Several streets up, they came to a broad avenue, nearly twice the width of the others. Instinctively, Tahn turned the corner and kept close to one side. A hundred strides on, a crowd had gathered. High in Jole’s saddle, Tahn saw past them to almost three dozen leaguemen in their rich, russet cloaks preparing some kind of structure at the midpoint of the broad central concourse. Tahn could see the woman still sitting on her horse, the same resignation weighing down her pliant features.
Tahn angled Jole to a nearby hitching post and dismounted. He and Sutter tethered their horses and blended into the crowd. Tahn positioned them in the center of the pack, not close enough to be clearly seen by the League, but close enough to have a good view of the proceeding. They’d been there for only a moment when Commander Lethur came forward to address the crowd.
“We live in a glorious time, good people.” Lethur looked the crowd over from one end to the other. “Our knowledge grows every day, our wisdom refines, our civility improves the quality of our lives.” His voice rose stridently over the mob, which began to stretch farther and farther back each passing moment. “It is your birthright, each of you, to know choice and determination and to lift yourselves up, despite the superstitions and flawed ideas of seasons long past.”
The space around Tahn became more crowded. He and Sutter found themselves pinched in as the crowd pressed forward. Firmly, he pushed back, clearing a small space for himself, to some disgruntled muttering.
“Today, we do what is right by law, having done all in accordance with the presiding council and His Leadership, Ascendant Staned. How great a reminder is this, that you are all free to act as your conscience dictates, and not as another would have you do.”
Sutter harrumphed. “I’m a root-digger, and I can smell a cowflop when I come across it.”
The leagueman behind Lethur finished his preparations and stood back. A tall pole stood at the center of a raised dais. Several bundles of sticks had been placed around its base.
“Sutter … they mean to burn her.”
Sutter looked, and muffled a string of curses in his hand.
From the left, Gehone arrived, three men in tow. Each of the others wore the russet-hued cloak of the league, the emblem at their throats dazzling in the morning sun. Tahn noted that each emblem had been fashioned of a slightly different design, emphasizing the four separate disciplines of the League. Gehone climbed down from his steed and reported directly to Commander Lethur, who nodded and motioned for Gehone to stand with the rest behind him.
“A great commonwealth is Ulayla,” Lethur said, puffing out his chest at the name of the town. “A marvelous and industrious place, known for its high ethics and allegiance to the kingdom’s will. It is for you that the League works; for you we put our flesh and steel where no order”—he twisted the word into a sneer—“would ever go. Because your concerns are our concerns. No vaunted, meaningless philosophy or tricks of the light.”
The Commander nodded to his second, who pulled the woman from her perch and took her to the pole. Three others assisted him, though they were unnecessary. She did not protest, and stood still as they lashed her to the log. All returned to their positions but one, who struck flint to a torch and carried it to Lethur.
Tahn looked desperately at Gehone, whose face showed the same awful resignation as the woman’s. He would not look. He stared at the ground, his hands clasped behind him.
A fevered excitement passed through the crowd as Lethur raised the torch, whispers and speculations and a few gasps. Tahn put a hand to his scar and canted the words of a thousand days, his mind seeking an answer.
“If there weren’t so many of them,” Sutter muttered.
“My friends,” Lethur continued, “this is a great day. A day for casting off the past and embracing your future. For seeing the work of justice and the truest meaning of the cleansing fire. It is us, friends. Not the myths of First Ones or even the flames that burn. But each of us. In the way we support and enforce what is most right and civil among us.”
Lethur strode to the platform. He stood beside the woman, who managed to look with longing toward the heavens. Tahn followed her gaze, wondering if any help existed there. Only the great blue empty sky replied, and that silently. Tahn clenched his fists, the words of the man from his dreams and the reassurance of Balatin somehow deserting him. He dropped his eyes to the woman, who continued to look up at an endless sky.
“This woman has broken the law, and persisted in spreading superstitions that hinder our civility. And so with proper authority, and a clear conscience that what I do is a step forward for each of us, I carry this sentence out in the name of the most proper civility.”
With painfully slow deliberation the torch began to descend. And Tahn looked deep into the woman’s eyes, his body thrumming with every pulse of his racing heart. Hot waves of protest curled his fists like a man preparing to fight, and he lunged forward. Sutter caught him, wrapping Tahn and anchoring him down. The crowd watched the platform, unaware of Tahn’s reaction. He struggled against Sutter’s grip, but his friend showed uncommon strength and kept him still. The sound from the crowd swelled, muting Tahn’s cries. He twisted and tried to pull free, but his friend did not relent.
He turned his eyes again to the woman as the flame struck kindling into life. Wood dust laid by the practiced hands of the league ignited almost instantly, and the fire mounted around her. Lethur stood back a pace and watched the crowd, a satisfied look on his sharp features. Tahn cast a hopeful glance at Gehone. But the man’s eyes never moved from the parcel of ground he watched.
“Look at her,” Sutter whispered, retaining his grip on Tahn.
It pained Sutter to look upon this appalling scene.
But Tahn followed his friend’s gaze back to the woman. Still, her face seemed placid. Suddenly, Tahn ceased his struggle. Words burned in his mind, the same old words he always spoke, “… release as the Will allows.” And Tahn somehow sensed that she was not guilty, but yet meant to die. A measured calm and confusion wrestled within him.
Tahn looked on a moment more, then turned and walked through the crowd back to Jole. He and Sutter left unobserved as the smoke of flesh rose into the bright, shining sky.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Reluctantly Used
Why have you hardly aged a day since you were exiled? Was Vendanj really suggesting that Grant hadn’t aged in years?
Braethen watched as Grant looked away at the fire, a sad smile rising and defining several rough lines on his face at the Sheason’s question. The sodalist wondered if Vendanj had asked a literal question of age, or if his inquiry of this man meant something deeper, something about the spirit he carried. Perhaps Vendanj meant to remind Grant of the defiance and honesty that had brought him into exile in the Scar.
Grant began to nod. “My primrose, Sheason, that is your answer.” He turned and gave a mournful sigh. “I rewrite the Charter, one that governs only this Delighast, this end of creation, of life, because this place, this Scar that is sterile, is the future and I am forever in it.” He seemed to look through the walls at the vast, hard expanse of the Scar outside. But Braethen thought he saw some small dissemblance in the man.
“This place came into being because of the Battle of the Round, the expenditure of life and Will and promise that stole the nectar that gave the earth its vitality, that brought change in the leaves, broods in the spring. These things exist here no more, and with them, time itself has gone.”
Vendanj’s brow drew down in consternation. The worry in the Sheason’s face sped Braethen’s pulse. Braethen could not remember seeing such concern from Vendanj. Mira cast a studied look at the three in the hall.
“You do not age here,” Vendanj stated. It was not a question.
“I am the same man who left the city gate those many years ago. But there is no blessing in immortality.” The exile grinned feebly. “I’ve learned to live here. Emptiness has its own fruits, and their succor is what I’m used to now. They are t
he secrets of the Scar. Pray you never learn them.” Grant looked at his hand, turning it over to view his palm. “I came here only because of the cradle.”
Braethen heard himself ask about the cradle before he realized he’d done so. The exile again offered his sad smile.
“When the lesser cycle comes to an end, I go to the end of the Scar.” Grant rose and went to the window, pulling the shutter open. “A child is left in the hollow of a great dead tree. I find a home for it, a place where it may escape the fortune of the streets, or the traveling auction blocks that do human trade with the Bourne—such fools, selling their own future for bitter coin. Most I am able to find a home. Some few—a dozen now—I could not help, and so they remain here with me.” Grant looked up at the lesser light and exhaled, then turned and looked past Braethen to his foster children in the shadows of the hall. “I teach them to fight, to make choices wisely, and along the way to distrust the best intentions of others.” Grant set his eyes on Vendanj.
“An unfortunate and difficult education,” the Sheason said.
“Simpler than you know,” Grant put in. “They share the curse of the Scar, the endless march of days. So I send them to the perimeter three weeks in four. There they watch for strangers, practice the skills I teach them, and experience the pull of age toward death.”
“How have you cared for these infants? Grown food, or found water in the Scar?” Braethen asked, his natural curiosity pushing the questions ahead with naive impertinence.
Grant smiled. “I am an exile, but there are a few at the edge of the Scar,” he said, his voice hushed, “who yet believe in the truths I meant to protect. They accept the risk to help me with provisions, and to watch over my wards for stretches of time while they are young.”
“Some of your … children … crossed us as we came,” the Far said. “Drew on us without provocation.”
“Any stranger in the Scar is provocation,” Grant said flatly. He did not bother to ask after their health. He went on, slightly annoyed. “Time has stopped here, Sheason. The sun still rises and scorches the land, drying our water early and killing the vegetation. But the seasons of the year are lost to us. And while I have ceased to grow, the Scar has not.”
“What do you mean?” Vendanj asked in a low voice.
“Just what I said. This awful wound that I call home is expanding.” Grant stepped to the table and pulled a yellowed parchment from his stack. On it, a map showed a dark line describing a shaded area scrawled with the word Scar. Around its edges, boxes of dotted lines were drawn, each one encompassing an area larger than the one inside it. “When I came,” he said, pointing to the shaded area. “Each year since.” He touched the dotted lines in quick succession.
“How?” Braethen asked. He walked to the table and looked more closely at the map. He suddenly became aware that Grant eyed him closely.
“You may be a sodalist yet,” Grant said, seemingly impressed, though why, Braethen did not understand. Then Grant sat again, leaving the map in Braethen’s hands. He resumed his vigil by the fire. The room was still cold, the night chill passing directly into the room through the open window. “I don’t know how or why. Perhaps this place has become the repository for all the wounds suffered by the land. Maybe the effects of the war haven’t all yet been felt. Could be they burrow deeper each day, seeking out Forza to satisfy the cost of Forda spent in that awful contest of Will. Or perhaps…”
Braethen got the impression that Grant did not want to finish what he’d begun to say. The man rubbed his palms together, then laid them over his knees.
“Speak, Grant, do not keep your thoughts from us,” Vendanj urged.
“Perhaps,” the exile continued in a softer tone, “the Quiet is among us, their draw upon Forda I’Forza increasing, the balance of light and dark shifting.”
Braethen looked up from his study of the map. Grant’s words disturbed him, but only because they resonated with truth. Wasn’t that what forced Braethen and the others from the Hollows? Wasn’t that why Bar’dyn and Maere and Velle had trespassed the groves set aside ages ago as hallowed? And now they had come through the High Plains of Sedagin, come to Widows Village … Braethen desperately wanted to return to an age when such things existed only in books.
“This is my ward,” Grant went on, “this home in the Scar, these youths who are left by parents too selfish or afraid to serve as guardians. There are changes outside the Scar, and I want no part in them.”
“Grant,” Vendanj said firmly, “you made an important stand against the highest council at Recityv. No one has ever argued so eloquently against the Recityv court. It will be remembered, and we may need that kind of assistance.” The Sheason took a breath and exhaled sharply. “We need not only your sword, but the moral authority possessed by a man who would rather die—and see others die—than compromise his principles.”
Grant said nothing.
Vendanj frowned. “If not to address the council, then for these.” He withdrew a parchment from his cloak and put it on the charter. “The names of Sheason widows and widowers left desolate with the rending of the Undying Vow. Abandoned through unnatural authority”—Vendanj’s voice grew soft—“and now also by the Exigency.”
Braethen realized it must be the list of names Vendanj had gotten from Ne’pheola in Widows Village. Grant took up the parchment and scanned the names written there. For the first time, Braethen thought he saw sadness touch Grant’s face. Perhaps as one exiled in this place, he knew something of the desolation of the eternally severed unions of the Sheason spouses. If it was possible, Grant’s sadness seemed to grow, deepen.
Grant looked at Vendanj, a deep frown upon his face. “How is this possible?”
“That is something you may help us discover. But these women are now alone, and they will go alone to the life beyond. I have seen the withering of their souls.…”
The room fell silent. Finally, Grant spoke again. “Then perhaps my primrose should speak for all the Eastlands, and I should find a voice, speak it into reality.…”
Vendanj cautioned with a darkly reverent whisper, “Do not utter such a thing.”
Grant looked back at the Sheason. “I cannot return to that place, Sheason. That part of my life is over.”
In final, humble request, Vendanj asked, “If not for the family of man, if not for its servants … then do it for Tahn.”
Again Braethen saw a flicker of recognition in Grant’s eyes, and a look of utter regret steal across his face. “I cannot,” Grant said. “You may take my words with you and share them as you see fit. But this is where I’ve made my home. This is where I was sent to serve sentence for the crime of conscience. I know no other way anymore. I will fill your skins, give you direction, and tend your horses. But I will not reenter the world of men. Though my world here is bleak, I came to it willingly. I’ve no mind or patience for the politics of a council, for Vohnce or any other king or nation.”
Disgust showed plainly on Vendanj’s face. The Sheason could compel Grant by some other means, but instead rose, casting a look at the Charter half penned on the table. “You may be in need of your document, Grant, when the border of your Scar is much wider than your map allows. But it will not be so easy to know where the Scar ends and growth continues when Quiet and Dark attack across every border like a lengthening shadow. You know the risk. You know our hope. And you know the regent.”
Grant cast a curious glance at the Sheason.
“Yes, she is still alive,” Vendanj said. “Older now, slower, but her hand is still iron inside a velvet glove. And to her credit, she seeks to see past her own border. We’ll leave you to your warder’s task, Grant, though its purpose is likely near an end.”
Vendanj went toward the door, Mira close behind. Braethen started to follow, his mind scrambled by pieces of a puzzle he didn’t know how to fit together.
“East by the dog star,” Grant said, his voice rough and unsteady at the edges. “Your horses are weak. Walk them if you want them to li
ve. You’ve water for three days.” He paused, the tension in the small home thick and smothering. “Watch closely, Far. Quietgiven have been near the last two nights. The Scar is no obstacle to them anymore. Safe passage,” he said, still staring at his fire.
Vendanj went into the night. Mira paused at the door to give Braethen a summoning look. The sodalist spared another glance at the three youths in the hall, the document nailed to the back wall, and the exile poised near the small hearth. Then he rushed to join the others, the fragments of these new stories heavy in his mind.
As they found their horses, Braethen heard Vendanj curse more than once. The Sheason gave each horse a sprig, then told them to mount. The lesser light blazed in the night sky, accompanied by the brilliant glitter of countless stars. The day’s heat had fled, leaving a brittle cold in the clarity of night. Braethen glanced back once to see a pale square of light cast from the exile’s window, its feeble glow resting on the ground beside the house. Vendanj took his mount and rode away at a sprint. Mira checked to see that Braethen stayed close, then followed. But Braethen hesitated on Roleigh, wondering if a dozen stories, and the strong arm of this man Grant, were being left behind forever to rot in the timeless waste of the Scar. He touched the saddlebag that held Ogea’s books, and promised himself he would write what he knew when time allowed, then raced after the three-ring man and the fleetfoot.
A thousand strides away, where Grant’s house could no longer be seen, Vendanj rode to a stop, jumped out of his saddle, and cast a quick look to the sky, seeking, Braethen assumed, the dog star. The Sheason walked on at a fast clip, neither checking to see if he was followed nor paying any heed to his horse, which obediently trailed a few paces behind. Mira handed her reins to Braethen and disappeared into the darkness before Braethen thought to say or ask anything.
They traveled for an hour, Vendanj striding with a determined gait, Mira a blur every few minutes at the edges of Braethen’s vision. Preternatural silence lay across the rocks and dry grass, broken barely by the sounds of their passage. Only the clean hint of sage and a light sweat on his upper lip left Braethen with the certainty that he was not dreaming.
The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven Page 58