Sutter pushed himself up. “Why are you here?”
“We await trial on grounds of sedition.”
Another scop piped in. “We played the cycle of the First Promise in the square south of Solath Mahnus. The League didn’t take kindly to the subtle suggestion that its own order was not only unnecessary, but unfortunate.”
A weak laugh came out of the dark from yet another of the beaten players.
On their left the door opened, spilling harsh light down on them. Sutter blinked back tears at the intrusion, then shaded his eyes so that he could catch a better look at the pageant wagon folk across from him. One of the women had buried her head in her knees, maybe shielding her eyes from the light, or maybe feeling hopeless. But the faces he could see still held the sloppy, exaggerated face paint their jailors had put on them to make them look like fools.
“Quiet down there,” a voice barked. “You’ll get yer chance to entertain us later. You’d best save yer strength for yer performance.”
The door shut with a bang, echoing down on them.
“I am Niselius. Why are you here?” the first man asked Sutter in a whisper.
“A friend of mine saved a leagueman from his rope. I guess heroism has its punishment.” Sutter smiled, but his swollen face twinged and he let it go.
“That’ll be our fate, as well,” a woman said. “They’ll make an example of us to scare other troupes from their wagons. I’m Mapalliel. Nice to share the darkness with you.”
The woman uttered a mild laugh—something he could appreciate in the bowels of this pit.
“I’m Sutter.” He shifted to a less painful position. “If it’s really so dangerous, why do you do it?”
Mapalliel answered. “For me, there aren’t many choices. For most women, come to that. If you’ve no husband and no dowry, there are precious few things a man with coin will pay you to do.” She thought a moment. “And the wagons have a kind of honor of their own. It may be true that some of the rhea-fols carry double meaning—lessons from the past. But execution for playing a pageant? The regent has lost the fist inside her glove if it comes to this.”
“Isn’t it the League?” Sutter asked.
“Sure, they’re behind it,” Niselius said. “But law requiring such severe punishment would have to be ratified by the High Council. The regent oversees its affairs. Something’s amiss up there.” Chains rattled as an arm pointed up toward the heights of Solath Mahnus.
“This then is civility.” This was a new voice, softer. And its owner was too deep in the dark to be seen. But it came as through the swollen lips of one beaten badly in the face. “The League suppresses the stories they believe threaten their plans.”
The silence resumed. Deeper for the darkness around them.
Pageant wagon players. Like his first parents. The ones who left him. Pity wasn’t easy for Sutter to summon.
Though something about the maniacal, painted grins on the beaten faces of these simple pageant players left him with a bit of pity, all the same.
“Come, enough of this brooding,” Niselius demanded. “Let’s make a rhea-fol even here. This one for ourselves.” He stood, extending a hand to Mapalliel to help her to her feet.
Sutter watched as the other two scops dragged themselves up. They all stood in a line.
Niselius bowed. “What will it be, my friends? What story would you have of us?”
Sutter could think of nothing, but didn’t have to. Behind him from his nook, Thalen asked evenly, “The Last Harvest of the Reapers.”
The troupe stood in silent reverence for a few moments. Then, with a grave nod from their leader, they began. They told an amazing tale of heroism at the farthest reaches of the north and west, of the time that gave name to the Valley of Sorrow. When the Quiet stood in awful might against a small army and a band of Sheason.
The Velle rained down fire and wind upon the surviving few of the Second Promise. And the advancing line of Quietgiven came as a dark wave that would roll them under in minutes. Near to utter defeat, with the trained, armored soldiers of Recityv all but destroyed, the small battalion out of Risill Ond arrived after a three-day forced march with no sleep.
But the farmers, come with pole-length and short-handle scythes, did not pause. They marched past the Sheason, who needed enough time and relief to join their hands for a final rending of earth and heaven to bring an end to their battle. Directly into harm’s path they went, creating a mighty line of men with little else but their sickles.
Muscle hardened by long seasons of fieldwork held the Quiet at bay, cutting down the enemy in a hard wave. They gave the Sheason the time they desperately needed. And when the great calling of the Will went up, every last man from Risill Ond lay dead upon the ground, most with their tools still gripped tight in their fists.
It would always be said of them that they thrust their implements of harvest with strength and faith after crossing the world to buy a moment’s time with their very lives.
The troupe finished, their own faces in awe of what they’d just played. A quiet pride filled Sutter’s chest—the kind that made one see more valor in his own simple past. Behind him, Thalen sniffed. Sutter imagined the man’s hand-sewn emblem on an old rug and the honor that brought him here to fulfill an oath made generations ago.
Above them, the door slammed open. Light intruded on the darkness again. Their turnkey bustled in and unfastened two of the scops without a word, herding them up the stairs toward the outer door. One of these was the woman who’d spent most of her time with her head down on her own knees. As she began to shuffle her bare feet over the cold stone, she looked down at Niselius and spoke in a broken voice, “Tell my children I love them.”
Tears coursed down her face.
At the door she and her fellow scop looked back at their friends, and that’s when Sutter knew their faces. Captured in the light at the door, the bruises and blood and garish paint faded to the true faces beneath.
They were the faces in his waking nightmare.
The faces of the dead.
It hit Sutter with a horrible certainty, just as he now realized that he’d seen the spirit of the woman burned at Ulayla in his window the night before her execution.
The door closed, leaving them to their troubled hush and obscurity.
Sutter wept silent tears, knowing that the woman would never see her little ones again. Nor would they see her.
And that too touched the old wounds. Sutter cried for each of them.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The Lesher Roon
The Roon was predicated on a Monderan race run by men over many days, with tests of strength and judgment along its path.
—From the League roster of “Potential Allies or Threats”
Wendra stepped into the street that fronted Descant Cathedral. Seanbea accompanied her on her right, Penit holding her hand on the left. The boy involuntarily squeezed her fingers as he took in the festive decorations of a city virtually transformed overnight. Even the streets in the cathedral district celebrated the Lesher Roon, streamers dipping in low arcs between shops, lintels and sills adorned in makeshift garlands fashioned from corn husks and dried vines. Men and women walked about with small sprigs fastened to a lapel or hanging from a breast pocket, showing their support for the race.
Penit started ahead, pulling her along. She smiled, and followed willingly.
Seanbea laughed at the boy’s enthusiasm. “He might win.”
“If he does, what happens next?” she asked.
“He’d be given rooms in Solath Mahnus. Tutors.” Seanbea nodded at the value of it. “He’d serve as Child’s Voice until his own Change. Pretty fair trade for winning a race.”
It was precisely what she’d hoped. If he won, she wouldn’t have to worry about him. She swung Penit’s hand. “Do you think you can win?”
Penit gave her a sidelong glance. “Troupers learn to run fast. To keep our skins.”
Wendra smiled, and as they went, began watching
for Tahn and the others—her real reason for getting out into the city. She hoped her friends had gotten to Recityv safe.
But she already missed Descant. Belamae had shown her a few wonders of music, and hinted at techniques she could learn to master her song. The ways to compose and organize music astounded her. And she’d only been there a day.
Past the end of the street, the crowds thickened. Barkers called out food and drink for sale. Street performers sang songs about the Roon. Bystanders spoke excitedly to one another. Some placed wagers.
Carriages and wagons in the streets, bridles and wheels woven with yet more garland. And here and there a child near Penit’s age received advice from parents or other adults as they streamed toward the Halls of Solath Mahnus.
They moved past men and women with entourages—standards raised on poles marked areas of the street for families of station. Penit occasionally jumped to see what lay ahead, his small hand slick and sweaty with anticipation.
As the time of the race drew near, movement became difficult, people jamming the thoroughfares and halting all progress except by foot.
Seanbea led them down two less-crowded alleys and brought them out onto a wide concourse that crossed to a wall separating Solath Mahnus from the rest of the city.
“This is part of the course,” he explained. “The children follow the line engraved into the street. It takes them around the Wall of Remembrance and through a few of the old roads of Recityv where the first regents lived. The race passes beneath their verandas. Then back here, ending at the gate to the courtyard.” He pointed across from them. “Families with runners are allowed to stand against the wall to cheer them on. The rest line the outer side of the square.”
Wendra listened distractedly. She searched the crowds for signs of Tahn, Sutter, and the others. There were so many people. She soon realized the folly of hoping to chance upon them in such a vast city. But she looked anyway, as Seanbea led them toward a table set near the wall gate.
While they stood in a line of parents giving last-minute instructions to their children, others called cheers and encouragement to the kids.
“A regent’s right lad,” one yelled.
“The truest voice at the High Table, you’ll be,” called another. “Don’t let them intimidate you.”
“Hey, Simba’s jaybird is small enough,” one fellow bellowed. “Don’t that qualify him to race?” Those around him wailed with laughter.
Wendra couldn’t help but smile, naturally assuming the meaning of “jaybird.” In no time, they stood at the table, where two men sat with pleasant, intelligent faces.
“Are you running today, boy?” one asked.
“Yes, please,” Penit enthused.
“Very well. Is this your mother?” The man looked up at Wendra with thoughtful eyes.
Wendra froze. She stared back at the man blankly.
“That’s right,” Seanbea interjected. “She’s a little overwhelmed here. First time in Recityv.”
“Ah, well, don’t let it frighten you. We’re a little crowded these days, but Recityv citizens are decent. Isn’t it so?” The man turned to his partner at the table.
“You speak truth,” said the other. “May we have your names?”
Wendra gave her name and Penit’s to the recorder, who wrote them in a ledger. After their names lay scrawled on the page, the man gave Penit a blue pin to place on his shirt. He then leveled a serious gaze on the boy.
“Run hard but run fair, son. The only loser is the one who doesn’t give the Roon all he has. But the cheater disgraces the Roon, and earns himself a month in the regent’s stables as a helpmate to Gasher.” He turned to his partner. “Would you ever want to work for old Gasher?”
“Oh, my, no!” his friend said. “He’s an awful crank. Every minute would be drudgery. Wouldn’t want that.”
“I won’t cheat,” Penit put in. “And I’ll win. You’ll see.”
“A champion’s attitude,” the recorder said. He winked at Seanbea and Wendra and motioned for them to move to the left.
The children lined up behind a broad ribbon stretched from the gate to a building across the concourse. A line of guards held the crowd back on the far side. A man carrying a baton came forward and offered to escort Wendra and Seanbea to a place along the wall from which to observe the race. She looked down at Penit, the boy’s eyes brimming with confidence.
“Just have fun,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.
Penit nodded and suddenly cried out, “Dwayne.” He rushed to a boy amid a host of other children. He talked excitedly with the other boy, the two jabbering about things Wendra couldn’t quite hear, though she knew the two had met in the slave town of Galadell. Then the man with the baton led her and Seanbea to a place along the wall near the gate to the inner courtyard.
More contestants gave their names and were herded to the ribbon. The mass of children stood a hundred across and perhaps ten deep. Some of those waiting there were no more than six years old, eager parents enrolling them in the Roon with vain hope. The largest boys bulled their way to the front. Girls made up nearly half the runners, some taller even than the largest of the boys.
The racers fidgeted and looked over their shoulders toward parents who continued to shout instructions to them over the din. Youthful faces wore unsure expressions but nevertheless nodded understanding; other children shook their heads side to side in confusion. Penit stood in the middle of the pack with Dwayne, the two still avidly talking.
The hum of the crowd rose suddenly to a roar, as trumpets blared into the sunny air over the wall. The men at the table closed their books and drew their instruments back from the street into the courtyard. A stiff-looking man with a thin mustache appeared from the inner gate door and began to speak. His first words were lost beneath the tumult, but the gathering quickly quieted.
“… this running of the Lesher Roon for the Child’s Seat at the High Table, to sit at council with those who speak for their constituents. So then, do we, by tradition and law, draw our Child’s Voice from this worthy field of contestants.”
Another roar rose from the throng. The man went on, but his words ended before the people quieted again. The gentleman walked in stately fashion to the head of the ribbon and solemnly cast his eyes over the runners. Above frenzied speculation and last-second admonitions from parents, Wendra could just make out the man’s words—the same exhortation that the recorder had made of Penit: “Run hard but run fair.”
Confetti and streamers began to rain down from windows and rooftops. Trumpets blazed a triumphant fanfare. And the children hunched, ready to run.
The man strode to the wall and lifted his baton, taking the ribbon in hand. At the far side of the concourse, another did likewise. Amidst colored confetti and shouts and horns, the two men dropped their batons simultaneously, letting go the ribbon. In a spurt, a thousand children dashed ahead to claim the coveted prize of the Lesher Roon.
Several fell as legs locked and intertwined, but each quickly jumped up and joined the lurching mob. The thrill of the race got inside Wendra as she watched the children find their pace. She could still see Penit, his head bobbing with quick steps. He ran firmly ensconced in the pack. She cheered his name. The shouts and exultation of the masses deafened Wendra’s own, but she waved toward Penit as the children rounded the first corner.
When all the runners had disappeared, she looked up at Seanbea, who gave her a quirky smile. “Gets in you, doesn’t it?”
She smiled back and nodded, turning to where the children would circle back through the concourse. The crowd simmered, their jubilation falling to murmurs and bubbling expectation. Men and women continued to fill the air with confetti and streamers as the crowd awaited the return of the runners from around the outer wall of Solath Mahnus.
In the distance, the roar of spectators rose in a moving wave as the dashers passed them in their course. The sound of it grew more faint as the race approached the far side of the hill.
“What will you do if the boy wins?” Seanbea asked.
“Did you see the size of some of the runners?” She smiled wanly.
His eyebrows lifted to mark his point. “The Roon chooses who bears the seat, Wendra, not the child. It’s a race, yes, but after all the child can do, something more aids the winner in crossing the ribbon.”
“Sounds like a legend, like the White Stag or the Pauper’s Drum.” She stood on her tiptoes and looked in the direction the children would come.
“Legends come to us for reasons, Anais,” Seanbea said. “Like the legends of songs that do more than entertain.”
Wendra gave him a long look. His smile never faltered.
Far away, the cheering from the crowd began to cycle back toward them. As the roar of the crowd drew closer, those around Wendra and Seanbea began to fidget and call. The excitement of the race came before it like leaves stirred by prestorm wind.
Moments later, a pack of children rounded a corner and broke into a sprint down the long concourse. Twelve youngsters ran, their arms pumping, their hair rippling in the wind of their own speed. Across the cobbled street they flew, feet pounding in an impossible rhythm. Hands and arms rose in support as the runners raced past.
Twenty strides behind them, a second group of children came around the corner and another surge of cheers rose.
The first grouping came into clear view. Wendra rose up again on her toes and scanned their faces. Sweat streaked their cheeks and temples, matting hair to heads.
Two boys led the group, sprinting effortlessly. A handful of girls made up the middle of the pack, ponytails flipping to and fro with each long stride. A few more boys flanked the girls, eyeing their counterparts as they drove their legs forward.
At the back of the pack, Penit and Dwayne labored to keep pace with those at the front, their strides shorter and quicker than the long, graceful strokes of the others.
Wendra yelled Penit’s name, but she could scarcely hear her own voice. In the midst of the deafening noise, she suddenly wondered if an unheard song held any power. But the thought fled her mind in the exuberance of cheering Penit on.
The Unremembered Page 41
