“But we won the war,” Tahn added, tentative.
“When Del’Agio, Randeur of the Sheason, learned what Corihehn had done, he sent Sheason messengers into the courts of every city. They threatened death to any who wouldn’t honor Corihehn’s lie. The Castigation, it was called.”
Vendanj looked up and down the edge of the bluff. “When the war was won, the Sheason came into the high plains. For several cycles of the first moon they linked hands and willed the earth to rise, built an earthen monument to the Sedagin. Gave them a home. These plains are known as Teheale. It means ‘earned in blood’ in the Covenant Tongue.”
Tahn sat silent in reverence to the sacrifice made so long ago.
“Seems our Velle friend doesn’t think Sheason and Sedagin can turn the Quiet back again.” Vendanj’s smile caught in the light of the moon. “No heroes.”
In many ways, Vendanj reminded Tahn of his father, Balatin. Serious, but able to let worry go when he sensed Tahn needed to laugh or just let things lie. Tahn suddenly missed his father, a deep missing. His da had gone to his earth a few years ago, leaving Tahn and Wendra to make their way alone—their mother, Vocencia, had died a few years before Balatin. He missed her, too.
“It’ll look something like this.” Vendanj gestured away from the high plateau again, shifting topics. “The Heights of Restoration, Tahn. On the far side of the Saeculorum.”
“Because you think this time I’m the hero?” He stared at the steam rising from the dead Bar’dyn’s wounds.
Vendanj sighed. “I’m inclined to agree with the Velle. And I don’t think like that anymore.” He paused, his eyes distant. “If I ever did.”
“He said there were others,” Tahn pressed. “Called me a mule.”
Vendanj gave a dismissive laugh over that. “We’re all mules. Each hauling some damn load, don’t you think?”
Tahn waited, making clear he wanted an answer. He’d agreed to come. He was bone weary, and scared to think Vendanj had pinned too much hope on him.
Tahn could hit almost anything with his bow. There’d been countless hours of practice supervised by his father. Even before that, he’d had a sure hand. Somewhere in those lost years of his young life he’d obviously learned its use; fighting techniques, too—his reactions were like Mira’s Latae battle forms, just less polished. But against an army? Against Velle? That thing had taken hold of him somehow. Not just his body, but who he was. It had stroked painful memories, giving them new life in his mind. It was a pain unlike anything he’d yet felt. This was madness.
What the hell am I doing?
The Sheason seemed to know his thoughts, and put a hand on Tahn’s shoulder. “There’s a sense about you, Tahn. Like the words you use when you draw your bow.” He paused. “But no, you’re not the only one we’ve taken to Restoration. Remember what I said at the start: We believe you can stand there. You’ve not passed your Change, so the burdens of your mistakes aren’t fully on you yet. That’ll make it easier.”
“Why would you need me if you’ve taken others?”
Vendanj let out a long breath. He settled a gaze on Tahn that spoke of disappointment and regret. “None have survived Tillinghast.” He paused as if weighing Tahn’s resolve. “That’s its old name. Tillinghast is where the Heights of Restoration fall away.” He gestured again toward the cliff’s edge close by. “Like this bluff.”
Before Tahn could comment, Vendanj pushed on. “And that’s those who went at all. Most chose not to go. Your willingness. It sets you apart from most.”
“He’s right,” Mira added, approval in her voice.
Tahn looked up at her, finding encouragement in her silver-grey eyes. She showed him the barest of smiles. And warmth flooded his chest and belly, chasing out some of the deep shiver still lingering inside him.
“Tahn,” Vendanj said, gathering his attention again. “The thing you need to remember is this. Standing at Tillinghast isn’t just about whatever mettle’s in you to survive its touch. It’s more about whether or not you can suffer the change it’ll cause in you once it’s done.”
Tahn shook his head, panic fluttering anew in his chest. “What change?”
“Different for everyone who stands there,” Vendanj replied.
“If they live,” Tahn observed with sharp sarcasm. “And then do what?”
“If the Quiet fully break free of the Bourne”—Mira nodded as though it was only a matter of time—“they’ll come with elder beings. Creatures against which steel is useless.”
Vendanj got to his feet. “And my order is at odds with itself. Diminished because of it.” He looked down at Tahn. “This time … we’ve asked you to go to Tillinghast. The Veil that holds the Quiet at bay is weakening. Could be that the Song of Suffering that keeps it strong is failing. I know there are few with the ability to sing Suffering. But whatever the reason for the Veil’s weakness, we think—if you can stand at Tillinghast—you can help should a full Quiet army come.”
Tahn shook his head in disbelief. And fear. “All because of the damned words I can’t help but say every time I draw.” He shook his bow. “And because I have a sense. Maybe it’s time you restore my memory. Give me back those twelve years you say you took from me when you sent me to the Hollows.”
He wanted that more than he let on. His earliest memories began just six years ago. Twelve years. Gone. And until Vendanj had come into the Hollows, Tahn had thought maybe he’d had some sort of accident. Hit his head. Lost his memory. But the Sheason had taken it. To protect him, the man had said.
“You may believe you’re ready for that. But think about it.” He pointed at the Velle, which had surfaced searing memories in him. “You don’t remember your young life … but it was a hard one. Not all hard. But most of it was spent in an unhappy place. And now, you’re far from home, chased by Quiet, asked to climb to Tillinghast, and you’re coming soon to the age of accountability.”
Tahn had been eager for his Standing and the Change that came after his eighteenth year. Eager for what, he didn’t exactly know. To be taken more seriously was part of it, though. And because he’d thought he might somehow get his memory back.
Tahn stood, shouldered his bow. “Wouldn’t that suggest I’m old enough—”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Vendanj cut in sharply. “I took your memory all those years ago as a protection to you. It still is. Before we reach Tillinghast I’ll return it to you. You’ll need it there.” He put his hand again on Tahn’s shoulder, his hard expression softening. “But not now. Trust me on this. I’ve seen what it does to a mind when so much change comes at once.”
Tahn thought about the pressure in his body and mind when the Velle had taken hold of him. The things it had surfaced all in a rush. Jagged, ugly things to remember.
Images of young friends, though he couldn’t see their faces. A fight, though he couldn’t remember why. Except they were settling something. The feeling of betrayal lingered. A sad pain in the pit of his stomach.
Tahn walked to where the Velle lay. Something glinted on the ground near its body. He hunkered down and ran his fingers across a smooth surface glistening with moonlight. Felt like glass. At its center were two fist-sized holes.
“What’s this?”
Vendanj came up beside him. “Velle won’t bear the cost of rendering the Will. They transfer it. Take the vitality of anything at hand so they can remain strong.”
The Velle had thrust its hands into the soil. Darkness had flared. It had caused the formation of this thin crust of dark glass. Tahn stepped on it. A soft pop. A fragile sound. If Vendanj hadn’t been here, what else inside Tahn would the Velle have taken hold of?
He finally gave a low, resigned laugh. “You win. Why complicate all this fun we’re having, right?”
He stole a look at Mira, who showed him her slim smile again. That, at least, was helpful. Hopeful, too. Like the lighter shades of blue strengthening in the east behind her.
Just before he turned away, he caught sight of low fogs
gathering on the lowland floor. He pointed. “You see that?”
Vendanj looked, and his expression hardened. Soon Mira stood with them, as they watched a cloud bank form around the base of the plateau.
“Je’holta,” Vendanj said.
“What is it?” Tahn asked.
“Another form of Quiet.” He paused a long moment. “And something we’ll now have to pass through when we leave here.”
Mira’s smile was gone. “Good test for Tillinghast.”
Tahn gave them each a long look, and said without humor, “I just came out to watch the sunrise.…”
CHAPTER THREE
Invitations
The Oath of the Sodality is an oath to defend the Sheason, to lend aid. To a sodalist, a book means as much as a blade. And he’ll raise both with vigor. But his oath isn’t compulsory. It’s not a blood rite. It’s stronger than that. It’s his choice.
—Explications and Comparisons of Oaths Real and Imagined, by Relin Corinat, archivist at the Library of Common Understanding
The sun had just cleared the bluff as Vendanj led his companions through the Sedagin city. A city that had the feel of a town. No tall buildings. Few stone structures. But it sprawled across the great open plain risen from the flatlands with a mild sense of impermanence. The Sedagin people had long been a wandering army—lived where they were needed—before Teheale. And even now, with a home of their own, they hadn’t bothered with the arrogance of architecture.
Vendanj and the others crossed near a wide tract of closely cropped grass. On their left, hundreds of young boys stood in short lines before men who were demonstrating precise moves and attacks with the great swords the Sedagin carried. Their attention never drifted to Vendanj and his friends. In turn, each boy executed the move and returned to the end of his line. The swords themselves were taller than their wielders, but the boys carried them and performed their drills without any apparent difficulty.
As they moved past the drills, homes grew in number, wood framed, and modest in appearance. But it was the absence of street barkers that Vendanj relished most. There were no handcarts filled with food or handmade trinkets; no beggars sat in the shadows of the buildings petitioning passersby. No loud, confusing din clouded the air, no smell of refuse rotting behind and between the homes and buildings.
“Not one house of bitter,” Tahn’s friend, Sutter Te Polis, remarked behind him. “I don’t trust sober minds.”
Vendanj kept the smile off his face. Sutter liked to run his mouth. But there was strength in him. A friend’s strength. As well as the sense and steadiness of a root farmer—Sutter’s trade. It’s why Vendanj had allowed the lad to come with them. Though, headstrong as Sutter was, he’d likely have followed them anyway.
They passed a group of men standing beside a house. Each wore a sword and exuded an air of calm and confidence. As they continued down several lanes, they could see more of the Sedagin at their doors and windows, and gathered in small groups outside, regarding the Sheason with a quiet respect.
They stopped in front of a particular house. No less than fifty Sedagin stood close by.
Sutter nudged Tahn. “Did you notice that none of them looks like fat old Yulop?” He mimed a round belly in front of him.
The door of the house opened, and a man emerged. His hair and eyes were the brown of brushed saddle leather. He too wore his long sword at his waist, but sported no cloak or cape. The other Sedagin bowed noticeably as he stepped outside, but Tahn could see nothing to distinguish him as their lord or king. The man made a quick survey of his guests, stopping to note their weapons. At a look, all the men dispersed, save a few who relaxed and began to talk quietly.
“Vendanj, my friend,” the man said. “You always surprise me when you return from the lowlands.” He offered a lopsided smile and stepped down from the short portico to the grass road.
Vendanj embraced the other. “I imagine that’s true.”
“My scouts tell me the Quiet follow you, but I suspect their report leaves the best of it unspoken.”
Vendanj nodded and smiled. “You’ve a talent for understatement.”
The man laughed. “Come in. I have cold water and hot bread.”
Inside, a large room lay awash in sunlight from windows on every side. The smell of fresh loaves beside the hearth to the left gave the place a relaxed, homey feeling. Against the rear wall, sketches in charcoal of several men hung in a perfect line. Beneath each sketch, a sword stood buried in the wood floor. To each side of the door, bookcases reached to the ceiling.
“Please, sit,” the man said, raising a hand to several chairs set around the hearth.
“Thank you,” Vendanj replied, and sat nearest the fire.
As his companions each found a chair, Vendanj made introductions. “This is Jamis Costnar. He leads the Sedagin.”
Jamis offered a gracious smile. “Let’s say I’m more of a guide.”
“It’s been a long time since you’ve come into the High Plains.” Jamis began pouring glasses of water from a sweating pitcher. “Refuge from the Quiet?”
“Too long,” Vendanj said to the first comment. “And we’re not here for refuge. We’re here with a request.”
Jamis stopped pouring, staring down at Vendanj. He then resumed, saying nothing until all had a glass of their own. “Introductions first,” he said, regaining his smile as he sat with his guests.
“Of course.” Vendanj nodded to his right. “This is Braethen Posian. Took the sodalist oath not long ago.”
“To stand with you?” Jamis leaned forward toward Braethen and whispered like a conspirator, “Brave soul.”
Braethen smiled.
“He’s an author’s son, from the Hallows,” Vendanj added. “Had his nose in books most his life. You’ll like him.”
Jamis showed a surprised expression. “I didn’t think the Sodality had people in the Hallows.”
“They don’t,” Braethen chimed in, sounding a bit defensive. “But I’ve studied the Sodality most of my life. Tried to understand how they serve with the Sheason.”
Jamis leaned forward again, wearing a peacemaker’s look. “Any reader of books is a friend of mine.”
Mira was suddenly behind Jamis, leaning down and taking him in a rear embrace. “Good to see you.”
Jamis started. “One of these days I’m going to catch you sneaking up on me,” he warned with good humor. He then patted her hands and nodded toward Vendanj. “I’m surprised you’re still with him and haven’t gone mad.”
Mira smiled, then took a spot beside a window, where she kept watch along the rear of the house.
Vendanj went on with introductions. “This is Tahn Junell, his sister Wendra, and their friend Sutter Te Polis. All from the Hallows, as well. And the lad”—he gestured toward the boy sitting beside Wendra—“is Penit. Joined us a few days ago out of Myrr. Pageant wagon player. Only member of his troupe to escape arrest by the League of Civility for playing an old rhea-fol. Has pluck. We’ll see him safely to Recityv.”
Wendra put a protective arm around the boy.
Jamis nodded greetings to them all. Of Penit, he asked, “You have parents?”
“No, sir. Just the pageant wagons.” Penit sat forward, not a whit intimidated. “And it’s getting harder to play the stories. The troop was only going to survive if we did well in Myrr. There’s not enough money in the smaller villages anymore, and the larger cities all have the League and their laws. A scop’s got to get paid.”
Jamis smiled. “Another brave soul.” Then he turned back to Vendanj. “So tell me. Why do the Quiet chase a Sheason, a Far, a child, and several Hollows folk?”
Vendanj took a long draught from his glass of water. He let the coolness fill him. Then he explained about Tahn and Tillinghast. There was more he could have shared, like Wendra’s gift with song, like the ingot of steel he’d had mongered into a new shape—a sword this time. But none of that was important for Jamis to know. And Vendanj finally came to his request. “The regent i
s going to recall the Convocation of Seats.”
Jamis held up a hand. The genial look on his face soured. Became grave. A very old wound shone in the man’s eyes.
“We won’t come.” Jamis returned Vendanj’s stare. “Anything after the First Promise you can keep.”
The man had the right to his anger. But Vendanj wasn’t finished. “The Veil is weakening. It hasn’t yet fallen, but some Quiet are passing through.” He paused. “I fear it will fail again. And when it does, Quiet will reach every doorstep.”
“Quietgiven have always escaped the Bourne,” Jamis argued. “But only twice with invasion numbers.”
“And both times,” Braethen interrupted, “in the months before they came, the records show the frequency increasing. People fleeing for the protection of city walls.”
Vendanj put a hand on Braethen’s arm. “We’ve seen this on our way here. And an increase of illness, too. Supal disease. Chrondia. To say nothing of produce markets selling half bushels of bad crops. It all points to the same thing.”
Jamis looked at each of them in turn. “If the time comes, we’ll defend our friends. As we always have. Your Convocation is filled with horses’ asses. And liars. I won’t see a single Sedagin die to protect them.”
Vendanj had no argument for that, and a heavy silence followed. It hung for several long moments. “Come with us anyway,” Vendanj asked, his voice soft but clear. “To Recityv. Convocation can be different this time.”
Jamis stared back at him a long while. “You’re brave, too. The League’s Civilization Order will see you killed if they find you rendering the Will. You know this.”
“I’d like to have them try.” They weren’t idle words.
The Sedagin leader gave him a sympathetic look. “How are you, really, my friend?” He paused, then spoke softly enough that only Vendanj might hear. “Illenia would have wanted you to fight hard. But she’d have wanted you to be happy doing it.”
The Unremembered Page 3