Even asking Penit had been hard. It left Vendanj feeling ashamed. But the Will had provided a failsafe against Tahn’s possible lapse, and Vendanj had known he must ask. It had been for the boy to choose.
And Penit had stayed committed to them, in the same way he’d stayed committed to the stories he played. Like The Great Defense of Layosah, a story about the possible sacrifice of a child …
Still, the consequences of all these choices bore down on him. He twisted fists of snow in his hands.
The Quiet had marked them. They knew the boy was the key to controlling Wendra. And they knew of Wendra’s Leiholan talents. They might also know that Mira carried one of the last covenant threads of the Far bloodline. So, the Bar’dyn attack had almost certainly targeted others besides Tahn.
And still, Tillinghast awaits.
* * *
Wendra sat in the snow as Tahn crawled toward her. She made no effort to move, or to acknowledge him. He stopped a stride away.
“Wendra … I’m sorry,” he said.
She didn’t look at him.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me.…” Tahn faltered, searching for words. “I couldn’t save them both.”
“He’s not dead,” she said flatly.
Tahn waited a moment, then went on. “I sensed I should help Penit.…”
Wendra gave him a withering glare. “I like Mira, but you let the Quiet take a boy.” She swallowed hard down her bruised throat. “If I had my voice, I’d sing.…”
Finally, he said simply, “I had to do it, Wendra.… I love her.”
Wendra ignored his apology, and turned away. Eventually, Tahn crawled back toward the others, leaving her alone.
Before he’d gone to his final earth, Balatin had told her to hold to Tahn no matter what happened. Twice now, Tahn had abandoned her and the young ones she’d sworn to love and protect.
I’m sorry, Da, I can’t do it anymore.
It hurt to let Tahn go. But she hated him right now.
Visions of helpless children in the hands of slavers plagued her. It was one thing for an adult to suffer at the hands of another. But it was something else entirely for a child, who looks to adults for safety, to have their cries unanswered.
She remembered moments when she’d lain and felt her child moving inside her. That child, taken.
She remembered Penit’s courage, going to try and find her help. Then put up to bid on an auction block. And now … taken.
The song throbbed inside her, and she ached to give it voice. Color fled her sight. All looked white and charcoal in her eyes.
She drew handfuls of snow and washed her face, its icy sting bracing her.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
A Blade of Grass
When Maldea was sent into the Bourne, a few Sheason followed. In time, they became elder leaders. In time, they became Draethmorte.
—Drawn from rubbings of glyphs taken at the Tabernacle of the Sky
Braethen helped Vendanj into his saddle, wincing from the effort. The Sheason slouched over his saddle horn, looking more drawn than ever. The man had lain in the snow for a long time, unmoving, Braethen doing what he could to help him.
Most of the others were also unsteady in their saddles, fighting the pain of their own wounds.
But they turned toward a narrow pass to the northeast, and trudged toward Tillinghast.
As they rose higher into the Saeculorum, it got harder to breathe. The air was thin. But it wasn’t only that. Tillinghast was close.
It was a place mentioned in authors’ tales. But actual historical accounts couldn’t be found. It wasn’t a place men were meant to visit.
The dark stone of the mountains struck Braethen with its stark beauty. Cliffs rose hundreds of feet, defying anyone to pass. Small clouds floated near, and were pulled into the coursing updrafts, becoming wisps, then nothing. The sweat on their horses’ shanks began to freeze. By the time they cleared the trees and became fully exposed to the wind, ice crystals hung from their mounts’ hair.
By midafternoon, the sky itself had begun to thin. Through the light of midday, Braethen could faintly see the stars, glimpse the very vault of heaven.
As they crossed into the shade and shelter of a towering cliff, Mira stopped them.
“The horses will die if we push them further,” she said. “We’ll leave them here and go the rest of the way on foot. Take a moment to gather your breath and drink.” She then sat with her back to the cliff, and took her oilcloth to her blades.
Wendra wandered down their backtrail, and sat watching the way they’d come. Twice, Tahn started toward her, before abandoning the effort and returning to his horse. Vendanj and Grant sat conferring, arguing quietly. Up the cliff’s face, the wind howled around sharp outcroppings.
Favoring his arm, Braethen huddled over his book, passing one finger of his good hand under each successive line he read. The Sheason came and took a seat next to him.
“Learn anything useful?” Vendanj asked, nodding at Braethen’s book. The Sheason wore his hood up, shading his hollowed cheeks. He spoke quietly, as though conserving energy.
Braethen stared ahead at the page, his finger stopped, lost in memory. “I used to sit on my porch and watch the rain. My father taught me that a story could be born of every drop, and that the chorus of their landing on a Hollows roof was a lifetime of revealed truth.”
“Sounds like a bit of poetry,” Vendanj observed.
“He used to say such things when I grew impatient to understand something.” Braethen turned to look at the man. “Or when I pushed to know more about the Sodality. Or how to use a sword.”
Vendanj kept quiet, nodding.
“One night, he woke me,” Braethen said, remembering. “We went by lantern out to our well. We sat in wet grass in front of a rosebush.
“I remember the birds starting to call just before dawn. Smoke from chimneys lit with endfast fires. It was damned cold until the sun came up. But even then, the roses remained closed. It wasn’t until late morning that the petals finally opened. We sat there, in the wet grass and cold, to watch a rose until it opened to the sun.”
Vendanj put a hand on Braethen’s arm. “Your father’s a good man. I know he wanted you to be an author. And I know your desire to become a sodalist caused strain between you.”
Braethen nodded. “But now I am a sodalist. And each time I lift my sword, I fear the darkness will consume me.” He hefted his book and dropped it back into his lap. “And even with the books, I don’t seem to glean what’s necessary.”
“You helped Garlen get us to Naltus,” Vendanj reminded him. “Damned quick thinking, too.”
Braethen nodded, unconvinced.
Vendanj looked down at the book in Braethen’s lap. “Perhaps you’re not reading the right stories,” he suggested. “What are you hoping to find?”
“Something to help Tahn when he stands at Tillinghast,” he answered.
Vendanj made a small, appreciative smile. “Tahn will have to figure that out on his own. Best thing you can do is help us get there.”
Braethen touched the blade the Sheason had given him. “I took the oath. I believed in the stories, that the Sodality honored what was best about the Sheason, standing beside them to record and remember. To place themselves in the way of whatever risk. To take up weapons.…”
Vendanj listened, but didn’t interrupt.
Braethen’s breath came fast and shallow, the late-day sun streaking the cold plumes that billowed from his lips. “But I was naive. I’ve idealized the tales of heroism, the banner … even war. And now I’ve steel of my own. I’m not much good with it. And when I raise it, I usually find myself in darkness.” Braethen’s breath faltered, catching in his chest. He paused. “I’m a small, foolish scholar who belongs in the Hollows.”
Vendanj stared back at him, his face reassuring. “Taking up a weapon is black business. You’ll grow used to it with time.”
Braethen tried to stop his trembling fingers. “I d
on’t want to grow familiar with it,” he managed.
“I spoke nothing of familiarity,” Vendanj corrected. “But it’s still true that now more’s expected of you.”
Braethen nodded, no less comforted than when Vendanj had sat down.
“Put your book aside a moment.” Vendanj gathered Braethen’s full attention. “Do you have a sigil of your own?”
“I wear the crest of the Sodality. It’s—”
“A worthy emblem,” Vendanj finished. “But it’s not individual. Do you understand?”
Braethen nodded. “I’ve no family mark. And in the Hollows everyone knew my name—”
“That’s not the purpose of a personal mark.” Vendanj paused, studying Braethen closely. “A sigil speaks of a man’s purpose. His intention.”
Braethen thought for several long moments, then reached down and plucked a blade of grass growing from a patch between his feet. He held it up, a slow smile touching his lips.
“Ja’Nene,” he said. The widow with the ruined face who walked each day to pluck a few blades of grass.
Vendanj gave Braethen an appreciative look. “Your own story. An important one.” He then stood up and returned to the others.
Braethen fetched the needle from his pack, and managed to pull several threads from his shirt. He removed his cloak and fashioned the likeness of a blade of grass over the left breast. The color was even right, dark green. It wasn’t an expert job, but clear enough.
Moments later, Mira called. “Gather your things.”
Braethen shrugged into his cloak. “Let’s go see Tillinghast.”
* * *
Once through the pass, the air warmed. A shallow valley stretched before them, the mountains rising again at its far side.
Across the valley floor, trees had fallen heavily to the earth, their trunks half buried in the soil. Elaborate root systems stood exposed in twisted knots. It struck Tahn like a garden of stone statuary tumbled by a quake. The trees were a hundred strides long, and more.
Vendanj stopped, frowned, his expression edged with despair. “The Cloudwood.” His words sounded like an epitaph.
After several long moments, the Sheason followed Mira onward. They wove through the fallen trees, scrub oak, low cedars, and grasses brown as from an early autumn.
“What’s wrong?” Tahn asked Braethen.
“I think this is what the histories call the Eternal Grove. These trees”—Braethen pointed at one as they passed it—“are cloudwood trees. Their wood is said to be impervious to the ax.”
Tahn stared at the fallen forest, skeptical.
“The stories say the First Ones created the grove to be a source of renewal,” Braethen explained. “Its roots are said to crawl into the mists and form new earth.”
“Mists?” Tahn remembered Je’holta, off the plains of Sedagin, and turned back to Braethen. “That’s where we’ll find Tillinghast, isn’t it?”
Braethen nodded. “That’d be my guess.” Then he looked around him again at the fallen trees. “But it looks like the Cloudwood is dying. Maybe this helps explain how the Quiet are crossing the veil. How they came into the Hollows.”
They descended into the midst of the fallen sentinels, the girth of the trees twice and three times as tall as Tahn.
From several strides ahead, Vendanj spoke. “We’ve not been good stewards. We share the blame for this.” He looked across the valley of dead cloudwood. “But it’s also the Quiet. They take for themselves and leave the costs for us to pay.”
Vendanj stopped and turned. “There’s only one thing that is ours. Truly ours. To give or use.” He paused a long moment. “Our will.”
His voice softened. “It can be used to tear down. As the Quiet have.” He looked again at the fallen trees. “But it can also be used to build up. And we’re here … because the Quiet want to take it from us.”
He then pointed to a range of peaks on the far side of the valley. “Beyond the valley lies Tillinghast.” Vendanj looked at Tahn. “It’s a mirror for your will. All of it.”
Vendanj turned and led them on. Hours later, they neared a narrow canyon pass at the far end of the valley. The sun slid behind the mountains behind them, casting everything in blue shadow. With it came a deep quiet. No whir of crickets. No larks taking to their nests. Every footfall seemed loud in the silence. Sutter started a fire to ward off the chill. And the silence.
As Tahn was tending to his horse, Grant cornered him near a fallen cloudwood. “I know you don’t want to talk to me, but this once, please listen.”
Tahn stood, waiting.
“I didn’t come along with Vendanj expecting to just pick up as your father.” Grant’s face was hard but earnest. “And I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know if there’s anything we can do to turn back the Quiet this time. I sit in the middle of Quiet desolation every day.”
He paused, seeming to search for the right words.
“But whatever you end up thinking or feeling about me, I want you to understand, especially as you go to Tillinghast … that I’m proud of you. It wasn’t an easy decision to hide you in the Scar. Hell, it wasn’t easy to go to the Scar, at all. I’d have preferred hanging.” He shook his head. “But I wanted you to be safe. And if it came to it, I wanted you to have the strength of body and character to stand at Tillinghast.”
He put a hand on Tahn’s shoulder.
“And by every absent god, Tahn, I’ll stand behind you with anything that is mine to give … anything.”
He removed his hand and left Tahn without another word or look.
Tahn didn’t know how to feel. But he’d noticed something he hadn’t before—maybe because Grant hadn’t been wearing his gloves. A brand on the back of the man’s left hand … in the shape of a hammer. More similarities between them? Tahn put it out of his mind and took a seat at the fire.
Vendanj regarded Tahn across the flames. He rubbed his eyes before starting to speak. “Tomorrow we’ll come to Tillinghast. It’s a place where Forda and Forza meet. A place of potential. There’s no deception at Tillinghast, Tahn. You’ll remember all that you’ve done. You’ve the shield of melura to answer for most of it. But you’ll remember it just the same—every misgiving, every ill thought. That’d be painful enough. But you’ll also see the effects of it all.” Vendanj shook his head. “That part’s not so easy.”
Vendanj fell quiet for several moments.
“But Tillinghast is more than remembrance,” Vendanj added. “More than a scale to measure worth or value. It’ll show you who you’ve become, who you’re capable of being.”
“That’s our purpose,” Vendanj explained. “The Quiet are restless. Their influence grows. They would use that influence to convince you of lies. To help them.” He looked at Tahn. “Better you die than do so.”
The words chilled Tahn.
“We need those who can bear all the mistakes they’ve made,” Vendanj said, “and become more. Become changed in whatever way Tillinghast would change them. And use it to stand against the Quiet.”
From the crevasse, a deep wind rose up, shrilling into the night air. “When will you tell the boy the truth, Sheason? He is Quillescent.”
Tahn whipped around as a figure floated up from the crevasse. The air grew thick, pressing at Tahn’s skin.
Vendanj threw back his cloak, and rose in a single, graceful motion. Mira, Grant, and Braethen jumped to his side, brandishing their blades as Vendanj crossed his arms and stared into the deep cowl of the floating form.
The figure rose up three strides above the edge of the crevasse, and peered down at them. “This is the hope to which men cling?” Its voice chafed the very air, and shook the stone all around. “Quillescent or not, the Will here is feeble.” The cowl shifted noticeably, facing Tahn.
“You’ve no dominion here,” Vendanj shouted above the howl of wind still rising from the crevasse.
“No dominion? I am Zephora, Draethmorte,” the creature declared. “My authority is as old as the injustices of t
he Placing.” Zephora’s voice grew quiet, menacing. “I am more lord here than all your councils, I am more enduring than all your restored choices.”
His words resonated inside Tahn, sad and bitter, like the voice of the damned. They prickled his skin in a painful rash of goose bumps. They sounded like the soughing of winter winds through dead trees. His words even seemed to move in the soil beneath them all.
Tahn raised his bow, nocking an arrow as Sutter drew up alongside him, his sword gripped firmly in both hands.
Zephora descended to the edge of the crevasse, landed softly, yet never stopped facing Tahn. On the ground, he stood as tall as Vendanj, though thinner and frailer looking. “You don’t understand the Charter. Or you wouldn’t try to keep us bound inside our prison. You’re as guilty as your abandoning gods.”
Anger flared, and Zephora’s next words bristled the air. “And we grow tired! The prattling of generations will come to an end. No more will we be bound by your tethers.” The Draethmorte quieted. “You are done.”
Zephora’s cloak began to unfurl, his arms reaching out. Vendanj drew back his hands and thrust them at the Draethmorte. An immense burst of energy shot from the Sheason. Not just from his hands, but all of him. A few paces away, it felt like the raw power of lightning. But there came no light. Just a rushing sound like the roll of thunder. It seemed to gather strength as it went, too, drawing energy in from rock and soil and the air itself, everything pulled into its stream.
The attack swept Zephora back. But briefly. The rush of force began bending around him, unable or unwilling to touch him any longer.
Vendanj dropped his hands and grabbed Mira’s shoulder, pulling her close, focusing his eyes on hers. She nodded, as if hearing something unvoiced. She broke past Vendanj and Grant and grabbed hold of Tahn. “Follow me.”
Tahn didn’t hesitate, and dashed with Mira to the far side of the pass. He pushed himself to keep from slowing her. At the base of the next climb, Tahn stopped and looked back. The others had positioned themselves between him and Zephora.
The Unremembered Page 54