The Unremembered

by Peter Orullian

  “Look,” Sutter whispered. His friend let him go, looking like he’d seen a ghost.

  Tahn followed Sutter’s gaze back to the woman, who’d lifted her face in pain. The words started to burn in his mind, the same old words he always spoke. He thought them now. For the woman. Wondering if she should die. Or if he should try to save her.

  Silent hell, what am I thinking? We’d never get past the League.

  But he wouldn’t have to try. A calm settled in him. He knew she was innocent … but yet meant to die. He hated that this time—unlike the burned man—he couldn’t offer her any mercy. Not without taking a chance that would jeopardize Tillinghast.

  Could he watch her burn, then? Could he let her burn?

  Before he knew what he was doing, he’d unshouldered his bow and drawn an arrow.

  Sutter was on him again in a second, wrapping his arms around him and shuffling him to the back of the crowd. Bystanders cussed and shoved them along.

  Out of earshot of the others, Sutter finally let Tahn go. “We didn’t come all this way to die in a small-town prison. Or get burned ourselves.”

  “I wasn’t going to try and save her.” Tahn heaved a breath, trying to settle his anger.

  “I know,” Sutter said. “I know what you were trying to do. But it would have ended the same for us either way. I hate it, too, Tahn. More than you know.” He paused a long moment. “But we can’t.”

  Before the sound of the fire could unnerve them further, they got to their horses. He and Sutter left unobserved as the smoke of flesh rose into the bright, shining sky.

  * * *

  Once safely beyond town, Tahn felt more himself again, and finally asked, “What happened last night? You were ass naked and blubbering.”

  Sutter gave him a long look. Shook his head. “I don’t know. Nightmares, I hope.”

  “You seemed awake,” Tahn pressed. “Maybe you’re still sick from Sevilla’s little trick.” He tapped his chest.

  “Maybe,” Sutter said, sounding unconvinced. But his friend said nothing more, his eyes still troubled.

  Tahn let it go for now. Sutter would talk when he was ready.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Reluctantly Used

  There’s a vibrant relationship between all proximate matter. Just as gravity exerts itself when two bodies come nearer one another.

  —Initial postulate shared in the College of Physics during the last Succession on Continuity

  “Why do you look like you haven’t aged since you came here?” Vendanj asked.

  Braethen stared back at Grant. Was Vendanj really suggesting that the man hadn’t aged in almost twenty years?

  Grant looked away at the fire, a sad smile rising in his cheeks. “Oh, I’ve aged. Not the same as you, but I’ve aged. The Scar”—he pointed aimlessly—“formed when life was stripped from these lands. It appears time is part of the life inside a thing. So it seems the Quiet took both from this place during the Battle of the Round.”

  Vendanj’s brow drew down in worry.

  “But there’s no blessing in it.” Grant looked at his hand, turning it over to view his palm. “I stay here only because of the cradle.”

  Braethen heard himself ask about the cradle before he realized he’d done so. The exile again offered his sad smile.

  “Each cycle of the first moon, I go to the end of the Scar.” Grant rose and went to the window, pulling the shutter open. “Most times, a child is left there in the hollow of a dead tree. It’s part of my sentence. Keeps me here.”

  He looked back at Braethen. “I find a home for that child, a place where it can escape the fortune of the streets or the traveling auction blocks that sell women and children. But some I can’t find a home. Those I bring here.” Grant looked to his wards at the back of the room. “I teach them to fight, to make choices wisely, and along the way to distrust the best intentions of others.” Grant set his eyes on Vendanj.

  “An unfortunate education,” the Sheason said.

  “They share the curse of the Scar, the endless march of days,” Grant said. “So I send them to the border often. They patrol, watch for strangers, practice the skills I teach them.”

  “How do you care for infants? Grow food? Water?” Braethen asked.

  “I’m an exile, but there are a few at the edge of the Scar,” he said, his voice rough but filled with gratitude, “who believe in the truths I mean to protect. Between them and waystations on the border, I get the help I need.

  “But this is my home now,” Grant went on. “And these wards … some are orphans, some are left by parents too selfish or afraid to keep them.”

  Several long moments passed. “Grant,” Vendanj said, “we’ve come to ask your help.”

  “I guessed as much,” the man said. “But I can’t.”

  Vendanj pulled several parchments from his cloak and placed them on the table beside Grant’s papers. “The names of dead Sheason and their widows.”

  Grant picked up the parchments and scanned the names written there. For the first time, Braethen thought he saw sadness touch the man’s eyes.

  Grant looked at Vendanj, a deep frown on his face. “Killed by the Quiet?”

  Vendanj shook his head. “Most of those died at the hands of the League.”

  “How’s this possible?” Grant asked, still reading names.

  Vendanj leaned in on the table. “To alter a name, to sever the Sheason vow, would require knowledge of the Covenant Tongue.”

  “The Far?” Grant shook his head at his own suggestion. “The Tract of Desolation is the only meaningful document we have that’s written in the Language. Do you think the scriveners have deciphered it?”

  “Only small parts. And mostly what was used to create the Song of Suffering,” Vendanj said. “We’d planned to go to Qum’rahm’se. Gather what’s known about the Language, and possibly the Tract itself, and take them to Naltus with us—”

  “To see if we could better translate it,” Grant finished. “Strengthen the Veil.”

  “But we got separated.” Vendanj rubbed at his eyes. “There’s no time now. We’ll get to Recityv. Hope the others have arrived there safely. Then move fast to Naltus. And Tillinghast.”

  The word made Grant look up. His stare showed understanding. The same look he’d worn when they’d mentioned Tahn before.

  Vendanj didn’t linger on it. “We’ll ask Elan to make use of the Language against the Quiet,” he said. “And we’ll gather the Tract when we return to Convocation.”

  Grant returned to scanning the list of names. He reached the last sheet. His eyes hung on the last name. “You and Illenia,” he said softly.

  Vendanj met Grant’s eyes when the exile looked up again. “I think someone has manipulated the vow, or perhaps the Language itself. If so, that ability has broader consequences than the names on those pages.” He showed a humorless smile. “I’m not sure even a new translation of the Tract would help. We’ll try, of course. But … it’s time for Tillinghast.”

  Grant made a noise as one who has deduced something. “Names seem to start about the time the Civilization Order was ratified.”

  “If this is happening because of the Civilization Order, then sooner or later we’re going to come against the League,” Vendanj said. “Gods willing, it won’t be in war, but in the courts. And no one’s ever argued there as eloquently as you. We’re going to need that kind of assistance.” The Sheason took a breath and exhaled sharply.

  Grant seemed to ignore the appeal. He was fixed on the implications of the modified names. He put the list back on the table beside his half-written charter. “Perhaps there’s a way to give my primrose a voice, after all. Make it real—”

  “Don’t even utter such a thing,” Vendanj cautioned.

  Grant looked back at Vendanj, his expression hardening over several long moments. “I can’t leave the Scar. I can’t return to that place. That part of my life is over.”

  In final, humble request, Vendanj asked, “If not for
these,” he tapped the list of names, “and if not for Convocation … then do it for Tahn.”

  Again Braethen saw a flicker of recognition in Grant’s eyes. Regret stole across the man’s face. He and Vendanj shared a long look, each man searching the other.

  Finally, Grant said simply, “I can’t. This is where I’ve made my home. This is where I was sent to serve sentence for my crime of conscience. Your horses have been rubbed down, your skins filled. I’ll give you food and directions. But I won’t go back. I’ve no patience for politics. And if the Quiet are coming, Vendanj, I don’t think there’s any way to stop them.”

  Disgust showed plainly on Vendanj’s face. He went to the door, Mira close behind. Braethen started to follow.

  “East by the Dog Star,” Grant said. His voice rough but even. “Your horses are still weak. Walk them if you want them to live. You’ve water for three days.”

  Vendanj went into the night. Mira paused at the door a moment, then followed. Braethen spared a glance at the wards, the document nailed to the wall, and the exile poised near the small hearth. Then he rushed to join the others, these stories heavy in his mind.

  As they found their horses, Vendanj cursed, “Fool,” then gave each horse a sprig from his cedar box. The moon rode high in the night sky, accompanied by the brilliant glitter of countless stars. The day’s heat had fled, leaving a brittle cold in the clarity of night.

  Braethen glanced back once to see a pale square of light cast from the exile’s window. Vendanj rode away at a sprint. Braethen and Mira rushed to catch up.

  They traveled an hour, silence across the rocks and dry grass broken only by the sounds of their passage. They couldn’t run the horses anymore, and dismounted. After walking a few minutes, the Sheason stopped. He turned and searched the terrain in a full circle about them. The air grew suffocating, dense.

  Connected.

  That was the feeling. Like swimming in a still pool—the ripples giving away one’s presence. Vendanj raised a hand to his chest and moved forward. Braethen took hold of his sword, remembering the last time he’d raised it in his own defense, and grimaced a little at the touch.

  They walked over a knoll, moon shadows vague and ghostly around them. Then the world turned to fire. Seven great hulking shapes rose from the ground. They stood against the darkness of the sky, their massive silhouettes blotting out stars. Behind them stood two smaller shapes wearing buttoned coats Velle!

  Beside each of the Quiet renderers stood shorter figures, slumped and beaten. The Velle stirred, and that feeling of connection, of being close, part of everything, part of them, rippled like heated tar.

  Only Mira seemed unaffected. She rushed in, dancing close to the Sheason, and crouched. She held one sword before her, the other cocked back over her shoulder.

  One of the figures uttered a command in a deep, rasping voice, and the Bar’dyn fanned to the sides: three moved left, three to the right, and one stayed directly before them. Mira turned to face the three on the left. Vendanj took two steps out and threw back his cloak to free his arms, preparing to face the three on the right. Braethen caught a glint in the blades of the Bar’dyn facing the Sheason. The massive creatures out of the Bourne hesitated.

  “Step in, Sodalist,” Mira said without looking. “Fill the gap and remember what I’ve showed you. Balance. Fight quick, not rushed.”

  Braethen took three long, careful strides and held his sword out at an angle.

  The Bar’dyn directly ahead of him pivoted into a defensive posture, and spoke. “All this way. How fitting that you will come to an end here.” Its voice rasped as though damaged by smoke.

  Braethen’s muscles tightened and suddenly the grip of his sword felt sure and right. He looked past the Bar’dyn to the Velle behind them. They stood still, their calm disquieting.

  Then each Velle reached to the closest hunched figure beside him, and took vicious hold of its flesh. Weak cries came. In a breath, the air thickened again, grew hot.

  “Roll,” Mira screamed.

  Braethen reacted instinctively, falling to his left and scampering. Mira leapt back, and Braethen heard the sound of the Sheason’s thick cloak snapping as he dashed aside.

  A white burst of light tore past them, erupting in an explosion of earth and stone a few paces away. The ground shook violently.

  Vendanj scooped a handful of earth and threw it into the air. It fanned into dust and lit the night as bright as day, particles like impossibly small suns illuminating the area.

  Two Bar’dyn rushed Mira, nearly taking her by surprise. A pike whirled through the air toward her head, another at her knees. She ducked and leapt in the same movement, landing on her feet just when the Bar’dyn were upon her. She pivoted sideways and dove between them, just escaping a second blow from a quick blade.

  Braethen rolled to his knees, dust rising in his throat and forcing him to cough. He still held his sword, and got his second hand to its grip as the third Bar’dyn dove toward him. He had no time to roll again, and tried to raise the blade to defend the charge. He was too late. The force of the massive creature bowled him back and under, a gout of saliva spraying his face with rank-smelling mucus. Pain bloomed in his chest, taking his wind. He heard bone snap beneath his coat and drove the thought of it away. The Bar’dyn clutched his throat.

  Something unbidden rose in him, then. He looked into the face of the Bar’dyn and wrapped his free hand on the hilt of his sword, gripping it savagely. His chest heaved, and he roared, “I am I!”

  The force of the words stopped the Bar’dyn for a moment. Braethen brought the sword up, pulling its edge across the beast’s neck. The thick, armorlike skin gave under the blade. It fell back, trying to stop the blood that coursed from the wound. A frightened surprise touched its eyes as it stared at Braethen and pulled away, growing slower with each scrambling step.

  Braethen turned to Vendanj. The Sheason made a long sweeping gesture with his arm toward the closest Bar’dyn. It toppled forward, and struck the ground like a great piece of ironmongery.

  The men being held by the Velle let out strangled cries. Braethen realized that in the Scar, without Forda in the ground to draw upon, the Velle were using real men, stealing their spirit to fuel their fight. Braethen whipped his sword in a harsh arc toward the Velle, then moved fast to join Vendanj.

  Around him, a yellow mist rose, spreading quickly in every direction. Each breath he took seared his lungs. “Vendanj!” he cried, swatting at the air with his blade.

  The Sheason spun at the sound of his name. Two Bar’dyn rushed in from behind him. Braethen tried to yell a warning, but the mist stole his voice. He pointed. Just when the Bar’dyn raised their swords to strike Vendanj, the Sheason lifted both arms, his fists clenched. Thunder bellowed from his mouth and struck the Bar’dyn like a battering ram, casting them back several strides. The impact drove the yellow haze from the air in an instant.

  A moment later the soil began to bubble, then started to flow like mud. Braethen and Vendanj began to sink. More cries screeched into the night. The first men used by the Velle fell to the ground, spent. The sound they made was ghastly, as if even their dying breaths were stolen from them. Braethen fumed and struggled to wade from the mud in which he was now knee-deep.

  Mira leapt over the growing quagmire to meet the advancing Bar’dyn leader. The beast’s great sword swept toward her. She feinted back and threw a small knife at the Bar’dyn. The Bar’dyn raised a quick hand to ward off the attack. The dagger pierced his palm, spattering drops of blood into the creature’s face. The Bar’dyn shook the knife loose and continued to sweep its steel at her.

  As Braethen fought the mud, Vendanj touched his arm. Together, they began to rise from the sludge, which continued to boil and spurt. The Bar’dyn to the right had regained their feet and rushed around the mud toward Mira.

  Then, several hollow pops sounded from behind them, and the whistle of fletching tore past their heads. Some of the shafts broke against the armorlike toughness of
the lead Bar’dyn’s skin. But many pierced its massive body, driving it backwards in a stumbling fall.

  Vendanj got free of the mud as another volley whistled through the air. The Bar’dyn tried to scramble away, arrows showering their backs and legs. Those Bar’dyn that could still move scurried off into the night. But the Velle stood firm, keeping hold of their human vessels to draw more Forda.

  Braethen turned to see Grant and eight wards standing back with bows aimed and drawn. The youths gasped at what they saw. Braethen turned in the mud and saw it, too. The figures the Velle held to draw their Forda … were a few of Grant’s own wards. The first two had already fallen; the second two appeared alive, but firmly in the hands of the Quiet.

  “Your brothers,” Grant said evenly. Some of the wards looked at him with horrified expressions; others nodded gravely. “See what will become of them. It is your mercy.” He raised his own bow and held his aim.

  The Velle were preparing some dark use of those they held—their last vessels.

  A moment of dark regard stretched.

  As Grant began to shout, “Fire,” the Quiet renderers drew the remaining life from the wards they gripped. Like shadows when the sun dawns over a barren plain, the Velle vanished. Several arrows sailed harmlessly against the night. The two wards slumped when the hands of the Quiet disappeared.

  Braethen sat tiredly in the mud, his legs weakened to exhaustion. Several of Grant’s wards wandered off to mourn, some went to their fallen brothers. Others examined the bodies of dead Bar’dyn.

  When Braethen regained his breath, he tromped from the mud to see for himself what Vendanj had done to the first Bar’dyn. Freezing cold emanated from the corpse. The soil around it white with frost. Braethen imagined that the Sheason had frozen all the fluids in its body. He turned to see Mira run into the dark. The Far never ceased to amaze him with her endless energy.