The Unremembered

by Peter Orullian

  Indignation flooded him. Grant had entrusted this boy to the man’s care and safety.

  He slowly turned his glare on this unworthy father, who stared back with defiance.

  “It is my family. I will do as I see fit,” the abuser said. “You’ve no authority here. Get out!”

  Instead, Grant drew close, his arms alive in anticipation of violence. He allowed his nearness to be his threat, staring, saying nothing. The abuser’s breath reeked not of bitter, but of some recent meal. This cruelty hadn’t even the excuse of drink.

  “Do you know how close you are to death?” Grant said softly. “Were it not for the family you’ve thrown down at your feet, I would end you here.”

  The abuser didn’t yield his own ire. “I don’t owe you anything. I’ve fed and clothed my own well enough. Don’t you show up and play the hero. I’ve my own way of keeping things right around here. And you gave up any part in it the day you left the brat.” His eyes darted at the lad. “So you can take yourself back to your desert. And you’d better hope I don’t share it around that you’ve been here. Violation of your sentence, that is.”

  Grant shook his head in disgust and leaned in toward the man so that his nose touched the other’s. “You’re a fool. If I’m the criminal you suggest, what makes you believe I won’t kill you to silence your gossip?”

  “You’ve a double tongue,” the abuser shouted back. “I won’t be trapped—”

  “It’s your family that’s trapped,” Grant cut in. “Bound to you for food and safety. But instead you feed them fists and fear, when they would have the better part of you to learn and grow by.”

  Grant’s wrath seethed in his words. “You’d be better to them dead than alive. At least then they’d have hope.”

  The abuser sneered. “Hope?”

  In his mind Grant recalled countless children he’d carried into the care of others. It was always the same, hoping and fearing he would make the right choice of their guardianship.

  This abuser was not the first to betray Grant’s trust.

  If his banishment could be more bitter, it was in moments like these.

  And it was in these moments that the soil of his heart grew stonier, when he sought—with all his training from so long ago and honed by decades of practice since—not to protect, but to destroy.

  Destroy a man that would harm his own family.

  With that thought, guilt pricked the edges of his conscience. But he wouldn’t let it stop him.

  Grant gave the boy another long look. “Which is your father’s strong arm?”

  The lad’s brow wrinkled. “His right.”

  Grant seized the abuser and ran him from the cottage. The other had no time to react or defend himself. Grant steered the derelict father deep into the trees and out of sight. The abuser protested loudly, swearing oaths and calling for help. His cries echoed back into the grove and were lost around knotted trunks and deep ravines.

  Then Grant let him loose, his indignation boiling over.

  The abuser whirled, whipping a fist around at Grant’s head. Grant ducked and punched the man’s chest, knocking his wind out.

  But the abuser didn’t give up so easily. He kicked at Grant’s groin. Again Grant avoided the blow and drove a fist into the abuser’s cheek—the same place the boy had been hit.

  The other howled in pain and frustration, his eyes bright with rage.

  Grant had lost his patience. He barreled the man to the ground, and in one lithe motion drew out his sword and cut off the man’s left arm.

  As the abuser screamed in shock and pain, Grant quickly cut a swath of the man’s shirt and used it to stanch the flow of blood spurting from the stump of his arm. He then tied it off and stood up. The abuser groaned and cried for some time. Grant watched with unfeeling eyes.

  When he thought he could be heard again over the abuser’s softer cries, Grant took up the severed arm and held it between them. “You’ll either redeem yourself with the arm I’ve left you, or I’ll come again and find you. Don’t fool yourself that you can take vengeance on your family and run. There’s no place far enough I can’t track you. And I’ve no other cause in life. If you ever trusted anything, trust that.”

  Grant then tossed the arm into the high grass and returned to the small home. He paused at the steps again, considering what he would say. But that was a brief moment, since he now knew only one way to speak, even to a woman and child.

  He strode in and found the boy comforting his mother, who had gotten herself to a chair. The lad knelt before her holding her hands. Grant took one knee beside them, and sought their frightened eyes.

  “He’ll never lay another hand on you. And if ever you fear he might, remind him of this day.” He then fixed his gaze on the lad. “You’re going to be all right. I’m sorry for what’s happened. But even that will give you mettle when you’re grown, if you use it well.”

  He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder to reassure him. Then he stood, nodded to them both, and returned to the road that had brought him to this shattered home. His only consolation was that at least these homes—and his own ward in the Scar—kept these children from the highwaymen who trafficked in human stock across the east.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Crones

  A womb does not a mother make.

  —Reminder spoken by highwaymen as they assess value

  Jastail J’Vache led the woman and his men at an easy pace on the dark road. The stars shone bright enough to navigate by. And Jastail was close enough to his destination that he didn’t want to set camp and waste another day. Besides, the night revealed yet another guise of the road, one he liked to savor.

  A few hours more and they turned off the road. They followed a path so obscure that he’d never have seen it if he didn’t know it was there.

  Many times he’d come this way to visit the crone in her cottage. A place set back deep in the whispering aspens.

  The night air rattled the leaves, lending their arrival the music of nature’s applause. A dim glow could be seen behind heavy curtains at the window. A streamer of smoke rose in a silver wisp from the chimney above. She couldn’t have been expecting them, but as they dismounted, the door opened quietly on a shadowy room.

  Jastail ordered his men to tend the horses and pitch camp, as he took his captive by the arm and led her inside. He closed the door and turned, his keen eyes already adjusted to the dimness. The crone now sat in a rocker near the fire with knitting needles held in her knobby fingers. She worked bland yarn into what might become a shawl. The room seemed to press inward, confining them. It smelled of old age, of one who rarely gets beyond her door.

  “Greetings,” he said.

  “And yourself, highwayman. What prize do you bring with you tonight?” The crone didn’t turn, her eyes fixed on her knitting.

  “I don’t need much of you, and I apologize for the hour—”

  “No you don’t,” she interrupted. “You’re eager to have your answers. That’s why you steer yourself through the shadows with this woman. But no matter. What will I have for your intrusion to make it worth my time? And don’t play at lying with me. You’re a good one at it, but I can see your deceptions, lest you forget why you come to me to begin with.”

  In the shadows of the crone’s knitting room, the highwayman smiled to himself. He appreciated her directness and lack of moralizing. She’d removed herself from the company of others precisely because she lacked the grace of polite society. That, and her special talents, which he was sure others hadn’t understood.

  Special talents. The very reason for his visit.

  “I have three bolts of fine cloth that are yours. And I’ve got a horse you may have if you’ve a use for it.” He waited to see if his offer would prove agreeable.

  “You’ve some ale, too, no doubt,” she said. “I’ll have everything you carry.”

  “Done.”

  Her fingers stopped, and her milky eyes turned. The woman recoiled from the crone’s awful s
tare, and Jastail put a bracing arm around her shoulders.

  “Bring her close.” The crone’s voice came softly, but cracked and thin, as if it had been abused somehow in her youth.

  Jastail had to use some earnest force to get the woman moving toward the crone’s rocking chair. Finally, he whispered in her ear, “Consider the old woman a healer. She’ll do you no harm. Think carefully, what would it profit me to come all this way only to allow something to happen to you now?”

  The woman stopped fighting, and he eased her toward the crone’s chair. So close, in the glow of the firelight, he could see the hair on the crone’s upper lip, which obviously meant nothing to her. The hag stared up at them both, her clouded sight never seeming to quite look either of them in the eye. Still, he knew a kind of seeing was taking place. Then she motioned for the woman to stand directly in front of her.

  Jastail let the woman go, and stood back as the crone put her knobby fingers on the woman’s stomach and began to grope around her breasts and hips and loins and thighs, slowly returning to the woman’s navel with an awkward caress.

  “What are you doing?” the woman finally asked, and tried to step away.

  The crone’s bony hand shot out and grasped the woman’s wrist, holding her tight and near.

  “This highwayman took me from my husband!” the woman yelled. “Why are you helping him? Where’s your womanhood?”

  The crone cackled dryly into the confines of her small room. Her milky eyes were almost youthful again with the light of humor. “Womanhood? Child, you’re old enough to see the folly in claiming gender as a common bond with a stranger. No kind of defense, that.”

  “And you’re old enough to know that I can find my way back here … with my husband. Who will not be kind.” The captive stared at the crone with bright defiance and anger.

  “Where was this husband of yours? Why did he not defend you?” A slight smile drew at one corner of the hag’s mouth.

  The woman looked at the highwayman, who stared back evenly. “He chose to live in hope of my rescue.”

  “I see. Well, if you come to ill use, then you both will revisit the prudence of that choice, won’t you?” Then the frown of the aged and bitter stole over the crone’s face. “I don’t have time for this. Come closer or our highwayman will force you to it. Either way, child.”

  Several moments passed. Jastail relished the battling emotions he could see in the woman’s face. The contest of indignation and acquiescence. He remembered it well from his own life. His mood darkened briefly at the thought. Then finally the woman approached the crone, who again put her hands on the woman’s stomach.

  As the night waned, the old woman began to mutter to herself as she slowly moved her wizened hands in circles over his captive’s navel. The scene struck him as ceremonial after a fashion, the two women locked in a strange union. But it also smacked of rape in a way he couldn’t describe.

  Despite his need of both his captive and the crone, revulsion touched his mind in long remembrances of other women in small, dark rooms. Other women who used or were used in unholy transactions. He recalled the tight, painful feeling of those rooms. He could almost feel in his throat the unanswered sobbing prayers that he’d offered in them so long ago.

  Those memories were interrupted when the crone stopped muttering and dropped her hands. His woman collapsed to her knees, spent. The hag took up the half-knitted shawl and used it to wipe at her brow and hairy lip before turning her clouded eyes back to Jastail.

  “Get the bolts of cloth and the ale,” the crone said.

  “And the woman?” asked.

  The crone shook her head. “Her womb is ruined. She’ll not bear children. Never has. Never will.”

  “Are you sure? She doesn’t look too old. And she has fire in her.” Jastail didn’t like to think that for all his effort he’d come up empty.

  “Did you happen to notice any children when you snatched this one from her husband?” The crone’s loose, wrinkled skin shrugged into an awful smile that showed gums bereft of teeth. “Something makes you hasty this time, highwayman. It’s dirty work to seize the living. And it’s worse when you get it wrong. Sometimes that can’t be helped. But there are signs that may be read to increase your odds, eh, besides just seeing children about. You know them, I think. Make your gambles, but do it wisely.” Her smile faded as she asked, “What makes you careless?”

  Jastail looked deep into the milky eyes of the crone, his anger mounting. “Damn.” He took a threatening step toward the hag and stopped. She wasn’t to blame. He whirled on his captive, raising a fist. Someone must pay! His creditors wouldn’t be lenient with him.

  He nearly struck the woman down before realizing that damaged goods fetch lesser prices.

  Jastail shot a glance back at the crone. She was right. He’d been working too fast of late. He’d gotten sloppy. But there were still bargains to be struck. Oaths to be fulfilled.

  “Get the bolts of cloth … and the ale,” the crone repeated, and went back to her knitting.

  He stepped into the darkness beyond the door, where the aspen leaves whispered in the soughing wind. The slow, chill breeze touched his skin, cooling his anger. Already he yearned once more to take his chances. Tomorrow he’d go back to the road, where he would try again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Bottom of Pain

  The difference between a player and a musician is honesty. Not craft or ability or experience. The listener hears it every time. And honesty is more quickly understood through suffering.

  —From the “First Lecture on Attunement,” taken in a Lyren’s first cycle of music study at Descant Cathedral

  Late in the night, when her companions had wandered off to bed, and all the Sedagin had done the same, Wendra remained, listening to the musicians. Scops. They were the last to leave a fire. Just like back home. They stayed on to play for each other. For themselves. Songs that they didn’t air in the company of crowds.

  The fire burned hot, but low, keeping her in shadows, unseen.

  She listened. The songs were unlike any she’d heard in the Hollows. When they were bright they were boisterous; when proud, courageous; and when sad, they were piteous and plaintive. Here, it seemed, the music became more than a performance, it grew into an accusation or challenge. There was boldness in it that she hadn’t heard before. Even through the troubles and madness since fleeing the Hollows—and before, back as far as her rape—Wendra was entranced by this new sound.

  It made her think of the simple, dark melodies she’d found in recent months.

  When the night at last found its end, the scops began to pack their instruments to leave. Wendra slid from her chair to catch the last two before they were gone.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very gifted.”

  A woman, still packing, looked over her shoulder at Wendra as her male counterpart turned to receive the accolades.

  “You’re most welcome, my young woman. Was there a particular song you liked?” He smiled and bowed in thanks for her praise.

  His companion shook her head without turning again.

  “The songs of loss. There was something soothing or comforting about them. I don’t know. It seemed—”

  “They didn’t simply accept the pain, but demanded answers and retribution,” he finished for her.

  “Yes,” Wendra said. “The music offered relief because it didn’t simply wallow in grief and resentment.”

  “You’re an astute listener. Are you a musician yourself?” The man looked Wendra top to bottom.

  She understood then his designs, her stomach roiling at the thought. So, she was grateful when the scop woman chimed in. “If you are, don’t waste any more breath on him,” she said. “You’ll want to talk to the composer, which would be me.”

  The woman hefted a lute case over her shoulder and came to stand beside her companion. “He’s quick to accept the credit, however he can get it.” She gave him a look of amused disgust. “But he’s neve
r around to help write the music we earn that credit by. What’s your name, my young lady?”

  “Wendra.”

  “I’m Solaena. This is Chrastof. He’s got packing to do. Why don’t you and I sit so I can rest my feet, wet my lips, and I can give you the advice my father never gave me.” She waved a hand to dismiss Chrastof, who mocked being hurt, and went to put away flutes and drums.

  Solaena and Wendra sat together, as the woman poured a tall glass of steaming tea from a pot she’d gathered from the fireside. She sipped, the warmth seeming to ease her features, and relaxed into her chair.

  “If you find any fascination in playing songs to a crowd”—Solaena swept a hand toward the empty tables—“well, let me tell you, find another way to earn a coin. Most times we aren’t paid. And precious few even listen. Around here, it’s swords and oaths.” She offered a tired smile. “Keep your music, my girl, but don’t make it your life’s path.”

  Wendra nodded appreciatively. But her questions weren’t professional. “How do you make them? The songs that feel like anguish, not for its own sake but for justice.”

  The scop smiled. “I see. Well, that’s just writing from my own heart’s desire. I guess so late in the night it’s tolerable to admit that I don’t believe in the same things I did when I was your age. And maybe because I don’t, I write about them in my songs to remind me of a time when I did. What I mean is, the songs are a place where I can give voice to my inmost wishes, even if the world around me doesn’t hearken to my words. You understand?”

  “I believe so. But the world does hear you. The Sedagin. Me.”

  A grateful smile touched Solaena’s lips. “You’re a dear heart, my girl. Thank you. And because of your gracious praise, I’ll tell you the trick of it—as I think that’s what you’d like to know.” She leaned over her tea, and spoke in a sincere tone. “When you make your sad song, you mustn’t be afraid to go to the bottom of your own pain. Any power in those tunes comes from the well of your own torment, and it’s from there that the demand for relief will come. Anything else is simply a lament. And personally, I don’t see a lot of point to that.”