The Unremembered

by Peter Orullian

  Jastail slowly turned his head toward Wendra. “The great game is to know the offering in these deeds, these sacrifices people make; to weigh their price, and barter them. To hold them in token is a dear thing.” Wendra remembered the many items upon the gambling table, and her feeling that they represented actions, choices, sacrifice.

  “Dearer still,” Jastail went on, “is the one who can direct the choice, up the wager, hold the deed suspended in his hand. It’s no less than holding life. For what is life but choice.”

  He held up the metal glove won from Ariana. “Our fair lady at the table spoke but a wish to a doting warrior, and sent him to his death, knowing he would die.” Jastail’s smile flared. “Do you see, his was the choice, but by her influence he chose a path of ultimate sacrifice. The glove became an emblem of his life, his will offered to another.”

  Anxiously, Wendra rubbed her belly. Only vaguely did she note Jastail’s observant eyes as she did so. Her mind raced to remember what other tokens had lain on the game table. But she went quickly past them to Jastail’s final play—pulling her toward the table’s edge. A dark revelation came.

  My silent gods, he does know where Penit is! That was his wager. It wasn’t my life. It was my chance to find Penit.

  She risked everything for it. And had Jastail lost, she’d never have found the boy.

  Wendra rose from the fireside and crawled into her blanket, taking long, deep breaths of crisp night air to cool the fire that burned inside her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Scar

  We know the Velle draw life to sustain themselves. If the Veil falls, the number of them that walk into the east … could be staggering.

  —Ponderings on the effects of rendering, during discussion on the topic of Imparting in the Vault Halls of Estem Salo

  Vendanj led Braethen and Mira to the top of a low hill. Over the rise stretched an endless waste.

  “The Scarred Lands.” Vendanj didn’t wait, descending onto the long plain.

  The sun grew hot, the heat also rising off the baked soil all around them. Rocks and earth were a patchwork of white and the color of soot. And everything was still, empty, quiet. What grass Braethen saw was dead. Only the hardiest sage grew, and that sparsely. Fissures yawned like sores in the arid expanse of hard-baked soil and stone.

  Occasional wind dervishes licked at the earth, small flurries tugging at the brown grass that bristled with their passage.

  “What caused this?” Braethen asked.

  Vendanj stared into the wastes. “Velle.”

  “But so much?” The Scar would take days to travel through.

  Vendanj waved Braethen to his side. “The First War of Promise lasted four hundred years. Not constant battle. Years of peace passed here and there. Then the Quiet would come again. Generation after generation watched their fathers go to war. Schoolrooms focused on combat strategy, whatever knowledge could be had of the Quiet. Literacy belonged only to those children whose mothers sang and read to them. Women forged weapons and bore the men that would wield them. Before the war was over, they were known as the Wombs of War.”

  Braethen lifted his face to the sun, wanting to shake off the chill of that term. Wombs of war.

  Vendanj took a drink from his waterskin. “But steel alone couldn’t put down the Quiet or drive them back into the Bourne. And they came with Velle and other creatures from beyond the Veil.” He nodded to the landscape around them. “But this is the work of Velle.”

  “Dead gods, they drew this much from the land?” Braethen asked.

  “The First War of Promise ended here. Called the Battle of the Round. The army of the Promise was outnumbered four to one. In the end, they formed a great circle, leaving no flank. Velle drew the life from the earth to fuel their renderings. Used it to try and end the war. But Maral Praig, Randeur of the Sheason, gathered his fellows together at the center of the round. While the army held the line, all the Sheason joined hands. Praig uttered a cry, and a light flared like the sun. Thousands of Quiet fell. Every Velle.” He paused. “And every Sheason standing in the round.”

  Braethen was dumbstruck. “He used the life of the Sheason for his rendering.…”

  Vendanj cast his gaze from left to right, finally looking back at Braethen. “It’s an ugly wound, but a good reminder.”

  Across the barren landscape lingered the smells of dry sage and dirt like that of a burial cave. But there was something more. Ever since they’d come into the Scar, the quality of light, of movement, seemed strained. A lethargy permeated the place, like the broken spirit of a man.

  “All this time, and still so little grows here,” Braethen observed.

  Vendanj took a deep breath of the dry air. “Some have tried to cultivate crops in the Scar. Gave up. The Forda is nearly gone.”

  “But Grant lives here,” Braethen said.

  “What if he says no?” Mira interjected.

  Vendanj showed them each a blank stare, but said nothing.

  The rest of the day they traveled in silence. The earth rolled in dry stretches. Low spots where rainwater had pooled had left behind alkali flats. Juts in the land showed coarse streaks of limestone. Other spots had turned red from long exposure to the sun, their surface rough like the dry tongue of a mongrel dog.

  That sun dipped low on their left near the horizon, its weak light casting violet shadows. The Scar might have been the most barren place Braethen had seen, but the stars shone brighter here than anywhere he’d ever been.

  Before full dark they stopped to set up camp. Mira saw to the horses. Braethen built a fire against the chill. And Vendanj consulted a map, using the bright stars to check position.

  In those brief moments of distraction before a watch could be set, four shadows converged on them from four directions.

  Mira dropped into a Far Latae stance, both swords drawn. Vendanj began lifting a hand. Braethen fumbled for his sword.

  A moment later, the weak light revealed youths. None of them could have been more than sixteen years old. Two held drawn bows. Another had hands filled with knives. The tallest, like Mira, carried dual swords.

  “Easy, Mira,” Vendanj said, and lowered his hand.

  “Forgive us, Sheason,” the tallest boy said, looking at the three-ring symbol at Vendanj’s neck. “There’s really just one type of man that enters the Scar.”

  “Is Grant with you?” Vendanj asked.

  “No.”

  Braethen let go his sword handle, which he hadn’t managed yet to free from its sheath.

  “How far?” Vendanj asked.

  “Another day,” the boy said, pointing east and north. “I can take you there. It’s not easy to find.”

  “I know the way.” Vendanj gestured to their fire. “Join us.”

  The four youths cautiously entered their camp, eyeing Mira and Braethen. They didn’t sit, instead squatting, keeping their feet under them. Braethen guessed their leader was the oldest. The two girls were maybe fifteen. The youngest was a boy no more than thirteen.

  “I’m Meche,” the tall boy said, speaking to Vendanj. “We’re running the south patrol toward Parley’s Gap. Setting markers … Watching for intruders. Shall we go ahead and announce you?”

  “Not if it takes you off your patrol,” Vendanj replied.

  A lull fell between them. “What type of men come into the Scar?” Braethen asked.

  Meche looked over at him. “Those seeking to bolster their reputation by killing its warder.”

  Braethen followed the logic. “You live with Grant?”

  “We’re his wards.” Meche ran a hand through his short hair. “We live here much of the time. Train.” He raised the swords he still had in his hands. “And patrol.”

  Braethen recalled Penit’s rhea-fol at the Sedagin fireside:… an orphanage for foundlings, castaways, the children of unfit parents.

  Meche stood up fast. Mira a half moment later. Then the other three wards. All were looking southwest.

  Moments lat
er, over the lip of a small knoll rose nine silhouettes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Wages of a Kiss

  The Veil has been breached by great numbers more than once. It is typically forgotten that some Inveterae houses have come through. And largely left men alone.

  —Observations of a census taker, who refused a commission to Y’Tilat Mor

  A hundred tales of caution filled Tahn’s mind. Inveterae. The unredeemed. Races formed by the hands of the noble gods, but found somehow lacking. Races sent into the Bourne ages ago with the Quiet.

  Tahn stood, frozen, scared to move. Chills ran down his arms.

  Abandoning gods, Inveterae.

  The oldest stories said the Inveterae and Quiet had been herded together out of the east in a mass exodus known as the Placing. But the Inveterae weren’t like the creations of Quietus. The Inveterae were initially good peoples, but simply those who the First Ones had no faith in, no belief in their potential.

  Because of it, they’d grown as hateful as the Quiet. That was the assumption.

  But this Inveterae, Col’Wrent, didn’t seem to be lacking. Not that Tahn could see. And Balatin had taught Tahn that a good greeting went a great distance. Tahn offered his hand. “I’m Tahn Junell.”

  The Inveterae didn’t respond. The two stared at one another in the dim light of the cage. Then the creature spoke, but low so that only Tahn could hear. “The Lul’Masi have no friends in the land of men.”

  Tahn spared a look at Sutter lying in the straw. Returning his attention to Col’Wrent, he raised his hand higher. “Then let me be the first.”

  A strange look passed across the Lul’Masi’s thick features. And with some hesitation, it raised its immense arm and locked hands with Tahn, his fingers were lost in the massive palm. When they joined hands, the Lul’Masi’s face softened.

  Tahn leaned closer still, the sharp smell of the creature strong in his nose. “The tenendra girl threatened you to force you to help us. I make you a different promise. Help my friend and I will free you from your cage.”

  The Lul’Masi’s grip on Tahn’s hand tightened uncomfortably—reflexively, Tahn thought. The creature closed its eyes for a moment, the way Tahn did when he thought of the sunrise. It breathed deeply, its chest expanding, the air it drew producing a deep rumble in its chest as it exhaled.

  Finally, Col’Wrent nodded, its face as unreadable as the moment before. But gratitude passed across its eyes. “What is wrong with your friend?”

  “He was struck with a spiked ball thrown by a Bar’dyn. He lost his balance, his speech, and now he’s unconscious. I think he’s been poisoned. The healer in town said you may know what to do.”

  Panic filled Tahn’s chest again, as Col’Wrent did nothing more than stare at him for several long moments. Perhaps there was nothing he could do, and Sutter would die in the straw of the low one’s cage.

  “Bring him to me.”

  Tahn dragged Sutter to the back of the cage, the straw heaping around him.

  Col’Wrent knelt over Sutter like a mass of boulders. “Your friend will not die. The poison in him is meant to slow, not kill. But without a cure, he could sleep for days.” Col’Wrent put a finger in his mouth and drew out a thick stream of saliva and mucus. He gently pried Sutter’s mouth open and wiped the viscous fluid on the tongue of Tahn’s friend.

  Then together they waited several long minutes in the hiss of the lantern and stink of the tent. Sutter lay unmoving for some time. At length, his eyes opened and he began to writhe in the straw and spit foulness from his lips. “What in all hells did you put in my mouth?”

  “You don’t want to know.” Tahn put his hand on Col’Wrent’s shoulder in appreciation, feeling the strong, rough skin of the Lul’Masi.

  Suddenly, Sutter realized where he was and looked up into the broad face of his healer. He scrambled back against the side of the cage, trying to free his sword, but fumbling with the weapon.

  “Easy, Sutter.” Tahn pointed at Sutter’s blade. “You were poisoned by the Bourne, and you’ve been healed by the Bourne. Maybe a thank-you is in order.”

  Sutter stared, incredulous. “Thank you?”

  “Good enough,” Tahn said.

  From behind them, Alisandra called, “Looks like you’re finished. I’ll take my second half now.”

  With his back shielding their exchange, Tahn spoke in low tones. “She won’t let you approach the door. I’ll get the key from her—”

  “No,” Col’Wrent said in a deep whisper. “She won’t trust you. Tent folk thrive because they are greedy and assume all others are like themselves.”

  “Then how?” Tahn asked.

  “What’s going on?” Alisandra asked, impatience edging her tone. “Your friend looks fine. Get out here.”

  “What bribe got you into my cage?” Col’Wrent asked with a hint of distaste.

  “Three and six,” Tahn replied.

  “You were wise enough to hold back full payment?”

  “Half before, half after.”

  Col’Wrent looked over Tahn’s shoulder. Patient eyes surveyed the cage door, then returned to Tahn. “Tell her how low and stupid I am. Tell her you believe you’ve already trained me to perform simple tricks, like a dog. That you got me to lift my hand, and that you are going to have me hold out the balance of her payment in my servile palm for her to take. The tent folk are wary, but infected with greed and pride beyond their caution. I will play my part, until her hand is close enough to grasp.”

  There was no murder in Col’Wrent’s eyes, but Tahn hadn’t yet seen any real emotion in them, either. Caging the Lul’Masi was wrong, but he didn’t want Alisandra killed.

  “I can’t help you if you intend to kill her,” Tahn said.

  Col’Wrent’s brow tightened. Tahn craned his neck back to look up at the towering creature. Slowly, Col’Wrent extended a hand and placed it on Tahn’s chest. “I will do as you ask.”

  Tahn took out his money pouch and dropped the coins in Col’Wrent’s large hand. He then whirled, adopting a self-congratulatory grin, and strode confidently to the door.

  “He is indeed low,” Tahn said to Alisandra as he came close to her. “But hardly the monster you described. He has the mind of a child.”

  “But the body of a Slope Nyne,” Alisandra put in.

  “I’ve never seen such a thing,” Tahn answered. He leaned casually against the inner bars of the cage. “A dog bites when it’s threatened or beaten into a corner,” he explained. “But let the dog smell you, show no fear, and it welcomes you into its home. Will even perform tricks for you.”

  “Tricks?” Alisandra said suspiciously.

  “Nothing as fancy as the feats in your larger tents, but I have given the beast the rest of your money, and some extra besides, and asked him to bring it to you.”

  Alisandra took up a dagger.

  “There’s no need of that,” Tahn said. “The creature wants to serve. A kind word and second meal bowl will earn you his trust. Think of the money to be made by bringing people to this cage and letting them inside to pet its hoary skin. You could train it to do small tricks.” Tahn leaned in conspiratorially. “Your mastery over it will make you rich.”

  Alisandra’s eyes danced with the prospect. She appraised the Lul’Masi, greed written large upon her face. Then her lust for lucre gave way to the guarded look she naturally wore. “Why tell me this? What gain is there for you? Do you want a partnership?”

  Sutter laughed, causing Alisandra to frown. “No partnership,” Tahn said. “A kiss.”

  The request startled the girl for a moment, and she drew her head back in obvious suspicion, a grin teasing at one corner of her mouth.

  “I don’t care for the beast, and I don’t seek my fortune,” Tahn said confidentially. “My friend is healed, I have what I want … mostly.”

  “Mostly?” Alisandra’s beautiful, dangerous smile returned.

  “I’ll have a kiss from you without price, and then I’ll carry the m
emory of winning your favor without lightening my purse. It will warm me when my fires grow cold.”

  Sutter laughed from behind him, but this time Alisandra regarded Tahn with appreciation.

  “Well, boy,” Alisandra said, “you may have your kiss, and that will put paid to all future claims you might make.” She inclined toward him, stopping short. “And you’ll take this information with you when you leave Squim. Should another come to understand the gentle nature of the beast, I’ll find you and show you your earth.”

  Tahn shook his head and puckered clownishly. Alisandra put her soft lips to his own, and Tahn’s pucker melted beneath the heat of her mouth. She moved her lips across his for several moments, taking, he thought, some pleasure in the kiss. The touch and taste of her lips, the danger and mystery of her, the striking beauty, all of it raced through Tahn. He thrilled with the ruse, and his own fledgling desires. He’d never forget this kiss. Alisandra gave a soft, submissive sound before pulling away. Tahn’s mouth hung open as she called the beast toward her.

  Col’Wrent walked sheepishly, cowering but advancing at her call.

  Tahn could see Alisandra had bought his story. A wild light shone in her eyes like that of a child waiting to be given gifts. Hesitantly, Col’Wrent approached until he was within arm’s reach. He turned his head, looking away with mock fear as he proffered his palm filled with coins. His fingers trembled as the girl reached to take the money. In her confidence, she made no haste in gathering the coins.

  In an instant, the Lul’Masi took Alisandra by the wrist, her hand going white fast. He yanked the girl toward him, and wrapped his mighty arms around her. He squeezed until her face reddened to the hue of summer apples. She lost all her breath before she could utter a cry, and moments later slipped to the floor.

  Tahn dove to his knees to check her breathing. She was alive, merely unconscious.

  “We should hurry,” Sutter slurred, still woozy. “The town won’t be safe once they find out what we’ve done.”