The Unremembered

by Peter Orullian

  “Makes you wonder why they left,” Sevilla said, following Tahn’s gaze.

  “They left?” Sutter remarked, incredulous.

  “It’s fodder for scholars, and theories abound. I, of course, have my own.” He paused dramatically. “I believe they found a harmony between death and life, like the circle of stone that surrounds the city. They found a way past death, past life.”

  Tahn raised his brows at Sutter. The Covenant Tongue? He turned to Sevilla. “‘A way past death, past life’? Sounds like you’re talking about the Language of the Framers.”

  The man eyed Tahn. “That’s an astute inference for an adventurer.” Sevilla smiled.

  “I know my stories,” Tahn said dismissively. “Have your archivist studies here taught you anything about the Language?”

  Sevilla laughed. “You’re not so very clever, are you? You’re wanting to know if I’ve found the codex of Stonemount. That sound familiar?”

  “Now that you mention it,” Tahn said, maintaining his part, “I do remember a story about a codex.”

  “So, you’re actually treasure hunters,” the man said, nodding. “I suppose that could be considered a type of adventurer.”

  “You know of it, then?” Tahn said, keeping them focused on the codex.

  “Oh, I know of it,” Sevilla said, laughing as though it were a childish question. “But it doesn’t exist. Not that I’ve found. I’ve scoured every corner and surface of Stonemount.”

  Tahn hid his disappointment.

  “I tell you, though,” Sevilla kept on, “I’m not entirely sure it ever existed. And even if it did, even if the Stonemounts learned command of the Covenant Tongue, I’m not convinced that’s how they found their way past death.”

  The archivist grew quiet. And they walked in silence for a time.

  “I intend to find it,” Sevilla said so quietly that Tahn wasn’t sure he heard him correctly. The words sounded like a secret uttered in the shadow of a dying tree.

  Whatever else the man was, or whatever lies he might tell, Tahn believed him about the codex. And if it was here somewhere, finding it would obviously take a lot more time than he and Sutter had to spare.

  “How do we find our way out of this place?” Tahn asked, impatient now to get going.

  “What, so quick to leave so remarkable a place?” A wry grin spread on Sevilla’s lips. “What adventurers you are proving to be, young friends.”

  “Will you help us, or not?” Sutter asked bluntly.

  Unsmiling, the man pointed to the northeast. “Between those two towers.”

  Tahn spotted a dark, vertical line in the distant cliff wall.

  “Must be a gap like the one we came through, huh?” Sutter remarked.

  “Indeed,” Sevilla said. “But it’s a great deal more difficult to find than it appears. The streets in that direction are not square, and the cemetery there is less … habitable.”

  “We’ll just follow the rim around until we come to a break in the cliff,” Tahn stated matter-of-factly. “We should be able to reach it well before dark.”

  “And so your eyes would deceive you.” The stranger stared at both Tahn and Sutter. “The envy of the outside world forced the Stonemount people to protect themselves. In the west there is the Canyon of Choruses. In the north”—he looked again to the dark line between the towers—“the canyon is bordered by wild growth. People here learned to navigate the wilds, but foreigners often found their final earth trying to pass through them without a guide.” He turned a mirthful eye on Tahn.

  “Don’t tell us. You know the way through these wilds.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Scars—Arriving Late

  The art of governance isn’t writing laws you know are right. It’s writing laws you believe people will follow, and that have a measure of “rightness.” Strict control breeds revolt.

  —Excerpt, Practical Governance, from the private library of Roth Staned—a book now banned

  Vendanj never slept well in the Scar. More than the land’s loss of Forda, or the memory of war that lingered across its barren surface, the Scar had a way of reminding one of their own wounds. Sheason were no exception.

  Looking up at the hard, dim flicker of stars, he knew what dreams awaited him.

  * * *

  Vendanj ran. Black scorchmarks on the sides of buildings, homes razed to the ground, smoke in a distant part of the city. The Quiet had attacked.

  But all he could think about was Illenia, his wife. And their unborn child.

  He tore through the streets at a maddening pace, cursing himself for being overlong in his journey to Recityv. He’d helped bring a Dissent against the new League law forbidding Sheason to render. There had been some time before their baby was due, so he’d felt safe in leaving for a few days. And Illenia was also Sheason; she could serve equally well without him.

  He turned into their street. No!

  The mortar stood in rubble. He raced to their doorway and stepped past the half-broken door. Fragments of wood and fallen stone lay all around. He picked up long crossbeams and peered beneath piles of broken rock. She wasn’t here.

  But his panic wouldn’t let up.

  He raced back into the street, thinking to try the homes of people she knew, when Amalial called. “Vendanj!”

  He followed the voice, and saw the woman. “Where’s Illenia?”

  “She was taken to the League’s hospice, yesterday, when the attacks came.”

  He sprinted toward the far end of the quarter, where the League’s healing ward stood. His lungs burned and his head pounded with dark suggestions. Please be all right, Sweet One.

  He slammed through the hospice door and shouted her name. A scholarly-looking gentleman in a dark brown tunic bearing the League’s emblem came right up.

  “Calm yourself, my friend. We have sick people here. Tell me the name of your friend or family member and we’ll see what we can do.” The fellow smiled paternally.

  Vendanj hated the impertinence and grabbed the man by the arms. “My wife’s name is Illenia. I’m told she was brought here. Please, I must see her.”

  The man then spied the three-ring sigil Vendanj wore, and his countenance visibly changed. He asked to be unhanded and then called to a standing guard, who came forward with his palm on the hilt of his blade. Vendanj let the healer go and implored them to tell him where his wife lay.

  “Please, she’s with child. I need to see her.” Panic rose in his chest. He thought he would scream soon and keep screaming.

  Shortly, three more guards came to reinforce the first. They didn’t snarl or curse, but simply barred him from two shadowed hallways that led to several private rooms. The healer then took Vendanj gently by the hand and patted his knuckles.

  “You are probably a fine man. And I understand your worry. These fellows will accompany us, and we’ll take you to see your wife.” He pointed down the left hall. “They’re a necessary precaution in these troubled times. That seems most reasonable, doesn’t it?” He smiled his patronizing smile again.

  Vendanj barely heard him.

  The four sentries went first, directed by the healer through the third door. Vendanj came after, the healer still holding his hand. The gentleman may have thought this a supportive gesture, but Vendanj was going to need his hands free soon, and the grip of this League healer began to irritate him.

  But it all faded when he saw Illenia lying in a bed of white linens. Her face had been heavily bruised and her arms were completely bandaged. She turned her head, and when she saw him, a pained smile rose on her purpled lips. “You came.”

  Vendanj tore free of the man and rushed to her side. “Silent gods, Illenia, what happened?” He put his hand on her stomach, as he had grown accustomed to doing, and stroked slowly.

  She spoke softly, just a few words at a time. “Quiet came. They had Velle with them.” She swallowed. “The guard failed. Didn’t know what to do. League”—her eyes darted to the men behind him—“ran. The people
started to fall, Vendanj. Fall.” A tear coursed across a yellowed bruise at her temple.

  He shook his head. “Don’t talk. You’re going to be all right.”

  “Had to do something. I went to the gate. Called the Will.” Her voice cracked, and she squinted against some pain.

  “I think this is not helping her,” the healer said. “She needs rest. This whole affair has been most … unbelievable. We need to assess. And she’s taken serious—”

  Vendanj silenced him with a stare. The guards moved closer to him. Their presence angered him all the more. He didn’t need them; Illenia didn’t need them anymore either. Vendanj could care for her now.

  “Wasn’t enough,” Illenia said. “Too many. I’m sorry, Ven. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have gone. The baby. But no one could stop them.…” She ceased to talk, crying openly now, her tears silent and hot and painful, he knew, in more ways than one.

  “Leave us,” Vendanj said. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. But we don’t need your help any longer. I’ll care for my wife now. If we owe you anything, I’ll pay when I’m done. Please give us some privacy.”

  No one moved.

  And then the healer came forward. “Sheason. These are troubled times. I am a man committed to healing the sick. And I will continue to watchsafe your wife. I hope you’ll have confidence in me, as I’ve taken her to my care while you’ve been away.” The indictment in his voice was gentle but clear. “But there are two things that are certain, and not easy for you to hear, which is why my colleagues are present.” He indicated the League guard.

  The leaguemen drew their weapons. Behind him, he heard Illenia whisper, “No.”

  The healer looked up passively. “Your wife, sick as she is, did nevertheless violate the law. When she is well, there must be a trial. And despite your grief, Sheason, you must entrust her care to me. You will not be allowed to call upon whatever arcane rituals you practice. And I will tell you true, I believe they hold more danger for her besides. The best thing for you is to go home and get some rest. It would seem you’ve been on the move for quite some time.”

  Vendanj stared into the man’s bespectacled eyes. “No man or army that is going to stand between me and my family, Leagueman. I’m grateful for the care you’ve shown my wife. But that is over. What I do now has nothing to do with you.”

  Then it all unraveled so quickly.

  “No,” Illenia cried again.

  This time, Vendanj heard the message in her voice—the baby was coming … and something was wrong. The leagueman bustled past Vendanj. “Get him out of here!” In an instant, the guards grabbed Vendanj by the arms and legs and began forcing him from the room.

  An anguished cry rose from Illenia’s bruised lips. “Please, no. Vendanj. Vendanj!”

  He fought to free himself, or at least his hands, so he could call the Will. But he couldn’t muster enough strength to outman four guardsmen.

  He thrashed, kicking and yelling for assistance, for someone to take pity on him. He could save his wife and baby, if he could get free. “Help me! No. Illenia! Illenia!”

  As he was dragged from the room, he caught one last look at his wife. Her bruised, tear-streaked face; her eyes shut tight against pain and grief; one bandaged arm raised toward him.

  He fought and fought. Screamed until his voice sounded like stalks brushing each other in the wind. And then he was struck on the head and all fell to blackness.

  * * *

  Illenia died.

  Their child died.

  As Vendanj looked up into the bitter skies over the Scar, he thought again—as he had countless times—if he’d had the experience he had now, he could have saved his wife. Saved their child.

  They were a fool’s thoughts.

  All those years ago, he’d strictly followed the path of the Order—never rendering the Will to harm another man in anger or frustration or fear. It was a path most Sheason still followed. Not Vendanj. Not anymore.

  He shook his head. No good could come of reliving the past. The choices today and tomorrow were all that mattered. He’d learned as much at a dear price. Others didn’t see it so clearly. But on important matters, like the Quiet, the choices ahead for himself and now some few others … were clear. He would make them see. Not simply because of the scars of his past, but because someone must, else the value of a man’s wounds would be as nothing.

  And Vendanj couldn’t let that be true.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Ta’Opin

  The Mor Nations are several Inveterae Houses. But it is believed the Ta’Opin Mors are the keepers of the Refrains. And they don’t leave their homeland, save they have a purpose.

  —From the Register of Isolationists, a demographic study

  Jastail and Penit rode side by side ahead of Wendra, talking like uncle and nephew. Jastail patted Penit’s head, the boy laughing at some comment. The highwayman glanced back at her. His expression said everything: I control the lad, so I control you. And it galled her. Even though she knew it was a ruse, it galled her.

  Colors swirled in her vision. She could feel blood coursing through the veins at her temples. She could hear the blood, coming in rushes like the reprise of a song, ebbing and flowing with regret and violence as each beat of her heart pushed it along. She fought for balance as the fading harmonies of rhythmic sound, like strings being plucked by callused fingers, brought tears to her eyes.

  These were not the peaceful tunes of her childhood, or her box, and she couldn’t remember their melody, only the rough feel of them at the back of her throat, and the images of broken glass on cellar floors.

  At dusk, Jastail called them to a stop, and led them fifty strides from the road. He asked Penit to build a fire. The boy eagerly took to the task. And soon, the crackle of burning wood echoed up into the woods nearby.

  They hadn’t been there long before the sound of metal clanking echoed to them from the road. She could see two lanterns swaying with the gentle motion of a large wagon. The slow clopping of hooves came next, and then the sound of song, evenly measured, and hummed low in the chest of a large man.

  Before she could think, Jastail was beside her. “On the high roads it is unwritten grace to share a man’s fire and offer him a cup of tea. When he comes, remember what I said. And besides he may be yet a rougher man than I.” Jastail sniffed. “But even if I’m taken down, you may be sure I won’t go down alone. And you know where my first strike will go.”

  Wendra marveled still at the indifference in his voice. “You’d sooner we die than let us go free?”

  “I’d sooner you keep your manner as cordial as when we first met,” Jastail said. She couldn’t see his eyes, but he’d already put on his gambler’s charm.

  The wagon creaked to a stop at the crossroads. “Hail there,” a voice called.

  “And you, traveler,” Jastail said in a raised voice. “Come off the road and share our fire.”

  Penit jumped through the high brush toward the wagon as it turned from the well-worn ruts. The horses’ muzzles emerged from the darkness into the dim glow of the flame. Their tack and harnesses jangled and yawed until the driver pulled them to a stop and tied the reins down to the hitch. A tall man with a deep chest hopped spryly to the ground. His buckle gleamed in the flicker of the firelight, but his face remained obscured until he came close.

  Nearer, Wendra realized the man had dark skin. And he’d shaved every last bit of hair from his head and face and wore no tunic. He was bare-chested.

  She’d never seen one, but he looked like Ta’Opin, one of the Tilatian peoples of the eastern shores. The Ta’Opin were rumored to be Inveterae, to live six generations, and to end their lives with a strange madness, such that most took their own lives before the dementia beset them.

  Jastail strode confidently past her and put out his hand.

  “Off of the road when the sun has failed. Share our tea.” Jastail said it with a strange rhythm. It carried the sound of a routine greeting.

  �
��And a tale when our tobacco is lit,” the other replied as if by rote.

  They clasped hands, giving Wendra the thought that she might communicate her predicament to the man without alerting Jastail. As the two approached the fire, Penit flitted about their legs like a light-fly.

  Jastail produced two tin cups and poured steaming tea into each. He handed one to the traveler. “What name do you carry across the high roads?” Jastail said, settling himself again on his rock.

  “Seanbea,” he answered, and sipped his tea. “Thank you for the tidings. Not every fire near the road is the welcome it used to be.”

  “Truer words were never spoken,” Jastail said, nodding. He pointed his cup of tea at Penit. “This is Penit, a fine young man I’m escorting to Recityv to run in the Lesher Roon.” He raised his other hand with his open palm up. “I’m Jastail. And this is Lani,” he said as Wendra came into the circle near the fire.

  The Ta’Opin stood and bowed slightly at the waist. The deferential gesture took Wendra by surprise. She nodded in return and sat on a fallen log next to the boy. She nudged him subtly with her elbow.

  “I meant to tell you,” Penit whispered. “Jastail told me about it today. The Lesher Roon is a race with a great prize. And we need to go to Recityv anyway, right?”

  Jastail cleared his throat with the obvious intention of ending their exchange. “Have a seat,” he invited the Ta’Opin. Seanbea sat directly on the ground close to the fire and drank his tea. “You drive your horses late,” Jastail said over his own cup.

  “And would have gone on another hour or two if you’d not welcomed me to warm my hands,” Seanbea replied.

  “What makes a man brave the roads at night, and without protection?” Jastail said, refreshing his own cup of tea.

  “I go myself to Recityv. And my haul is waited on.” Seanbea put his cup out to be refilled, and spoke as Jastail filled it to the brim. “But it’s hardly a bounty for a highwayman: music instruments and census records, collected for Descant Cathedral.”