The Unremembered

by Peter Orullian

  Another round of plaques was laid down, and again each of the players produced an item that seemed to shock those gathered to watch. Wendra didn’t immediately grasp the significance of the objects, but she guessed that they represented people in some way. The literal value of the item seemed secondary to what it signified.

  Around they went, laying six placards on the table. And each time they followed with some token that appeared to be the personal effect of someone the wagerer had known.

  Then Wendra understood. Looking at the pile of items on the table: a mourner’s kerchief, a child’s diary, an author’s quill, a worn doll, a stringless fiddle … Things she’d seen them presenting and discussing in the back room before the game began. These were symbols of loss, of emotional pain, of death, tokens whose voices were the sounds of silence and sorrow, of life’s sacrifice and bereavement.

  And somehow these gamblers were the cause or custodians of these moments of grief and regret, gamblers whose souls were stirred only by the despair and tragedy represented in such offerings.

  Wendra’s heart ached at the tokens heaped at the center of the table.

  “Young friends, you’ve played well,” Gynedo said with a hint of condescension. “But your plaques don’t make a strong bid against your last play.” He leaned back and drew deeply on his pipe. “There’s only small shame in getting up from the table. But to do so, I require you to take back your wagers.”

  The onlookers gasped. Gynedo seemed to be demeaning Jastail and Ariana’s efforts to play the game, devaluing their wagers. Wendra guessed that if a gambler stood up, he lost more than the game. He lost reputation. Gynedo was mocking them.

  Then Jastail smiled, as wicked a smile as Wendra had yet seen on his lips. “Not me, old friend. I will turn my last plaque.”

  Ariana studied the plaques on the table, appearing to weigh her chances. She looked at Jastail and Wendra, then nodded that she too would play to the last.

  “Your will to do,” Gynedo said. “What shall be the prize that gets you your last turn?” He took his pipe from his mouth and watched Jastail with curious eyes.

  Jastail smiled at the old man, his cunning looks holding back something, a secret that he seemed to enjoy not immediately sharing. Ariana leveled her icy gaze on him, an angry beauty in her that Wendra admired. The entire room again fell silent, players pausing to hear the last turn even if they couldn’t see the play.

  As he leaned forward, Jastail’s chair creaked loud in the suddenly quiet room. He seemed to want a close look at Gynedo’s face as he put in his last wager.

  He slowly reached for Wendra, taking her again by the wrist and drawing her toward the table. “And with this, I buy my last turn.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Names of the Dead

  In all the scholarship on the topic of language and names, the most often overlooked is the layer of intention. On its own, it may be nothing. But I’m convinced that without it, none of the rest of our findings mean a tinker’s damn. If true, reports of Mor Tongues ought to excite us more.

  —Portion of a letter sent by a Divadian linguist to the Scrivener in Residence at Recityv

  Vendanj sat across from Ne’Pheola in the darkest, smallest hours of the night. By the light of a solitary candle, they worked. Through the rug door, the cold encroached, leaving his writing hand more cramped after putting the stylus to such long use.

  But he would have no one else write these names.

  And it took time, because he wouldn’t add a name to the parchment until Ne’Pheola had related the story of both the one that was gone and the one left behind. In soft tones, Ne’Pheola shared the stories of the fallen, and the barren lives of widows and widowers that remained behind. The long hours stretched, but Ne’Pheola went on, and Vendanj thoughtfully recorded the names.

  Not all names. But recent ones. The last thirty years. As many as they could remember.

  At second hour, Ne’Pheola drew a tepid cup of water to wet her dry throat and steady the emotion that crept there as she gave the names of friends. As she gave even her own name. “I still don’t understand, Vendanj. How does the Civilization Order end our vow?”

  Vendanj paused, laying down the stylus and putting his fingers near the candle’s flame to urge some warmth into them. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Not fully, anyway.”

  “Not fully?”

  He gave her a long look, then placed a finger beside a name on one of the sheets of parchment. Then another. And another. “When Sheason and their spouses take the vow, the suffix ‘yan’ is appended to the end of their family name. It’s a phoneme from the Covenant Tongue. A root part of the speech that carries a binding power when spoken properly.”

  “You know the Covenant Tongue?” she asked.

  He smiled wanly. “No. Only select Far know the Language. But parts of it are studied during the years a Sheason learns Influence.” He put his hand down, covering up the column of “yan” suffixes. “Something has happened to rob this phoneme of its power. In effect, the names of all these people … have changed. They are not who they were.” He looked at her. “None of us are.”

  The widow stretched a cold hand across to him, and they locked fingers beside the candle. They remained unspeaking for some time.

  “If the Civilization Order was rescinded,” Ne’Pheola asked, “would it remake the bonds that have been severed?”

  Her eyes were etched deeply with lines of grief and sorrow felt over many years. She’d once been the flower of Estem Salo. He wanted to give her hope, wanted to see her vibrant again.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’m not sure how they’re related. If at all.” He paused a long moment. “And some things can’t be remade. A nail can be removed from a piece of wood, but the hole it has created remains.”

  Despair etched itself deeper into the lines of her face, and he couldn’t leave her with that. “I think someone has found a way to manipulate the vow and perhaps the Language itself to rob us of the promise,” Vendanj said. “We’re going to Naltus. I’m going to ask King Elan to put the Language to use. Against the Quiet.” He tapped the names on the parchment. “I intend to find out what’s happened, and if I can, restore these names and vows.”

  Ne’Pheola smiled small. And briefly, he saw it. The flower of Estem Salo. For that small hope, he was doubly paid for any loss he might suffer further down the road.

  “So, it’s not just a list to buy leverage with others,” she observed.

  Vendanj had told her he would use the list when he found Grant. “It has many uses,” he said, and returned a half smile of his own. “And you. You have much to give, my friend. Why don’t you return to the Vaults of the Servants?”

  Ne’Pheola raised a hand, cutting him off. “Kind words, Vendanj, but my heart couldn’t bear it. And more than that, these here”—she tapped the parchment on the table—“have need of whatever strength I have left. Some days are a struggle to convince them that they should want to live another day.”

  Vendanj didn’t press. He understood well enough.

  They held hands for several long moments. Then he took up his stylus and they resumed recording names. With each one the magnitude and toll of service mounted, the document growing.

  The list they created whispered of the abyss, and he wished that there’d never been need to create it.

  Wished especially, as the last name he put to it would be his own.

  I’m trying, Illenia. Gods know, I’m trying.

  With the thought of the woman he loved, a woman taken from this life by the League, Vendanj wrote on. Name by name. And the last thing he did was carefully go back over the entire list and draw a thin line through the phoneme “yan.” Of every name. To make the point clear.

  * * *

  Mira leaned against the outer wall of Ne’Pheola’s home in the dark of predawn. She surveyed the street, the land beyond the last homes, the sky. She thought she understood why Tahn took to the dark for his moments of solace.
The peace of a sleeping world before lying tongues and dire threats came into the day was something to be savored.

  In those few moments Mira forgot the Quiet, forgot even the changes coming for her and the Far. Mira stood in the still serenity with no need to do other than breathe and listen.

  “You don’t sleep, do you?” Ne’Pheola shuffled into the street to stand beside her. Her voice, though soft, seemed loud in the silence.

  “Return to your bed. I’ll watch here,” Mira said.

  “I’ve been up at this hour for more years than you’ve drawn breath, Mira Far. That’s not going to change now.” The old woman leaned against the wall with her, and stared out upon the unwaking world.

  Together they shared the calm for some time, before the widow spoke again, her words so soft that Mira had to strain to hear her.

  “Do you know where your road ends, my girl?”

  Mira understood that she meant the journey they all had undertaken. “If it ends prematurely, no.”

  Ne’Pheola might have smiled in the darkness. “You will go into the belly of the Quiet if you would see this thing done. And for my part, I hope that’s where you go. It’s selfish of me, but I believe I’ve earned a wedge of selfishness for my own burdens.”

  “I think we’re all going to the belly of the Quiet before we’re through.” Mira didn’t say it lightly. She’d thought on this.

  “We might at that,” the widow said, nodding. “We might at that. But here’s the question: Is it your intention to stand at the Sheason’s side to see it done?” Mira started to answer when Ne’Pheola held up her hand. “I don’t need an answer, my girl. I only want you to have considered the question. Vendanj will make an enemy of himself to most before this is through.”

  “Enemy,” Mira repeated. It wasn’t a word she’d ever attributed to the Sheason. He was a hard man at times, driven and uncompromising. But those qualities were the reason she’d joined him some four years ago.

  Ne’Pheola looked up, surveying the stars above Widows Village. “The world is changing. The things a Sheason stands for, his service and sacrifice, are considered by many to be at best irrelevant, at worst criminal. The Quiet stirs. And this, Mira Far, isn’t simply another war. The very instruments we’ve always had to protect ourselves—the Song of Suffering, the Tract of Desolation, the Will itself—are under attack from within our own borders.”

  Mira followed the widow’s gaze skyward. “You speak of the League.”

  “Not only the League.” Ne’Pheola sighed. “If you intend to stand beside Vendanj to the end, you’ll stand not only against the secrets held deep inside the Bourne. You, child, will stand against nations and kings. Yes, the League, as well. But before it is over … the Order of Sheason itself.”

  Mira stared intently at the old woman, waiting for her to explain.

  Ne’Pheola remained silent for a time, taking in those stars as if she’d never seen them before. Then she looked at Mira again. “I’ve seen and felt it this last evening as I sat with him. A terrific burden he’s placed on his shoulders. You must decide if you’re going to help him to carry it. Yes, you’ve brought hope out of the Hollows.” The widow paused, a grave look passing over her eyes. “But hope often fails. Vendanj knows this. He seeks to surround himself with those hardened enough to come against these threats even when hope is gone. And that, my girl, will mean looking into the faces of those you’ve esteemed as friends and being willing to do what is necessary.”

  Ne’Pheola stopped. She rubbed her eyes slowly then looked heavenward again. “Before it’s done, our friend will likely become a fugitive, and yet … his heart will remain fixed on the goal. This is why he can be cruel. There’s no middle ground for him. And it’s why this old woman will carry a thought of hope when you leave here.”

  Mira pondered all Ne’Pheola said. At times she and the Sheason had disagreed. And while he trusted many things to Mira, if he set himself on something, there was no further debate. In fact, it was part of what made them compatible. Mira was woven of the same cloth.

  But Ne’Pheola’s words were unsettling: Standing against Sheason; looking into the faces of those she’d esteemed and doing what was necessary—these were dark portents to Mira’s heart. It amounted to a war against both sides of the Veil. There could be no victory for them in such a cause. How the widow could feel hope in that escaped Mira.

  But that wasn’t the question she’d been asked: Had Mira considered where this ended?

  The answer came when Ne’Pheola spoke again into the stillness. “And what of your own family, Mira Far? You are come to the age to bear your own heritage a child, are you not?”

  Mira remained undecided on the choice her king would put to her when next they spoke. And the thought brought fresh sadness about her sister’s death.

  She did want to go into the belly of the nightmare to stand beside the Sheason and her new friends out of the Hollows. But part of her motivation was selfish: She didn’t want to bear a child she would never live to raise, a child she would never hear call her “mother.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Inveterae

  When a child brings you their first drawing, do you cast it in the fire for its lack of refinement? Pity then for Inveterae, who burn.

  —Colloquial expression heard in the Sotol Wastes

  Cheers continued to erupt to the right, noise and laughter and applause rising from the great luminous tents. Tahn shuffled Sutter away from the throng. The feeling of the tenendra changed as they approached a distant part of the field. The low tent. Chills rose on Tahn’s skin. If the physic healer was right, there was a creature from the Bourne inside.

  “Some taste in entertainment you have,” Sutter slurred, and nearly fell.

  Sutter hung on Tahn, making it difficult to walk. But Tahn managed to get them to the flap of the tent, where he stopped dead, staring at the most captivating woman he’d ever seen.

  She stood leaning against the stand at the tent’s entrance. A sign nailed to the front of the makeshift podium read: Stay two steps from the cages.

  Her long, curly hair was drawn back in a tail. Tight-fitting leather trousers, cut extremely low across her hips, clung to her calves and thighs. Her blouse plumed at the sleeves, but stretched across her bosom and ended above her ribs, showing a lean stomach. She was maybe a few years older than Tahn and Sutter. But there was experience in her face. Knowledge. It gave her an exotic look. Her brow rose with impatience over large, brown eyes and a delicate nose.

  “Find what you’re looking for?” The woman flashed a dangerous grin, hardly looking at them as she used the tip of a knife to clean her nails.

  He’d been gawking. But beyond her raw beauty, he’d seen the lucre in her eyes. She was tenendra folk. If she sensed his desperation, he’d never afford the admission price she’d quote him.

  In those few moments of hesitation, she sized him up. “I suggest you speak true words when you open your lips, boy, or your friend here is likely to gather some scars.” She used her dagger to delicately caress Sutter’s lips, which hung loose and wet with spittle.

  Tahn pulled Sutter back out of reach and shot an angry glance at the tenendra girl.

  She laughed. “I’ll wait a moment or two, and then the price will double.” She pointed her dagger toward the tent flap to their right, then spun the blade in her hand and sheathed it against one trim thigh.

  Tahn decided on the truth. “My friend is sick. The healer in town said there’s a creature here that might be able to help him.” Tahn nodded toward the tent. “Which means I’m going in.”

  A wicked smile crossed her lips. “I hear the hope of free admission in your voice. Are you appealing to my sympathies?” She leaned forward, studying Sutter’s sweaty face. “Either your friend is feigning his sickness, in which case I really will make you pay double. Or you tell the truth, and you’ll pay triple.” She laughed. “So, which is it?” She tapped the dagger at her thigh.

  Tahn stared back. “How
much?”

  “I’ll take you in, and three local marks each.”

  Tahn shook his head. “Four. We may need to get close.” He nodded toward the sign on the front of her stand.

  The woman’s eyes darted to the sign and back to Tahn, measuring him closely. Then her face lit with savage amusement, a dangerous humor that lent her a raw sensuality. She stepped close, her lips brushing his ear when she said, “Well enough, boys. I believe I know what you need.”

  Tahn felt flushed, swallowed.

  She drew back, looking at his lips, and back into his eyes. “To have the beast’s cooperation I’ll have to threaten it. Dangerous business.” She pulled her dagger from its sheath, and laid the flat edge over Tahn’s lips. “And you take the risk knowing I won’t help you if you come to harm. The beast isn’t human, and mad as the Kaemen Sire when he marched upon the Sky.”

  The girl twirled her dagger in front of his face. “Pay now, and you’ll have your chance with the low ones. No tricks. Real coin. I can smell alchemic ore a league away.”

  Tahn looked past her dagger into her sultry eyes. “Four now. The rest when we’re done.”

  The girl slowly laid the point of her dagger on Tahn’s chin, just barely pricking him. The wicked smile widened, arousing Tahn even over the threat of her blade. “Another time I might put you into your earth for such a veiled insult to my honor.” She leered at him, a wanton look that made him ache in a surprisingly pleasant way. “But I’m feeling generous tonight. We are made,” she said, sealing the deal. Before sheathing her dagger, she reached down and gave Tahn’s manhood a gentle squeeze. Then she lifted that same hand, palm up, to be paid.

  Tahn fetched the fee from his pouch.

  “You may call me Alisandra, lover,” the girl said, hiding the coins in a pocket of her trousers. “It’s not my true name, but it will help you find me if you have further … desires.” She again studied Tahn’s lips, still smiling her seductive smile.

  She then strode toward the long tent, her tight leather pants showing a firmness Tahn couldn’t ignore.