“Now. Bring them here now!” Tahn insisted.
“All right,” Braethen said. “Nice to see you, too.”
Tahn shook his head. “It’s important.”
As Tahn tore his cloak from Braethen’s hands, behind them, four guards strode into the room. Two took position against the wall left of the door, two to the right. Then came the woman they had called regent. She walked carefully, placing her cane in a steady rhythm. Behind her strode the man who’d first knelt at Tahn’s side in the cell. Everyone in the room bowed, except the man behind the regent, whose weathered face held little emotion.
The last to enter was an old man who wore at his throat the same symbol as Vendanj. A snowy white beard fell upon his chest, and wavy white hair hung to his shoulders. Spectacles adorned his bulbous nose, and the man moved with the deliberateness of the regent, his steps careful. Once he’d entered, he closed the door, and nodded at Vendanj before turing his attention on the regent.
“No doubt,” the old woman began, “this has much to do with the rumors that skulk the council walls of Solath Mahnus.” She spoke with a voice not to be crossed. “You know my heart in this, Sheason. I have called for the Convocation of Seats. Detractors accuse me of politics, but I’m too old to be concerned with my own legacy. I sent the birds and criers because there are reports of Bar’dyn in the south, because every day the gate is flooded with those who’ve abandoned their homes for the protection of Recityv’s walls. I suspect it is much the same in cities across the nations of the south.
“Though I can’t abide the opportunists”—she scowled—“men and women putting on colors, others adopting a sigil, all in order to compete for commissions or sit in seats on councils dead since the Second Promise. A hundred generations or more and now they swagger in all pomp and posture. It is a disgrace, and it’s become the single reason I am glad so many of the Promise Seats remain empty.
“No matter,” she finished. “What is it that coaxes Grant from his Scar?”
Grant made no response; he simply looked at the regent’s back.
When Vendanj answered, he looked at Tahn. “The same urgency that compels you to fully recall your High Council and Convocation of Seats, my Lady: the threat of the Quiet. He bears us company to the Heights of Restoration to test the fate of one against the design of the Will.”
“You don’t mean that Grant intends to stand at Restoration.” The old woman’s voice held a hint of amusement.
Vendanj then turned and came to Tahn’s bedside.
“You will rest today,” Vendanj said, looking down at him. “We cannot wait any longer than that. Before a week’s time, we must come to Restoration. If we do not, then whatever else we do may be without meaning.”
Tahn started to ask a hundred questions burning in his mind. The Sheason held up a hand before he could utter a word. “Save your strength, Tahn. There are things to discuss, I know. And I’ll want to know what has happened to you since Sedagin, who you’ve met, every detail. But it must wait. There are preparations that I must make.”
Tahn struggled up to his elbows. “No!” he shouted. The effort weakened him, and his head dropped back to the pillow. “I will not follow you another step without knowing about these Heights of Restoration.”
Vendanj stared down at him, a thoughtful expression on his face. Then softly, though loud enough all could hear, he began to speak. “The Heights of Restoration lay in the far north and east, beyond the Soliel Stretches and deep within the Saeculorum Mountains. The Heights are a series of great cliffs known to some as Creation’s End, to others as Endland, and in some histories as the Well of Worlds.”
The Sheason looked over at Braethen, whose rapt attention yet conveyed a sense that he knew these things. “Beyond those cliffs lay the mists of the abyss. A primordial power lives within those mists, a power that exists nowhere else … a power to test the spirit.”
Vendanj looked back at Tahn, fixing him with a firm but reassuring stare. “That has been our final destination from the beginning, Tahn, since fleeing the Hollows.”
The words chilled him. Tahn wrestled with what suddenly felt like a certainty: This Restoration had everything to do with him.
“The Quiet have entered the Hollows?” the regent asked, clearly disconcerted.
The Sheason nodded. “We were chased from there by Velle and other creatures from the Bourne. On the north face of the Sedagin we were separated. It is good Will and a favored Sky that all of us came here alive.”
“Tahn is one of these from the Hollows?” The regent stared at Tahn, but seemed to be seeing something more distant.
“He is, Helaina.” Vendanj turned to face the regent. “It was hidden from you because of the eavesdropping ears of Solath Mahnus. The Scar is safe, but it is the safety of men. The Hollows offered the consecration of the First Ones, and good men besides.”
“But the Quiet have entered there?” She shut her eyes.
“They have,” Vendanj said. His words came like an epitaph. “Changes corrupt the old ways, all the things we thought we knew.” Vendanj looked at Grant. “Denolan looks much like the man you exiled so long ago because time has little meaning in the Scar. The cycles do not turn in its earth or sky as rapidly as they do beyond its borders. The curse of the Velle still seeps into its soil and spreads like contagion. The protections we have enjoyed tear apart. I have seen the monstrous rank and file of the wastes beyond the Pall tread upon the fertility of our choicest groves while governments bicker over station and influence, while secret alliances are sealed in the antechambers of base taverns and grand palaces alike. Men and women, who know nothing of the dark covenants they make, enter rash and bloody contracts as the veil breaks and the Shadow of the Hand comes to fulfill its bargain.”
Tahn felt instantly cold. Penit curled into Wendra’s hip, Tahn’s sister clutching her chest defensively. Everyone looked on agape. Only Mira’s stoic face and the unmoving expression of this new man, Grant, seemed indifferent to the chilling words.
“What of the Mal and Northwatch?” the regent asked.
“There is no word from the Mal Nations.” Vendanj lifted a hand, palm up, and then turned it over. “Many would no sooner journey there than to the Bourne itself.” Vendanj lowered his hand. “Northwatch has likely fallen. I doubt we can expect any warning or defense from them.”
The regent blinked and leaned heavily on her cane. “We’ll need to know if the Hand is fully open,” she said. She lowered her voice, seeming to speak to herself, “And we a divided front.”
“The Whited One stirs against the old bonds,” Vendanj said, “hoping to call an end to creation and lead us to the day when the air itself is as final as grave soil … Delighast.” At this, Mira gave Vendanj a wary glance. “His darkness spreads one soul at a time, as some are robbed of life and others offer themselves up to the One in exchange for empty promises. From both is extracted what is needed of Forda I’Forza to meet his purposes.
“And those that have always followed him, those races sealed behind the veil, will come. A long time in the Bourne are they. Their hatred and envy are powerful.”
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. He wanted to ask the Sheason what it meant, but he felt weak, and still struggled with the feeling that Restoration had to do with him, and that even now it hid more secrets from him.
“And against this you take a child to Restoration,” the regent said, a hint of confusion in her words.
“Precisely because of his youth, my lady. But no longer a child,” Vendanj replied. “He has passed his Change. We race time now to reach the Heights.”
“And what of the others?” The regent lifted her cane and swept it around the room. “What justifies their risk?”
Vendanj’s head turned a bit aside, his eyebrows rising. “Their choice,” Vendanj said finally, as th
ough he could not help but believe the regent knew the answer. His face again became placid. “And more, my Lady, but none of the rest matters.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her, but she did not look pleased. Tahn thought this elderly woman’s stately eyes yet flashed talons and teeth.
The regent turned to steal a look at Artixan, who lowered his head in a half nod. Somehow, this put her more at ease. When she looked back, a resolved expression showed upon her face. “Very well, Sheason. What help are we to you?”
“An envoy must be sent immediately to the library at Qum’rahm’se. Quietgiven will seek it out to own or destroy. It is known, even to them, to be the greatest repository of knowledge we have on the covenant language. It will become among their primary goals to restore to themselves a conversant tongue with the lost language, since it has the power to make or unmake inherent in its use. Send General Van Steward’s best hundred men. Armored wagons. And bring the entire library here where it can be kept safe.”
Tahn suddenly remembered his cloak. Quickly, he thrust his hands inside, and sighed with relief at the shape of the sticks still concealed within. He’d not had an opportunity to locate Dolun’pel, and decided that he would have to trust the Sheason with the contents of the parchments hidden within his garment. He pulled them out and held them up. “Sutter and I were forced from the road out of Squim. We traveled east to the river, then north, where we smelled fire.”
Vendanj took the sticks from Tahn’s trembling fingers. The Sheason seemed to know the end of the tale from the beginning.
Tahn told of Edholm the scrivener and the melted rock of Qum’rahm’se Library. He explained how they had gone inside and how the scrivener had made them each write an account of what had happened, and how he told them to carry the parchments in these sticks to Recityv.
Vendanj broke the seals and withdrew the testimonies. He read Sutter’s, then Tahn’s. Next he rolled open Edholm’s parchment and looked it over. As his eyes scanned the lines, a still, calm anger touched his features. When he finished, he lowered the scroll, his fury emanating from him in palpable waves. Finally, he held up the fourth, larger stick but did not open it.
“The library is burned. Nothing remains.” Vendanj replaced the scrolls into their respective sticks. “There is no copy now of the Tract of Desolation. Translation would be impossible without the generations of research and scholarship it inspired. What we might have hoped to gain for ourselves of the covenant language is lost.” Vendanj turned to the regent. “Send word to Descant. They no longer have the protection of redundancy. If something should happen to the Tract, we have the memory of its singers alone by which to recall it.”
Tahn’s mind raced. A dozen stories told at Northsun descended upon him in a rush, things he hadn’t thought of in years, tales he’d read to himself in the waning hours of day. 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 was not concerned over the loss at Qum’rahm’se. He lay captivated—maybe more now that he’d passed the Change—by the Far’s steadfast calm. And her soft, luminous eyes.
Vendanj continued. “Regent, the hundred that you might have sent to Qum’rahm’se send instead to keep watch over the cathedral. Dress them in common clothes. Metal and color would invite speculation. But chance not to leave it unprotected. The Tract of Desolation, though a fable to this season of men, is a keystone we cannot afford to lose. Without it, we would be unmade.”
Penit tapped Wendra, who had pulled him so tightly against herself that when she released him, he drew a ragged breath. She smiled an apology, and he amiably took her hand. Behind a grave expression, she, too, seemed to harbor secrets. Tahn hated the look of it. Wendra had always, even at work, whether forking out the barn or washing the cook pots, worn a smile.
The regent cleared her throat, a small sound. “It will take a vote of the High Council, but it will be done. We will put to the test our new Child’s Voice.” The regent looked down at Penit. “You should know the boy has shown the highest honor and wisdom, Sheason, refusing to take the ribbon at the Lesher Roon so that another better suited might sit at my table. His personal sacrifice for the common good emboldens me. For that, I nearly gave him the seat. But it would seem now that he has other works to perform.”
Vendanj gave Penit a knowing look, eyed Tahn briefly, and then turned again to the boy. “Indeed he has.”
Tahn did not like the way Vendanj said it. It was the ominous, multiple-layered speech of the Sheason. And the look in Vendanj’s eye felt like nothing so much as a farmer looking over his spring stock. It reminded Tahn of the indifference he’d previously witnessed in the Sheason. He must not forget it. And when he looked over at Sutter, Tahn saw his friend’s obvious concern for the lad. Clearly, Sutter, too, had heard some second meaning in the Sheason’s words.
“What needs to be done?” Grant interjected. “The boys will sleep until dark. I don’t intend to spend one unnecessary moment in the marble arrogance of Solath Mahnus.”
The regent stiffened. She rounded slowly on the man 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. I may be old, but I am not too old to exercise the powers of my office.”
A terrible authority filled the regent’s voice as she spoke, something Tahn did not believe could be learned simply by filling a role. The guards beside the door straightened at the sound of it.
Grant stood still beneath her threat. Without any trepidation, he spoke in a soft voice. “Does all this not show you that I was right even then?” He returned the regent’s stare a moment more, then opened the door and departed, closing it softly.
“Go with him,” Vendanj said to Mira. “Make all things ready.”
In the silence that followed Mira’s departure, Braethen walked a bundle of clothes to Sutter, laying his 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 said, “Penit should not come with us. He is a boy. Whatever needs to be done at the Heights of Restoration can’t possibly involve him.” She paused, looking into unsympathetic faces. “I won’t allow it.”
Instead of responding to her, Vendanj walked around Tahn’s bed and knelt in front of Penit. He peered into the boy’s eyes. “Child, it is a dangerous thing we do. If you come, you may be asked to pay a very high price. An ultimate price. Do you understand?”
Penit seemed to consider it.
“It is your choice,” Vendanj went on. “No one will choose for you.”
“He is a boy,” Wendra repeated. “Ten years old. How can you expect him to decide this?”
Vendanj turned impatient eyes on Wendra. “I would rather this wait, Anais. But it cannot. No one stopped you joining us in the Hollows when you were asked to come. Penit may choose this for himself. He is aware of the risk.”
Wendra began to argue, but Vendanj pinned her with a stare. “Wendra, your concern is noble, but you are not his mother.”
Words hung in Wendra’s open mouth. The Sheason’s statement had opened a wound as surely as if he had cut her. In her cheeks, Tahn saw the look of winter bark—cold, inflexible, but also perhaps strong, resilient.
The Sheason returned his attention to Penit. “Choose.”
Penit recoiled under his stern gaze. “I will go,” he said, turning into Wendra and hugging her belly.
Vendanj stood. Tahn thought he would look satisfied, but the Sheason merely turned to the regent. “Will you require a moment alone here?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I have much to do to prepare for the convocation.” She then moved with her cane to Tahn’s bedside. Though her back stooped slightly, she remained regal. Her clouded
blue eyes peered down at him; Tahn thought he saw a concern behind them. But at last she put a soft hand on his arm and said, “Watch safe.” Then she turned and brushed past Vendanj. The guards led her out. And the man with the white hair and beard, bearing the order symbol at his throat, extended toward Vendanj a cupped palm facing the floor. Vendanj did the same, and Tahn saw an admiration in the token. Then the older man followed the regent from the room.
“How can we come quickly to the Heights of Restoration?” Braethen asked as the door closed. “The legend of Restoration puts it in the Saeculorum Mountains, by my sky. That is weeks … months of travel by the fastest horse.”
“There are ways,” the Sheason said. He folded his arms and gave Wendra a knowing look. “Have you been to the cathedral?” he asked her.
Wendra had taken to running her hands through Penit’s hair, her eyes far away. She looked up, startled. When she saw who asked, her eyes drooped as if reminded again of what the Sheason had said. She nodded and quickly looked away, focusing again on Penit, who continued to hold her close.
“When evening meals are done, and most the city is to bed, we’ll leave Solath Mahnus and find your cathedral, Anais. The talents there will make our journey short.” Vendanj drew a long breath. “Sodalist, it is time to look closely at Ogea’s books. Learn from them what you can of Restoration.”
“You haven’t been there?” Braethen asked.
The thought that Vendanj might be leading them somewhere he didn’t know, and then expected Braethen to assist him, filled Tahn with sudden anxiety.
“I have,” Vendanj answered. “You have not.” The response made Tahn feel no less concerned. The last time he’d heard Ogea speak, the reader had shouted unreal things from Hambley’s roof.
What might Braethen learn if he begins looking through those books?
Tahn wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.
Vendanj took the scroll of Edholm the scrivener and tucked it into the lining of his cloak. “I will return after evening meal. Eat well. Penit, walk with me. We have things to discuss.”
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