Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered

by Orullian, Peter

  Soon to be Mira’s.

  In that instant, a wave of horror overcame Tahn as he understood that what had been born of his error would touch the lives of many. For he saw a rain of burning pages, and a rending of the very air as though the world had been undone. And in the midst, an ashen figure with upraised arms showed an open mouth to the sky, but whether of triumph or travail Tahn could not discern.

  Then Tahn felt lighter, new. He opened his eyes and saw Vendanj staring intently, not at him but at Mira. Her eyes still shone with razor awareness, but her brow furrowed now with a concern he’d never before seen in her.

  And Tahn knew it was done.

  * * *

  Mira crept away on her hands and knees. Over the snow she went, assuring the others she was fine, but wanting to be alone.

  Where she could feel the stinging tears of relief and regret.

  Carrying Tahn’s stain, she could no longer sire an heir for Elan, for her people. Her long fear of nurturing a child for the few short months before she moved beyond this life was over. And that eased her heart in a way that surprised her, since now her covenant could not be fulfilled. But blemished, she would not inherit the promise of the Far. Whatever awaited her beyond this life, it fell to a lesser place, which meant she would not rejoin any of those whose faces she had known and learned to love.

  Then an awful realization hit her and she put her face into the snow and cried bitterly. The end of her line was now sure. And with it might come the end of the Far as a people. And in turn, the end of the covenant to safeguard the language, the promise of which held the hope of men.

  Had she, however well-intentioned in her sacrifice for this quest, for Vendanj, for Tahn, just delivered them all into ruin?

  The magnitude of it struck her. Nothing was sure. But there existed the possibility that she was right. And if it was true, then no sacrifice could exist large enough to transfer the scale of this stain.

  Mira shuddered and could only hope that this boy out of the Hollows would fulfill all the needs for which they were depending on him.

  * * *

  Vendanj slumped back onto the snow and lay down, staring up into the deep blue. His body and spirit were weary. And not just from the use of the Will. This flight from the Hollows had reminded him of a past he’d tried to forget. As they came closer to Tillinghast and their losses mounted, that past came into sharper relief in his mind.

  His heavy breathing plumed in the frigid air above him as he thought of the boy, Penit, now gone, just like his wife and child. He shut his eyes and gave himself up to a more recent memory. In the Halls of Solath Mahnus he and Penit had walked together, and Vendanj had learned what a remarkable lad he was. Vendanj had suspected so, in seeing the boy play the stories of the past with such meaning. Then he’d told Penit of the purpose that qualified him to go with the others to Restoration—becoming the possible receptacle of a stain, should that occur.

  Even asking the boy had been a burden of guilt for Vendanj. But the Will had provided a failsafe against Tahn’s possible lapse, and Vendanj recognized that he must ask. It was for the boy to choose. Vendanj would like to not have asked, except that there were shadows in the future he could not discern, and there needed to be recourse. The advent of the boy’s company seemed more than happenstance.

  The consequences of all these choices bore down on him. Vendanj twisted fists of snow in his hands, inviting the bite of the ice into his skin. As much as the rendering, these thoughts caused his labored breathing in the frosted air.

  For he also knew the Quiet had marked them. Their pursuers knew the minds and fates of his companions. They surely knew that the boy was the key to controlling Wendra, whose lieholan talents had begun to bloom. Vendanj thought by now they might also know that Mira stood on the brink of succession to the Far bloodline and her people’s great commission. The Bar’dyn attack had almost certainly had multiple targets beyond Tahn. And at least one of the Quiet’s purposes in it may have been to try to take the boy, whom they would have known could accept the stains of mistaken choices, which would leave—if they couldn’t kill her—only one other who could, Mira. And if the Far took any stain upon her, then the threat to the Language of the Covenant would become far too real.

  And Quietus’s plans of descent into the world of men would come more speedily still.

  The boy might yet be alive. Vendanj felt it was so, and when his strength returned, he would tell his companions, especially Wendra. Still, they couldn’t look for Penit right now.

  Restoration awaited them.

  For Vendanj, each moment of this long journey had already restored something to him. He was in the dark, and would not be free of it for a very long time.

  * * *

  Wendra sat in the snow as Tahn crawled toward her. She made no effort to move, or to acknowledge him. The snow ceased to creak as her brother came to a stop a mere stride away.

  “Wendra … I’m so sorry,” he said.

  She did not bother to look at him.

  “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I can only imagine how you must feel…” Tahn faltered, searching for words. “I had a simple decision to make, Wendra. I couldn’t save them both. I know how much you cared for Penit.”

  “He’s not dead,” she said flatly.

  Tahn waited a moment, then went on. “It was the wrong draw, Wendra, if I account it by the Will only … but in that moment, even when I knew I must shoot to save Penit, I realized I loved Mira. And I had to try and save her. Please understand. It’s the only time I have ever disregarded the whispering in my head. I don’t kow how this all works out, Wendra. But after what happened back home, I decided that I would never be on the wrong side of that kind of draw again. Never fail to release where love was concerned.”

  Tahn stopped speaking again for a long time. She imagined that he was feeling the horrible irony of a lesson he had learned at her expense the first time, returning to grieve her again. She hoped it caused him pain, since she could not.

  Finally, he finished, saying simply, “I had to do it, Wendra … I love her.”

  Wendra remained indifferent to his pleas and apologies, and sat without looking at him. Eventually, her brother crawled away, leaving her once again blessedly alone.

  Then she fell deep into her own pain, but could not give it voice.

  She’d rasped her recriminations and hatred at her brother in the first moments after his shot. She no longer felt bound to honor Balatin’s admonishment to hold to Tahn above all else. Twice now, he had abandoned her and the young lives she’d sworn to love and protect despite the rough circumstances that brought those children to her. In her heart of hearts she knew it wasn’t malice on his part, but neither was it the observance of their father’s counsel for them to watch out for each other.

  Misery filled her.

  Visions of helpless children in the hands of tormentors plagued her. For Wendra, it was one thing for men and women to suffer the effects of their own bad judgment or even the imposition of another’s will upon their own. But it was something else entirely for children, who looked to their elders for safety, to have their cries unanswered.

  That song throbbed inside her, and she ached to give it voice, though even she could not be sure she wanted to hear and feel its effects. Its darkness blurred her sight, so that color seemed to have fled the waking world.

  She thought of her own baby, taken, leaving her with a mother’s arms that would never know the feel of holding their own child. Remembered the still moments when she’d lain and felt the movements of it inside her womb, loving it before it ever came into this world. She thought of a boy put up for sale to bidders who surely had a host of hideous intentions; remembered the courage he’d shown as he left their cave and set out alone to find her help when she was wounded. She thought of her own inability, ultimately, to protect either child. She felt like nothing so much as a vessel, used for the pleasure of others, to do their bidding. The torment of her thoughts wracked her with unc
ontrollable sobs. She knew only the sound of her own grief now, and it came, she thought, as though she wailed at the death of herself.

  Her few choices lay before her. Either see this whole thing through to Restoration, or follow Penit. She had little mind for the first, but no ability for the second. She drew handfuls of snow and washed her face, its icy sting bracing her. She would continue to Tillinghast for now. But the time would come when she would carry her hope and dreadful songs after the boy, for rescue, retribution, or ruin.

  Until then, the weight of her own scorn filled her heart, easing the pain of loss, and weaving sounds she knew would one day find a voice, once she’d healed and come upon her opportunity. And at that time, she would trust no one.

  No one.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  A Blade of Grass

  As Braethen helped Vendanj into his saddle, Grant ended the suffering of the crippled horse.

  “Do not tarry,” Mira ordered, her voice again an even tone that brooked no argument.

  They all mounted up, Wendra wincing a bit as Sutter climbed on Penit’s mount. Braethen surveyed the line of travelers. They were all unsteady in their saddles as they fought the pain of their wounds. Wendra searched the trees as though believing she might find the young Penit, and occasionally shot Tahn a withering glance. Vendanj slouched in his saddle, looking more drawn than ever. He’d lain in the snow for a long time, unmoving, Braethen doing what he could to help him. Mira remained resolute and watchful, but looked like a woman staring back over an unusable bridge. Grant held a twist of regret and displeasure in his sun-weathered face; perhaps, Braethen thought, for having had to end a horse’s life, but maybe, too, for the loss of the boy, Penit.

  Turning again toward a narrow pass to the northeast, they trudged on toward Tillinghast. Braethen measured the cost his companions paid, and considered what price lay ahead for him.

  As they rose higher into the Saeculorum, he fought harder for breath. He could no longer completely fill his lungs, but found if he breathed slowly, he could abate his panic a little. But regardless of what he did, the dread remained; and it grew, not only from reflection on what had just happened, but from the simple knowledge that they neared Tillinghast.

  It was a place mentioned in authors’ tales, but actual historical accounts couldn’t be found. It wasn’t a place men were meant to visit. The high places of the Saeculorum, the passes that took them to Restoration, might have been myth, except that Braethen stared at it all around him. The dark stone of the mountains struck him with its stark beauty. Cliffs rose hundreds of feet, defying anyone to pass. Small clouds floated near and were pulled into the coursing updrafts, drawing them into wisps that soon became nothing. The sweat on their horses’ flanks had begun to freeze. By the time they cleared the trees and became exposed to the wind, ice crystals hung from their mounts’ hair.

  By mid-afternoon, the sky itself began to reveal deeper truths. Looking up, even through the light of midday, Braethen could faintly see the stars beyond. At times all appeared blue, then by some trick of light he thought the sky the deepest violet, and he believed he glimpsed the very vault of heaven.

  As they crossed into the shade and shelter of a towering cliff, the Far brought them to a pause.

  “The horses will die if we push them farther. We’ll leave them here and go the rest of the way on foot. Take a moment to gather your breath and drink deeply before we proceed.” She then sat with her back to the cliff and took her oilcloth to her blades.

  Wendra wandered to the edge of safety, and sat looking back the way they had come. Braethen watched Tahn twice start to go to Wendra to speak with her, both times returning to his horse without doing so. Vendanj and Grant sat conferring, then arguing. The blare of their voices rose up the cliff’s face, becoming lost in the howl of wind around sharp outcroppings. Braethen no longer cared what they had to say.

  Favoring one arm, he huddled over his book, passing one finger of his good hand under each successive line he read. Tahn finally took a seat next to him.

  “Long way from the Hollows,” he offered.

  Braethen paused, then went on reading.

  Tahn had maneuvered himself to read along with him, when Braethen stopped again. He stared ahead at the page, lost in memory. “I used to sit on my porch and watch the rain. My father taught me that a story could be born of every drop that came to earth, and that the chorus of their landing on a Hollows roof or lawn was a lifetime of revealed truth.”

  He turned to look at Tahn. “He used to say such things when I grew impatient for Ogea to come and share the old stories, or when my insistence to learn made me insolent. And once,” the sodalist said, shutting his eyes as if doing so might shield him from his own words, “when I sought the understanding of the blade, he sat with me to watch a wild rose near our well as it opened to the rays of day. While night still held firm he woke me, and we went by lantern out and sat in wet grass before the wild bush.

  “I remember the call of birds to announce the morn, the coming of smoke from chimneys newly lit with endfast fires. I shivered until the sun rose high enough to light the area around our well. But even then, the rose remained closed. Not until late morning did its petals unfurl to greet the sun.” Braethen opened his eyes.

  “I don’t know if I have learned what A’Posian meant to teach me by such lessons, Tahn. Because all I can think is that our time is dreadfully short. There is knowledge here.” He hefted his book and replaced it again in his lap. “But I don’t seem to glean what is necessary. And each time I lift my sword, I fear being consumed. It opens…”

  Tahn put a hand on Braethen’s arm. “Later, you’ll better understand what I’m about to say, but for now take comfort in the decency of the life of your father. I know he wanted you to be an author, and I know your dream to become a sodalist sometimes caused strain between you, but those moments with those flowers, Braethen … you are fortunate to have had that man at your back from the cradle. I think … I know it makes being here, this far from the Hollows, easier.”

  Braethen said, “Indeed, my friend. But I have neither Sutter’s desire for battle, nor the patience you seem to possess.”

  “Patience?”

  “I’ve watched you pull your bowstring, Tahn, as though something hinged on the result of your draw. It seems a considered—”

  Tahn held up his hand. “There is more indecision than consideration in my actions, Braethen. Look what it has earned me.” He pointed toward Wendra. “And things in my own life are turned upside down…”

  The sodalist looked away at Tahn’s sister. Then he offered, “Family is yet stronger than her pain.”

  At that, Tahn showed him expressionless eyes that yet carried something deeper behind them. Moments later, an anguished frown came upon his friend’s face that for some reason reminded Braethen of when he had broken his father’s goblet.

  Tahn finally blinked and focused a look on Braethen, focused on someone else’s burden—the quality Braethen had always liked best about him. He looked down at the book in Braethen’s lap. “Perhaps you’re not reading the right stories,” he suggested. “What exactly are you hoping to find?”

  The sodalist lifted his finger from the book. “I’m not sure. I’m trying to learn about Restoration, but most if it is cloaked in riddles, or written in ancient tongues I can’t decipher. The Sheason gives me little instruction.”

  Tahn chuckled. “It is his gift of evasion.”

  Then Braethen remembered the day Ogea finally arrived at the Hollows, and the reader’s slow climb up the ladder of Hambley’s inn. The old man had broken the seal on a scroll, and spoken from memory the words all had assumed were written on the parchment. Speaking mostly to himself, he said, “What of the story Ogea spoke at Northsun last?”

  “What does it say?” Tahn asked.

  Braethen put his hand over the satchel at his side. “I’ve opened it three times…”

  “Only opened it?” Tahn asked, confused.


  Braethen turned calm eyes on Tahn. “It’s blank.”

  They shared a long, troubled look.

  “What have you discovered?” The voice startled them.

  Both Tahn and Braethen looked up to find Vendanj standing over them. The Sheason wore his hood up, shading his hollowed cheeks. He spoke quietly, as though conserving energy.

  Braethen spared a glance at the empty scroll. “Nothing, Sheason.” Braethen’s voice came equally low, failure evident in his tone.

  “Nonsense,” Vendanj replied, though the lack of inflection left the words unconvincing. “Put your book aside a moment, sodalist, and tell me this: Have you a sigil of your own?”

  “I wear the crest of the Sodality. It is—”

  “A worthy emblem,” Vendanj finished. “But it is yours only as the sky is yours, or the earth. We are all of us adopted into larger families, grafted onto longer vines. This is necessary and important. But it is not individual. Do you understand?”

  Braethen nodded. “I have no family mark. It never seemed necessary in the Hollows. Everyone knew me by name—”

  “That is not the purpose of a personal insignia, sodalist.” Vendanj paused to consider, his eyes never leaving Braethen. “Perhaps you have discovered precisely what you say.” Nothing. While the Sheason spoke with little inflection, his words conveyed clear disappointment.

  After all he had done and hoped and given, the disappointment burned.