The Unremembered

by Peter Orullian

  “Like now,” Tahn said.

  “Perhaps,” Mira replied, seeming less sure than Vendanj about it. “And in trade for protecting the Language, we never pass the age of accountability—what you call the Change.”

  Tahn gave her a sympathetic look. “I’d say you’re cheated of your best years.”

  “It lets us do what’s necessary to protect the Language without worrying about the costs.” She nodded matter-of-factly. “We move on to the next life before accountability. I like the trade.”

  The bird grew larger against the russet hues of dusk.

  “Then, you really are…”

  “I still have a few years left.” She made it sound like a lifetime.

  All his life he’d just wanted to reach the damn Change so that he could be taken seriously, could have his choices matter, could find a girl.… “Maybe it’s the Hollows in me, but it doesn’t sound like much of a bargain.”

  She gave him another patient look. “Most folk I meet, whatever their race, only fight not to die. Or to keep others from dying. Maybe that’s because they don’t have a sense of what comes after death.” Her patient expression turned quizzical. “It’s not that I don’t value my life. But I don’t fight in fear of losing it, either. The undying life after this world will be a sweet refrain.” In the soft shadows of the failing light, her face looked peaceful.

  Tahn gathered the image of her in that moment to hold in his mind.

  “You sound eager to get there,” Tahn observed. “I’ll take my time, if you don’t mind.” He smiled and rubbed at his bruised ribs.

  Mira slid closer and corrected his motion. “Rub from the outside in.” Her hands on his skin made his heart pound along like a barrel drum.

  Then she looked up and caught his eye. “Man’s problem is he’s selfish. Try not to be like the rest, will you?” She smiled, but he knew she meant what she’d said.

  She looked away at the approaching bird for a moment, her gaze mild in a way he hadn’t seen before.

  He’d never spoken to a girl or woman like this, except for maybe Wendra. And when she looked back, he kissed her. Less awkward this time, despite sitting nude in a hot spring in the full light of sunset. And she didn’t let go the kiss, either. Instead, she looked back at him with a mix of understanding and approval … and amusement.

  Still smiling, she said, “Not a selfish kiss—”

  “Because you wanted me to,” Tahn finished, and offered his own smile.

  The bird began to descend toward them. Tahn hefted a nearby stone to chase it away. But Mira put a gentle hand over his to lower his arm. He thrilled again at her touch, though a bit confused. The raven lit upon the edge of the hot spring, and cawed into the twilight.

  “Do you also have some husbandry gift I don’t know about?” Tahn laughed as the bird shifted around to look at him.

  Mira stared at the raven. “It’s a message from home.”

  “There’s nothing tied to its feet.” Tahn looked more closely to be sure he hadn’t missed it.

  “The bird itself tells the news.” The look in Mira’s eyes changed again. Not the quick, appraising cast she most often wore, nor the softer faraway look Tahn had just seen. This was the look of grief, and the difficult choices that often follow it.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means my sister, the Far queen, has passed this life. It means I have a choice of my own to make. And it might mean you’ll go to Tillinghast without me.” She said it with new weight in her voice, as one mourning more than mere death.

  She said she didn’t fear death, though.

  Mira shooed the bird back into the sky and they watched it wheel away north and east.

  * * *

  When the bird had faded from view, Mira climbed from the warm pool and began to dress. She would miss Lyra—her sister had possessed the good sense to go slow. Not an easy thing for a Far. Lyra went slow when reassurance was needed, or when memories were being made. It was unique wisdom.

  But more than missing Lyra, Mira felt like a hypocrite. She’d told Tahn that mankind was selfish. But she wished her sister hadn’t died because the woman hadn’t produced an heir. And the last thing Mira wanted to do was perform that task.

  The short life of a Far meant she would never truly be a child’s mother. Give birth, perhaps. But never live to raise that child.

  There had been a string of caregivers who’d used that term—mother—with Mira all her life. But each was only around a short time before going to her final earth, replaced by another mother.

  By every silent god, she would not do that to a child. It’s why she’d left the Soliel with Vendanj years ago.

  She glanced at Tahn, who was pulling on his boots as he watched her. He said nothing, though his eyes were alive with questions. She liked him for that. For keeping quiet when he itched for answers.

  Moments later, they walked back into the heart of Teheale: earned in blood.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dances

  Remembering is a weapon. Sadly, we mostly use it on ourselves. Damn shame, that. But it doesn’t have to be so. You can put a deep hitch in a man if you’ll just remind him of something he’s forgot.

  —Captured in the thin volume known as Barstool Wisdom, a collection of battlefield insights compiled by Timmony Sewel, chronicler of the Wynstout survivors from the fight at Luhim’s Pass

  The sun danced on the treetops, filling the plain with golden hues and sepia shadows. To the west, smoke rose from countless fires. Braethen and the others followed Vendanj toward the smoke, and shortly the plain opened up onto a broad expanse of closely shorn grass. Large pits had been dug into the ground, each one tiered and lined with stone. Great fires burned there, and tables, filled with food and pitchers of drink, were set around the flames. Children chased one another about the tables, sounds of their merriment giving it all an easy feeling—the family kind.

  They drew near the table where Jamis sat holding a small girl on his lap.

  “My daughter,” he said as they approached. A woman came forward and took the girl from Jamis. “And my love, Sonja,” he finished, introducing her.

  The woman bowed her head slightly. “Sheason,” she said, then turned to Braethen and bowed again. “Sodalist.”

  It was the first time someone had shown him any deference for being a part of the Sodality. It put him a bit off balance. Beside him, Sutter stuck a thumb in Tahn’s back to take note—not of Sonja’s acknowledgement, but her striking beauty. That righted Braethen, seeing something normal.

  “Let’s begin,” Jamis announced. He went to the fire and raised a pole bearing the Sedagin banner—one of their longblades held aloft by a right arm. In turn, someone at each fire raised the same standard. “Tonight, we celebrate the company of one who wears the three-ring symbol, and his sodalist companion. They remind us of our oath.”

  The entire company fell silent. Thousands of Sedagin. Even the children quieted. There was no movement, no cough, no whisper. All eyes turned west. And Jamis himself, leader of the Table of Blades, watched the horizon, patiently waiting for something.

  Vendanj watched, too, the fading sun catching the three-ring sigil in the hollow of his neck. Three successively smaller circles, each inside the next, all joined at one point. Almost like ripples on water. The glyph indicated inner resonance, vibrations moving outward from one to touch many.

  Staring at the symbol, Braethen fingered his own emblem, newly taken—a quill dancing along the flat edge of a blade. Knowledge and might.

  A moment later, the sun dipped completely below the horizon, and blue shadows fell across the plain. In the long silence, only the fire could be heard, though Braethen felt reverence all around him.

  Jamis lifted his cup. “Drink now,” he said. “And enjoy this moment of peace.”

  Every glass was lifted into the twilight, and all drank.

  Braethen and the others were invited to sit at Jamis’s table. They ate roast pheasant and potatoes, speaking of
uncomplicated things as night came on. The sky lit with stars. The fires glowed brightly and kept the chill at bay. Laughter rose from the plain with sparks from the flames.

  “So, you’re new to your oath.” Jamis filled Braethen’s cup for him.

  “A few weeks,” Braethen admitted. “But I’ve been studying it all my life.”

  “Son of an author. An author of some reputation,” Vendanj added, putting a hand on Braethen’s shoulder.

  Jamis’s eyebrows rose. “Surprising that you didn’t follow the Author’s Way, then. Most authors’ sons do.”

  They couldn’t know how raw a topic this was for Braethen. His father, Author Posian—A’Posian as tradition went—had indeed wanted Braethen to follow the path. Had groomed him for it. Twenty-six years of grooming. Braethen could still see the disappointment in his da’s face when he’d told him he was leaving home to go with a Sheason. In hopes of becoming a sodalist.

  Braethen half-smiled, trying to end the conversation. “I suppose I just preferred a different oath.”

  “A fighting kind,” Jamis pressed, wearing a half grin of his own. “Binding you to this one.” He raised his cup toward Vendanj. “You have interesting luck.”

  Vendanj laughed softly. “Braethen’s oath is binding in the same way yours is.” He raised his cup back to Jamis. “It’s the extent to which you keep it.” He turned to Braethen, and added an advisement. “It’s not compulsory.”

  Braethen knew as much. But he suddenly needed to be sure they understood his reasons for leaving his father behind, and taking up steel—something Hollows men learned but rarely needed to master.

  Quietly, but with firmness he recited: “Change is inevitable and necessary, but the traditions of our fathers need to be preserved. Some must watch. Some must remember. Some must defend. And some must die.”

  When he looked up, the whole table was staring at him. He didn’t shrug or offer a sheepish smile. He might not yet be masterful with the blade-half of his own emblem, but he knew its quill like he’d pulled it from his own skin. So, he met their eyes with steadiness. He even kept a private smile from his face. How many of them know that “some” is the Dimnian root for the fraction “one-fourth.” Thus the oath tells of the four parts of being a sodalist.

  When most of the table had returned to conversation, Jamis and Vendanj were still staring at him. “I think you tied into a good one, here,” Jamis offered, nodding toward Braethen.

  Vendanj’s face held its familiar hard and scrutinizing expression. The Sheason then slowly placed something on the table between him and Braethen. Long and wrapped in aged leathers, it wasn’t hard to guess what it was. In general, anyway.

  Braethen gently folded back the edges of the wraps to reveal the sword. Even in the dim firelight, it appeared unfinished. The metal was dark, as though left in the midst of being tempered. It gave the impression of being half forged. Portions of its edges were clearly blunt.

  And yet Jamis’s jaw hung slack. “Dear dead gods. Is that what I think it is?”

  Vendanj kept focused on Braethen. “The Blade of Seasons, Braethen. I want you to wear it. Use it.”

  He’d read about the weapon. But honestly, it had seemed a fiction. “What should I know about it?”

  “You’re remembering storybooks,” Vendanj said. He placed a hand on the weapon’s handle. “This won’t make you a slayer. Not its purpose, anyway.” He looked down the long, unrefined edge of the thing. “That’s why it’s forged and refined only so far. The blade is more about remembering. Goes well with your histories. The ones you brought with you. The Reader’s books.” He smiled and flipped the leathers back over the blade, covering it.

  Braethen felt a pang of loss for the Reader, Ogea. He’d been a good friend who’d died not long ago, leaving him his satchels of books to care for. Braethen’s emblem took new meaning: the sword and quill.

  “Much of its value,” Vendanj said, speaking softly, “will be clear to you when you put it to use.” He gave Braethen a reassuring pat on the arm.

  Jamis gathered both Vendanj and Braethen’s attention. “I’m not sure any weapon is going to keep you safe from the League, if you insist on going to Recityv.” He waved his hand in a circle around his head. “Every city near the Teheale has seen Sheason executed on the authority of the League’s Civilization Order. I think,” he added, “the regent’s Convocation comes too late. The League, in ways that matter, is already the law.”

  “That’s bitterness talking,” Vendanj returned sharply. “Helaina’s no dog to be led. And we’re going through the Scarred Lands. To ask Grant to come with us. He keeps his own counsel about the law.”

  “Keeps his own law,” Jamis corrected. “The League won’t have much use for him. Any more than it had for your pageant boy here.”

  Penit had been listening intently to everything they said.

  Vendanj sighed, seeming to remember he was the guest of honor, but added, “Need I remind you I’m not much for good citizenry anyway.”

  Jamis laughed. “It would seem we both have a gift for understatement.”

  “Truer than you know.” Vendanj leaned closer to the Sedagin leader. “And Grant is only part of it.”

  Jamis sat listening, his eyes on Braethen.

  “I want Convocation to succeed”—Vendanj spoke with reservation—“but we can’t place all our hope there.”

  Understanding entered Jamis’s eyes. Wonder and worry. He turned, speaking as though this were an old conversation. “The Covenant Tongue,” he said softly.

  Vendanj nodded.

  “Have the scriveners deciphered it?” Jamis asked, his tone cautiously hopeful.

  “Small pieces,” the Sheason replied. “We’ll visit the library at Qum’rahm’se on our way to Recityv. They keep the Tract of Desolation there. It’s our best source of the Language.”

  “But it’s still not everything we’ll need to know,” Jamis said, as one reminding a friend.

  “Which is why we’re going to Naltus after we’ve spoken to the regent.” Vendanj looked at Mira. “The Far still keep their part safe.”

  Jamis eyed Vendanj closely. “Do you think Elan will let it be used?”

  Vendanj scrubbed his face with his hands, as one might who’s considering a long road. “I don’t think he has a choice. But between the scriveners and the Far, we may have enough to retranslate the Tract of Desolation, and hopefully strengthen the Veil.”

  “But even that’s not all, is it?” Jamis said.

  Vendanj stared across at his old friend. “If the Quiet break free, perhaps the Covenant Tongue can be used … as a weapon.”

  * * *

  When the food was nearly gone, several musicians began to play and people started to dance near the fires.

  “Woodchuck, I could get used to this.” Sutter popped several raspberries into his mouth.

  “A man who sniffs the dirt is an easy man to please,” Tahn said, distracted by a sudden idea.

  Sutter poked him in the side and resumed his meal with vigor.

  Taking his lead from other tables, Tahn got up and went around to Wendra. “Care to join me in a dance?”

  She looked up at him, reticent.

  “Please,” he added. He’d been waiting a long time for a good excuse to talk to her, figuring out what to say. Or maybe how to say it.

  A reluctant smile touched her lips and she took his hand. A few strides away, they began to imitate the dance steps of the others.

  He watched her as they turned in slow circles. It took her a while before she met his eyes. Then, he said simply, “I’m sorry.”

  Firelight caught in her eyes, which welled with tears. She shook her head.

  “It’s these damned words, Wendra. This … feeling.” He paused, realizing he’d never shared any of it with her. Partly because he’d sensed he shouldn’t. Partly because it was embarrassing. “Every time I lift my bow, it’s like I have to ask if I can let the arrow go.”

  Her eyes shifted from pained remem
brance to something hotter. More angry. “And you decided not to shoot the Quiet that took my child.”

  “I’m a horse’s ass,” Tahn said.

  Wendra gave a sudden burst of laughter. There was something slightly manic about it.

  “I wind up caught in the grip of the feeling that comes,” he explained. “I hate that part of it.”

  They turned a few steps, and as always happened with Wendra, she found some compassion. It didn’t mean her anger went away. She was a rare woman, capable of sympathizing with, even understanding, someone she didn’t care for.

  “It’s why Vendanj asked you to come.” She sniffed, settled into an easy rhythm. “And before you got to the cabin … my baby came still.”

  “Because of the Bar’dyn?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “But by every abandoning god, I wanted you to shoot the bastard.”

  “You didn’t have to come with us.” Tahn looked into her eyes again. “Or did you come in hopes of seeing a Bar’dyn crush my neck?” He showed her a conciliatory smile.

  Her laugh came more naturally, though not quite with full forgiveness. “I think maybe your neck is too stiff for crushing.” She gave him a wry look. “The whole world isn’t waiting around for you to shoot your bow. Vendanj asked me to come. Wants me to visit Descant Cathedral. It’s a music conservatory. Said he’d heard I was fair with my voice.”

  Tahn nodded appreciatively. “You sing as well as Mother ever did.”

  They fell into a mutual remembrance, dancing slow. Wendra not quite ready to forgive, it seemed, but warmer. And Tahn relieved to have explained what happened, but still feeling a bit shackled by those words. I draw with the strength—

  Sutter tapped Tahn on the shoulder. “I’d like a round with the lady. Stop being a hog.” He looked to Wendra. “You game?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “Here,” Sutter said, and took Wendra’s hand, spinning Tahn away and into Mira, who he’d been dancing with.

  Seeing her so suddenly in front of him, she gave him the impression of purple logotes, a small stubborn wildflower that flourished where nothing else ever could—on the rocky, windy hills of Cali’s North. He smiled at the image.