Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered

by Orullian, Peter

  “Her cloak is behind the door,” Tahn said finally. Braethen took the garment from its peg and helped Tahn drape it around Wendra.

  Vendanj pivoted sharply and surveyed the room. “Watch there for Mira,” he said, pointing first to Braethen and Sutter and then toward the hole in the wall. They did as they were told.

  Vendanj took two long strides toward Tahn and Wendra, gripped one of Wendra’s hands, and eased her into a chair beside the overturned table. He knelt before her and looked intently into her face. He released her hand and then deliberately reclasped it, interlocking the bottom two fingers and folding her thumb into his palm. With his other hand he touched her brow. Almost inaudibly, he began to speak, never allowing Wendra to look away. A soft glow appeared in his face as he spoke, and Wendra’s own face mirrored the luminosity. A look of wonder spread across Braethen’s features, and Tahn suddenly remembered what Braethen had called the man back in the townsmen’s council room: Sheason.

  Even in the Hollows it was known that the Sheason were hunted. The League of Civility had branded them spies for the Quiet. The Sheason were expected either to keep their gifts hidden, or to openly disavow their use of the Will. If caught rendering, they were executed; otherwise they were tolerated. Tahn involuntarily took a step back. What if this man was the figure he’d seen in the trees early that morning? Few could summon the Will; it was a gift that had to be conferred, and that after years of training and careful study.

  Vendanj reached for Wendra’s other hand and helped her to her feet. Tahn’s sister stood on her own, a combination of amazement and gratitude in her thin smile. “I—”

  “You’re welcome,” Vendanj said. “Sutter, can you see Mira?”

  “No.”

  Another shriek rang through the storm, this one deeper and more anguished.

  “We can’t wait,” he said, moving toward the door. “Leave her horse tied to the stoop; we must be gone.”

  Sutter and Braethen came away from the wall and rejoined them.

  “How can we run the horses, Vendanj?” Braethen asked.

  “I’ll see to the horses,” the Sheason replied. “Now listen carefully. We go to Recityv. I did not speak it in town where someone may have overheard. But fix it in your minds. Much depends on us getting there.”

  Vendanj took a moment to look at each of them, then strode through the door into the night. Tahn looked at Sutter, whose jaw hung agape. Recityv! The thrill and fright of such a journey, such a large place, made his heart race. The revelation of where the Sheason meant to take them seemed to hit them all like another strike of lightning. In silence, many questioning looks were exchanged.

  A moment later, they all followed Vendanj through the door. They clambered onto their horses in the pouring rain. Wendra came last.

  Vendanj went from mount to mount, removing sprigs from his small wooden case and giving one to each horse as he went. Again, Tahn thought he caught a whiff of peppermint. The Sheason then jumped onto his horse. Tahn looked back at the lone mount still tied to the stoop post—Mira’s.

  In the darkness, a lusting, hate-filled cry arose.

  “We no longer all need to return to town. Mira provisioned your horses before we left. And we have enough extra for Anais Wendra. Only Braethen need return.” Vendanj sidled up beside him. “Ogea’s satchels. Can you manage to retrieve them alone?”

  The insult sliced through the downpour.

  Braethen nodded.

  “Meet us on the north road. Move fast. We’ll be leaving the road soon.”

  Braethen didn’t wait for further instruction, and was gone. As he raced away, Mira appeared as if from nowhere, jumped into her saddle, and kicked her horse into a dead run.

  “Stay close.” The Sheason kicked at his mount and disappeared into the rain after her. Lightning flashed in the sky. As thunder pealed and rolled across the Hollows, Tahn looked at Sutter.

  “This is what you wanted, Nails.” He kicked Jole to follow. The rest came after them in a dark blur of rain, wind, and fleeing hooves.

  Soon the lights of the Hollows faded behind them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Release of the Shrikes

  Helaina Storalaith, regent of Recityv, ruling seat of Vohnce, threw open the doors to her High Office and stormed inside. Close behind came Roth Staned, Ascendant—the highest officer—of the League of Civility. Soon General Van Steward and Sheason Artixan followed. Four members of the High Council, which had just ended its session in acrimony, stood in the sunlit office.

  The argument had followed her, unbidden, to her sanctuary.

  “It is foolishness, my Lady,” Ascendant Staned said. “Don’t be baited into action by rumors. It sets us back as a people to fall victim to outdated beliefs and false traditions.”

  “Watch how you speak to the regent,” Van Steward cautioned.

  Roth cocked an eye at the general. “We are in open debate. Deference is set aside.”

  “Not while I am in the room,” Van Steward said.

  “The High Council has not ruled on this, Helaina,” Staned reminded. “You cannot call a Convocation of Seats without a unanimous vote of the council.”

  Artixan lifted a finger. “That is not entirely correct. The regent alone holds the power to call a Convocation. She may seek the wisdom of the Council, but it is not a matter to be voted on, let alone requiring unanimity. You know this, Roth.”

  The leader of the League glared at the Sheason. “It is not an authority the regent can claim in these times. Once, yes. But that was long ago, when superstition ruled the wits of men and women. Calling a convocation of every ruling seat, nation, and kingdom cannot be the capricious act of a single individual. Right actions must come by the consent of even the most conscientious objector. If they are right, they will prove out. That is the civility we’ve grown to. Let us not devolve because of a few stories out of the west.”

  The regent finally turned. “You don’t believe Quietgiven have descended into the land, Roth? Did you not hear the stories related to the High Council just now? What else explains them?”

  “Dear regent.” The Ascendant softened his tone, resuming a politic air. “The fears of the Quiet are deep in the race of men. We were all raised on the stories. But what we heard could be a hundred nightmares confused with Quiet. Will you displace so many kings and rulers without certainty? Suppose you call the Convocation after so many thousands of years, and you are wrong. What then?”

  “I should rather think that prudence and solidarity would make an acceptable reason,” the regent fired back. “Whatever the threat, a broad agreement throughout the eastlands would serve all interests.”

  “Except that of a man who would have that power unto himself,” Van Steward offered.

  Roth turned on the General. “Do you wish to say something to me directly?”

  Van Steward stared back with the glare of a man who could no longer be threatened. “When at last I wish to do anything concerning you, it won’t be to talk.”

  Roth Staned turned back to the regent, undeterred. “It is madness, Helaina. The other members of the council are deferring to you out of respect and duty. These are fine virtues, but not for use in governance. You above all should know this. I appeal to your wisdom. The other members of the council are well meaning, but they are not rulers, or even leaders. They are caught in the fear that grips a tiller or fisher, because these are the people they represent. But reason today resides in the places of learning and progress. Don’t let all we’ve worked for pass away with a choice that smacks of superstition or shibboleth.”

  The regent did not immediately speak. She noted the thoughtful look of her most trusted advisor, Artixan, whose heavy brow told her all she needed to know of his opinion. Then she cast her gaze at the general, an iron-willed man the left side of whose face bore not one but three severe scars that ran down his forehead and cheek like white runnels. Van Steward was harder to read, since his place was to receive an order without question. But when the man
dropped his chin ever so slightly in a half nod, she knew his mind, too.

  Leaving only the Ascendant, Roth Staned.

  He was an intelligent man, one she believed always represented the people’s best interests, at least as he saw it. And for that she was grateful. But he had not been successful in turning the council to his view of the rumors. And so he had stormed after her when the council was dismissed. He challenged her now because she had countermanded his proposal to wait for incontrovertible evidence before commiting Recityv to any formal action against the clear threat of Quietgiven.

  He did this, she reflected ruefully, because when all was said and done, he wanted to possess the chair of the High Office, and couple his rule of the League with the regent’s seat.

  He might even admit as much, so unabashed was his ambition.

  But why deny the rumors to do it?

  Was civility threatened more by the possibility that these rumors were nothing but fancy and confusion, or by inaction should they prove true?

  The regent, now in her elder years, could not puzzle it together.

  But one thing she knew. If he’d not been her opponent before, he would become one if she did not align on his side of this debate.

  The debate at an impasse, silence fell over the regent’s High Office. She stepped to one of the great open windows and stared out over her city and away to the west, where thunderclouds rolled on the horizon. Even here, she caught the scent of ozone in the air, pushed ahead of the storm in gentle waves. In that instant, the promise of rain buoyed her.

  It somehow made what she contemplated that much more real.

  Quiet, again in the land. Could it be true?

  Her spirit felt unsettled, and had for some time. Most days she attributed it to old age creeping up on her. Perhaps the truth was that she had been teetering on the verge of reinstituting something that had lain dormant for more generations than she could count. There were prophecies about what it would mean when a Convocation of Seats was recalled. Some said it would be the end of all things. Others spoke of new beginnings, dark beginnings, that would come as a shuddering whisper that rolled like contagion from rotted lips.

  Would she be the one to do it—at her age?

  Political maneuverings should belong to a younger regent, she thought, one who had the stamina to stand against Roth Staned for as long as was necessary. She grew so tired of his rhetoric that she often dreamed of exercising her authority to get rid of him.

  But he had powerful allies, and the League’s influence had grown and threatened to become a military power.

  She had to keep him close, which made her decision in this matter so difficult. She could not afford to be wrong. Or perhaps more accurately, she could not afford to alienate the League Ascendant. Whatever she chose now could tear down all she’d lived to build, even if she proved to be right. And Sky help her if the rumors of Quietgiven were true, and the League became her enemy, too.

  The regent made a slow turn, peering through the windows on all eight sides of the High Office. The horizon in every direction showed a singular view, and she’d grown to appreciate each of them. Indeed, she often went to them individually for the feeling inspired by the land distantly seen from each vantage. She was grateful that at her age, she could still appreciate each view with clear vision through hazel eyes; she was likewise grateful that her body did not yet force her to stoop. Her hair may have silvered with time, but age hadn’t claimed the rest of her yet. Though, she was thinner than she’d ever been; perhaps it was all the worry of late.

  Today, every view spoke the same answer to her: war.

  Not today, and maybe not soon, but one way or another, reconvening the Convocation of Seats would lead to war.

  And yet the cloud in her soul touched her with dark intimations of the blight that would come if she did nothing.

  She feared it could be the very rending of the veil and the loosing of all the nightmare from the beginning of all things.

  They were heavy thoughts … thoughts that at last brought her gaze to Roth Staned, unyielding and implacable at the center of her High Office. He did not blink, awaiting her command.

  An oppressive silence had settled over the room. It bore the weight of choices that would take a heavy toll on the lives of countless men and women and children. Today, the people had no worry that the darker side of history could come back upon them: no fear of Quietgiven returning to the land, no concern that legends might actually be true. Most of the tales were no longer even recited in the streets of Recityv; the League had had a hand in that.

  She had decided.

  She finally returned Van Steward’s nod. The general swept past Staned to the door and spoke a soft summons into the hall. Shortly a dozen young boys entered with caged shrikes.

  “Roth—” she began.

  But Ascendant Staned fixed them all with bitter, wrathful eyes and strode out, his heels tattooing the marbled floor in a quick, angry rhythm.

  Helaina, the regent of Recityv, nodded once more, and the shrikes were set free from the windows of the High Office. The flutter of wings echoed from the hard marble walls as the birds escaped into the sky, angling in every direction from her eight windows.

  “Send the riders and criers, as well,” she said to Van Steward. “Every nation and king will be offered their seat again. Let us hope this is the last time.”

  Together, the three watched the birds fly until they could no longer be seen.

  Will the rulers of men answer the call? she asked herself. The answer to that question threatened her heart with despair.

  CHAPTER NINE

  True Introductions

  As Sutter rode after Vendanj and Mira on the north road, he tucked his chin against his chest. Gusts of wind drove rain like stinging nails into his face and hands. The Hollow Wood grew as dense as the firs just east of his home, and the night descended so black that at times he knew he was on the trail only when flashes of lightning revealed the landscape around them. Mostly he trusted that his horse wouldn’t lose Vendanj and Mira. The thick smell of loam and sodden evergreens mingled on the path, and the cold rain cut into him, drenching his clothes and numbing his hands.

  Occasionally, Sutter thought he could hear the strange high-low cry of the Bar’dyn echo deep in the wood just above the storm and the sound of their horses’ labored breathing. But it never lasted, and he gripped his reins more tightly, hoping the mud would not cause his mount to slip and careen off the road into the trees hemming their way.

  He was frightened, no doubt about that. But a thrill raced through him, as well: He was free of the roots, at least for a while!

  What would Filmoere have thought of their leaving this way? The question bothered him. What if the Bar’dyn fell upon the Hollows, Hambley, the Fieldstone? His family. A helpless feeling of cowardice gripped him. He didn’t like leaving this way, he decided. He breathed deeply, and held the breath as long as he could. He’d found that a stomach filled with air chased fear away.

  Twice they slowed to a walk, letting the horses rest. When they did, Mira stopped, allowing them to pass, and then turned her horse back down the road they’d traveled. Before they resumed their pace, she would reappear and shake her head subtly at Vendanj. Sutter understood that she was signaling: no Bar’dyn. He wished they could dismount, though. His thighs tingled on the edge of numbness, and he fought to stave off sleep.

  It was well past dark hour when Vendanj called a halt. The rain had all but stopped, and far in the south, stars shone through two small breaks in the clouds. “We must rest,” the Sheason said quietly. “There is an abandoned home a thousand strides from the road to the west. We will sleep there.” Mira dropped silently from her saddle and disappeared into the trees to the left.

  “We will walk our horses,” Vendanj said. A flicker of starlight caught in his eyes, giving him a distant, menacing look. In the sky, moonlight illuminated the fringe of the clouds around the break in the south. The soft light near the horizon ga
ve Sutter a wan feeling, as though he had been gone from the Hollows a long time, yet had such a ways to travel.

  Still, he thrilled at the prospect of leaving, and was surprised that he felt drawn back toward the Hollows.

  The feeling didn’t last long.

  Sutter helped Wendra dismount, and Tahn helped her navigate the trees. Braethen dismounted and pulled his horse along, coming astride Sutter.

  “It’s your Northsun, isn’t it?” he asked. His profile in the dark still reminded Sutter of Ogea, and A’Posian—not a sodalist.

  “It was,” Sutter said. “I can’t think how many days it’s been since it actually passed. The skies have been grey forever. Terror on root farming.”

  “Is your Northsun, Sutter,” Braethen asserted. “The next full moon brings the Change to you, regardless.” He stepped around a large fallen hemlock. “Who will stand beside you as your steward?”

  “My father. But I wonder if we will be back to the Hollows by full moon.” Suter negotiated a path around the tree.

  “I doubt it. It is Tahn’s year, as well, is it not?” Braethen asked. Sutter saw him stroke his beard in a thoughtful manner.

  “Both of us. We’d planned … never mind.” He shuffled along; he could hardly hold a thought in his head for the adventure he’d just found himself on. He felt disconnected from the conversation.

  Braethen put a hand on Sutter’s shoulder and squeezed gently, saying nothing more. He then strode more quickly to catch up with Vendanj. Sutter concentrated on the ground and the rocks and fallen limbs from the storms that littered the forest floor. The smell of pinesap filled the air, trees having bled to heal themselves.

  Sutter rushed to catch up to Tahn and Wendra.

  “It’s a good ache, don’t you think?” Sutter said, and grinned despite himself.

  “Oh, yeah, wonderful, Nails,” Tahn rejoined.

  “Truly, Tahn,” Sutter replied. He understood things were serious. But wasn’t that what the Change they were about to undergo was all about? Growing up? Things getting more serious? Taking life in hand once they were responsible. And no harm if adventure fell upon them in the process! “Did you mean to put meat in Hambley’s storehouse forever? We are likely to be a story for the readers someday. Bar’dyn in the Hollows. It has never been spoken before, and they hunt the hunter.” He poked Tahn in the neck and stifled a laugh at his own pun. “Besides, what did you have to remain in the Hollows for? Wendra’s with us now.”