In his worst moments, he simply didn’t know who he was, slave to these things that had no rhyme or reason. A man with no history.
He kept thinking how all this strangeness had something to do with his father—the man he’d loved, and who’d loved him—since Balatin, Tahn had learned, had not always lived in the Hollows. But he’d learned nothing more than that about his father’s early life.
Balatin had rarely spoken of things outside the Hollows. Tahn, for his part, was finding the variety and wonders of the land to be filled with possibility. He reflected on the way the Sedagin spoke of their own home, the High Plains, on the mirth and candor of Penit and his stories. Even Vendanj with his secretive tongue and hard face. These things led him somehow to his thoughts of dawn. But as he closed his eyes and considered the beginning of another day, more questions rose in his mind. Why did the Sedagin isolate themselves from the rest of the world? Why did they patrol their borders against intruders? What purpose existed in a troupe of players enacting the stories of the reader’s books, bringing the tales on wagon-stages into each town they thought would listen and pay? And Vendanj, why did he speak in whispers with the Far? Why wouldn’t he share their plans with those he compelled to accompany him? Why did the man’s heart seem as hard and rough as stone? The questions tumbled over one another and brought darkness to Tahn’s mind.
Then another thought occurred to him, and he opened his eyes to the wide reaches of the land below. These things were connected. He could not understand how, but all these strange things felt like part of something bigger, something that had, impossibly, the power to shape the lives of men.
“That is right.”
The voice startled Tahn and he turned around to find its source.
No one.
He looked down the drop into darkness and saw nothing. The sky above remained empty.
He was alone.
Tahn refocused his attention on the color and warmth that would come into the land at the rise of the greater light. As soon as he did, the thought came over him that the lesser light should be allowed to rule, that the time of the reader’s stories had gone by, their memory a testament to the failure of the Fathers, of men.
The voice came again. “You begin to see.” It spoke as softly as a cottonwood seed borne upon a gentle breeze brushing his cheek. But it left a taint in Tahn’s mind in its passing—he could feel it in the way that, in this dreamlike state, he couldn’t focus on things that had always mattered to him. “You will see further with your mind, Quillescent, than you will ever see with the glare of your youth in your eyes.”
Tahn panicked. The intrusion of the voice, its soft menace that spoke of barrows and widows and silent autumns, got inside him. He tried to stand. But his legs were numb, and he fell back down. The voice descended upon him from the air, rose into him from the earth, and echoed out from deep inside him—unspoken, but felt and understood. Like love or hatred. It began to bind him, close him in. At the edge of this great High Plain, looking into a fathomless distance, Tahn felt as confined as he had ever been. He struggled, trying to remember why he had come out away from the others. He kicked his legs and flailed at the night around him, disregarding the imminent drop beneath his dangling legs.
Someone grabbed him.
He screamed and forced his mind past the voice and its cryptic words to the single thought of daybreak. In that moment, he opened his eyes, and found himself sitting a few feet from the edge of the plain, staring into the openness, with light just touching the horizon. A dream? But somehow he knew better. He had fought a battle, a small one. But with whom? For what? His mind reeled in the wake of it, and he thrashed at the inexplicable implications.
The hands did not release him, though.
Mira.
She had dragged him back from the cliff edge. In the faint light of predawn, a look of concern showed in her eyes. They faced one another for several moments.
“Why do you rise before the sun? What prayer do you make that must be spoken at such a time? Every day?”
No one had ever asked Tahn about waking so early, about the purpose of his morning vigil. She had seen him spending those moments each day in reflection. She studied him closely.
Tahn had no reply. He’d never spoken of this to anyone, just as he had never spoken of his inner need to test the merit of every bow draw he made. Twice he had gone to Balatin to tell him, but had not found the words. Part of him believed they were secrets that must be kept, at least until he understood them himself.
Unable to lie to her, he said simply, “I don’t know.”
And together they walked back into the heart of Teheale: earned in blood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Partings
Countless points of light shimmered as the sun reflected off the condensation across the plain. The horses stood saddled and ready. Vendanj gave Tahn a measured look as he approached the party gathered in front of Sedagin’s home.
“We were going to leave you, Woodchuck,” Sutter said. “But the Sedagin prefer guests who bathe.”
Tahn mounted Jole. “And quiet guests, I think.”
His friend laughed. “Well, you missed endfast, so stay downwind of me with that gamy breath of yours.”
Penit giggled, and was silenced by a look from the Sheason.
“Have you forgotten what we are doing?” Vendanj asked. “The north face of the High Plains is a difficult descent under the best of conditions, and we will almost surely meet Quietgiven once we reach the lowlands again. We have many leagues to cross to reach the Scar; we must move fast, and still have strength to enter that place when we arrive. Turn your minds to these things.”
With that, the Sheason rode toward Sedagin, who had appeared from a nearby stable on a sleek white stallion appointed with the customary fir-colored tack and saddle. Behind him came two more Sedagin, Riven and the man who’d challenged Sutter at the feast.
“Stay downwind of me, too,” Wendra whispered. Her lips drew into a wry smile. Sutter stifled laughter, causing snorts and chortles.
“And me,” Braethen added.
“And me,” Penit joined in.
Mira said nothing, but the Far half-smiled, causing Tahn to do the same.
“Any idea why we’re going to the Scar, Braethen?” Sutter asked. “It sounds like a lot of fun, for sure. But you know, details would be great.”
Braethen stifled a laugh, and shook his head. “My knowledge of Scar history is sketchy. And what I do remember … no idea why we’d go there. Seems a bit out of the way, too, if we’re going to Recityv.”
Vendanj and the Sedagin returned just then. “I will escort you to the north face. The path from there is dangerous, but passable if you are careful,” Sedagin said.
With that, they got underway. Just after midday on the third day of their ride, they came to the end of the High Plains. At its edge, Sedagin wheeled to face them. “It has been my privilege to offer you safe passage through our homeland.” He nodded to Vendanj. “It is our custom to offer a gift to friends when they leave us. Sutter, will you come forward?”
Sutter looked up, putting his hand to his chest in question. Sedagin nodded, and Nails rode forward, casting a skeptical look back at Tahn.
Sedagin pulled his blade and flipped it into the air, catching it by the edge of its shaft. “Tylan made a present to you of our hand. Now I make a present to you of our arm.” He extended the sword to Sutter. “Faced with the challenge to fight, you spoke the truth of the Promise so that the grounds of your action were clear. On the lips of a lowlander this sounded strange to us.”
Sutter did not take the blade immediately.
Sedagin sidled closer. “Please take it,” Sedagin said in a respectful tone. “It is as much a blessing to give as it is to receive. Do not deny us this.”
Sedagin held the blade out so that Sutter would have to reach out to claim it. Hesitantly extending his arm, Sutter grasped the blade by its hilt. Tahn watched as Riven bowed at the gesture. Befor
e letting go of the greatsword, Sedagin maneuvered it so that the point pierced the tip of his middle finger. He kept it there as Sutter continued to hold the blade, connecting the two men in that precarious position. Tahn knew the sword must be heavy, and Sutter’s arm soon began to quiver slightly. Sedagin did not move his finger, but pressed more firmly to steady Sutter’s hold. As he did, blood welled up over the tip of his finger and dripped to the plain below. For several moments Sedagin thus helped Sutter hold aloft the blade. Sutter’s arm began to shake more violently, and he started to sweat. When Tahn thought Sutter would surely drop the blade, Sedagin pulled back his hand, and the sword swooped down harmlessly.
“Thank you, my friend,” Sedagin said, and bowed his head slowly.
Sutter opened his mouth to speak, but found no words. At last, he bowed as well. Vendanj watched closely, seeming more pleased than Tahn ever remembered seeing him. Admiration shone in Mira’s eyes as well.
Sedagin turned to Vendanj. “It must be done slowly. Even my own people take care on the Face.”
“We will watch closely,” Vendanj returned.
“If there are changes…” Sedagin trailed off.
“Thank you,” Vendanj replied. Then he turned to the others. “Remember that we have been found by a Quietgiven tracker. The tracker is dangerous because he can feel the connection of Forda I’Forza in the land and in the air—your Forda I’Forza.” He pointed at each of them. “It is how he tracks. And he can reason as you do, but he carries the craft of scrying. Now that he knows of us, we will not be free of him until he lies dead.”
The Sheason visually surveyed each of them, then turned to start down the path.
“Did you see it?” Mira asked.
“Yes,” the Sheason answered.
Tahn did not know what the Far meant until he came to the very edge and started his own descent. Enshrouded in a dense mist, the lowlands could not be seen. Somehow Tahn knew the mist was the work of Quietgiven.
The path wound more narrowly than the one they’d taken on the south side of the High Plain. Switching back on itself at sharp angles, the route became more circuitous, dropping hundreds of strides in a short distance. Before long, they dismounted and walked the horses down.
Tahn watched his feet, but found it difficult to look away from the roiling mists below. The mists bore the look of a storm cloud, dark grey and pregnant with thunder and sleet, except they moved silently as if with a patient, baneful intelligence.
Vendanj called a halt several strides above the fogs. Tahn looked out across the tops of the clouds, feeling as though he stood at the shore of a vast dark sea. He kicked a rock from the edge of the path. It tumbled downward, and Tahn jumped when a number of tendrils of mist rose like tongues and seemed to lick at the reception of the rock into its folds.
“Empty your minds,” Vendanj said. “Think nothing of what you know about any one of us or where we are going. Find a single, pleasant image and fix upon it.” He stopped and looked away at the menacing bank of dark clouds. “It is Je’holta. The caress of the Male’Siriptus. Be focused on whatever thought brings you comfort. Anything else will tear at the edges of your reason. Je’holta will inspire panic and madness by exaggerating your own fears. Mira, tie the horses one to another. Braethen, you will lead the animals. They are unaffected by the mists. Each of you will hold the hands of those next to you. The mists do not have the power to separate you.”
Sutter shook his head and muttered, “Here we go, come Quiet or chorus.”
Mira finished securing the horses, and Vendanj took Mira’s hand, each of the others joining in turn. Together they walked into the darkness.
The mists folded around them, thin streamers reaching out to wrap them and draw them in. The sun became a pale disk in the sky, the damp and cold instantly chilling Tahn’s skin. The mist touched his cheeks and fingers like icy velvet. Mira’s hand firmly gripped Tahn’s own, while Wendra’s grasp tightened once they passed completely into the swirling grey and black fog. Vendanj led them slowly, peering into the depths around them.
Tahn could see Penit holding Wendra’s other hand, but Sutter blurred to shadow and Braethen appeared as nothing more than a shape that might have been mists shifting and shaping themselves. The hoofbeats of the horses came as muted, dull clops, but the horses themselves were completely lost to sight.
Noises echoed in the depths of the dark cloud, faint sounds that Tahn felt more than heard—echoes like cries or laments, or death-side prayer offerings that traveled upon the mist. Desperation grew inside Tahn, manic and wild. He fought an almost irresistible need to turn and race up from the darkness, though he’d seen no evil. The mists would drive him mad if he stayed long in their velvet folds.
The shadows deepened as they further descended the north face. Soon, the sun disappeared completely. Charcoal-hued light encircled them, and Tahn somehow felt that they had become part of the mist itself.
The Sheason did not waver or slow, their progress cautious but steady. The Far, her eyes constantly searching and darting, seemed uncomfortable without a free hand to take up her sword.
Gradually, pressure built, constricting Tahn’s chest and making it difficult to breathe. The mists plumed in successive shadows, pushing in upon them, as soft as cottonseed but as oppressive and suffocating as a dozen wet blankets. Tahn gasped, drawing into his mouth and nose gulps of the dark mist. From the blackness, he heard others coughing and fighting for breath. Suddenly, a wave of warmth coursed through him, entering from Mira’s hand and passing to Wendra in an instant. His lungs expanded, and he breathed more easily. The Sheason had sent something through them, from hand to hand, and the coughing stopped.
Vendanj pressed forward.
Tahn had no idea how long they had been in the mists. His hands cramped from clutching the hands of Mira and Wendra. His eyes ached from the strain of trying to peer through the clouds that enveloped them. Finally, the path leveled out. They had returned to the lowlands.
In moments they were encircled by the mists on every side, and Tahn lost all orientation.
The languid calls from deep in the mists grew louder, more urgent. More than once Tahn thought he heard voices call his name. The words were shapeless and vague and sounded as though they were uttered from lips too pained to form them completely. Finally, the mists fell utterly quiet and calm.
Then distantly, a sound like tree roots pulling free from the ground rose in the fog. Deep, thunderous tones, like tall trees being felled, resounded all about them.
“What is it?” Sutter asked.
“Quiet,” Vendanj ordered.
The sounds grew louder, accompanied by wretched cries in a cacophonous chorus. The din was somehow visible in the mists around them. It began to swirl in tight, angry eddies. Through the dim light, Tahn saw forms darting at the edges of his vision, moving in every direction and vanishing as quickly as they came.
“Do you see them?” Sutter called out, his voice desperate.
“Quickly!” Vendanj commanded.
The Sheason pulled them forward into a jog. Something that felt like saplings whipped at their feet, the mists swirling in a frenzy as they rushed blindly through the dense fog.
“Hold fast!” Vendanj called back. But his words scarcely reached Tahn over the sibilant rush of the wind and the dark song of rending earth and tortured cries.
Then came the beat of a drum, struck only once, but with a sound so deep and resonant that it seemed to Tahn as if he heard some god beating on the very land they rushed to escape. The air throbbed with the beat, which seemed to echo out and back from the north face. The pulse came at them from above and below, like a quake disrupting the very fabric of the world. The Sheason abruptly stopped. Again everything was preternaturally still. Tahn could see mist frozen in the air before his face, unmoving.
Then the mist began to take form.
The darkness swirled in front of him, coalescing into an image of … himself. The disembodied mask mouthed words. Its eyeless s
ockets looked nowhere, but also somehow saw inside Tahn. Then its features were gone, and the image hung before him like a canvas to be written upon. Tahn averted his eyes, turning to Wendra for reassurance.
Before he could find her eyes, a scream erupted in the mist. Penit’s high, shrill voice pierced the cloud banks. The boy pulled his hands free and raced into the dark fog. Without hesitation, Wendra took off after him.
“No!” Vendanj commanded.
Wendra did not heed him.
“Find her!” the Sheason said to Mira.
The Far jumped into the roiling clouds and was gone.
A flurry of movement exploded in front of Tahn, as the misty face before him found its own voice. “Draw and release as you choose, dead man.” The words came in a malevolent growl.
In his mind, Tahn suddenly saw sunrise after sunrise, but the greater light was moving backward, retracing its arc back into the east, time and time again. It was as though a thousand days were being taken back, and each time the sky became blacker, more blurred. He saw a desert wasteland, where children walked barefoot in the sand. He saw crags and dried roots, and himself standing at the mouth of a stone canyon, tearing at its walls with his bare fingers. Burning pages floated in the wind, becoming cinders and sparks that winked out against a violet sky. His voice was gone. He witnessed himself speaking, but the toneless words lived only in his mind. He saw broken swords lying like kindling, and bodies dissolving to ash under the lesser light. He saw a great white mountain thrumming and quaking. Then he saw the face of a man, the same face that twisted and writhed in the mists before him. And the face was his own. Tahn screamed.
“Don’t betray yourselves!” Vendanj yelled.
But it was too late.
Tahn bolted from the line to escape the image. Blindly, he rushed through the mists, branches whipping at him, the black clouds hungrily licking at him as he raced aimlessly. He could hear someone in pursuit calling him, and he ran faster. Recklessly, holding his arms over his face, he thrashed through the foliage and undergrowth. He stumbled and went down hard, smashing his leg against a rock. But he did not stay down. He clambered back to his feet and rushed on, unsure which direction to go, only trying to escape the face and the voice that followed him incessantly no matter how fast he ran.
The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven Page 22