The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven

by Peter Orullian

  Soon, they passed from the merchant district to a quarter dominated by large homes and inns with stables. The Far reined in at the rear of a simple, fenced two-story house. A rear courtyard lay behind a wrought-iron barrier that stood twice the height of a man. Lesser light washed a fountain dominated by a statue of a woman bearing a vase, like a specter attending an unholy anointing.

  Mira swung down from her saddle and scaled the fence. She dropped to the inner court and walked to the back door, her head turning constantly. She rapped softly, and a moment later the door opened without the accompaniment of a lamp that Braethen might have expected. Without hesitation, the fellow followed Mira to the gate, keyed the lock, and motioned them all inside. The man still wore his bedclothes, but did not seem discomfited by the intrusion. He locked the gate behind them and jogged to the small stable in one corner of the fenced yard. Again he opened the door and let them in.

  When the horses had been tended, the man led them to the house, never speaking, and leaving lights off even once they sat to table in a dining area adjacent to the door. High windows admitted the neutral lunar light, paling the visage of their host—a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair and a strong face. It also hit Braethen squarely in the eye, and cast shadows of the others across the table, leaving their expressions cloaked.

  “I apologize for the caution of darkness, Sheason,” the man began. “But we are watched closely since the regent’s order, and more yet since Rolen’s arrest.”

  “What has happened, Malick?” Vendanj asked.

  “Two months past, the Exigents laid a snare to trap him.” The man shook his head in disgust. “A leagueman poisoned one of his own children, believing it could solicit Rolen’s hands to heal the child. It worked. Rolen is being held in the catacombs beneath the Halls of Solath Mahnus. He will not rescue himself and waits there to be sentenced.”

  “The order calls for death,” Mira said.

  “Sentence of how to die, not whether to die,” Malick added.

  Braethen could not see Vendanj’s face clearly, but his anger was tangible. Grant made an incredulous noise, chuffing air out his nose. Braethen looked away at the window and saw the Far’s profile come into focus. She seemed poised to attempt a rescue that very moment.

  “Rolen will go to his death. He will hold to his covenant.” Malick shifted in his seat. “Forgive me, Sheason. You know what I mean.”

  “It is nothing,” Vendanj said thinly. “Each man must attend the oath individually, Rolen in his way, I in mine.”

  “We stand with you both,” Malick said, his voice serious and clear.

  “I know, Malick. Thank you.”

  Braethen’s heart leapt. We stand with you both. Is this man a sodalist? Searching his face and clothes, Braethen could see nothing to indicate it was so. No insignia, no weapon. Nothing in the room to show it. Yet the timbre of his voice as much as the proclamation to Vendanj told him it was true. Braethen’s weariness sloughed off him like a shed garment.

  “You will not be safe here long,” Malick resumed. “The recall of the High Council and the Convocation of Seats has upset the league leadership. They fear a challenge to their authority. Those few of us who remain in Recityv are hounded as relics of an unfortunate age. By day men and women loiter outside, often following us upon our errands. By night they haunt shadows. I pray you weren’t seen coming.

  “Between us, my guess is that they are worried the council might reverse the Civilization Order. That is why, I believe, they set their snare for Rolen. Forcing his hand garnered them support among the people. It does not take much to incite suspicion of a renderer. And the example of a Sheason who is also a lawbreaker reinforces the need for that law.”

  “Has any appeal been made?” Grant asked.

  “There can be no appeal of such a decision,” Malick said ruefully. “The Court of Judicature has voted on it. Helaina could have chosen her own wisdom over that of the court, but it is unlawful to challenge the mandate once it is law. Such a thing would bring the irons to the protester’s wrists.”

  “Perhaps not,” Grant replied.

  Braethen wondered how someone could defy the will of the council and later escape punishment. The exile seemed to have something in mind.

  “The irony is that the leagueman was also convicted of treason and sentenced to hang.” Malick smiled bitterly.

  “I would have liked to have spoken with him,” Vendanj said.

  “You still may,” Malick told him. “On the moment of his descent in the noose, an arrow severed his rope and dropped him to the ground unharmed.”

  Vendanj sat forward, his head inclining at an inquisitive angle. “By whose hand?”

  “The League claims he is not one of theirs. But they needn’t protest, not with us anyway.” Malick splayed his fingers on the table before him. “We here don’t believe they would try to save their man; he’s to be made an example of. No, it was a stranger.

  “The Convocation of Seats has brought gentry from far and wide. With them, pretenders to the same appointments come in droves. Some follow the scent of fortune and the promise of a name to be earned in gallantry, all believing that some campaign is imminent. A great many more wait beyond the wall, Vendanj.” It was the first time the man had used the Sheason’s name, and it raised the hair on the back of Braethen’s neck. “These men are sent by their mothers, their wives, land folk who say that in the great stretches between Recityv and Con Laven Flu they hear the coming of the Quiet. Men and boys sent here to prepare for war because they want to protect their homes and families.

  “Leather jerkins, hay forks, crooked staffs, sharpened hoes, old plow horses, and cabbage boots, Vendanj. They sit in open fields, held at bay by a necessary writ that keeps them beyond the city wall. While inside, the streets teem with charlatans, profiteers, conscripted leagueman eager for a little authority, and the soft scions of noble houses expecting a commission from Van Steward in a battle they claim is nonsense behind the backs of their hands. I’ve not seen such things in all my skies.

  “The rescuer is one of these fellows, no doubt,” Malick continued. “Seeking to earn a name for himself by cutting free a leagueman sentenced to hang to death.” Malick shook his head again.

  “You believe the leagueman is innocent?” Vendanj asked incisively.

  Malick drew his head back sharply at the question. “As innocent as any Exigent. Fah. But the man had a family. There’s a sadness in that.”

  “Where is this man now who cut him loose?” Grant demanded.

  “According to those sympathetic to us, the archer is confined to the same cell given Rolen—an Exigent’s idea of insult and justice. They’ll attempt to try it as a high crime. Claim it repudiates the wishes of the regent—”

  “Did this archer act alone?” Mira cut him off.

  “He came with another. Both are imprisoned. None know his name, but he is cursed in the streets as the Archer.”

  “This other who came with the archer,” Mira pressed, “did he wear a glove?”

  “The glove of the Sedagin,” Malick said. “Do you know this man?”

  Braethen’s head whirled. Tahn and Sutter had made it to Recityv safe.

  “We do,” Braethen broke in. “They are friends of mine from the Hollows.” For the first time Malick gave Braethen a long look. “I am Braethen,” he said, introducing himself and extending a hand toward Malick in the cold light of the moon.

  Malick met the greeting. As they clasped hands, Braethen instinctively folded his first finger back into Malick’s palm. At the token, Malick’s jaw dropped visibly. He likewise folded his first finger back, and squeezed Braethen’s hand in an iron grip. “And we are one,” he said.

  Braethen could think of only one response. “I am I,” he intoned softly. In the neutral light, Braethen watched as amazed eyes whipped to Vendanj, seeming to seek confirmation.

  The Sheason nodded gravely. “He wears the Blade of Seasons, Malick. I have entrusted it to his hands. His stripl
ing years are not long behind him, but he has studied the books. And at Will’s door he accepted the metal, though its edge was and is yet a stranger to him.”

  “Pardon my doubt, Sheason, but how can this be so? A boy to wield the blade. And how will he learn his duties to it, to us … to you?”

  “He knows some. I give you leave to teach him as you can,” Vendanj said. “For but an hour. Tomorrow’s work will require sleep.”

  “An hour?” He shook his head. Then focused again. “What’s to be done about the rest?” Malick dropped his hand from Braethen’s grip and looked back at Vendanj.

  “We will speak with the regent. The man they call Archer must be set free, both he and his friend. The Whited One pursues them, even into the Hollows, even to the forests beyond the Nesbitt Hills.” Vendanj looked away as though seeing the western hills they’d traversed to reach Recityv. “Helaina was right to call the convocation. Pray it has not come too late.”

  “Late or no, the Wynstout Dominion, the Principality of Aiyrs, and several other thrones ignore the call.” Malick spoke bitterly. “It is enough for them that Quietgiven have not yet assailed their vales and hamlets. It is the curse of the Second Promise. This age of rumor makes cautious men silly.

  “But an audience at the regent’s High Office will be difficult.” Malick bent his attention to the table to think. “Artixan might be petitioned to use his influence with Helaina, but if news of it got out, he would be in a hot kettle.” Malick looked up. “The Sodality’s seat at the High Table is tenuous at best. Reforms suggested by the League would remove our presence there. If we bring up the desire of a Sheason to free a traitor, days would not pass before we would join the order in being as openly scorned and denied the practices that define us. Some even fear exile.”

  “Speak carefully when you speak of exile,” Grant said coolly.

  Malick went on. “They might be snatched from the prison. We have friends among the soldiery. Van Steward’s son studies our ways. The general’s men are taught respect for the Sodality. It gnashes at the gums of the League, but Van Steward’s men are fiercely loyal to him, and have less love for Exigents because of it. With proper preparation, the Archer and his friend could be plucked from their chains.”

  “No,” Grant said, seething.

  The air seemed cold with his words.

  “This is why you’ve brought me, Vendanj.” Grant turned to Malick. “Take a message to the Halls at Solath Mahnus at first light. Announce that justice demands a hearing on the conduct of this Archer. That there is evidence this leagueman is not guilty and was rightly saved from execution. Claim the law of Preserved Will against the protestations of any who try to deny the hearing.”

  None spoke. The room looked very like the garden beyond the door—pale statues in the pallid light.

  “Can this argument prevail?” Malick asked, uncertainty thinning his voice.

  “If it does not,” Vendanj said, “there is yet more the regent might consider on behalf of this criminal.”

  Grant turned a heavy brow on the Sheason and nodded once. The Sheason then looked to Mira. “Go to the convicted leagueman’s family. Bring them here so that we may speak with them.”

  Without hesitation the Far went out the door; she could not be heard racing away into the Recityv night. Braethen saw a wan look steal over Grant’s features. The exile appeared to feel the weight of time in his face, as he had not in the Scar. Or perhaps it was memories written there that Braethen saw.

  “You will take the message yourself, Malick,” Vendanj said, breaking the silence. “Trust no one else with the things we have spoken, even your brothers.” The Sheason said this with a note of finality.

  Malick nodded. “There are rooms upstairs, if you are ready to rest.” He turned to Braethen. “I will stay behind to talk if you would like.”

  The sodalist from the Hollows licked his lips with a dry tongue. “I would, yes.”

  Vendanj and Grant followed a hall deeper into the home and could be heard ascending the stairs. Braethen did not speak, nor did Malick as the sounds of trod floorboards came to a halt. Braethen had longed for the day when he might speak with one who shared his ideals, the hopes that had grown in him under the tutelage of A’Posian.

  “What do you carry in the satchel?” Malick asked as a beginning.

  Braethen looked down at Ogea’s books, having forgotten them. “The books and scrolls of a reader. He came late to Northsun Festival, attacked by Quietgiven on the roads. He went to his earth after breaking the seal on a parchment and telling his last story. He entrusted them to me.”

  Malick eyed Braethen with reservation, but said no more.

  Braethen then remembered something this sodalist had said. “Earlier you told Vendanj that you stand behind both him and this other Sheason, Rolen. Vendanj spoke of an oath regarded differently. What does that mean?”

  Malick arched one eyebrow. Braethen wondered if the man was impressed or dubious. “The order was conceived too many seasons ago to count, and it was conceived as a way to serve. But as the world moves on, how to serve is not always a matter of agreement. The veil of the Bourne grows thin, treachery inviting Quietus like never before. Men undo themselves in their own self-interest: as the League does in forbidding the drawing of the Will here in Recityv; as nations do by adding their silence to the quiet voice of the Whited One.

  “Against these changes some Sheason continue patiently to serve in the way Rolen did, accepting what need the people have of them, even if it comes as a law that prohibits their use of the gift. I admire Rolen, Braethen.” Malick’s face rose as he turned to look into the moonlight. “There is courage in his steadfastness. He chose to see his covenant as one tied in harmony with the laws of the people he served.”

  Braethen looked at the ceiling, beyond which Vendanj took his rest. “And what of Vendanj?” he asked. “Is he not true to his covenant?”

  “Those aren’t words that you should ever speak,” Malick said in reproach. The stern look in his face faltered quickly. “Some serve as Rolen, but others believe their oath is to ensure what is best for this world, for today and all the skies to come. This they do regardless of the laws and disfavor of those they serve. It is said of them that they give ‘What is needed, not what one thinks is needed.’”

  “But who decides what is needed?” Braethen asked, speaking almost to himself as he considered the question.

  “Indeed. That is the division we fear.” Malick returned his gaze to Braethen, fixing him tightly. “But we stand beside a Sheason, Braethen, no matter how he chooses to serve. That is our calling. To step into the breach that allows a Sheason the time necessary to make his own sacrifice.”

  Braethen shook his head. “What if their intentions are not proven by their actions? Or what should happen if two Sheason come against one another?”

  “It has never happened. Nor will it. What one man of Will does is easily recognized by another man of Will as an act of hope. If it were otherwise, he should cease to be Sheason, and would be called something darker.” Malick considered. “Perhaps simpler than that even. If it were an act of greed or pride, he would not take the company of other Sheason in the first place. It would not suit his spirit.”

  “Then Vendanj is Sheason of the second kind?”

  “And a powerful one. I’ve heard other Sheason say they marvel at his gift. The authority to render is conferred upon those deemed worthy, but it does not come in equal measures. Vendanj understands the potent blend of Forda I’Forza as naturally as you or I breathe. I trust him implicitly, but his path is one that men do wisely to avoid. When he looks upon you, he sees beyond the flesh, beyond the spirit. He looks upon the soul—the marriage of Forda I’Forza.”

  Braethen recalled a hundred looks he’d had from the Sheason, and wondered what Vendanj knew of him from them. He remembered his feelings when Vendanj prepared to draw on the Will in their defense, and the words that had boiled unbidden to his own lips when danger and need pressed in abo
ut them: I am I. The thought of those words sent chills racing through him. Declaration. Defiance. Certainty. Braethen’s heart stirred and he understood the tone Malick had taken when regarding Vendanj in the company of Mira and Grant. There was singleness of purpose, unclouded. All of it invested in the simple phrase that he’d come to on his own.

  One question remained.

  Braethen rested his hands on the table to steady them and looked around the room in order to mark this moment before putting his query to Malick. So much had changed since he’d left home. He felt like a single blade of grass on an ashen plain. Alone, fragile, needing nourishment. At last, his thirst to understand consumed him most. But he also sensed that some knowledge brought further expectation, and this moment (this next question) had weight enough to crush him under.

  Braethen stared straight at Malick. “And what of this?” He put his palm to the sword on his hip. Malick did not follow the movement. It was not necessary. The man’s face looked back at Braethen, impassive, unreadable. The muscles in his back and chest tensed.

  Malick let a quirky half grin move his lips. “That, my friend, is more than I could tell you … more than I know, myself. Vendanj gave you its name. I dare not repeat it. The blade itself is a threat I do not understand. Guard it, Braethen. Raise it if and when you must, but learn by it as surely as you have by your books.” Malick’s eyes seemed to see something through Braethen, past him. “My final Sky … you are only a boy.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Dreadful Majesty

  The morning of his Standing, Tahn opened his eyes to blackness so complete he could not be sure he had opened them at all. The familiar pallor of the lamps beyond his cell door was gone. Beneath his cheek, a twist of chain served as an unfortunate pillow, and reminded him where he slept. The chill of the stone urged him to sit up, and he slowly obeyed, his muscles quarreling with him over the movement. His hips and shoulders ached from bearing his weight against the hard rock surface.