The Unremembered

by Peter Orullian

  Belamae said nothing.

  Helaina handed back the parchments. This last bulwark against the Quiet, hidden among the rags and filth of Recityv, had begun to fail.

  “It’s time,” Helaina finally said, breaking the stillness that had settled around them.

  The Maesteri met her confident gaze.

  “Time for what?”

  She cleared her throat and spoke as the iron hand. “Suitors with dangerous ambition will begin to flood our gates, looking for position and alliances. And the League has its own agenda. I’ve instructed General Van Steward to begin recruiting to reinforce his army. But our best defense against the Quiet has always been the Veil … which means there may be more to do.”

  “More from Descant?” he asked.

  “More from the Ta’Opin,” she clarified. “Maybe all the peoples of Y’Tilat Mor.”

  Belamae showed the smile of a hopeful skeptic. “So, you’ve come to exploit my heritage.”

  Helaina returned the smile, briefly. “I won’t leave any request unmade … however dangerous.”

  His eyes grew serious, again seeming to understand the implications.

  She took a deep breath. “It’s time that we consider asking for the Mor Nation Refrains. Their warsong is written of in the Tract itself, is it not?”

  Belamae stared a long, serious time at her. “Helaina, once we start down that path … Are you sure?”

  The regent fell quiet, listening again to the distant hum of the Song of Suffering. She’d started down this path long before she’d come to the cathedral. She reached out and placed a hand over his. “I’m sure.” She thought a moment. “We don’t need to send our request today. But soon.”

  “You know the Refrains are just a part of the need. You’ll still have the problem of finding Leiholan to give voice to those hymns. The Mors won’t do it for you.” He glanced down at the parchments of music—the Song of Suffering.

  Then he offered a gentle smile. “But perhaps that won’t be necessary. I’ve not been neglectful of my stewardship … or the changes lately in the Song of Suffering. Even now, I have voices on the roads seeking records that might help us find those endowed with the gift.” He squeezed Helaina’s hand. “And there’s at least one bright hope out there, my lady. I’ve seen her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The Wilds

  Some hold that even the Quiet aren’t the worst off. Some of the Framers’ work were never even given form. That’s a damn hell, if I ever heard one.

  —From Tabernacle Speculations, a consideration of creation

  The thick hardwoods of the wilds were coated with damp, mossy lichen, and the air rolled with the smell of rot. Root systems snaked along the ground, as though unable to find purchase deep in the soil. It made for uneven footing and labored walking. Branches didn’t naturally grow skyward, seeking the sun, but reached in strange directions. Many grew back toward the ground, where they took root or continued to grow laterally.

  Soon, the sun was completely obscured by the densely interwoven branches overhead. The trees bore small, budlike leaves that inched skyward.

  And underfoot, in places, the ground went soft. Mud pots. Quicksand. Sevilla had been right. They needed his help navigating the wilds.

  The natural sounds Tahn had become accustomed to in any forest were absent. Instead, occasionally a low sound rose deep in the woods, like a mallet striking a hollow tree. Infrequently he heard the song of crickets, but the chirp never lasted, cutting off for several moments before repeating the same halting cadence. As they passed deeper into the wilds, a musky fog began to rise from the loam.

  “Never mind the fogs,” the man assured them. “The heat and cold battle in the topsoil; it’ll settle soon.”

  “You said this was Stonemount’s defense against attack?” Sutter asked, picking his way over a confluence of roots.

  “Effective, don’t you think.”

  “Seems to me it offers an enemy cover while he sneaks closer,” Sutter observed.

  “There’s more to the wilds than trees, adventurer.” The man stopped and turned a full circle, nodding as he surveyed the branches overhead. “The wilds have a way of turning a man around, making him forget himself. Many graves lay within the wilds. But none are marked, because none were planned. There are glyphs in the city that say the city came first, and others that say the wilds came first. Whichever is true, this dark grove has stood here a long time.” Sevilla smiled. “How glorious a people. How enlightened. They allowed this grove to grow untamed, its natural state a marker to measure the height of their advancement.”

  Sutter gave the man a curious stare.

  “Or, perhaps they’re just trees,” the man said unconvincingly. “Perhaps I’m too long in my documents and studies here to have remained objective.”

  The man whipped his cloak around as he spun and continued deeper into the wilds. His route wound like a snake. And Tahn, even with his woods skills, soon felt completely lost. The land dipped and heaved, the roots growing more closely together and leaving little ground between. All about them was wood: roots underfoot, dark bark upon the trees, and a low ceiling of branches. A cavern of it. In every direction, Tahn could see nothing but the deep dark of endless trunks, grown black in the shadowy confines of the wilds. The smell of rotting wood hung thick in the air.

  Then, in an instant, the dim half-light fell nearly to utter darkness. The sun’s gone behind the western rim. Distantly, the strange sound of wood striking wood echoed again. And strangely, the cricket song ended, leaving a deathly quiet in the grove.

  “That’s great. I suppose we aren’t going to make it to the north canyon,” Sutter said with weary sarcasm.

  “It isn’t far,” the man replied. “But travel at night in the wilds is … ill-advised. Don’t fret. I’m a cautious one, and I’ll see you through.”

  “I’ll build a fire,” Tahn said. The abrupt darkness had brought with it a chill.

  “If you must,” the man answered.

  Carefully, Tahn shuffled his feet, seeking a clear bit of ground. Sutter gathered a few fallen limbs and shortly they had light again, and warmth. Tahn sat on a humped root and pulled out some bread for himself and Sutter. The firelight glistened darkly on the nearby bark. Sparks from the fire drifted up on the heat, and winked out against the tight weave of low branches. Their guide sat close by, watching the fire and looking alternately at Tahn and Sutter.

  “So, where is home?” the man asked.

  Tahn studied the easy smile on Sevilla’s face. The man likely suffered from a lack of companionship, and was intrusive only because of it. His jeweled scabbard, long cloak, and tricorne hat were the affectations of a man not sure of himself. He spoke with an elegant confidence, like the polished way a trader spoke. But he hadn’t anything to gain from helping Tahn or Sutter, and Tahn could sympathize with the feelings of loneliness.

  Tahn shared a look with Sutter then, his friend shaking his head in a nearly imperceptible motion to warn him off. “Reyal’Te,” Tahn said.

  The man nodded to the small reservation. “At the edge of the Mal. You’re a long way from home. Maybe there’s a bit of adventurer in the pair of you, after all.”

  Their guide sat comfortably, looking rested after a day’s walk, and vital without a speck of food. The night air grew colder still. Tahn and Sutter circled closer to the fire, warming their arms and chests and cheeks while goose bumps from the cold rippled on their backs. Their guide seemed equally content in the dipping temperature.

  Something had been bothering Tahn about their route through the wilds, and it occurred to him as he rubbed his hands near the flame. “How do you mark your passage through these woods? You can’t have learned the way after just a few trips.”

  “Oh, I’ve been in Stonemount a very long time,” the man said. “The disservice we do to the past is distilling an entire generation into the notes on a single page. If history is properly studied, I believe it may take as long to learn it as it did
for others to live it. And if I’m to discover what became of them, what led them to vacate this beautiful city, I must learn all the things a citizen takes for granted: the multiple meanings of words that are used to insult; the unwritten standards of behavior that show respect or intolerance; the attitudes of their populace that were harmonious with their poets; poets who wrote of rebellion.”

  “I don’t see the purpose in it,” Sutter chimed in. “I mean no disrespect,” he offered cautiously. “But they left, one way or another, and the world went on without them.”

  Sevilla’s face fell slack, the convivial look gone. He shifted his eyes to Sutter without turning his head. “You’ve answered your own question. How does it escape you? Today we stood in the most glorious civilization ever erected. From its central fountain to the edge of the graves around it, you walked the streets of a city that showed no despair in the architecture of its least citizen. The whole of it is a lasting tribute to unity, equality. And then they disappeared without a trace of contention or a single indication of where they went.”

  The man stared at Sutter with wide eyes, clearly feeling as though his point should be obvious.

  Sutter shook his head silently. “Maybe they were invaded. If they were overwhelmed and taken captive, they could all have been led away somewhere. That would explain the city being deserted but showing no signs of war.”

  Their strange guide continued to stare quietly for some time. It was his turn to shake his head.

  “Boy.” It was spoken with utter evenness, an insult more searing than a curse. “Look at you. Far from Reyal’Te, searching for a codex, and keeping your little secrets because you don’t trust me.” Sevilla gave a piteous laugh.

  “You crossed the Ophal’re’Donn bridge,” Sevilla rushed on, “and went sauntering down the Canyon of Choruses as though you’d earned the right. And yet you fail to see the miracle of Stonemount.” He paused to make it clear. “Those who lived here overcame the kind of arrogance that makes you feel deserving of more than you have. They overcame the combative nature such arrogance creates. The Stonemount people outgrew their own city of rock and mortar, and left for something better, nobler.” The man paused again, the crackle of wood seeming suddenly very loud in the silence. “I want to know what they knew, go where they have gone. I am tired.…” He stopped, a genial smile returning to his lips. “My apologies. I get very passionate about my studies.”

  Sutter was frowning with anger, his hand on his sword’s handle.

  In a soft voice, Sevilla said a few words more. “All the rest are walking earth, upright dust, consuming breath in ignorance.” The words were familiar to Tahn, but he couldn’t place them. He finished his bread, and later fell asleep watching the guttering fire, his hand on the sticks hidden within his cloak.

  * * *

  Tahn couldn’t see the man’s face. He never could. But he could feel the figure behind him, prepared to correct an errant move or loss of concentration.

  The horizon rose pale blue at the break of day. Tahn stood on a precipice of rock, looking out over an ancient canyon carved by a slow-moving river deep in its valley. The red stone and baked earth appeared tranquil in the gentle light of predawn. The man shifted his weight to his other foot, the crunch of pebbles beneath his sole accentuating the quiet that had settled over the canyon. The air remained still, and Tahn held his breath as he aimed his bow over the vastness of the chasm below.

  “Breathe naturally,” the man said. “A rigid chest makes weak arms, causes anxiety. To hit where you aim, you must shoot your arrow without fear. And each arrow is important. It must fly with the fullest intention of your heart.”

  “But there’s nothing here to shoot,” Tahn said, confused.

  The man came close to his ear. “You need to learn how to focus on yourself, not the quarry.” His voice came softly, but firmly. When the man spoke in such a way, Tahn knew he was expected to listen and remember. “You create the energy of the weapon by making your pull. You can feel the force of it suspended in the string and the give of the haft. None is yet given to the arrow. This is the moment of balance between Forda and Forza, the bow and the energy you give it. In this moment you have the potential to take life or save it. Your intentions are everything, Tahn.”

  “How will I know when to shoot, and when not to shoot?”

  The man let a slow breath through his nostrils. “You’ll ask each time you draw whether you should release … or not.”

  Tahn shook his head in confusion.

  The man went on. “It will sharpen your sense of the Will, keep you aligned with it.”

  “But why?” Tahn asked.

  The man stretched an arm past Tahn’s face, pointing at the emptiness of the sky above the great canyon. “You must learn and remember the power of the draw itself, not the arrow. It is potential power, just as a boulder perched at the top of a hill. You’ll need that power, Tahn. Against enemies with bodies as real as yours or mine. And against some … who’ll come after you to inhabit your body. They’re old enemies. Out of the Bourne.”

  The man stopped speaking, and Tahn knew it was time for him to shoot. He looked into the gathering light of dawn and sought a target: a blackened tree a thousand strides distant on the far side of the gulf, then a mountain peak at the edge of the horizon, then a cloud gliding low across the hills to his left.

  He could hit none of these things, and his fingers, wrist, arm, shoulder, and chest began to ache from the constant tension of his draw. He took a deep breath, exhaling as the man had instructed. His young arms began to quiver. The pain of maintaining the draw burned in his shoulders and ached in his knuckles. But he would not release until it was right. Was this the lesson, learning the strength of his own will?

  He let go the string, and realized as it relieved the tension in the haft that he held no arrow. The string hummed. The sound of his bowstring rose like the tolling of a great bell, the vibration turning his hand numb. He lost feeling in his arm and dropped the weapon. Beneath him the soil turned white, spreading outward to rob everything of color.

  In a frenzy, he thrust his fists against the rock of the outcropping and screamed to hear anything but the awful hum. Hearing nothing, he stopped. Quickly, he took two large rocks and smote them together. No crack. There was nothing in his head but the ringing buzz of his bow’s last release, and nothing in his eyes but colorless earth.

  Tahn looked up and screamed into the sky.…

  * * *

  He started, and came awake in the wilds, a scream dying to echoes in the trees around him.

  “Keep it down, Woodchuck,” Sutter complained.

  Sevilla sat poking at the fire with a slender stick, his eyes on Tahn as he probed the embers. The flame burned low, casting deep shadows over the man’s eyes, but hinting with reddish hues at the dark pupils.

  Casually, Tahn checked for the sticks. They were still safe in his inner pocket.

  Getting to his knees, he took several small pieces of wood and cast them into the fire. The man gave him a quizzical look. “You sleep restlessly. You’ve got things on your mind.”

  “We all have things on our minds,” Tahn replied.

  “So I’ve noticed.” The man settled a thoughtful gaze on Tahn. “Some of the old texts say that sleep is our preparation for death: a day of life and light followed by a quiet, restful end in a night’s slumber. Rehearsal, you might say. A pattern we follow often enough to accept when our time is gone and we must return to the earth that makes us. So, it’s a riddle why men tussle with it. But a noble fight, I say. I wouldn’t easily give in to my barrow.”

  Something flashed in Tahn’s mind: a figure, little more than a shadow itself, hunched over a grave.

  Without turning his back to their guide, Tahn stood and shuffled to where Sutter lay. He nudged his friend’s shoulder with his foot.

  “Don’t tell me you’re kicking me just as I was about to fall asleep,” Sutter protested in a thick, surly voice.

  “Get up,” Tah
n said softly. Something in Tahn’s tone must have struck Sutter, who stood up fast and shrugged off his blanket.

  “Are you ready to go?” Sevilla asked, rising gracefully. “I sense you’re quick to be shut of these wilds and on your way to wherever fortune next takes you.”

  Tahn cautiously picked up his bow and caught Sutter’s gaze before looking down at the sword at his friend’s hip. Sutter understood and rested a hand on the handle. If their companion noted their apprehension, he didn’t show it. Sevilla’s gaunt cheeks held shadows in the flickering firelight, but his eyes remained easy. The jewel-encrusted sheath caught the light in colorful prisms, and he pushed back his tricorne hat on his head as Tahn stepped back from the fire.

  “We’ll be on our way from here,” Tahn said. “Without you.”

  Sevilla slowly stood, his easy smile faltering. “That won’t be necessary.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  A Primrose

  It isn’t when a man picks up his sword that you have to worry. It’s when he picks up his pen.

  —From The Difference Between Anger and Change, a philosophical construct, Aubade Grove

  “Visitors,” Braethen heard someone say.

  Vendanj stopped, and Braethen came up beside him. Ahead in a broad, shallow bowl was a house, standing like a lone waystation in a very long route. And beside it several forms were silhouetted against the westering sun. A tall man stood at the center, and to each side of him were several shorter figures. Grant. And his wards. Braethen raised a hand over his eyes, but the light was too low against the horizon to be blocked out.

  They’d been moving since before sunrise, Vendanj continuing to lead them north and east. All day they’d walked in the oppressive heat. Beads of sweat ran down Braethen’s neck. He clutched his shirt and mopped them away. Mira’s hair and shirt hung wet with perspiration. Her face, too, ran with sweat, but she didn’t wipe it away. The heat didn’t seem to affect her the same way. And Vendanj simply seemed too stubborn to be bothered.