Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered

by Orullian, Peter

  “Were you invited into this particular conversation, stranger?” Sutter interjected. “It’s all well and good for you to take a room at Hambley’s fine inn here, but that doesn’t give you the right to meddle in the personal lives of his friends.”

  The man looked directly at Sutter, showing him a flinty stare. Sutter retreated deeper into his seat. Then the stranger turned his hard gaze on Tahn. He leaned forward as he searched Tahn’s face.

  Hambley chimed in, “Master, he is a good lad. And we were discussing a family matter. There is no need for us to be at odds. Please have a seat.” He gestured toward a fourth chair nearer the fire. The stranger appraised Tahn a moment more, still looming over him. Though he remained seated, he could tell the man would stand taller than him. The hilt of a dagger protruded from the opening of his cloak, but to Tahn the weapon seemed only an ornament. The newcomer’s broad shoulders and stony visage inspired caution more strictly than anything else.

  The man released Tahn from his gaze and took the chair Hambley offered. He drew it around, closing a circle with Tahn, Sutter, and Hambley.

  “Would you care for a plate or a glass?” Hambley asked.

  “No, I’ve my own, and much to say besides.” He took a wooden case from the folds of his cloak and produced a small sprig. Thoughtfully, he placed it on his tongue. Tahn caught a whiff of something like peppermint.

  “You are Tahn Junell,” the man stated. He then waited as though he expected a response. Tahn finally nodded. “I am Vendanj.” The man proffered his hand in greeting. Tahn clasped it in the customary salutation. Vendanj twisted their united hands, looking intently at the mark on the back of Tahn’s hand. His grip tightened, hurting Tahn’s fingers. Then he let go, returning his hand to his lap and his eyes to Tahn’s own.

  “Are you here for Northsun?” Tahn asked.

  The man did not answer the question. “My concern turns toward the reader. It is not like Ogea to come late to retell the stories. The cycle of the sun has come and gone.” Vendanj trailed off, his eyes appearing to see something Tahn could not. Something, he guessed, in a different place or time.

  Sutter could no longer remain quiet. “The reader may need our help. Shouldn’t we organize a party to search for him? He typically enters by the east road, I think. We could leave this very hour.”

  Hambley had finished his plate. “Lad, now that the rain has stopped, the bigger animals will be after meals of their own. It’s best we wait on Ogea a while longer.”

  “But—”

  “He is right,” said Vendanj. “The land is mired in the wake of these storms. Foolish actions will only cause harm to the hasty.” He spoke with a note of authority, as though not used to being contradicted. Sutter’s jaw flexed as he bit back a remark.

  “Are you going to finish that, Tahn, or shall I feed it to the dogs?” Hambley asked, pointing to Tahn’s plate.

  “I’ve no appetite for it now, Hambley. I’m sorry to leave it.”

  “Nonsense, you may leave anything you pay for.” He grinned, and went to collect Sutter’s plate as well. Sutter pulled his own plate back.

  “I will finish mine, Master Opawn. My stomach is just fine.” Sutter did not look at Vendanj when he said it, but his words were a challenge all the same.

  Vendanj turned sharply, leaned close to Sutter, and captured him with his stare. “Listen, boy, I’ve no dislike for you. But you won’t want to make an enemy of me so soon. There’s mighty spirit in you, and I welcome it. Use it in the interest of something other than yourself, not in boyhood posturing. This is the season of accountability, and yours is nigh upon you. Wait and listen, reserve judgment until your actions are sure not to condemn you. I’ve no patience for foolishness.”

  Hambley shuffled off to the kitchen with a concerned look tightening his features.

  The stranger’s voice lingered on the air, accompanied by the smell of spent lantern oil. His chastisement had been severe, but he had spoken low, careful not to draw attention to himself.

  Vendanj sat up in his deep, high-backed chair and ran a hand over his beard. “You and I have not rightly met. You know my name. What is yours?” He put his hand out again. Sutter took it with reticence.

  “Sutter Te Polis,” Tahn’s friend said, his voice failing him as they clasped. Tahn guessed Sutter felt the same iron grip that he had.

  This time the stranger did not turn his greeter’s hand as he had Tahn’s, but simply ran his long forefinger across the back of Sutter’s knuckles. Then he let go. “What is it that makes your nails so black?”

  Sutter mouthed something, his anger and fear slipping quickly into embarrassment. He fidgeted in his seat only a moment before placing his feet squarely on the ground and sitting still to offer his reply. “I farm the dirt. My nails are ripe with the loam of the Hollows. It’s not an occupation of prestige, but still—”

  “Don’t apologize for it. When lent some mind, it is the vocation of a wise man.” Vendanj looked closely at both Tahn and Sutter. “Knowing the right path is never as easy as when one physically puts his hands into soil. Causing life there, Sutter, isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

  Sutter’s mouth fell open in surprise. Tahn had seen the same reeling expression in his friend’s face only once before, on the first day Wendra had responded to his advances and kissed him full on the mouth. The tension dissipated, and Vendanj raised a finger to Sutter to signal an end to the exchange.

  This stranger reminded Tahn of his father: He was not petty, and his anger seemed appropriate, authorized somehow.

  “Master—”

  “You may want to become comfortable with my name,” the man said.

  Tahn nodded. “The boots you wear are not from the Hollows. The hide is too black and too thick.” He paused, trying to assess how his question would be received. He couldn’t read the man, whose face betrayed little of his thoughts. He came out with it. “What brings you here?”

  Vendanj’s lips curled into a slight but charming smile. “Spoken as only a man who watches the ground could.” But still he did not answer, instead asking his own question. “What of your sister, Tahn? How is she since the death of your father?” The man crossed one booted leg over the other and sat back.

  Vendanj knew much. And Tahn got the feeling he wouldn’t do well to lie or ask what business it was of his. “She is well. She misses our father, and often writes songs about our lives together before he was taken from us. I think it’s her way of dealing with his death.” He looked up from the floor, harrumphed out a breath, and scrubbed at his face. “She has a lovely voice, but she rarely shares it.”

  Vendanj sat forward again, watching Tahn intently, seeming eager to ask a question. He fingered the charm around his neck for a moment. Finally, he did not speak, but sat back, still seeming to consider what Tahn had said.

  Hambley returned and sat, wringing a wet rag.

  Sutter cleared his throat. “So, are you here for Northsun or to ask about Tahn’s sister?”

  A sorrowful look touched Vendanj’s eyes. “The observance of Northsun has mostly passed from the memory of the people.” He smiled wanly. “In the larger cities like Myrr and Recityv, the Exigents have put an end to such things in public. Few dare to brave the League’s wrath and be discovered keeping the day even in private.”

  “Exigents?” Sutter asked, looking at Tahn and Hambley for help.

  “Yes. At least, that is how they started. They now call themselves the League of Civility.” He frowned as he said it. “But in the beginning, they were known as the Exigency. In the Age of Hope, after the War of the First Promise, there was peace. In the midst of that peace, some men felt a need to record the histories passed down to them, to read and retell the stories of their forebears. Other men were compelled to stamp out this perpetuation of the past, believing it hindered men from fulfilling the promise of their own lives. These naysayers called themselves the Exigency, and soon the League of Exigents. Most scola believe the Exigents are responsible for ending
the Age of Hope and for ushering in the Age of Discord; societies failed, losing connection with their past, becoming complacent. And those who defied the Exigents were put to death.

  “Some generations later, after they were well established, the Exigents’ mission became more measured, more often carried out in the halls of leadership. A thousand years later, Discord passed, and the Age of Civility began, so called because the League of Exigents renamed themselves after a new credo: to civilize mankind and root out arcane beliefs and practices … like the rendering of the Will.” Again the stranger frowned. “There are League garrisons everywhere now, in almost every city. They are reason enough to visit the Hollows.” Again he touched the pendant at his neck, an unconscious gesture that Tahn thought somehow comforted the man.

  Sutter did not pursue the matter, and the four men lapsed into an awkward silence. The rumble of the hall continued unabated; a minstrel beginning to play his cithern, making expert melodies with his hands but bad accompaniment with his voice. After a few moments, Vendanj looked over the room behind Tahn and Sutter, studying the faces of those who had convened to eat and exchange words.

  As though satisfied, he spoke, staring at Tahn. “I’m here for you.”

  A chill of warning shuddered through Tahn. The bustle of the Fieldstone faded in his ears. He saw and heard nothing, retreating inside himself where he could only repeat the old phrase for comfort: I pull with the strength of my arms, but release as the Will allows.

  Then he thought of Wendra, Balatin gone to his earth … the Velle this morning.

  Suddenly, he could see Vendanj again looking across at him, peering, Tahn thought, past his eyes into his mind. “I need you to come with me, Tahn, and leave the Hollows. Much depends on this. Soon, we will talk more about where we will go, and what must be done. But others must join us, and I have one errand for you first.”

  Tahn stared back, dumbfounded.

  “I commissioned your smith. It should be nearly done. Simply use my name. Retrieve it for me on your way to the sodalist.” Vendanj stood.

  “Sodalist? You mean Braethen? Who told you he was a sodalist?” Tahn craned to look up at the man.

  Vendanj gave him a hard stare. “I have heard it spoken.”

  “He’s as much a sodalist as I am a reader,” Sutter put in.

  Vendanj seemed to consider. “Bring him anyway. Meet me back here as quickly as you can. Keep to the main roads, and don’t venture beyond the town proper.”

  Vendanj drew his cowl forward and spared an even look at Sutter before crossing the floor to the double doors at the front of the hall. There, he paused for an instant as another figure appeared at his side. Tahn barely saw her. She moved with the simple grace of a plains deer, but also with the stealth of a mountain cat. Each motion seemed swift and sure. Tahn saw her light grey cloak for just a moment before she stepped through the door and disappeared, as quickly as vapor from a boiling pot. But in that moment, he thought her eyes had alighted upon him.

  “Glad he’s gone,” Sutter exclaimed. “What a tangle of contradictions. I thought he was about to remove my head, and then he’s complimenting me.”

  “Did you see her?” Tahn asked, staring at the door.

  “The girl in the grey cloak, you mean?” Sutter laughed.

  Tahn spun on his friend. “Yes. Have you ever seen her in the Hollows?”

  “Barely saw her this time. She glided out as quick as a Far.”

  “Far,” Tahn said, staring after her. “That’s a reader’s story.” He tried to remember what his father had said about the Far. He recalled something about a great commission. They had been given the breath of life for but a short time in the world. Legend told that the Far lived a brief existence. It seemed a cruel matter to Tahn if it was true, but the Far themselves were little more than a myth in the Hollows. Even Ogea spoke about them so rarely that they hardly seemed real.

  The one tale that the reader did share about them spoke of their city being consecrated by the First Ones at the founding of the world near the far end of all creation. It was said that is how their race got their name—being at the far end of everything.

  Sutter broke Tahn’s reverie. “Please, friend, don’t tell me the Change is so quick upon you. Father will use it against me if you find yourself a wife and I’m still supping at his table.” Sutter reached over and clapped Tahn on the back.

  “I ask a question and you’ve got me married,” Tahn said, a wry expression tugging his face into a smile. He turned again, though, toward the door the girl had just passed through.

  “I see the look in your eye,” Sutter retorted. “No. I’ve never seen her in the Hollows. But she left with Mr. Charming. What does that say about her character?” Sutter dug a knuckle into Tahn’s back. “Did you happen to notice the color of her boots, too?”

  Tahn swung around, catching Sutter’s arm and slapping his friend’s forehead.

  “Take it outside, lads,” Hambley said. “The travelers won’t know you’re just wrestling, and they’ll want to join the bout. I’ll end up with a lot of busted tables. Besides, don’t you have things to do?”

  Tahn released Sutter, ducking to avoid the parting blow his friend usually delivered to his left ear when they abandoned their sport. He strode quickly to the door, mostly in the hope of catching another glimpse of the woman at Vendanj’s side. He stepped out into the dim light of midday. The murky weather had robbed shadows of their purchase, and left the Hollows feeling clammy and dank like the inner stones of a deep well no longer useful with water.

  Sutter came up behind him. “Let’s go, then. We must see the sodalist.”

  They shared dubious grins over that. Braethen was nice enough, but a bit fanatical about the idea of being a sodalist. He was an author’s son who’d read too many books.

  They got moving. Tahn still needed to speak of the attack in the woods. But somehow he felt that that would be part of the conversation with Vendanj later. It would have been lost on Sutter now anyway, who had begun to chatter in earnest about the possibility of leaving the Hollows. His friend had wanted to leave the Hollows for as long as Tahn could remember. The very thought of it had made him giddy. For Tahn, the prospect was somewhat less enticing. Mostly, he wanted to know where the man meant to take him. This was Tahn’s home. The thought of the Velle in the woods still brought chill bumps to his skin. But he didn’t know if he could leave the Hollows. Where did this stranger mean to take him?

  * * *

  A few streets over, Tahn and Sutter came to Master Rew Geddy’s smithy. In girth, Geddy resembled nothing so much as a bull, but he was eighty years old if he was a day. He swung his hammer slowly, but powerfully. The crown of his head bore a dappling of age spots. A wiry fringe of hair horseshoed his ears and extended down the back of his neck into his coat. His only other hair seemed to grow from his nose. Geddy raised a hammer to the boys in mid-strike, finishing the motion with a resounding clang on a bit of orange-hot steel. Tahn and Sutter drew closer, seeking the warmth of Geddy’s two large forges. The wind picked up a spark from one of the forge’s flues and whipped it past Tahn’s face. He ducked reflexively, causing a bark of laughter from Sutter.

  “It’s a wonder you ever succeed at bringing in any meat, boy,” Sutter mocked, imitating the deep, resonant voice of Vendanj.

  “You’re my inspiration, Nails,” Tahn replied, taunting Sutter for the dirt that lay perpetually under his fingernails. Geddy struck his anvil again. This time the flash sparked a blue-white color. Tahn realized that Geddy fashioned not a wheel casing or farm plow, but what looked like a …

  “Sword,” Geddy yelled, competing with the roar of his forge and the constant wind. He’d seen Tahn watching him work. “Have a look, lads.”

  The tip of the sword smoked in the frigid air and glowed red and orange from Geddy’s fires. The smithy held it aloft. “Have you ever seen such a fine piece of steel?”

  Tahn marveled at the blade, not because he recognized the quality of the metal, but
because he’d never seen Geddy forge one before. To his knowledge, Geddy never had. Yet the man looked comfortable with the weapon in his hand. He dropped his hammer and hefted the sword from one hand to the other, an odd smile on his face. The steel’s reddish glow gave his gnarled visage a garish look. The lines in his face seemed longer, the large black-filled pores of his face deeper. But his eyes did not look old as he studied the blade in his hands. Abruptly, the smithy seemed to remember Tahn and Sutter and held the blade out for their inspection, never offering to let them hold it.

  “Don’t know the owner. Must be here for Northsun.” Geddy turned the blade to the flat edge and looked down its length, checking the straightness of the edge. “Came by a few days back and handed me a … by all my Skies I can still hardly believe it … a folded square of steel.”

  Geddy looked at them with crazed excitement, which turned to disappointment as he saw the blankness on Tahn and Sutter’s faces. “Youth,” he harrumphed. “This bit of metal, lads, has been turned over on itself several thousand times. No impurities. It is worth as much as … as the Fieldstone itself.” He laughed from deep in his chest, the sound like rocks shifting upon themselves. “I’ve been at it. But it’s a hard metal. Not, you might say, a Hollows metal.”

  Tahn shared a knowing look with Sutter. “You ever make a sword before, Geddy?”

  “Just once,” he answered. “Even told the gentleman that. He didn’t care. Just handed me a small satchel containing the square of steel and a princely sum besides, in silver.”