The Unremembered

by Peter Orullian

  Drawing closer, Tahn saw that the walls rose in smooth, sheer planes. No joints or extruded rock offered a foothold. And there was no gate. Mira led them to the base of the great wall. With sure movements, she traced a design on the smooth surface with her fingertips. Then again she made the pattern. And a third time.

  When she’d completed her last pass, a whisper of escaping air came from the wall and a large door swung inward. Tahn strained to see what the Far had done, but there was no marking, or latch. The door moved in a slow, deliberate arc, but made no sound, no grinding of rock or squeak of hinges. An entry large enough to admit a horse opened in the wall.

  When they’d all ridden through, Tahn found Mira standing silently before a male Far. She lifted her right hand and placed her middle three fingers on the other’s lips with a tenderness Tahn envied. While her hand still rested there, the male Far returned the gesture. Neither spoke a word. Mira withdrew her hand and motioned them to follow.

  All the city rose in sleek lines of shale. In some places a dark wood augmented the architecture in the way of support posts or window dressing. But the impenetrable dimness of black slate prevailed in almost every structure.

  “It’s kind of ugly,” Sutter muttered.

  “I don’t know,” Braethen said from behind them. “There’s a stark beauty in it, I think, a kind of simplicity if nothing else. Besides, I don’t believe the slate is used because it’s all they had.”

  Nails turned in his saddle to look at Braethen. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I think the Far chose the Soliel Stretches because of the shale.” Braethen looked back at Sutter.

  “Must be hell for farmers,” Sutter observed.

  Braethen smiled as he explained. “Shale’s noted as an element without Forda. Or at least, so little that it possesses no value to—”

  “Velle.” Grant started them with his intrusion, casting a look at Mira. “How the Far thrive here … is a wonder.”

  Hooves beat at cobbled shale bordered by countless homes and shops and storehouses, but Tahn didn’t see a single Far. Not in the street. Not peering from windows. No music from taverns. No laughter or shouts from men drinking fast toward inebriation. Everything was still. Though many windows burned with light, even at this late hour.

  An entire city like Mira. Are they all as beautiful? Tahn wondered.

  They stopped before a large rectangular building with round, fluted pillars supporting a roof that covered an outer walk. It stood three stories high. Long terraced steps rose in groups of two from the street to the first story. Mira dismounted and handed her reins to the man who had conveyed them there.

  “Thank you, Secretary Bridgoe,” Mira said softly, her words barely carrying to Tahn’s ears.

  “They convened when you arrived on the Soliel,” the secretary said. “You’re expected.”

  Tahn and the others stepped down to the street. Bridgoe took their reins as well, escorting the horses away while Mira led Vendanj and the rest toward the large building. Near the stone wall she went to one knee. She bowed her head in the direction of the inner hall and held her unguarded pose for what seemed a long time. A long time for Mira.

  The sound of their passage came like a rustling. The folds of cloaks. Footsteps kept light. The small hours of night held sway in the quiet shadows.

  They mounted a stair that gave onto a mezzanine. The light of large lamps showed Tahn a view of bookcases set in long rows. Ahead of them were several closed doors. Over each portal hung a different weapon as if an indication of what could be found within.

  Immediately to Tahn’s right, a broad wall was covered by an enormous map that stretched from floor to ceiling. Across it, names had been written in a tight, fine hand: places he’d never heard of, battles, wars, and leaders. Beside many were dates as one sees on a gravestone.

  So many names, the map was crowded with ink. Names Tahn hadn’t heard. Surnames showed a trailing serif on the last stroke denoting gender, female, which Tahn surmised by finding Helaina’s name near Recityv.

  The name on Naltus: King Elan. It appeared in many places along the Saeculorum mountains above the city. Then Tahn’s heart sped when he saw above the mountains the scrawled words: Rudierd Tillinghast.

  Reading the words gave Tahn chills. That’s where they were going. That’s where he’d face whatever mistakes he’d made. Memories. Closer now to their reason for coming, cold dread opened low in his belly.

  Tahn got moving, following Mira down another stair that descended in long steps to the level below. Coming to the edge of the mezzanine, he looked down on a small assembly of Far sitting in rows divided by a center aisle. Before them stood a young man who held a short crook in his hands.

  Lightbearers stood stoically around the group, lanterns hanging from poles only slightly taller than their owners. The lamps glowed small in the vastness of the hall. Their presence felt symbolic. Perhaps they were a welcome.

  None of the Far looked up at them as they descended the stairs. Flat footsteps echoed into the hall. On the floor, Mira held up her hand to stop them. She crossed to the Far standing at the front of the others.

  A pace from him, she stopped and bowed her head. She didn’t raise it again until he’d softly touched her shoulder with his crook.

  Mira spoke to him, her words inaudible to Tahn. Then she stepped back, and Vendanj strode forward, his tall frame commanding even in the depths of the great hall. He humbly bowed as Mira had, likewise receiving a touch of the Far’s crook.

  Vendanj looked up for only an instant before turning to the assembly. He didn’t immediately speak, his gaze passing over each Far.

  Not one of those here was older than Tahn. Some were several years younger. All wore a kind of experience and confidence in their youthful faces that he couldn’t explain.

  Vendanj pushed his cloak back over his shoulders, exposing the three-ring pendant that hung around his neck. A rustle of movement swept through the Far. No words. But the stirring of feet and straightening of backs spoke the same surprise.

  “Children of Soliel,” Vendanj began. “Not many days ago the Quiet found the library at Qum’rahm’se.”

  More rustling.

  Vendanj held up a hand. “They got nothing. The scriveners burned it all before the Quiet could take it. As they should have. But generations of scholarship on the Covenant Language is now ash.” Vendanj paused. “And the library contained the only complete copy of the Tract of Desolation.”

  The Far became still.

  Vendanj stepped closer, capturing them with a serious gaze. “What knowledge man had of the Covenant Tongue is gone. Your stewardship over the Language is now more crucial than ever. More at risk. Even in this shale valley you aren’t safe. You know this.” Vendanj looked past them, his eyes growing distant. “You’ve kept your promise, kept the Language safe. But the time has come. You must prepare to use the Language.”

  “Vendanj?” It was the Far leader.

  “Men bicker. Even Sheason are not all of one mind. And Leiholan tire as they sing Suffering.” Vendanj nodded, distance still in his eyes. “The Quiet come, and…”

  It was the only time Tahn could remember Vendanj not finishing a thought.

  The Sheason stepped back beside Mira. The young Far with the crook placed the small staff on the table behind him. The Far assembly rose as though formally dismissed and quietly took their leave. The lightbearers placed their staffs in holes in the floor before likewise exiting the room. Moments later, the hall stood empty save for Tahn’s companions and the one Far who’d held the crook.

  He sat on the edge of the table. “It’s good to see you, Vendanj. But I wish you had better news.”

  “So do I, Elan.” Vendanj rubbed at his eyes.

  “But there’s more to say,” Vendanj added, “without your captains.”

  “I suspected as much,” the king replied. “Water?”

  “They need it,” Mira answered, nodding to Tahn and the others.

 
Elan turned to the table behind him and poured several glasses from a carafe, inviting them all to drink. As Tahn drank, he stared at Elan, realizing this was the Far who wanted Mira to bear him an heir. Vendanj paced to the center aisle of the chairs and turned to look back at Elan and the rest of them.

  He pulled out the list of names he’d created with Ne’Pheola, and handed them to Elan. “I think someone’s learned how to nullify the vow, and probably by using the Covenant Tongue.”

  Elan’s brow creased as he reviewed the altered names. “The Quiet.”

  “We don’t know. Maybe.” Vendanj took a few steps back toward Elan. “But what’s clear is that the Quiet are trying to better understand the Language. Which will lead them here. If the Quiet take possession of the Covenant Tongue, our fight is over.”

  Elan poured a glass of his own and drank. “Naltus will hold.”

  “It’s not about holding,” Vendanj countered. “You have to prepare the Language for battle.”

  “Vendanj,” Elan said, his tone grave. “We’ve fought the Quiet before. We’ve never needed—”

  “It’s different this time.” Vendanj was shaking his head. “They walked into the Hollows, Elan. Something’s changed. There’s no time for half measures.”

  Vendanj grew quiet for a moment, his eyes downcast in his own thoughts. “We’d thought to strengthen the Veil, bring the Tract of Desolation here. Retranslate it. The Tract is gone. The regent has recalled Convocation to build an alliance. But not all will show.” He turned toward the king of the Far. “We need the Language as a weapon, Elan.”

  Elan finally nodded. “We’ll go into our own library. Start to prepare. But I don’t think that’s the only reason you’re here.” The king looked down at Penit, a disconcerted look on his face.

  Vendanj looked up from beneath a lowering brow. “We’re on our way to Tillinghast.”

  Elan frowned at the news, and kept a cold silence. Then he turned to stare in the direction of the mountains where the storm raged. “What do you hope to gain?”

  Vendanj followed Elan’s gaze. “This time … when the Quiet comes … it’s different. This time I think we’re going to need someone who’s looked back at his choices. Good and bad. And remembers it all when the Bourne is set free.”

  Elan put his glass down. “You’ve tried this before, Vendanj. What makes you believe these will fare any better?” He glanced at Tahn and the others. “And why do you think this is how we must meet the Quiet?”

  For a long time, Vendanj said nothing. Into a heavy silence he finally spoke. “Just a feeling.”

  Elan raised a sober eye. “I hope you’re right. Forgetting may have been the only grace given to man. No one should have to remember all his choices.”

  The Sheason didn’t disagree. Uneasiness filled Elan’s face. Vendanj looked up at Tahn with grim resolve.

  A peal of thunder reverberated around the great hall.

  “The blood of many stains my hands,” Vendanj said softly. “I’ve asked families to walk painful paths. I won’t let these sacrifices go unremembered.” His voice turned cool and even. “So few are willing to answer the threat of the Bourne. Our great ‘civility’ breeds indignation at the thought, or worse, disbelief. And complacency.” Vendanj stopped, and cast his eyes upward. He took a long inward breath. When he lowered his head again, an indomitable expression lit his face. “It will not be so this time.”

  Goose bumps rose almost painfully across Tahn’s skin. Mira looked at him, a kind of empathy in her eyes he’d not seen before. It both comforted and frightened him.

  The Sheason pulled his cloak about his shoulders and weighed the looks of those around him. Only Grant showed no expression. The exile out of the Scar sniffed and waited.

  “You’ll have rooms at my home,” Elan finally said, shattering the silence. “Vendanj, I’ll insist that you take attendants into each room.”

  “To sleep with us?” Sutter blurted.

  The Far king half-smiled, seeming grateful for a change in mood. “Not to sleep. It’s our custom that visitors be watched over, even at rest.”

  “Of course,” Vendanj agreed. “I’d like Mira to sit with Tahn.”

  The Far king nodded, took up his crook, and strode away. Vendanj went with him, the two conferring as Mira motioned for the rest to follow her.

  On their way out, Tahn looked back over his shoulder at the great hall, seeing the light standards, the rows of chairs, and the mezzanine where he’d first seen the map showing Rudierd Tillinghast.

  At the door, Grant put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and urged him through.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  One Bed, the Same Dream

  A good parent touches eternity. But so does a bad one.

  —Colloquial saying; scriveners place its origin in the Kamas Throne

  Tahn surveyed the bedchamber: table and chair set beside the window, chest of drawers, a bed. One bed. A thrill raced through him, followed quickly by anxiety. Slowly, he shut the door. When he turned, Mira had already seated herself in the chair beside the window and taken out her oilcloth to work her blades. As she set to wiping down one of her swords, Tahn unshouldered his bow and threw off his cloak, tossing it over the foot of the bed.

  Beyond the window, lightning still flashed against the darkness to the north. Gouts of wind buffeted the eaves, whistling like thin reeds. A single lamp burned on the table, its wick so low that the oil threatened to extinguish the flame.

  Tahn turned up the wick, brightening the room, and put his hands near the glass as though to warm them. He then sat beside his cloak, and watched Mira. She seemed not to notice, evenly running her cloth over the edge of her weapon, which caught reflections of the flame.

  Questions spun in his head, things he wanted to ask but didn’t dare: Did she think it was possible that a boy from the Hollows and a Far girl …

  Tahn regarded her in the lamplight. No delicate square-neck blouse on her bosom, as the women of the Hollows wore when spring came. Mira’s cloak remained clasped at her neck, the grey folds cascading around a tight shirt that stretched when she moved. No tincture colored her lips or eyes. But the glow of the flame gently touched her skin, lending warmth to her determined features. White flashes burst from the sky, starkly lighting half her face for brief moments.

  “Something on your mind?” she said, turning over her blade to inspect both edges.

  Tahn groped for words. “I don’t know. Yes.”

  “You should tell me, then get some sleep.”

  “All right. Why me?”

  Mira sheathed one sword and withdrew the other. Without a look, she said, “You don’t really need me to answer that, do you?”

  “I know, I’m not the first.” Thoughtfully, he touched the mark on the back of his hand. “All right, why me this time?”

  “Will that make it easier for you?” Mira said, folding over her oilcloth.

  Tahn’s fist tightened into a ball. “Wouldn’t it make it easier for you?”

  Mira continued to work. “No.”

  “Well, that’s fine for you,” Tahn said with mild irritation. “You’re a Far.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Mira said calmly. “Others are trying to sleep.”

  “It’s got something to do with all the years I can’t remember, doesn’t it?”

  Mira went on with her careful cleaning of her weapon.

  “What Elan said…” Emotion caught in his throat. “I’m afraid, Mira.”

  She stopped cleaning her blades, and showed him compassionate eyes. “I don’t have answers, Tahn. And even if I did, I don’t believe hearing them would ease your heart. But I do know a little about remembering.”

  He nodded for her to continue.

  “I told you Far die when we come to our Change. It gives us the freedom to do and say what’s necessary to guard the Language left behind by the Framers. We never have to account … for anything.

  “My sister’s passing leaves me the sole remnant of my family line.
She was Elan’s wife. And before I go he’ll ask me to stay. To take up her crown. And to bear him an heir. It will be an honor to be asked. And our people need this.” She paused, staring. “But I don’t want to be the queen. I don’t want to have a child that I’ll never hear say my name. A child—like me—who’ll never have the chance to know her mother. A child who’ll remember a handful of ‘mothers,’ but not the one who gave her life.” She shook her head. “I don’t remember my true mother. And I’d rather forget the rest.”

  They shared a long look, anguish in her eyes.

  Tahn let out a slow breath. “You remember a childhood you’d rather forget. And I can’t remember a childhood I wish I could.”

  The Far looked back thoughtfully. “Why do the memories matter so much to you? Who you are is defined by the choices you make now.”

  Tahn considered her words. “Perhaps you’re right.” Then he added, “And the same would hold true for you and any child you bear.”

  They sat looking at one another. He wished he could wrap his arms around her, but didn’t know how not to do it clumsily. The hiss of the lamp seemed suddenly very loud.

  Maybe there was a lesson for him in her commitment to this journey to Tillinghast, where she would give so much of a life that would end so soon.

  Considering it, Tahn felt selfish.

  Neither of them spoke again until he asked her the question that had been on his mind ever since he’d met her in the Hollows. “Has a Far ever married a man?”

  Mira smiled her glorious lopsided grin, but didn’t answer.

  He had one more question, but she answered it before he could ask.

  “I will sit vigil. You’ll have the bed to yourself.”

  * * *

  “Draw your bow,” the man said.

  Tahn looked out from the ridge in the cool blue of morning and raised his bow.

  “No arrow today,” the man said.

  Tahn glanced at the man and put the arrow away.

  “Focus on yourself. Steady aim. Breathe slowly. Feel the energy of your draw.”