I was there.” Edholm indicated the cliff. “I stood watch as they passed our wards. Passed our guards. Burned them all.”

  The scrivener’s eyes grew distant. “But before they could get into the library, the ash began to fall.”

  Tahn looked up at the ash still falling.

  “Those inside had begun destroying the library … to keep it from the enemy. The Quiet were denied their prize. So, they raised their hands at the cliff face. Unleashed a white fire and lightning. Everything burned. The mountain, the trees…”

  Edholm shook his head as a man trying to disbelieve. “It sealed the door closed in moments, and I thought I heard…” The scrivener fell silent.

  “What?” Tahn prodded gently.

  “I thought I heard the cries of my fellows inside the library.”

  The scrivener became silent for a while. Then he spoke with a tone of confession. “I laid on the ground to hide. I’ll be remembered as a coward.”

  “Was everything inside burned?” Sutter asked, resheathing his blade.

  The scrivener looked back at the charred earth and rock, seeming to judge if even now it were appropriate to share. “I’ll have your names first.”

  “Flin,” Tahn blurted, “and Crowther.” He nodded to Sutter. “Just hunters.”

  “I see,” the scrivener said with clear skepticism. “Well, if not your names, at least something to call you. Have you been hunters long?” the man asked.

  Neither Tahn or Sutter answered.

  “You understand my question, since seasoned hunters know that animals flee fire.” A tone of condescension drifted on the man’s words.

  Tahn put away his arrow. “Fire doesn’t melt stone.”

  “And common hunters don’t deduce the Quiet so easily.” The scrivener gave them each another solemn look, gathering their attention. “The library was dedicated to deciphering the Language of the Covenant. Our commission since the first Convocation of Seats has been to gather any document we could, and try to piece together what remains of the Covenant Tongue. Scholars committed their lives to this place, this work.”

  “And now it’s all gone?” Sutter asked again.

  The scrivener seemed not to hear him. “Each generation, the library has grown, expanding deeper into the safety of the mountain, filling new shelves with theory, commentary, bits of translation.

  “It was thought that the Language would be needed if there was another great war.” Edholm laughed caustically. “The Bourne seems to have similar ideas.”

  The scrivener sighed. “We hadn’t yet pieced it together. Not even close. But we’d made some progress. Mostly with the Tract of Desolation.” A bit of ash fell between them. “Damn waste…”

  Tahn tried asking this time. “But if you weren’t inside the library when the attack came, how do you know it’s all been burned?”

  The scrivener pointed to the top of the cliff, at the vent of steam and ash issuing into the sky. Tahn understood now why his first whiff of fire hadn’t been of burning pine alone.

  Tahn watched the ash spew into the mountain air and waft lazily south on a gentle breeze.

  “Orders are to burn everything rather than let the Quiet get their hands on any of it,” Edholm explained. “If we just could have killed them before it was all gone.”

  Tahn pitied the man. “You couldn’t have made a difference in the battle to save the library.”

  The scrivener shot a fierce look at Tahn. “I could at least have died with them. I wear these emblems and tools,” he said, lifting the book tied to his belt.

  Tahn had no more words of comfort for the man. He understood too well the guilt of not rising to the defense of someone or something you care for.

  As if sensing his sympathy, Edholm said, “This is none of your concern. My apologies.” Then abruptly, the scrivener asked, “Where are you going?”

  Reluctantly, Tahn admitted, “Recityv.”

  The man nodded. “No more games,” he said. “A hunter you may be, but it’s not what brought you to Qum’rahm’se. And I’m going to ask you a favor.”

  Edholm knelt in the blanket of ash that covered the clearing. “Come close,” he said in a broken voice.

  Tahn and Sutter obeyed. Without looking up, the scrivener lifted the book from his belt and tore free three clean sheets. He handed them out, adding a stick of graphite, too. “Do you know how to write?”

  They nodded.

  “Good,” Edholm said. “Write what you’ve seen. Leave nothing out. Describe the destruction, the smell, the ash, the burnt rock. Write of me, my shame. But mostly,
write of the fate of the books and the library. The fate of the Tract. And put your name to it at the bottom.”

  “But why—” Sutter began.

  “Don’t cross me, boy.” The scrivener spoke sharply. “I won’t be a coward twice.”

  Sutter raised his hands in surrender.

  With the stink of so much soot and burnt timber about them, and a layer of ash as deep as Tahn’s ankle, they did as he asked.

  Nails finished first, his page half written upon.

  Tahn filled his sheet, noting the smell of burnt flesh he could now smell, as well as the char of wood and stone and iron.

  Edholm used three pages to make his account, his fingers moving lithely, tracing words in quick, elegant strokes. Tahn watched letters and symbols fill the parchment, lines being written in alternating directions—left to right and then right to left—and all in a language foreign to him.

  The scrivener then rolled his parchment tightly. He bound it with several strands of what Tahn thought must be hair. He then produced three ordinary-looking sticks from an inner pocket of his tunic. Taking the first in hand, he opened one end, revealing a hollow compartment. Into it he stuffed his letter.

  He sealed it again, the seam undetectable. Reaching for Tahn’s and then Sutter’s parchments, he read each with amazing speed, seeming to take it all in at a glance. Afterwards, he likewise placed their letters in the remaining sticks.

  “They succeeded, Tahn,” the scrivener said. Tahn immediately realized that he and Sutter had signed their real names to their parchments. Edholm didn’t draw attention to the uncovered deceit. “The Velle destroyed countless years of accumulated thought and wisdom.”

  Standing together, the two of them shared wary looks, before the scrivener handed the sticks to Tahn. “Never let these out of your sight. You’ll take them with you to Recityv. Give them to someone with authority. Someone on the High Council. The regent, if you can. Do you understand?”

  “Why don’t you take them?” Sutter asked.

  “I won’t need them,” he replied. “If I make it as far as Recityv, my presence and testimony will be proof enough that Qum’rahm’se has fallen.”

  Focusing again, he said, “The Quiet are still close. So I’ll head west for a time, travel obvious roads, burn bright fires, sing loudly. Draw attention away from you.”

  “You should come with us,” Tahn pressed.

  Edholm stepped up close to him. “Why did you come here? The truth.”

  Tahn stared down at the scrivener. He hesitated. Then said it. “We were on our way here with a Sheason. He meant to collect whatever you had on the use of the Covenant Tongue.”

  “Where’s this Sheason?” Edholm questioned with obvious skepticism.

  “We lost him in some Quiet clouds,” Sutter put in. “That satisfy you?”

  The scrivener’s face fell slack. “My last hell, Je’holta. Then your Sheason friend is probably trying to find a way to strengthen the Veil.” Edholm looked away to the dark glass rings in the soil. “Time is short.”

  “Yes, so why don’t you just come with us,” Tahn said again.

  The scrivener shook him off. “You follow the river north. Make no fire. In a few days, you’ll come to an old overgrown road. Any other time, I’d tell you to follow it west to the main road north.” Edholm shook his head again. “Not this time. Follow the road east back to the river. There you’ll see a grand old bridge arcing toward high cliffs. That’s the way for you. It’s an old road, a forgotten way.”

  Tahn could feel the scrivener building to something. “Where are you sending us?”

  Edholm motioned them close and whispered so softly they almost couldn’t hear him. “It’ll still get you to Recityv. Through an old city. Abandoned now. But it’s been said the people there had a codex for the Covenant Tongue.”

  “And you want us to find it?” Sutter asked with his own skepticism. “If you’ve known about it, why haven’t the scriveners tried to find it?”

  “Some have,” Edholm shot back. “Never found any kind of codex, unfortunately.” Then, his face softened. “But in all honesty, lads, it’s not a place you visit often unless you have a damned good reason.”

  “Why?” Tahn asked.

  The scrivener’s face became thoughtful. “Old places attract old things.”

  “That’s helpful,” Sutter quipped.

  “It’ll be safer than the main roads, I can guarantee you that. And main roads are where the Quiet will be watching.” Edholm looked them each in the eye. “I don’t know that you’ll find a codex. Maybe that’s a myth. But if it’s real, you may look for it in a way we haven’t. See with different eyes. I think that’s worth a try.” He paused a moment. “Take care and you’ll be all right.”

  As an afterthought, the scrivener reached for one of the books at his belt. He tore out several written-upon sheets, and rolled them as he had the others before stuffing them inside yet another stick—this one larger. “Take this with you, as well.”

  Edholm fell silent, looking weary. “It’s an imperfect plan, but likelier to succeed than the three of us going together.”

  The scrivener extended one hand, which Tahn took willingly. He did the same with Sutter, then set out through the still-smoking trees and spared no backwards glance.

  “What do you make of all that?” Sutter asked.

  “I don’t know,” Tahn said.

  Sutter watched Edholm disappear down the hill. “Are we really going to do this?”

  “Sounds like it gets us to Recityv just the same.” Tahn looked at the smoking ruins of the library. “And with the library burned, I think the scrivener’s right: We have to try.”

  Sutter nodded. “Well, if it gets us away from the Quiet, that’s good enough.”

  Tahn stuffed the sticks into an inner pocket of his cloak. “I think we should get going.”

  * * *

  They rode two days, speaking little, each caught up in their own thoughts. Evening meal and night watches were more of the same. On the morning of the second day, they broke through to a road choked with holly brush. High grass grew at its center, nearly obscuring the wheel ruts. Tahn angled east toward the river, stems brushing his legs and the bellies of their mounts. In the breeze, the air filled with seeds blown from river cottonwoods shedding their plumage.

  The ripple of leaves rustling together in the wind reminded Tahn of the Hollows, and he relaxed in his saddle. Slowly, the sound of running water grew. The dappled light gave way to an open sky above them as Tahn and Sutter suddenly found themselves at the edge of a bridge arching up and over the river.

  The bridge was bordered by balustrades and supported by stout pilings of seamlessly fitted larger stones. The architect had invested great care in fluting the masonry posts that rose at even intervals on both sides of the bridge. Beveled edges marked the side ledges. The stone had darkened from long years of river moisture and sun, but stood stately in the light.

  Across the river, the bridge dropped to the base of a sheer cliff, a chasm there opening like a rift in a risen plain. It was hard to tell if the chasm had been built to service the bridge or the bridge to service the chasm.

  Sutter smiled and started across. The clop of hooves on stone seemed loud. Tahn swung his head about like a thief wishing not to be heard. A moment later, he followed.

  The great arching bridge ended at a stone gate. Sutter pushed on it with his left hand. The huge block wouldn’t budge.

  “Your assistance?” Sutter invited in a sarcastic tone.

  Tahn rode to the gate and together they pushed. The gate gave, slowly. A moment later they had opened it far enough to pass beyond.

  Before going through, Sutter asked, “If the cycle turns and there’s no one around to witness for us at our Standing, do we still become men?”

  “You won’t,” Tahn jibed. Then more seriously, “I don’t know. I’d always thought Balatin would stand for me. And when he went to his earth, I chose Hambley. But I don’t think we’ll be home
in time for that to happen.… I guess one way or another we’ll get older.”

  Sutter brushed his hands. “Well, Woodchuck, I think it might be okay if we don’t.” He grinned with mischief and went through the gate.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Scars—Mothers

  A child will choose what you have in your hand now. An adult will wait if promised more later. Which is wise and which is selfish?

  —Dimnian thought riddle

  Mira had been to the Scar before. She understood its secrets and silences. Not as well as Vendanj. And not like the man Grant, who lived here. But the way of the Scar visited her the way the Soliel Stretches did when she walked the shale plains of her homeland.

  This place was an emptiness, save the lives of some children. Grant’s wards. Castoffs who knew no real mother or father, like the common misfortune that all children of the Soliel knew.

  * * *

  “I don’t understand,” Mira said. “I thought you were my mother.”

  She stood in the warmth of her home, going over basic movements she’d been taught. The Latae dance forms. And only arms and feet so far—she was only four. She’d get to start practicing with weapons the next turn of a cycle.

  She repeated the forms again and again, taking correction from Genel, the woman she’d been calling “mother” for two years.

  “Mira, you need to listen closely. I am your mother because I’m taking care of you right now. But I didn’t give you life. The woman who brought you into the world was called Mela. She fulfilled her call in your first year.”

  Genel cautioned Mira that her foot was too far back for proper balance.

  Mira corrected her stance. “What do you mean ‘fulfill her call’?”

  “When a Far reaches the age of accountability, she’s called home, into the next life. This is the honor given us for our oath. We will never taste the fear or pain of reckoning for misdeeds. It’s a great blessing.”