The Unremembered

by Peter Orullian

  “We’ll rest today,” Vendanj said, looking at everyone. “We can’t wait any longer than that. We’ve a long way yet to go.”

  “The mists of Tillinghast,” the regent muttered, “to test his spirit.”

  “Because things are different this time.” Vendanj looked at Grant. “The Quiet have chased us since the Hollows.”

  Tahn suddenly remembered the strange words he’d heard from the Bar’dyn as he and Sutter had fled the black winds from the North Face: You run only from lies … your lies and the lies of your Fathers will we show you.

  “And against this you take a child to Tillinghast,” the regent said, a hint of confusion and impatience in her words.

  “Precisely because of his youth. But no longer a child,” Vendanj explained. “Tahn’s had his Change. We must reach the Heights quickly.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy her, but she didn’t look pleased. “Very well, Sheason. How can we help?”

  “We’d planned to visit Qum’rahm’se on our way here,” Vendanj explained, “but we got separated. We need the scriveners’ study of the Covenant Tongue and the Tract itself, to try and strengthen the Veil. Send General Van Steward’s best hundred men. Armored wagons. And bring the entire library here where it can be kept safe until we return from Tillinghast.” He paused a moment, then added, “It’s possible someone, maybe the Quiet, is piecing together an understanding of the Language, and using it against us. If so, they could potentially bring down the Veil.”

  Tahn suddenly remembered his cloak. He thrust his hands inside, and sighed with relief at the shape of the sticks still concealed inside.

  He pulled them out and held them up. “Sutter and I went there. To the library.”

  Vendanj took the sticks from Tahn’s trembling fingers. The Sheason seemed to know the end of their story. He broke the seals and read the testimonies. Next he rolled open Edholm’s parchment and looked it over. As his eyes scanned the lines, a still, calm anger settled in his features. Finally, he held up the fourth stick, but didn’t open it.

  “The library is burned. Everything.” Vendanj replaced the scrolls into their sticks. “There’s no copy now of the Tract of Desolation. What we’d hoped to learn about the Covenant Language is lost.” Vendanj turned to the regent. “Send word to Descant Cathedral. They no longer have the protection of redundancy. I know Suffering is only a translation and only part of the Tract, but it’s all we have left.”

  Everyone held their silence in the wake of the revelation. Tahn noted a kind of serenity in Mira’s face that either welcomed death or wasn’t concerned over the loss at Qum’rahm’se.

  Vendanj continued. “Helaina, the hundred that you might have sent to Qum’rahm’se, send instead to keep watch over Descant. Dress them in common clothes, so they are obvious. They’re to guard the cathedral.”

  Penit tapped Wendra, who’d pulled him so tightly against herself that when she released him, he drew an exaggerated breath. She smiled an apology, and he took her hand. She wore a grave expression. Tahn didn’t like the look of it. Wendra had always, even at work—whether forking out the barn or washing the cook pots—worn a smile.

  “What else needs to be done?” Grant asked. “I don’t intend to spend one unnecessary moment in the marble arrogance of Solath Mahnus.”

  The regent stiffened. She rounded slowly to face him. “If it weren’t more cruel to leave you in exile, I’d have you strung up this hour. What a waste of a man you are. I’ll allow you to accompany the Sheason for his sake. But curb your tongue until you find yourself outside with the animals, or you’ll wear stripes as easily as your boots.”

  A terrible authority filled the regent’s voice as she spoke.

  Grant replied in a soft, unmoved voice, “Doesn’t all this show you that I was right even then?” He returned the regent’s stare a moment more, then opened the door and slipped out.

  “Go with him,” Vendanj said to Mira. “We need to be ready.”

  In the silence that followed Mira’s departure, Braethen walked a bundle of clothes to Sutter, laying his Sedagin sword at the foot of his bed.

  “Sweet of them not to pawn my belongings,” Sutter quipped.

  Braethen smiled without conviction. The others ignored him.

  Wendra turned to Vendanj. “Penit should stay here. He’s a boy. Whatever needs to be done at Tillinghast can’t possibly involve him.”

  Instead of responding to her, Vendanj walked around Tahn’s bed and knelt in front of Penit. He peered into the boy’s eyes. “It’s a dangerous thing we do. If you come, you may be asked to do as the Prince of Strohn did. Quite a price. Do you remember?”

  Vendanj obviously referred to some obscure rhea-fol. Penit seemed to consider it.

  “It’s your choice,” Vendanj went on. “No one will force you.”

  “He’s a boy,” Wendra repeated, indignant. “Ten years old. How can you even ask him to decide?”

  Vendanj turned impatient eyes on Wendra. “I would rather this wait, Anais. But it can’t. Penit must choose this for himself. He’s aware of the risk.”

  Wendra began to argue, but Vendanj pinned her with a stare. “Your concern is noble, but you’re not his mother.”

  The Sheason returned his attention to Penit, and spoke more softly. “What do you think, my boy?”

  Penit thought a moment more. If Tahn didn’t know better, he’d have sworn Penit was muttering lines from a rhea-fol under his breath. Maybe gathering his courage. “I’ll go,” Penit said.

  Vendanj gave the boy a grateful smile. “We’ll talk more,” he said. Then he stood, looking more weary. Stern, but weary. “Will you require a moment alone here?” he asked Helaina.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve much to do to prepare for the Convocation.” She then moved to Tahn’s bedside. Though her back stooped slightly, she remained regal. Her blue eyes peered down at him. Tahn thought he saw concern behind them.

  She put a soft hand on his arm and said, “Be safe.”

  Then she turned and brushed past Vendanj. The older man wearing the Sheason sigil followed her from the room.

  “Tillinghast is a long way from here,” Braethen said as the door closed. “Weeks … months of travel.”

  Vendanj nodded toward Wendra. “When it’s dark, we’ll find your cathedral, Anais. The talents there will make our journey short.” He drew a long breath, and tucked Edholm’s fourth scroll into the lining of his cloak. “I’ll return after evening meal. Eat well. Penit, walk with me. We have things to discuss.”

  Vendanj and Penit left the four from the Hollows alone in the room. Tahn rested back onto his pillow, and sighed.

  “I want him at my next birthday,” Sutter jested.

  The rest stifled a bout of giggles that lifted the worry and fear they all felt. Soon they spoke hurriedly of all that had happened to them, sharing freely and shaking heads in amazement over incredible events. Tahn kept back a few things, unwilling to worry his friends, and unable to shake the Sheason’s words to Penit: quite a price.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Tokens

  Compulsion is at the heart of good leadership, whether by inspiration or threat. Regarding the latter: not of the individual, but what he cares about.

  —Statecraft and Diplomacy, an examination of necessary measures; regent’s library

  Vendanj strode the marbled halls of Solath Mahnus. He was on his way to Helaina’s High Office. There were private matters to discuss, and he would no longer be patient or silent. So, he didn’t notice the grandeur of the halls, the history engraved in the marble, the sculpture and art depicting kings and war and the beautiful promise of the land that filled the high, vaulted ceilings.

  Mira walked at his side. Vendanj had told her he meant to visit Helaina alone. But Mira had insisted.

  At the final stair, two of the regent’s Emerit guard stepped in front of them. Other guards had deferred to the three-ring sigil at Vendanj’s neck. These did not.

  “I’ve be
en in your lady’s company today,” Vendanj said coolly. “If I’d wanted to harm her, she would already be dead.”

  The two shared a look, acknowledged the logic, and stepped back. Vendanj climbed the long marble stair, this one windowless and dark. At the top he didn’t bother to knock, but simply opened the double doors and went in. Mira slipped inside and stood like a shadow against the wall.

  “Do join us,” Helaina said.

  Artixan gave a knowing smile. “I told you he’d come.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t say he’d show such disrespect.” She gave Vendanj a measured look.

  “I don’t have time for etiquette.” Vendanj shut the doors behind him. “You know of my respect, my lady. But we’re running out of time.”

  “What did Jamis say?” Helaina asked straight out.

  Vendanj shook his head. “He won’t come. The memory of Convocation’s betrayal is as strong now as it’s ever been.” He took a few steps into the High Office. “If the Quiet invade, the Sedagin will fight back. But they won’t pledge to you or Convocation.”

  Vendanj spared a look at the greatroom, a sanctuary built atop the several halls and palaces that comprised a man-made mountain in the heart of Recityv. Here Helaina kept her precious books, strategic war maps, and other secrets a regent must have. It spoke, too, of her refinement—white marble, sparing decoration.

  “What of Tillinghast?” Artixan looked northeast out a window.

  “When the boys are rested, we’ll go,” Vendanj said. “They’re still weak.”

  Artixan shook his head and looked back at him. The man had mentored Vendanj. Was more a father to him than any other could claim. “Do you believe he can stand there?” Artixan clarified.

  Vendanj crossed the room and looked from the northwest window with his old teacher. “I don’t know. All the others we’ve taken there have failed.” He was quiet for a long moment. “Either way, the Quiet come. No amount of rhetoric in these halls can make that untrue. The League’s denial is either naive or calculated. It’s dividing our attention and leaving us unprepared.”

  “Our attention isn’t all that is divided, Vendanj.” Artixan put a hand on his shoulder. “The Sheason aren’t whole. You know this. Your use of the others, of Tahn, isn’t helping that. The schism is deepening.”

  With soft regret he said, “I know.” After several long moments, he focused himself, and turned to Helaina. “There’s more. The League has arrested the seat holder from Risill Ond. After all this time, they answered your call to Convocation only to be treated to the hospitality of your dungeons. The League will take that vote if you don’t set the man free and make it right.”

  The regent’s brow furrowed.

  Artixan’s question came low and sad and ominous. “And if the League did it with Risill Ond, how many others have been compromised?”

  “I leave you to deal with the League. But as for the rest…” Vendanj walked to the long table that served as the regent’s desk. He looked across its polished surface at her weary face, feeling some pity. Then he recalled a list of widow names, and an infant’s grave, and indignation burned again inside him.

  With steady fingers he drew open his pouch and tossed a snake’s head and a swatch of a child’s blanket onto the desk.

  The regent recoiled in surprise, then studied the artifacts. Artixan came close.

  “The disgrace you forced on Grant may have been warranted, but the sentence was not. This cradle at the edge of the Scar … is finished.”

  “You don’t have the power—”

  “I claim the power!” Vendanj railed. He composed himself. “I’m telling you, I won’t let it continue. I’m telling you … Put an end to this vile cradle that keeps Denolan there.”

  “You forget yourself.” The regent stood.

  Artixan came to stand at her right shoulder. “Vendanj, your passion makes you unwise.”

  “No,” he said. “I see more clearly than you both because I walk in the places where people suffer. Where their cries go unanswered and unremembered.” He took up the swatch of blanket, his heart aching at its very touch. The token brought quiet reverence to what he said next. “Three days ago I visited your cradle in the Scar … and found a babe dead, bitten by a viper brought down out of the Bourne. It’s a sign. A message.”

  Helaina and Artixan looked at the snake’s head, understanding in their eyes.

  “The Quiet know how you punish Grant. They took this child’s life to make a point.” Vendanj stared them down. “It ends. Now.”

  They looked back, beginning, he thought, to bear some grief over the loss. They said nothing, their eyes distant as if seeing what had happened.

  “Grant will stay in the Scar if you ask him to, if that’s what you deem fit for his treason. But he will go with me to Tillinghast.” Vendanj shook his head. “I don’t know how long we’ll be gone. But the one thing I would spare him—the one thing you should wish to spare us all—is the worry that a babe may die if he’s not there to receive it.

  “And mark me: I will not needlessly bury another forgotten child. The day I do, won’t forsake my oath and make a mortal enemy of any who put such children at risk.”

  The regent heard the threat but didn’t falter under Vendanj’s hard glare; neither did she rebuke him.

  “All this,” Vendanj finished, “or when we return from Tillinghast, kill Denolan. Execute him as you do any traitor. You know him, Helaina. He would stand up for that.”

  The regent looked back thoughtfully. “You’re right,” she said, “he would.”

  Vendanj’s wrath receded. He looked at these old friends. “I do this because it’s right. If you search your hearts, you’ll see the right of it, too.”

  Helaina reached out, and Vendanj put the portion of the child’s blanket in her hand. She looked down. And in that moment, the regent was replaced by the mother who had lost her own child.

  Without looking up, she nodded. “No more children will I send to the cradle,” she said softly. “Please tell Denolan.”

  Vendanj reached out and placed his hand over the regent’s, as she smoothed the child’s blanket. “Thank you, Anais.”

  He looked up at Artixan, whose wrinkled face held a glint of pride despite the roughness he’d seen in Vendanj. Each servant has his way, the look said. And for his part, Vendanj had meant every word he’d uttered. In some things, you went all the way, or not at all.

  * * *

  Vendanj had turned to leave, his business done, when Mira stepped into the center of the High Office and took the regent’s attention.

  “Something to say, Mira Far?” Helaina offered a slight smile. “I hope you have better manners than your friend.”

  Mira stared silently for a moment, sparing a last thought for what she was about to do. “I have a trade to make.”

  The regent shared a look with Artixan and even Vendanj, whose eyes showed some surprise. “Go on,” Helaina said.

  “Your Convocation is going to need help,” Mira observed. “Especially now that the Sedagin won’t come.”

  The regent paused to consider before responding. “And what do you propose?”

  “The Far have never answered Convocation’s call,” Mira reminded her. “Both prior requests of the Far went unanswered.”

  The regent leaned forward in her chair. “True. And yet Convocation has prevailed anyway.”

  There was challenge in the regent’s words. But a hollow one. And Mira had already weighed what came next. She leveled her gaze. “My sister is the Far queen, or was until several days ago when she passed this life.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Helaina said.

  “Thank you.” Mira paused a moment. What she was about to commit had many ramifications. “I will guarantee that King Elan, or whoever the rightful successor may now be, will return here to take the Far Seat at Convocation.”

  Helaina stared, unbelieving. “And what would you have in trade?” she asked.

  Without hesitation, “The freedom
of the leagueman framed in our Dissent today.”

  The regent began to shake her head. “No, that would undermine the court and the trust I’ve built—”

  “On the contrary,” Mira argued, “freeing the man would show your people that you’re not afraid to defy the League. It would also let them know you’re not afraid to have Sheason in the streets, using their gifts.”

  “How can you guarantee the Far king will come?” Helaina asked.

  “You’ll have to trust me.” Mira glanced at Vendanj. “But if you need a witness to my honor, Vendanj will speak to it.”

  Helaina finally stood, and came around her long table to stand in front of Mira. She stared at one eye, then the other, and seemed to wait for some internal question to solidify. “Why,” she asked. “What is it to you if he dies?”

  It was a cold question, Mira thought. But not unexpected from a woman who’d had to send armies to war. Still, Mira wondered if Helaina would have asked the question if she’d seen the mother and daughter grieving in the small room beneath the gallery.

  “He’s innocent.” Mira spoke with soft tones. “He’s a father. And this injustice is affecting more than the man you wrap with chains.”

  The regent nodded understanding. “Very well. But not by pardon. It would put Roth on a hunt for my office, which he wants bad enough as it is.” Helaina gave a tired laugh. “I’ll have my own counselors prepare a Dissent. And I’ll make sure the jury isn’t strong-armed by the League. You can trust that I’ll see him freed.” She raised a finger. “And I will hold you to your vow, Mira Far.”

  As though she hadn’t heard, Mira pressed. “I need your word on more than simple release. Assign a few of your Emerit guard to him and his family. If anything unnatural happens to him, I’ll hold those responsible accountable.…”

  “You and Vendanj practice a unique brand of diplomacy.” The regent’s words elicited a soft laugh from Artixan. “Very well, the leagueman shall be freed and protected. We’ll find a place far enough from Recityv where no one will recognize them. Where they can live in peace. Will that suit you?”