They raced for the cathedral. Wendra glanced behind her. Grant and Braethen brought up the rear, strain and determination etched in their faces. She held Penit against herself with one arm, coaxing her mount on with her reins.
More lights flickered in windows at each side of the street; a few men coming to doorways as they notched sword belts over nightshirts.
“You there,” a man called.
“Hey, slow down!” another demanded.
Ahead, the street began to line with more residents of Recityv’s Cathedral Quarter. Mira pushed harder, pointing her sword at one man who stepped into the street with violent intentions. Her warning stopped him in his tracks.
Suddenly, behind them, a roar erupted. Wendra looked over her shoulder and saw a dozen horses burst into the street. A chorus of battle cries rose from men in League brown and Recityv crimson. Their pursuers bore down on them, bloodlust in their voices.
Looking ahead again, Wendra’s heart fell as three horsemen emerged from the end of the street and blocked the cathedral steps.
Mira didn’t slow. She pulled both her swords and rode with an easy grace, eyeing the men ahead. Grant rode past Wendra and took a position beside the Far, barreling down upon the three horsemen.
Two of the three sat in old saddles on horses as shaggy as meadow mares. They wore armor pieced together from whatever they had at hand, and bore sigils that looked handsewn by the men themselves. They were aspirants to low seats at Convocation.
They mean to earn a reputation by stopping us.
But they seemed little more than opportunists. The third one wore a plain suit of black leather and carried a flail forged of a metal equally black. And though he wore no cloak, a hood hid his face. This third man was unsettling.
And still Mira did not slow.
A cacophony of angry shouts rose all around them. Wendra lowered her own chin and followed the others into the fight.
The man in the hood stared, waiting patiently. The Far charged forward undaunted, driving her mount directly toward him. Grant angled right for the rider on the end. Vendanj leaned forward, urging his mount on.
Braethen passed Wendra on the left, whooping his steed forward and drawing his own blade as he raced to the front and arrowed toward the horseman at the far left.
On the sides of the street, lamps flared into life, the growing crowd eager to see the fight.
She checked behind them again. The mob now filled the street like a wall of men and horseflesh. The glint of fire in dull metal winked at her, and she realized she and Sutter now held the rear position. If the three horsemen stopped them long enough, the swarm would have them.
Ahead, the man in the dark hood lifted his flail and began swinging it at a dizzying speed, creating a wide whirling barrier. In the air an ominous, painful moan began to grow, like the deathbed sighs of a generation—this was no ordinary warrior. The sound stole Wendra’s breath, and she began to choke. She clutched at her throat and looked over at Sutter, who was doing the same.
A squeal pierced the air, and Wendra snapped her attention forward to see Mira rein in hard and jump to the ground, rushing the man. The rider turned and whipped his flail at Mira. The Far thrust one sword up and caught the weapon in its arc, and with her second blade sliced toward the hooded face. The rider leaned back to escape the blow, and rolled from his horse to the ground, keeping hold of his flail.
Grant forced his mount into a collision with the rider on the right, who made a weak attempt to thrust a sword into Grant’s chest. The man out of the Scar twisted his fist into the other’s hair and wrenched him from his saddle. A jarring crunch of mismatched armor accompanied a snap of bone, and the man scuttled away on his knees, dragging one arm uselessly.
To the left, Braethen raised his blade. As he closed in, Wendra caught a flash of shadow to his left. At the corner of the last building, two men huddled with crossbows aimed at Braethen. Their heads began to settle to the stillness Wendra knew came just before firing.
“Tahn,” she shouted, pointing at the crossbowmen.
Tahn saw it immediately, and fired his bow at the first man.
The arrow hit the corner of the stone building, striking sparks in the shadows there. But it was enough to disrupt the man’s concentration. The bolt sailed high and disappeared into the blackness across the street. The second man turned his crossbow on Tahn.
Tahn couldn’t nock another arrow in time. Sutter couldn’t help. Wendra looked at the man and shot a burst of angry song. The sound filled the end of the street, the force of it pounding the crossbowman like a stone gavel, and he slumped down over his own weapon. The echoes of her short song began to fade into the din of the mob.
A scream broke the sound of her dying note.
Wendra followed the cry and saw one of the riders pulling a barbed sword from Braethen’s leg. The rider then raised his blade to finish Braethen.
His sword never fell. His mouth opened in surprise, his eyes shut in mortal pain. Mira. She pulled her sword from the man’s gut, and he fell from his saddle.
Maesteri Belamae drew back the wide double doors. Vendanj rode past the fray and up the cathedral steps. Wendra and Penit followed him, Tahn and Sutter close behind.
Hooves clattered noisily on stone. Roars of anger echoed from the tall face of the cathedral. The wall of pursuers bore down on Braethen, Mira, and Grant.
Again the moan of human sighs rose up. The final horseman had begun to swing his flail in crushing arcs toward Mira. The Far danced back a step, and brought her swords up in defense.
Less than twenty strides separated the charging mob and Mira. She could easily have escaped them all and mounted the stair. But she stood between the dark rider and Braethen, a hard look in her eyes.
Vendanj ordered Wendra and the others inside, where a handful of men waited, eyes wide. “Quickly!” he shouted.
Maesteri Belamae drew Wendra and Penit inside. Sutter jumped from his horse and began down the stair, both hands on his blade.
“No!” Vendanj commanded. “Your one sword means nothing against so many.”
Sutter flashed angry eyes at Vendanj, but stopped and looked again toward Braethen.
The din of shouts and howls and hooves and clattering armor rang around them.
Then, as if from nowhere, Grant appeared. He swept in quickly behind the hooded man, who turned in time to partially block Grant’s sword, the blade slicing the man’s side.
The flail slowed, the moan dimmed. A scream of anger lifted above the noise. The shadow inside the cowl focused on Grant, who pulled back, waiting for a counterattack.
Mira didn’t hesitate. She took Braethen’s reins and her own and raced up the steps. Grant took his own and followed, as the hooded rider disappeared into the darkness of a nearby alley. A rain of arrows began striking the steps about them, chips of rock flying, sparks leaping where metal met stone. But none found its mark, the arrows slipping from their trajectory by fractions, parting around their targets.
It was then that Wendra heard the melody. Like a battle song. But low, directed. She turned to see Belamae singing just under his breath.
The leaguemen and city guard reached the cathedral steps. They brought their horses to a skidding halt. Several voices shouted commands and warnings. But they faded as Vendanj ushered the last of them through the doors, which Belamae closed with less haste than she might have expected.
As soon as the door shut, two men and two women dropped crossbars through great iron rings to hold them. Belamae gave some quiet instruction to these men and women, who quickly led away their horses.
Then Belamae turned his clear, patient gaze on Vendanj, looking a question at him.
“A Telling,” Vendanj said. “And quickly.” He paused, pulling the scroll from his cloak and handing it to Belamae. “And my apologies for bringing this to your door, Maesteri. This won’t go easy for you, even with Helaina’s help.”
Belamae took the Telling parchment and smiled, unconcerned. “You may b
e right.” His voice rang deep and clean. “But while our gables and spires are tarnished, our purpose is not.” He gave Wendra a warm but expectant look.
Vendanj drew her aside. Belamae joined them.
The Sheason’s eyes grew solemn. Softly, he said, “Wendra, when I came to the Hollows, I asked you to come with us. To come here and study music. I knew your parents.” He paused briefly, seeming to consider what to say. “I sensed a song in you. But only Belamae should—”
Wendra held up her hand to stop him. “I found some of that song.” She looked a sad smile at Belamae. “The Maesteri and I have met. I know I have Leiholan gifts.”
Vendanj seemed glad. “Then you know you’re needed here, to learn to sing Suffering.”
The Sheason shifted to look at Belamae. “The Quiet have burned Qum’rahm’se. Descant now has the only copy of the Tract of Desolation.”
“Ours is a partial translation,” Belamae clarified.
Vendanj nodded. “Yes, but it carries the spirit of the Tract.”
“Belamae?” Wendra said.
The Maesteri showed her patient eyes. “The Song of Suffering is the singing of the Tract of Desolation. To sustain the Veil that holds the Quiet inside the Bourne, the Song is sung without end.” He paused, his eyes momentarily distant. “We have so few Leiholan … and they tire.”
Vendanj gathered her attention. “You’re the reason we came to Recityv, Wendra. The rest of us have to go. But your place is here.”
A flutter of panic stirred in her chest. “What about Penit?”
“He’s coming with us.” Vendanj gave the boy a knowing look. “You’ll have to let him go.”
Desperation filled her. She felt trapped.
It was impossible.… Then she thought of her lost child, and all she’d done to rescue Penit after she’d lost him, too.
Something stern and calm got inside her. She looked back at Vendanj, returning his stare.
“She’s chosen.” Vendanj didn’t sigh or shake his head. “She’ll go with us. But I give you my word, Belamae, that I’ll protect her.”
The Maesteri’s demeanor changed, not to anger but concern. He smiled with disappointment, nodded, and led them down a dim hall.
No one spoke. Mira and Grant came last, supporting Braethen between them. Distantly, she heard the same melodic humming she’d heard before: the Song of Suffering, being sung deep within the cathedral.
Belamae led them through several halls, where small lamps burned on shallow shelves. They went past closed doors, catching phrases of song, musical passages played on citherns, flutes, and violins.
The Maesteri strode to a closed door. He produced a key, turned back the tumbler, and admitted them before he himself entered and locked the door behind them.
He then went round the room and lit several lamps. Gradually the shadows receded, showing an oval chamber with a ceiling fifty strides high. Murals had been painted there whose detail faded to the eye at such a distance. A great oval rug of blue-and-white interlocking patterns stretched to the walls, but left bare a smaller oval of stone at the room’s center. The stone there was seamless, and shone like a dark, placid pool. At the back of the chamber stood a lectern like Garlen’s, wrought from the same sleek stone as the floor.
The Maesteri went to Wendra and stood quietly before her. He gently took her hand, cupping it between his own. He let out a sigh and smiled wanly. “You’ll never know how difficult it is for me to see you go.” His voice caught with emotion. He swallowed and patted her hand.
“Go safely, young one,” he added. “Remember that when you open your mouth to make song, there’s responsibility in it. Please, come back to me. So much depends—” The Maesteri stopped, though it appeared he wanted to say more.
Wendra realized as the words died that they did so after a slowly fading roll of echoes. The chamber resounded with the cast of Belamae’s voice, making each word larger than itself, a quality of depth and dimension Wendra hadn’t heard before.
She smiled appreciatively at the old man, but in her heart she held reservations … a child had been ripped from her womb, Penit nearly sold on the blocks, her own chance to save him wagered in a game of chance.
The Maesteri left her and walked around the black oval to the lectern. He climbed a stair behind it, and soon stood overlooking the room from several strides above them. Carefully he untied the scroll and unrolled it. His eyes scanned the words. He looked up. “This is A’Garlen, I can tell.” He smiled.
Then the Maesteri began to hum in a rich, deep voice, the sound of it resonating in the chamber until the entire space seemed filled with it. The sound came at Wendra from every direction, washing over her like her most vivid dream. The music thrummed with a life of its own, so that she couldn’t be sure the Maesteri sang it at all.
Then the man began to sing the words. The Telling unfolded in glorious detail, the language fitting together as naturally and rhythmically as any lyric Wendra had ever heard. The dance and play of each phrase gave life to the words and what they described. From the lips of the Maesteri, the music soared as though it might stretch outward and upward without end.
In moments, the words ran together with the song and became something more. It touched Wendra deeply, resonating inside her.
Above the brilliant oval, the air began to draw itself into threads like the weave of a loom. Tendrils of space with the color of what lay beyond it reflected in thin wavy lines. Hundreds, then thousands of these strands shimmered together and grew until they filled the space above the dark stone.
Through the weave, she saw the face of Belamae as if through rippling water, but in slow vertical lines, and thin, like strands of hair.
As the song unwound itself, she glimpsed the gift that lived inside her. She might have been afraid, but in the embrace of Belamae’s song, she felt safe.
The Maesteri sang a crescendo that wove itself in a shifting, scintillating pattern. Garlen’s words given voice here began to create a picture. The threads moved, changed color, wove in new patterns. Wendra felt a pull as though the physical space of the chamber was realigning itself. The strands danced to the song, the words gave direction, and thousands of hairline rents in the air obeyed, moving and reshaping what she saw.
The weave coalesced, pulling tight and firming. The strands began to disappear from view, creating a new order in place of the old. On the Maesteri sang. And the picture became complete. She could feel a wind and smell the plains she looked upon, and heard the sound of thunder in a dark sky.
“Step through,” Vendanj said, his voice soft so as not to disturb the song.
Mira and Grant went first. In a moment, they passed through this new curtain in the air and appeared on the soil of the scene rising up from the black oval floor. Then Vendanj, and Braethen. To her left stood Sutter, who gave an enthusiastic salute to Tahn, and stepped through himself. Then Tahn. And Penit.
Wendra looked up at the Maesteri, who continued to sing, but gave her a reassuring nod. With a rush of sound, Wendra stepped into the tapestry. With a sudden sadness and doubt, she left Descant behind.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Children of Soliel
When the Framers abandoned the world, they left their Language with the thought that one day it might be used, should the Quiet bring down the Veil.
—From The Apocrypha of Shenflear, thought to derive from his historical period
Tahn crunched shale underfoot as he emerged onto the vast dark plain. A damp wind pulled at his hair as he quickly took visual count of his friends. All had arrived safely. He looked back through a window torn in space and saw the Descant room, heard the Maesteri ending his song. The weave of strands began to unravel, pulling back to a previous form and distorting the picture behind it. In moments, the chamber was gone, replaced by unbroken terrain that met dark clouds at the horizon.
Vendanj helped Braethen lie down, rolling his cloak for a pillow to cushion his head.
“Breathe easy,” the Sheason said.<
br />
Then Vendanj put a hand over the wound in Braethen’s leg and said something that Tahn lost in the wind’s flapping of his cloak. Braethen’s face relaxed. Vendanj applied an ointment, and carefully wrapped the wound.
As he finished, a shearing sound startled them. They all turned as the strange weave of threads opened another window on the Soliel and their mounts walked through onto the shale. The Far gathered the horses, handing reins to each of them as the second weave disappeared.
A distant flash of light blazed near a range of jagged peaks, followed by a muted roll of thunder. The charcoal darkness of the shale blended gradually with the darkness of the mountains and the storm clouds that closed them in.
“The Soliel Stretches,” Mira said evenly. “Garlen is full of surprises.” She jumped into her saddle, and looked around in a full circle. “Naltus is close. We should get there before the storm comes.”
Another flash lit the night. And soon the grumble of thunder cracked and boomed around them. Far away coyotes or wolves raised howls of protest to the sound.
As they traveled, Tahn caught glimpses of Grant watching him.
They passed tangles of bleached bone in the shale. Small prongs of calcified skeletons jutted up from the earth. The size of the bones was alarming. Nothing Tahn could identify. More than once, they passed rows of shale piled in mounds like graves, and several dolmens besides.
Then in front of them, as if from nowhere, a city.
Massive walls formed of the same shale around them made the city hard to discern, especially in the shadows of twilight. He couldn’t see a single watchman, or gate. The walls looked seamless and abandoned.
And there were no merchants or pilgrims or even homes outside the walls.
“Strangers are seldom admitted past the gate.” Mira sounded unapologetic. “Be respectful.”
The walls of Naltus Far were much taller and broader than they’d appeared from further away. Tracking the parapets proved difficult in the dark, but their tops were clearly visible each time the sky erupted in flashes of lightning.
The Unremembered Page 48
