The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven

by Peter Orullian

Mira sheathed one sword and withdrew the other. Without a look, she said, “You don’t really need me to answer that, do you?”

  Tahn’s momentum ebbed. He eased back to an upright position. Thoughtfully, he touched the mark on the back of his hand. “Why me?” he finally said.

  “Will that make it easier for you?” Mira said, folding over her oilcloth.

  Tahn’s fist tightened into a ball. “Wouldn’t it make it easier for you?”

  Mira continued to work. “No.”

  “Well that’s just fine for you,” Tahn steamed. “You’re a Far. Sure! Fast!”

  “Keep your voice down,” Mira said calmly. “Others are trying to sleep.”

  “Is it that you don’t know?” Tahn said with some ire. “Are you a puppet, too?”

  Mira went on with her careful cleaning of the weapon. “We are all puppets, Tahn,” she said. Tahn felt Mira’s words might have personal implications for herself, as well. “Yet,” she continued, “the end is not always known from the beginning. Especially for a puppet. Be glad your life will give you time to know that your road is your own.”

  “That’s another thing,” Tahn retorted. “I’m tired of riddles. Tell me why you say that. Tell me why I am here. If I am going to stand at Tillinghast, I have the right to know why it is me and not someone else.” Emotion caught in his throat.

  Mira stopped cleaning her blades, and showed him compassionate eyes. “I don’t have all the answers you seek, Tahn. And even if I did, I don’t believe hearing them from me would ease your heart. But what I can do is tell you about me. And maybe that will help you live with the uncertainty for now.

  “You have recently had your Standing. A day to mark the putting away of childhood things, and the embracing of life that comes after it. In the light of ten thousand more skies you will toil and laugh and suffer. But what you call your day of Change is a Far’s last sky. It is a day of ceremony for man, but for the Far, it is an epitaph. It is part of our stewardship that we do not live beyond the Change. It gives us the liberty to speak and do what is necessary to guard the covenant language left behind by the Framers of the Charter, and in so doing never be accountable for those things we must to do keep it safe. Never endanger our own souls. But we do not mourn …

  “My sister’s passing leaves me the sole remnant of my family line. She was Elan’s wife. And before I go he will ask me to stay. To take up her crown. And to bear an heir. It will be an honor to be asked. And our people need this very badly.” She paused and looked closely at him. “But I do not want to be the queen. And I do not wish to have a child that I will never hear use my name.”

  Tahn forgot to breathe. Through her speech, Mira never showed any anguish over any of it. Tahn marveled at her strength.

  “It’s strange. You don’t remember your parents because they went to their earth while you were too young to remember. While I can see my father’s face in my mind even now, still hear his voice and see his face, yet I cannot remember my childhood.”

  He’d said it. He’d shared one of the great burdens he carried. And it felt good to do so with Mira.

  The Far looked back thoughtfully. He could see in her face that she understood the gravity of what he’d just said. “Why does the memory of your childhood matter so much to you, Tahn? Who you are is defined by the choices you make now. And for you this is truer than most.”

  Tahn considered her words. “Perhaps you’re right.” And then added, “And the same would hold true for any child of yours.”

  They sat looking at one another, and he wished he could wrap his arms about her, but didn’t know how not to do it clumsily. The hiss of the lamp was suddenly very loud.

  Tahn thought about how his life seemed almost a reverse of the Far’s. Tahn could not remember most of his melura years, but had the possibility before him of a long life. Mira’s life was nearly over. But in one way they were the same: Most of their childhood was fatherless, whether through death or the absence of memory. He wondered if that had shaped who both of them had become. For Mira, that question didn’t seem to matter; for Tahn, it still did. The things that most defined him stemmed from a past unknown to him.

  Maybe there was a lesson for him in her commitment to this journey to Restoration, where she would give so much of her life that would end so soon.

  Considering it, Tahn felt selfish.

  But so many things were still unknown. The Bar’dyn had come into the Hollows, and now a Sheason and a Far led Tahn and the others to the Heights of Restoration. He harbored feelings that compelled him to make choices he didn’t understand. There was the mark on the back of his hand. What did these things mean?

  And under it all was the vague memory of a man whose face he couldn’t remember, but whose advice resonated deep within in his mind.

  The faceless man in his dreams, and the voice out of his nightmares.

  He tried to recall Rolen and the wisdom he spoke to Tahn in the bowels of Solath Mahnus. He thought he did feel some easing in his heart when he recalled the Sheason, a reminder to look beyond himself.

  Then from habit, before unstringing his bow, he pulled it deep several times, limbering the wood and stretching the string. In his mind he heard the words: I draw with my arms, but release as the Will allows. Their familiarity also comforted Tahn, and he repeated them twice out loud, interrupting the stillness. The words fell from his lips like a prayer.

  He had forgotten Mira was there.

  When he looked up, she was looking intently at him. Neither of them spoke until he asked her what had been on his mind ever since he had met her in the Hollows. “Has a Far ever married a man?”

  Mira smiled her glorious lopsided grin, but did not answer. He somehow knew she meant to tease him by withholding a reply. He had one more question, but she answered it before he could ask.

  “I will sit vigil. You will have the bed to yourself.”

  * * *

  Fog and mist roiled over the precipice, licking at the stone. The darkness felt like wet leaves sticking to his skin. Only the faintest trace of light illuminated the emptiness beyond the ledge, as though the shroud that separated the solid from the ethereal held its own dark energy.…

  As stones grated beneath his heel, the mists absorbed the sound, leaving Tillinghast as quiet as a tomb.

  Tahn clenched his fist around his bow. The leather creaking beneath his grip was the only sound. To his right on the precipice stood an immense tree that rose into the shroud of fog and darkness. The bark of the tree was as black as the night around it. It was a forgotten sentinel at the edge of nowhere.

  A shrill hissing rose up like wind over jagged rocks. Swirls of fog eddied and faded. And in the darkness, several strides from the land’s end, the mists of Rudierd Tillinghast began to coalesce. A shadow formed in the shape of eyes and a mouth, streamers blowing through it and momentarily shaping the image before passing away. The lines of the face never varied, the mists only giving more detail as they passed.

  Then, as Tahn watched, the eyes narrowed, glaring.

  There is no morning here, Tahn. No greater light risen from the ashes of yesterday.

  The words came into his head with the force of a thousand bells. Tahn pressed his hands to his ears, but could not stop the tumult in his mind.

  Restoration, Quillescent, is the handmaiden that will undo the injustice of every age that has passed since the council parted. You will suffer the torment of countless lifetimes as the pawn of those too weak to answer for the crime committed against me.

  The voice’s final word tolled like a death knell and shook the very earth of Tillinghast. The mighty branches of the tree beside him swayed through the thick banks of mist.

  I will not remain forever silent for doing that which I was asked to do, that which has been done as many times as stars shine from the sky. It is their failure, Quillescent, their crime that condemns you. Do you think you can balance a land, a people … a world? You are not even sure yourself what light means. Tahn caught a glimp
se of a malevolent smile in the twist of the fogs across the visage. And how beautiful that the instrument that will lay all low to the dust is the very thing so revered by those nobles who first abandoned this place to the devices of men. Do you know it, dead man? Has the insult of your birth spoken it to you?

  Tahn recoiled from the words, raising his arm to shield his face, the very sounds reverberating in his head, stinging his eyes. Rumbling in the earth caused large rocks to shift and pitch. The cracking of limbs at the top of the tree boomed like a peal of thunder. Tahn frantically looked around for help, but no one stood upon the path that led to the ledge. In that moment, the world grew darker, leaving the contorted face etched into the mists a shade paler.

  An awful certainty stole through Tahn, causing the face to lighten yet another shade. The face grew whiter against the stark blackness of the Abyss, and laughter began to ring through Tahn’s head, deep, resonant vibrations like the tearing of the land and the sound of falling sky.

  Tahn fell to his knees, still holding his ears. He shook his head. Then the face brightened a last time, threads of mist whipping across its features. Wretchedness drew itself deep into the lines of its jaw and malefic eyes. In a hoarse whisper it spoke again.

  It is nothing less than your choice, husk. It will also condemn your past and foreclose your future. And all will become eternal night. Just as it has been on every world without end. That is your birthright, Quillescent. That is your Tillinghast.

  Deafening laughter erupted around Tahn. He pitched forward onto the hard stone of the cliff and tried to block it out. Mists lapped and caressed his face like dirt falling down through a crack in a coffin.

  * * *

  Tahn sat up in his bed, slick with sweat and breathing heavily. For a moment he did not know where he was. He frantically looked about. Mira was watching him.

  She said nothing, but came to his bedside and took his hand in her own. He’d hoped for that touch ever since he met the Far. But tonight, it barely pushed back the dread growing in his heart.

  The world beyond the window was still dark. But not for long. Slowly, he lay back down and turned his head east, his hand still held in Mira’s. He managed to imagine a sunrise over the top of Balatin’s stock barn before even that image mattered too little to remain in his mind’s eye. He focused on his breathing and soon regulated the rhythm enough to calm his heart and leave the waking world again, if only for a short while.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Leave-takings

  Mira knelt at her sister’s tomb in the Hall of Valediction. The shale shone brilliantly dark here in the glow of large braziers, which lit the names and dates inscribed deep in the dark stone.

  It pained her to say good-bye.

  Saying good-bye to a Far was not supposed to be a sad thing. Their passage beyond came vouchsafed by a covenant as old as the world itself. And Lyra had lived a joyful life, ruling so well and so thoughtfully that she’d earned a rare esteem.

  But she had not produced an heir.

  The Far shared their stewardship of the covenant language, but to only a few bloodlines were the gifts of that tongue given. And such was needed to maintain their commission, otherwise …

  With Mira’s sister gone to her earth, her line was at an end.

  And childbearing years for a Far were understandably short.

  That was not the source of her grief. She held no ill will for her sister having thrust this responsiblity upon her. It was not a law that she take her sister’s place. But if she was honest, it was a fair expectation. More than that, it might prove to be an absolute need. The line should not be allowed to end; only a few Far possessed the special ability to both protect and understand the covenant tongue.

  This was the angst in her heart.

  And for the first time she could remember, that angst had called her away from a watch—just this hour, over Tahn. He would be safe in Naltus, and in the king’s manse no less, but it was not customary for her.

  She had needed this moment to think, to pray. Her path seemed so unclear to her.

  However, there was another need in the world of men, one to which she’d joined herself with the Sheason many months ago. Meeting the melura from the Hollows had been a pleasant surprise. He was courageous, if willful in his ignorance. And she felt comfortable around him.

  And yet it was a dream. She had but a few years to live. She should not be thinking beyond the promise of her call: to safeguard the Language of the Convenant.

  But over the tomb of her loving sister, she argued with herself that her course had been to do precisely that—forsake her own covenant. Only her path took her beyond the black shale gates of Naltus. She hated to think how like the exile Grant that might make her. The man’s leathery face would show a bright smile at that were she to share it.

  Lyra, what shall I do?

  As if in response, footsteps sounded on the hard floor. She needn’t turn to know their owner.

  “Can I not have but an hour to pray for my sister?”

  “Prayers are not needed, Mira. You know this. And I would not interrupt the respects you pay her. She was my wife, and I loved her. But your companions are readying for their ascent into the Saeculorum, and I would have your answer.”

  “Mankind would not find your proposal to be tender.” Mira ran her hands over the inscribed name of her sister.

  The Far king’s voice softened. “We are not mankind. Ours is a different destiny.”

  “Better?” Her voice rang with accusation.

  True to his nature, Elan replied, “No, Mira. But it is a high calling to which we are bound. And I myself am not long for this world. I seek only the best interest of our commission here at the far end of the world. You must know that.”

  Silence settled in the Hall of Valediction. Elan neither pressed nor departed. Mira continued to kneel, searching.

  “Tell me what to do,” she whispered over her dead sister’s body.

  She stood and turned to Elan. He was a good king, strong and a better strategist than any single person she’d met in all her travels. He approached gently. He touched her face, and his eyes showed genuine compassion for her equivocation over this choice.

  “It is not so easy,” she said.

  “Even with a people like the Far, the mantle of leadership is not easy to wear.” He smiled, a wan look touching his face—something she had never before seen. Perhaps to sit at his side, to produce an heir, would be a happy last chapter to her short life.

  “I am honest and kind,” he said. “That is as true as the need to perpetuate the traditions and leadership we have put in place, for which there must be a child.”

  Mira looked back at the Far king and gave her own wan smile. “Subtle,” she said.

  A confused expression rose on his face, but fell quickly as he began walking her to the stable yard. There in the bright sun of Naltus, as her companions began to file out of the king’s manor, she kissed his cheek. “I must see this through to the end first.” She looked away toward the Saeculorum. “But I have a request of my king.”

  King Elan raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  “You say the destiny of men is not ours. But if the veil comes down, our fates are inextricably tied with theirs.” Mira came to her request softly but resolutely. “We must take our place at the Convocation of Seats. The world of men needs our strength and wisdom. Most no longer believe in who we are. And the regent faces sedition in her own courts. The Sheason are hunted. Elan”—Mira touched his arm gently—“you must go and sit at convocation, and remind them of what they have forgotten and the hope they may yet have in the stewardship we bear.”

  Moments passed before the king answered. “Mira, you’re asking me this extraordinary thing even as you delay answering my own request. Our people need a queen, they need a continuing line. What you ask is more impractical if you do not take your place at my side, because I would then rule alone. What should happen if I died without a successor? It is an impossible thing you
ask.”

  “Can you not see that this convocation will fail if you do not go? In times past they succeeded without our help, but narrowly, and the cost was dire for that. And because of it the Quiet better learned the weaknesses of man. It is different in this season, Elan. I have seen it.” Mira thought of her sister’s tomb. “Our covenant must be to more than those First Ones who gave us this trust. We are part of this world; our fates are joined.” Then Mira touched her stomach and thought about mothers and daughters. “And there are promises to keep,” she whispered.

  King Elan’s brow drew down. He was fair, but he would not be manipulated. “You are not thinking clearly, Mira. This simply cannot be. I will hear no more about it.”

  She then looked back at him with a calm defiance. “Elan, if you will not go, then I will take my place as queen and go myself.”

  Mira could see that her audacity struck him like a fist.

  Mira did not wish to undermine him. But neither would she let this pass. “Think on it, Elan. But don’t think long. They already assemble at Recityv. Two, maybe three, weeks, and all who will have heard the call and chosen to answer will have arrived at Solath Mahnus. From Naltus, it should be you who goes. The threat that comes needs the finest minds and stoutest hearts. I don’t say that idly.”

  Her king smiled softly. “I know, Mira. It seems we each have something to consider.”

  “I am proud that you are my king, and were my sister’s husband,” Mira said. “And I will keep only good thoughts of you.”

  “Thank you, Mira. I loved Lyra. I still do. And I shall keep only good thoughts of you, as well.” He then held up Mira’s hand and passed her a note, her sister’s last message for her, on a small roll of parchment. “Read it when your journeys are at an end.”

  * * *

  They followed Vendanj into a grand stable yard. Soft loam gave generously beneath their feet. They emerged into the light of day, a thin steam rising from the soil warming in the sun. Around them, the rich smell of tilled ground hung sweet in the air. A series of outbuildings arranged in a perfect row bordered the far side of the yard. In front of the centermost structure, their horses stood tethered to a hitch post. Beside Solus, Mira spoke with Elan, both of them framed against the dark stone of the stable behind them.