“That was the ploy to which I fell victim.
“At the moment of healing I still could have withdrawn my help, and perhaps the threat out of the Bourne would have united the people, and the Civilization Order might have been repealed. But the child would have died had I done so. It is that moment of decision—a momentary willingness—that eases this grotesque place to which I have come. So I am able to better suffer my skin rubbed bare by these irons.” Rolen heaved a sigh and licked his lips.
“The rest happened very quickly. The door burst open behind me and six men in russet cloaks surrounded me with raised swords. Coarse oaths were uttered, and feigned jabs from their weapons came with wild laughter as I flinched from their sharp points. I remember asking only that they close the door; the cold air was bad for the child.
“They put me in chains, then turned on the family and asked which one had sought the Sheason to heal the girl. I saw a look of surprise in the parents at the question; the child’s sickness was not common knowledge—it had come on suddenly. But I knew this already. In healing the child, the poison had revealed much to me. I learned that the League had suspected this family of being sympathetic to the Sheason. Poisoning the child would either prove their suspicions, or, through bitter loss, prove their loyalty.
“The leaguemen asked again who had conspired with me to commit treason by seeking me to heal the girl. I saw Leia back into the corner, her face pale with the realization of her crime.
“Part of the Civilization Order calls for the death of not only the Sheason who renders the Will, but anyone who seeks a Sheason to do so.
“Without hesitation, her father stood. ‘It was me,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t watch my daughter suffer.’
“I could see their suspicion as he accepted the blame for the crime. A horrible silence came over the room, and the man shared a long look with his wife. They were saying good-bye.
“He gave the daughter in his wife’s arms a kiss on the forehead, and then swept up Leia in a tight embrace. He whispered something in her ear, and left her weeping as the League escorted him and me from the room. As we left, I saw the woman crawl into the corner with her children, mixed tears of thanks and loss in her eyes.
“That very night I came here,” Rolen said, his voice far away. “I have remained because to do otherwise would be worse than never to have helped the poisoned child. I believe they assumed I would escape. Think of what that might have meant. What better way to vilify the order of Palamon than by imprisoning a member of the order, only to have him escape, thus showing he wouldn’t be bound by the laws of those he serves?” Rolen’s tone became clear, proud, but his voice remained soft. “I am a servant. I have sworn to extend my hand to fashion the Will for the lives of others, to protect, console, and go to my earth in the execution of my office.”
The Sheason took several breaths. “Still the snare worked doubly well: confirming the distrustful feelings of the people as to the order’s commitment to lawful service, and keeping them preoccupied with small, local strife while far greater threats roll toward us.”
When he finished speaking, the man wheezed again in the darkness.
“And if you escaped, you would prove the validity of the mistrust that created the law to begin with.” Tahn shook his head and looked up at the door where another guard walked by, momentarily blocking the shaft of light. “But why sentence you to death? The punishment does not seem to fit the crime.”
Rolen laughed quietly. “Because as the League will avow, a small act of disobedience is the sign of a dangerous man, a man who will eventually use the Will in a monstrous way to undermine the governing table, undermine the regent herself.” His tone echoed with bitter amusement. “Such was the reason given. Every council seat invokes the name of the regent to buoy its argument. Helaina is respected, cherished by most in Recityv. Her rule is the only reason Artixan retains his seat at her table.”
“Artixan? The man from the low tavern in your story?”
“That’s right. My mentor sits on the High Council, along with the regent; General Bolermy Van Steward; the People’s Advocate Hemwell Or’slaed; First Sodalist E’Sau; Commerce Advocate Tully Dwento; First Counsel to the Court of Judicature Jermond I’Meiylo; Maesteri Belamae from the Descant Cathedral; and, of course, the Ascendant himself, Roth Staned, first among the League of Civility in Vohnce. One seat sits vacant.”
Tahn listened to the names. Did these people know of Vendanj? Of Tahn? Would they ever learn he’d ended up in a prison cell? Suddenly, this room of cool, sweaty stone seemed much smaller than it had the moment before.
For the first time he earnestly worried about Sutter. Perhaps Nails, too, shared his cell with someone. His friend hated to be forced to do things. Tahn imagined him putting up a fight when the guards surely beat him as they had Tahn. The thought made him smile, causing his cracked lips to sting.
“None are closer to Helaina than Artixan. He does not contend with or violate the order she signed proscribing the rendering of the Will. I suspect he is dearer to her now, having stayed beside her even after the reading of the law … after my imprisonment. I also suspect she signed the law under pressure from a majority vote. A regent must be a regent first, before friendship.
“For his part, Artixan is very old, a judicious use of his own Forda, I’d guess. Helaina’s reliance on his wise counsel infuriates Ascendant Staned. It surprises me sometimes that they haven’t succeeded in killing the old man. But then, he is keener in mind than the whole of the League taken together, so perhaps it’s not surprising at all.
“I served Artixan as an assistant for a few years while he sat on the council.” A fondness entered Rolen’s voice. “I was allowed to stand by in the event he needed something. Each of the council members had such an attendant in waiting. The day the Civilization Order was voted into law I stood a pace behind Artixan’s chair. I heard the debate. I saw the eyes that would not meet Artixan’s gaze when he asked them their true feelings. Only two voted against the law.…”
“Who besides Artixan?” Tahn asked, his interest rising. “The regent?”
“No, it was the Sodality. The regent does not vote,” Rolen explained. “Hers is the authority to accept or reject the proposals of the council. There are those who complain Helaina is nothing more than a queen. To that I say it is our good fortune. Endless councils bickering and squabbling over rights and privileges and trivial rules to regulate the people, this is what they seem to want a regent to appoint.” An exhausted, irritable sigh escaped Rolen’s lips. “Helaina does what she can to curtail the mindless discussion of lesser matters. All change passes through her, and she may carry out the will of the council, or elect to trust her own wisdom. Of late, when she parts with the consensus of her advisors, word of it reaches the streets. It is forbidden that it does, but some of those who serve her seek their own gain above the interests of the people, and let slip the rumors.
“Helaina sustains the council when she gives her approval, wielding the power of Van Steward’s army. But most of the people follow Helaina because they love and admire her. She is not foolish with mercy; never has a fairer or more just regent occupied her office.”
“Why did she approve this Civilization Order then?” Tahn asked critically.
Rolen’s words boiled out of the darkness. “A regent must choose her battles. And she knew the Civilization Order’s true author—the League of Civility. Even then, the rumors that the veil was weakening caused many to observe personal curfews. Word of changes in the borderlands in the far west made General Van Steward concerned enough to double the watch and offer incentives for joining the army. It was not a time to challenge the League. When the vote was taken, I saw her place a hand on Artixan’s shoulder. She believed a time would come that the Order of Sheason would no longer labor under the manacles of this law.” Rolen rattled his irons for emphasis. “She believes it because she believes the Quiet rumors. Believes Sheason will be called upon again to help face what descends out
of the Bourne. When that day comes, it will strike a heavy blow to the League.” Rolen’s voice took on a strange, thoughtful tone. “Ironic that to hope the rumors of the Whited One are false is to keep Sheason in Recityv chains. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I should have left this place.” Anger began to harden Rolen’s words. “I lose my patience with foolish men!”
Tahn recoiled at the scathing statement.
“One last seat remains to be filled,” Rolen continued, the sound of his voice even again. “That of the Child’s Voice.” He explained before Tahn could ask. “Since the War of the First Promise, a child has been seated among the men and women who rule and lead factions of adults. The youth offers wisdom and insight for those who can hardly remember what it feels like to be melura. Some records indicate that the words of the Child’s Seat have changed the course of events that might have ended badly otherwise.”
Another coughing fit wracked Rolen’s lungs. Tahn could almost feel the ripping in the Sheason’s chest. When he’d regained control, Rolen spat again. “But it has been some time since the Child’s Seat has been occupied. When Helaina could no longer ignore the rumors of Quietgiven and the thinning of the veil, she recalled every seat to the High Council, and she called for the Lesher Roon to be run. A simple affair really, where the winner of a footrace earns the right to speak for all the children.”
Tahn curbed a smile, not wishing to exacerbate the cracks in his bleeding lips. But the thought of a race that gave a kid the chance to be heard among any group of adults delighted him. It also made a wonderful kind of sense. A child will give all to a contest of speed, and accept a loss without complaint. Tahn wished he could see this race; he would like to have run it as a boy.
“Participants must be no more than twelve years. Melura rise to the age of eighteen, but the passage of primary youth to stripling disqualifies them from the Roon.” Rolen tried sit up, but collapsed back to the floor. His chest heaved from the attempt, breaking the silence as he gasped for air.
Tahn left his questions unspoken, allowing the Sheason to regain his strength. He readjusted his position, relieving the bruises imposed by the stone floor. The movement reminded him of his shackles, which jangled and pulled at his arms like boat anchors. But his discomfort was not only physical. Rolen’s words had reminded him that he was close to his own Change, the days of his youth to be left behind and a mantle of choice and responsibility placed upon his shoulders. Just three days ago the lesser light had been rising toward its fullest. He’d judged that it would reach its round in four days.
It was the eve of his Standing.
He could imagine no place more bitter to pass the mark than here.
Worse than that, there would be no one to stand First Steward for him, no one to mark the moment. Hambley was a world away; the Hollows a distant memory. The rite he’d watched through windows at the Fieldstone Inn would pass him by. He would still move on in years. And the Change would come as the lesser light waned again to full dark. But the significance, the attendance of friends, would not be a part of his memory. Instead, filth, cold, indifferent rock and shadow, and lips that would sting and bleed as he announced his acceptance would be his memory. Raw skin, the unmusical sound of chains, and the unhappy story of a Sheason choosing death, these things were the appointments of his ceremony. Tahn hung his head and muttered an oath in despair about the circumstances of his own passage into manhood.
Rolen spoke with a timbre of dismay and misfortune. “Tahn, do you mean to say you are near to your own mantle?”
Tahn had never heard it expressed that way. But a third time he was glad the darkness cloaked his face and hands. He did not care to have Rolen see the sadness that gripped him. Balatin had died and would not be there to stand for him. Hambley had gladly accepted the job, and Tahn had long looked forward to his support on that day. Now he would not be there, either. He cursed again, and refused to answer the Sheason.
Tahn heard the renderer crawl toward him in the darkness. The scrape of flesh over the stony floor, accompanied by the dragging of iron-link tethers, freshened the emotions welling in Tahn, and threatened to push him into sobs. He bit his lip and hurriedly held his scar to his face to again feel the old familiar comfort. In his haste, he forgot which cheek remained unmarked. His wounds stung at the touch of his hand, but he did not remove it. He pushed it harder into his flesh, inviting the sting, relishing it as the sadness gave way to shards of pain shooting down his neck and around his eyes.
Then a hand came into the yellow light that fell between them. Tahn looked through the shaft of illumination and saw the blurred edges of Rolen’s face, a shadow drawn with liquid smears of coal. But Tahn saw a kind face. He then glanced down at the Sheason’s proffered hand. The manacle had rubbed a scar so deep that beneath it a ring of scabrous flesh showed red and raw. Rolen said nothing more. Tugging at his own chain and ignoring the burn in his shoulder, Tahn put his hand in the Sheason’s amid a pale wash of light from the barred window above.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Sodality and the Blade of Seasons
The ramparts blazed with too many torches to count. Pennants waving in the light cast wraithlike shadows over the high stone walls. Soldiers in cloaks drawn tight around their shoulders walked at regular intervals, their eyes turned out toward the long plains around Recityv. Braethen was awed by the height and breadth of the outer fortification. In the distance, the wall blended into the night sky, but for the torches flickering in a long line in each direction. He wasn’t sure if maybe his vision failed before the torches ended.
Tents and wagons and makeshift shops lined the road around them, a few drum fires burning low in the night. But those who lived or traded here now slept in anticipation of another day of work. Only a few wakeful souls sat close to the flames, not bothering to raise their eyes toward them as they passed. The smell of people living in close quarters drifted on the wind: food scraps, grease drippings, animals, waste. An emptiness touched Braethen’s heart as he wended his way through the midst of the sleeping crowds.
At the gates Vendanj knocked and stood back. From above, a guard looked down, screwing up his face to say something. At the sight of the Sheason, he clutched his helmet and disappeared quickly from sight. A moment later, the hinges toiled as the left gate drew inward and the guard filled the opening.
“Sheason.” He gasped for a breath. “Vendanj, you come to us late.”
“Good to see you, Milon.” Vendanj nodded and extended a hand.
The guard bowed his head as he clasped the Sheason’s hand in a familiar greeting. “Things are astir here, my friend. It is fortunate you come at night.”
“What news?”
“A writ restricts access to the city.” The soldier looked over his shoulder at something behind the gate. “The regent has called the convocation again, but few nations answer so far. We’re flooded with aspirants to vacant lower seats at convocation, and countrymen claiming the right to have voice in rule. Hand-sewn ribaldry set on rakes announces them.” Milon offered a wry smile.
“Ribaldry?” Vendanj echoed, slight remonstration in his tone.
“My apologies, Sheason.” The man bowed again. “But it hardly seems to us like heraldry here. There are maybe thirty lower seats for every king that sits at the main table at convocation. It’s been so long since the Second Promise, these ladies and fellows have no idea what they should be doing. And plenty of them are pretenders, mark me. Their votes won’t amount to much—if I have my guess—when the regent calls for vows at convocation. But then I may be wrong. And meantime, very few, whether true seat holders or not, would like to take command of men and lead them to chase rumors—”
Vendanj’s eyes cut the man off cold.
“My Skies, they aren’t rumors, are they?” The guard’s face slackened visibly.
“We’ve urgent business, friend. You’ll keep our entrance behind your teeth.”
The soldier nodded and immediately signaled for the gate to be opened wider.
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br /> Riding beside Grant, Braethen came last, looking with amazement at the immense, dark shapes of buildings towering against the night sky. It was difficult to believe they had arrived. The Hollows, Bollogh, Myrr, Sedagin, and Widows Village all seemed like ages ago.
Each stop along the trail to Recityv seemed to signal an ending of some kind—of peace, of idealistic notions, even of life. He pondered whether it might always be so for the Sheason. What must that burden feel like? It did not show in Vendanj’s face, except as a promise of action and the stolid determination to prove the rightness of his course.
Braethen’s legs and back ached, and his cut hand throbbed, but all the hours of flight could not steal the wonder of beholding the grandeur of Recityv, dark though it was. A few windows glowed with faint candles; and a few, high and dark, caught the long rays of starlight like heavenly winks.
It stood in contrast to the last two days’ ride. Braethen had marked farms where fields had gone to seed, and plows left in the midst of tilling a furrow in the soil. Stock pens lay empty and doors stood open as though left in a rush. Some homesteads were still occupied, but at most of these, people peered out through windows from safe distances, wariness in their eyes. Children had not ventured toward them, being held tightly to a mother’s hip. Men stood with a look as though they meant to spit.
Tonight they’d arrived past dark hour, Recityv being so close. Once through the gates, Braethen’s anxiety eased, his shoulders relaxed. Though he wondered what would happen to those encamped beyond the great wall should Bar’dyn follow them all the way to the city.
Mira assumed the lead and turned left, following a series of narrow alleys and rear streets where garbage lay clustered outside back doors. Cobblestone lay slick with the sour runoff of refuse, a few stinking heaps steaming warmly in the chill air. More than one beggar curled close to these sources of warmth, using the waste as pillow and blanket; they did not stir at their passing. Even the stench of offal and human filth seemed not to bother the alley people.
The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven Page 67