Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered

by Orullian, Peter

  For the first time, the old man’s eyes grew distant. “But the songs are changing, and there are few who can sing the songs that have given us courage and hope. And greater still, Anais, is the call of the Descant. And so you must arise.” He smiled kindly. “I ask you again, what song is it?”

  In a moment, the old man was gone, leaving Wendra in the darkened cave on a bed drenched with the sweat of her fever. The smell of ash rose in cloying waves. And more clearly, more intimately, she could hear her box plucking its tune in the darkness. The soft click of the gears hummed just beneath the melody. In the shadows, Wendra parted her lips to hum in time with the song of her box, and her chills began to fade.

  * * *

  As Wendra sang, she found her voice gaining strength rather than tiring. The natural reverberation in the cave carried her soft intonations farther than she projected them. But her humming soon strengthened, and as she remembered Balatin singing to the melody, she began to intersperse words. Every few minutes, when her box wound down, she rewound the cylinder and sang again to its accompaniment.

  Penit had not returned and Wendra began to fret over him, but she could do nothing if she remained ill, so she continued to sing, listening to her own voice echo and re-echo off the rock walls. In the welling sound that filled the cave, she found unique comfort … and more. Wendra’s fever broke before the mouth of the cave darkened on her second day there. She nibbled lightly at some of Sedagin’s bread and sipped cool water. But even while she ate, she hummed around her food, beginning to make subtle changes in the melodies, singing counterpoint to the original tune. The creation of new rhythms and harmonies to the music excited her and she found strength to build a fire to keep her warm as she continued to sing changes on Balatin’s simple tune.

  The sun had not yet risen before feeling in her hip and lower leg returned. She had continued to compose her own lyrics and harmonies to the weave and flow of the music begun in her box, and the swell of sound caused her heart to quicken. The vaulted cavern resonated with a score that wrapped Wendra in its healing embrace.

  When dawn touched the cavern entrance with the light of day, Wendra realized she had been singing all the night through. Yet her arms were light, her eyes alert, and, without thinking, she stood and felt only the faintest trace of pain in her wound. She lifted her voice in exultation, then ceased her song, listening with gladness as her final notes echoed into the recesses of the cave and outward to the coming day.

  Carefully, she walked to the entrance and squinted into the light, allowing her eyes to focus. Early morning haze hung upon the land, leaves and grass glimmering with dewdrop emeralds. The sweet smell of vegetation washed over her, and she took it in gratefully after the old earth and ashes of her fireside bed. Looking out, she could see no sign of Penit, or of the others. They had surely started for Recityv. She hoped Tahn had made it out of the fog. Her brother was prudent, but apt to get into trouble when paired with Sutter—though she genuinely liked Sutter. She had little choice but to try and make it to Recityv herself. But how long should she wait for Penit to return? He’d promised he would. Still, he was so young.

  Wendra returned to her fire and took a quick meal. She packed her box and blanket into the saddlebag Penit had left her, snuffed out the fire, and returned to the mouth of the cave to wait for him. She sat on a large rock in the sun and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth and light that penetrated even her eyelids. She forgot for the moment where she was and why she was there, and found again on her lips a few notes of the melody she’d sung all the previous night. Then suddenly, the image of the old man with a white beard and cloak surfaced in her mind, startling her. Fever visions! But it had seemed so real. A smile touched her lips as she thought of the old gentleman’s fatherly smile. It spoke of certainty and understanding, and Wendra longed for such reassurance.

  With growing clarity, Wendra realized what had just happened. She had healed herself by doing nothing more than what came most naturally to her. Music had always been a central part of her life. Balatin had played cithern and often sang with her. It had never been more than entertainment, distraction, perhaps reverie. What had happened in the cave was something spoken of only in rumor, a story repeated more in legend than history. Always it was interpreted as metaphor or symbol, the power of song to affect the way of things.

  Wendra lifted her pant leg so she could examine her wound. The cut had closed over and was now only slightly discolored, the blood completely gone. One might have thought the damage to be years old. She touched the scar lightly, feeling a dull pain from the flesh inside. “Will and Sky,” she muttered. “How can this be?”

  She pulled her hair back and fastened it with a short strip of hide. The sun burned hot upon the face of the cliff, causing her to sweat. Half the day she waited for Penit’s return, scouting around nearby, singing softly to completely mend herself. After eating a bit more of her food, she found a trail leading east along the north face. Her rations would not last, and she began to more fully regret sending the child out to seek help.

  Hoisting the saddlebag over her shoulder, she set out, following the trail of hoofprints and hoping Penit would use the same path to return … if he was able to return.

  The trail took Wendra east until dusk, when it veered southeast alongside a small river. She made camp, lit a fire, and ate a small supper, her concern growing for the boy. The sun dipped below the horizon, and gentle shades of brown and red streaked the sky, leaving sepia shadows on the land. Wendra filled her waterskin from the river and washed her face. Kneeling at the river’s edge she listened, truly hearing for the first time the musical cadence of the current, the babble and chuckle of the water over stones, the rush of it around stems and branches growing or dangling in its flow. Wendra thought she could also hear the deeper, quieter pull of the current from the bottom of the river, where cold, blue water moved more slowly, more powerfully. The several voices of the river commingled in her ears in a lulling melody, its soothing power draining the fatigue of the day away from her tired muscles.

  She returned to her fire and sat patiently as day gave way to night. Softly she began to hum, creating her own tune in dual harmony with the fire and the river, her concentration so complete on her song that she did not hear the approach of feet. Before she knew what was happening, three figures stood immediately opposite her, smiling devilishly in the glow of her fire.

  “What fortune,” the man in the center said. “This place is like a garden; we leave it and it grows new fruit.”

  The two other men laughed, their eyes appraising Wendra the way she’d seen herders do with new breeding stock.

  The man who spoke had rough, handsome features, two days’ growth of beard, and thick brows. His eyes shone with an intelligence the others lacked, and his clothes were simple but better cared for.

  Suddenly, she knew these men for what they were: highwaymen.

  Wendra discerned from the man’s first comment that their intentions were not charitable, but Balatin had taught her never to show fear. Half the battle is what they don’t know, her father had been fond of saying. She composed herself, allowing a bit of an edge to her voice, and inclined her chin smugly, preparing to ask the only thing she cared to discuss with these men.

  “I seek a child, a boy, about ten years old,” she said. “He would have been traveling this way a day since.” She leveled her eyes at each man in turn. Their stares were filled only with greed and wantonness.

  The man on the left spoke up in a voice bruised by too much tobaccom. “You ought to be worried—”

  “Silence,” the first interrupted. He looked at Wendra, his eyes appraising her in a different way than the other two. A softer look spread on his handsome face. “Indeed, lady, we have seen the child.” He ceased talking as though he had more information and intended Wendra to know he was holding something back.

  It shall be like that, then, hare and wood-cat. One pursued, but both a part of the game.

  Wendra steadie
d her eyes in an unflinching stare upon the obvious leader of the small band and gave a knowing smile. “You’ve seen him, have you? Well, perhaps you also know where I might find him.” She reclined a bit to show her lack of concern.

  Straightaway, a wide grin spread on the highwayman’s lips. “I think we might, lady, but how could we ask you to travel these dangerous roads alone?” He paced past his men to one side of the camp.

  “Do I look as if I am in need of assistance?” Wendra asked. “Unless of course, my new friend, you mean me some harm.” She lowered her gaze to the man’s sword, holding her smile as surely as she’d seen the old man do in her visions. Inside, panic gripped her, but she knew she mustn’t show it. “I seem to be quite well in this suspicious land you describe. Not a jot of trouble, not a curious word, until now.”

  The highwayman bowed persuasively. “Well said, lady, well said. Allow me to introduce myself, and then you and I will no longer be strangers. Jastail J’Vache.” He held his bow, but inclined his head to watch for Wendra’s approval.

  A great game you play. We trade places as the hare. Wendra nodded. “A man of breeding,” she said, her words laced thinly with sarcasm. “How fortunate for me to have met you, if, as you say, the world about is so corrupt.”

  “My lady,” Jastail said. “You’ve not yet given me your name.” He stood, his devilish smile pronounced upon his rugged face.

  “I am Lani Spiren,” Wendra said. “Make yourselves warm at my fire.” Wendra knew they would have stayed regardless. Whatever their intentions, her game with Jastail would at least allow her to retain some freedom, for a while anyway. And if they did know where Penit was, then she would have to convince them to either tell her where or take her to him. She rubbed her stomach out of habit, a reassuring gesture during her pregnancy.

  Jastail eyed her closely. He then motioned his companions to a fallen log. The men appeared disgruntled, but finally acquiesced. One of them produced a bottle of wine, and the two began to whisper in harsh, sibilant exchanges. Jastail sat with a flourish near Wendra and turned to look at her directly.

  “Be true, lady. Why would you travel alone in open country?” He looked away thoughtfully, relaxing as though he shared a fire with an old friend.

  “I have told you,” Wendra answered, not needing to pretend. “I am searching for a small boy.” She turned to him. “But you have not told me where I might find him, or how it is you came to see him.”

  Jastail smiled, and Wendra watched the rogue’s profile dance in the firelight. He was preparing yet another prevarication, and she meant to catch him in it. “For my own truth, I see many people, young and old, and remembering a solitary one is a daunting task, even for me.”

  Wendra persisted. “You are falsely modest, Jastail. I don’t believe that you forget much of what you see or do. A man traveling with such men”—Wendra looked over at Jastail’s brutish traveling companions and wrinkled her nose—“is clearly upon an errand. Or would you like me to believe that you choose to keep this company?”

  Jastail laughed aloud, and his two comrades reached for their weapons in a start. When Jastail stopped, they resumed their muffled whispers and sidelong stares. “A sharp eye and reason besides, Lani,” Jastail said. “But would you also expect me to share with you all my secrets so soon?” He grinned suggestively, the smirk embodying the roguish wit and wisdom Wendra knew must serve him well. “And would you have me believe that I know all I must of you?” Jastail continued. He held up his hands to forestall Wendra from repeating her objectives.

  “Yes, yes, I know you seek a boy child. Perhaps yours, perhaps a blood relation, but how carefully you dance around your solitary state in this endeavor. Something, lady, is missing in your story, and I forgive you for not coming straight out with it. Just as you must forgive me for guarding my secrets from a stranger. However”—he leaned in and spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice—“my friends there are not as inclined as I to extend courtesies. They listen to me most of the time, but the errand you mention is in their arms and legs, and as with most men who follow another, they don’t trouble with questions of civility or morality. They understand what they can touch, what they can take, what they can buy, and the work that brings them money to do it.”

  He put a hand gently on Wendra’s leg. “I may even grow to be fond of you, Lani, but paid men mutiny when their salaries are threatened. And gifted as I am, I can neither remain awake all the time, nor predict their intentions when they part with my own.”

  While her mind raced to understand Jastail’s veiled threats, Wendra forced herself to wear a smile. This man, she decided, was far more dangerous than the rogues she’d heard about. His eloquent language always traveled two steps away from its truest meaning. But she kept smiling.

  “You undersell your persuasiveness,” Wendra began. “You convinced me to invite you to my fire, and your concern for me”—Wendra raised her voice so that the others would surely hear her—“gives me confidence that these two will abide your wishes when it comes to me.” She put her opposite hand over Jastail’s own. “You are right that I keep secrets from you. A lady is allowed such discretion, is she not?”

  Jastail’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you’re right, Lani. How clumsy of me to forget. You must never allow me to interrogate you further about such things. My concern for you, however, is quite genuine. Whatever brought you here alone, and what the boy flees from or runs toward, is beyond our control.” He placed his other hand over Wendra’s. “But I must insist on conveying you safely to your destination.”

  Wendra spared a glance at the men across the fire. They had ceased talking, dazed expressions on their faces, their eyes fixed upon her and Jastail’s clasped hands. She could not be sure that they would lead her to Penit, or that they had even seen the boy. But playing Jastail’s game might afford her an opportunity to escape, while attempting to dismiss them would only force Jastail to do whatever he meant to do more quickly, and perhaps more painfully.

  The dark memory of her rape threatened to surface, but she pushed it back.

  He had started by saying that this place bears fruit, perhaps his only mistake, suggesting that they had discovered someone, maybe Penit, here, just as they had discovered her. She was their prisoner, and looking into Jastail’s lying eyes, she believed that he knew she understood it. These things didn’t matter; it only mattered that she locate Penit. Her desire to find him grew in her with each passing moment. She would not have two children taken from her, even though one she had not borne.

  Wendra searched Jastail’s angular face, trying to imagine what Balatin might do. Finally, her forced smile became natural, widening, and she put her second hand over Jastail’s, trumping him and coming out on top. “And together we will find the boy,” she concluded.

  One side of Jastail’s weathered face tugged into a bright, fetching grin. This one, Wendra thought, had more the look of real humor. “And we’ve better than a gambler’s chance at that, lady,” he said, noting the final position of their hands before withdrawing his own and beginning preparations for supper.

  But something in the way he used the word gambler left disquiet in Wendra’s heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Wall of Remembrance

  The regent took private counsel in the darkness before the dawn. With her were her most trusted advisors, the Sheason Artixan and General Van Steward. Somewhere out of sight, shadowing them, were a half dozen of her Emerit Guard; they would never be seen, but were always as close as a word.

  She had been unable to sleep. The implications of calling the Convocation of Seats plagued her, so she had taken to the street that encircled Solath Mahnus to walk the Wall of Remembrance. The Wall rose to the height of three men. It had been fashioned of granite quarried in the mountains south of Recityv, and carved in relief on its face was the history of the city; perhaps the history of the world. Or at least of those events that should not be forgotten.

  Many of the stories depicted o
n the wall’s surface had begun in the halls of Solath Mahnus, which rose in palatial expanse behind it. Solath Mahnus was her home, just as it was home to all the courts of Recityv. In the darkness it sat, a hulking presence, at the center of the city. From the street where Helaina now walked, she could see all the way up to the pinnacle of her High Office at the top of Solath Mahnus, outlined now against a spray of stars.

  Once again the regent recalled sending the birds of war; some few seats had already answered her call for the convocation to begin.

  But unrest ruled even closer to home. Her own High Council stood in disarray. And she bargained from a weakened position that would undermine her voice when the convocation finally commenced.

  “The League has begun to politick with those still loyal to you,” Artixan said. The Sheason kept his voice low in the stillness. “Some will remain faithful regardless. But others have weaknesses the Ascendant will exploit. And though they’ll loathe themselves for doing it, they’ll vote against you, Helaina, when Roth asks it of them.”

  Van Steward nodded. “Staned’s lieutenants have been lurking around our garrisons. They are making their own appraisals of our capacity.”

  “Are you concerned about a coup?” The regent continued to walk, noting the histories in the wall to their left.

  “No, my Lady. We will hold. But anyone gathering information on the size and readiness of your army should be seen as more than a political adversary…” Van Steward let the rest go unsaid.

  “The inns of Recityv begin to fill with the retinues of those answering your call to the convocation. And those they serve are directing them to appraisals as well.”

  “Of what?” Helaina asked.

  “Of you,” Artixan replied. “Many of them know you by reputation, some only by name. But all will want to come to their own seat at Solath Mahnus knowing your own council is uncompromised, that you possess the strength to draw them together. There will be alliances, Helaina, even before the convocation begins. Indeed, though no one has brought the hammer down in the great hall, the convocation has already begun.”