The Unremembered

by Peter Orullian

  The Draethmorte didn’t make any great or hasty counterattack. No flames or shifting of earth. Instead, Zephora slowly, almost lovingly, opened his arms as though to receive them all unto his embrace. And with that graceful gesture, a cold silence settled across the pass, stealing sound and replacing it with an ineffable sadness. A deep and mortal grief chilled Tahn to the bone. It stopped him in his tracks. That feeling bore down on everything, pressing the stone and sand, weighing heavy in the air. And it laid hold of Tahn’s heart, resonating inside him like a string drawn too tight, vibrating and ready to snap.

  The moment lengthened, threatening to consume them all, when a triumphant cry shattered the silence: “I am I!” The resounding scream erupted into the stillness, sending shivers of hope down Tahn’s back. The spell broken, Mira yanked him, and up the mountain they raced. He realized with a sudden sense of dread that she was taking him to Tillinghast.

  As they sped over star-shadows and stone, Tahn looked back over his shoulder at the fight unfolding at the rim of the pass. Wendra’s head bobbed as she retreated and tried to force song from her injured throat. He wondered if this would be the last time he’d ever see her, and wished he’d tried to speak to her again. Grant and Braethen danced in close to Zephora, attempting to use their dual attack to confuse and cripple the Quietgiven. With a casual pass of his hand, Zephora sent them both skidding across the rough ground like scarecrows ravaged in an autumn wind.

  Vendanj spared a look up the mountain at Tahn before calmly turning toward the Draethmorte and raising his hands. The rock itself came to life and licked at Zephora with shard tongues and clutched at him with stony fists. One lashed his chest before he dropped to one knee and drove a bony hand into the hard soil. With frightening speed, the earth took on a deathly pallor that began to spread around them.

  Tahn and Mira swept over the rise and found level ground. Behind them, the world lit in an explosion of darkness as searing and painful as live coals. The concussion thrust them forward, driving Tahn to the ground. The blast echoed past them in long, diminishing waves, leaving in its wake an emptiness that might have claimed the shrieks and suffering of friends. Tahn heard only his own labored breathing, and the sound of his boots grinding Saeculorum gravel as Mira hauled him up and they turned again toward Tillinghast.

  The sky above shone dark, revealing stars brighter than Tahn ever remembered. He’d hoped to have time to consider Vendanj’s words, consider everything that led him to this moment. But now all his thoughts clouded in his mind. And distantly came the sound of footsteps. Far down the mountain, someone was climbing after them. Whoever it was came with a steady, purposeful rhythm.

  Perhaps Vendanj … perhaps not.

  Tahn fought to climb faster, pushing Mira to quicken the pace.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Rudierd Tillinghast

  Many of us would take back things we’ve done. But how many of us would do things we didn’t do the first time?

  —The central question in the Concept of Omission, or the Law of Unintended Consequences; first-year reader, Aubade Grove

  Sweat drenched Tahn’s face, stinging his eyes. The higher they climbed, the tighter his chest, the pressure making him gasp. Deep breaths sent piercing shards of pain through his lungs.

  But they pushed harder up the mountain.

  Twice Tahn looked back and saw nothing. But holding his breath for a moment, he could hear the pursuing steps down the rocky way.

  He attacked the path again, sliding in behind Mira as they forged through dense brambles. At times, the steep pitch of the mountain made it seem like they ran up walls. But the Far’s sure steps showed Tahn where to place his feet.

  The sound of his own heart pulsed in his ears, behind his eyes, and in his wrists. He’d never been so aware of his own blood. Never felt so close to his own final earth.

  Rushing up a steep leftward jag, he thought of his Hollows friends, Sutter, Braethen … Wendra. The dark explosion …

  His concentration lapsed, and he missed a step, crashing to his chest and slipping toward the edge on loosened dirt and flat stones. He clutched at dry grass and sharp, buried rocks that ripped at his hands, tearing rough wounds.

  He slid over the edge of the path, catching some withered roots before falling. He dangled in the emptiness that cut away a hundred strides to a spray of jagged rock. Hanging by his hands, he stared up past the mountain at the sky, flooded with bright stars that blurred in his vision. He hadn’t the breath even to scream. And his hands were weakening.

  He smiled, finding irony in failing this way after coming so far, after all the expectations he was supposed to meet at Tillinghast. He slipped closer to disaster. He fought the momentum, and tried to pull himself back up. He’d almost gotten his legs over the edge, when he dropped back again. One hand slipped, losing purchase. A weak moan escaped his lips.

  Where’s the tragedy in this? he thought, looking down at his imminent fall. My family’s gone. My friends are gone. And I don’t think I can do this. I’m not who they want me to be.

  As he began to slip further, he wasn’t sure his fall was entirely due to weak hands.

  Dead gods, I’m tired.

  Then a hand flashed down and took hold of his arm before his fingers could give out. His head lolled back, and he saw Mira’s furrowed brow. Her hair hung down around her face, but Tahn saw something new in her eyes. She took his wrist with her other hand and hauled him up in one powerful effort.

  He sat a moment, wind stirring his hair, and tried to gather enough breath to thank her. Before he could say anything, she put his bow in his hand, and helped him to his feet. She nodded and resumed their climb, the resolve in her features rivaling the Sheason’s.

  He cast a look backward around several tight switchbacks, and caught a glimpse of a dark figure gaining ground. His skin rippled with warning, and he raced after Mira.

  As the slope leveled off, the air thickened with mist, as if a storm were close. Moving through it, the mists parted, coursing smoothly over his forehead, cheeks, and the backs of his hands. The clouds seemed alive somehow. Aware. His skin felt caressed. And a moment later, the mists thickened, slowing their pace.

  Mira paused, getting her bearings. They stood together in the dense earth-cloud, with the rasp of leaves stirring around them. Mira locked on a direction and grabbed Tahn’s shoulder. She gently thrust him forward, coming a half stride behind.

  Then, out of the mists, a ridge appeared. They headed directly toward it, angling for a break to their right. They passed through a rim of black rock that let out abruptly on a few strides of soft loam before a sheer cliff fell away to nothingness.

  Mira stopped. “Tillinghast.”

  The mist roiled in slow patterns, turning back on itself and folding endlessly together. Looking skyward, Tahn could see more of the same, though thinner. Beyond the ledge the mist thickened to obscurity. He took a tentative step, and his foot sank into the rich-smelling soil. He looked at his sunken boot, then peered right along the cliff to the vague silhouette of one cloudwood, rising at the edge of the land. Its roots grew partially into the abyss, twisting down into the clouds like bony, scrabbling fingers. The tree disappeared up into the mist, its top lost completely to view. At its base, a single branch lay fallen as though broken away in a storm.

  He looked once at Mira, whose eyes shone with confidence.

  Then Tahn crept to the ledge, wanting to look down, his boots tracking deep in the loam. Halfway across to the edge, he heard Mira draw her steel, and turned to see Zephora ease from the rim of rock. The mists parted around his black cloak as though in aversion.

  The Quiet disregarded Mira, looking past her to Tahn. “Quillescent.”

  Mira didn’t wait. With blinding speed, she set upon the Draethmorte. Her blades sliced through the fog so quickly that it didn’t stir. Several blows appeared to land directly on the creature, but Zephora didn’t flinch. Blades seemed to have no effect on him. Mira sprang back, landing in a defensive
posture.

  “Your life is larger than the race of man allows.” Its words rang darkly. “You are more than they know. Their arrogance and greed have opened a way to put right the abominations and abandonment of the First Ones. You can erase ages of neglect and cruelty.”

  “He lies, Tahn,” Mira shouted. “Don’t listen to words that make darkness light and light dark. The trick of the Quiet is to lead you gently into chains.”

  With a slight gesture, Zephora pushed a burst of dark light that hit Mira full in the chest and shoved her to the very edge of Tillinghast.

  “She can be yours, too,” Zephora said in a silken tone. “In Maldea’s care, you’ll have restored to you only what you wish, remember only what is helpful. You may even undo things you have done. This is true power. This is what we offer you. It is not villainy, Tahn.”

  Zephora’s use of his name unnerved him. But those words: undo things you have done?

  Tahn relaxed his grip on his bow. “Why do the Sheason fear you, then? What have they to lose?”

  Mira groaned, struggling to get up, but Tahn focused on the Draethmorte.

  “Their own power. Their own control.” Zephora took a casual step toward him. “It has always been so. Your histories are incomplete. They tell a flawed version of history and demonize all those trapped inside the Bourne.”

  “Bar’dyn and Velle have tried to kill me. Quiet took my sister’s child. And you speak as though you are the casualties. Mira’s right, you lie.”

  Zephora’s voice softened, deepened. “We have not sought your life, Quillescent. In ignorance, you are filled with hatred and fear. Don’t let it be so. I can give you answers.” Zephora’s voice resounded in the loam beneath Tahn’s feet, and crept up into his body.

  The Draethmorte drew back his cowl, revealing skin drawn so tight over his bones that it might tear from a smile. “Or,” Zephora added, “I can end the life that never belonged to you.”

  Uncontrollable shivers wracked Tahn. He struggled to ask, “Why do you call me ‘Quillescent’?”

  The Draethmorte laughed, the sound of it dry and hollow.

  A loud clanging interrupted the laugh. Tahn turned to see Mira kneeling beside a boulder. In one hand she held a broken sword. In her other hand she held the rock she’d just used to snap her blade in two. Fury raged in her eyes as she stood and pointed the broken blade at Zephora. “In the name of the Far, I rebuke you. By our covenant, I call you out.”

  Tahn had no idea what Mira had just done, but Zephora’s face registered a brief glimmer of concern. Just as quickly, the expression passed, and he turned to face her, lifting his robed arms.

  “Oathbreaker,” the Draethmorte said to Mira, an awful delight in its voice.

  Then a deep howl rose from him, emanating from his mantle, his pores, his eyes. It touched the air with a bitterness that coalesced into a palpable form Tahn believed would tear skin from muscle. It rushed at Mira, streaking through the mists. She leapt out of the way, the wail passing into the mists and losing its power to silence. Mira danced to her feet, and came nearer Zephora with the jagged stump of her sword.

  “You waste my time.” Zephora turned toward Tahn, leveling him a thoughtful stare.

  Tahn drew his weapon. Blood from his wounded hands seeped between fingers tightly clenching his bow. But he aimed and drew back the string.

  This time, with certainty, he used no arrow.

  The bow was always just a way, when the time came, to focus. He remembered, from years ago, standing with Grant in the Scar, that only the intention of his draw mattered. And along his path from the Hollows, he’d learned something new about himself, some deeper ability when he drew an empty string.

  In his mind he began to speak deliberately the words.…

  I draw with the strength …

  “Don’t be a fool, Quillescent. You’ve no understanding of what you do.”

  Mira circled closer to the Draethmorte.

  A low hum began in Tahn’s head. In his chest.

  … of my arms …

  “Don’t make me destroy you. There’s so much that may be done. To help men be what the gods had hoped.” Zephora raised a beseeching hand. “I would rather not render your soul to nothing. That is a pain you don’t ever want to know. But I would rather you die than see you help the Sheason.”

  Vendanj said the same thing of the Quiet.

  He drew deeper yet, his body still quivering, his flesh weak and cold. Questions and grief plagued Tahn as the hum inside him grew loud, like the faster and faster turning of a potter’s wheel. A deep vibration inside him.

  Mira raised her truncated sword and began to say something in a low whisper. Her body looked less substantial, perhaps a trick of the mist.

  … and release as …

  “Will you serve injustice, Quillescent? Will you honor those gods who placed us in the Bourne, and didn’t try to set things right?” Zephora took a step forward. With it, Tahn’s body shook, his mind filled with shapeless fears and doubts. “A doleful little archer come to Tillinghast without his own childhood. You raise your aim, and would become like those gods, abandoning us, instead of delivering us.”

  Tahn held his draw, focusing.

  Zephora turned his palms out, toward Tahn. And when he spoke, the resonance shook Tahn to his core. “I defy you. I name you unforgiven. The ravages of time I invoke upon you. All of you. The Bourne will fall on the east.” He paused, his head inclining. “Now enough.”

  Zephora loosed a wave of darkness from his outstretched hands. It shoved Tahn to the loam. His flesh felt as though he’d fallen into the rough stones of a winter river. But the silent pulse also throbbed in his flesh. He could hear nothing. But he saw images: burning pages falling like cinders from the air; rivers of blood coursing from the Sheltering Sky; men and women stumbling with their throats ripped from their necks as the last notes of the Song of Suffering ended; and great mountains in the deep places of the Bourne beginning to thrum.

  These terrible scenes flowed in his mind. His soul ached. And he hoped for solace. Instead he saw himself seated in the dark of predawn awaiting a sunrise … that never came.

  And that was something he knew he couldn’t bear.

  He remembered those moments of training in the Scar with no arrow. He remembered recent days when he’d drawn his bow the same way. What had he intended to release?

  He remembered Sutter’s ramblings in the wilds: The spirit isn’t whole, Tahn. It’s not whole. It can be divided. Given out. Taken. Small portions separated …

  Tahn stood and drew his bow again. The words flashed in his mind. And he released. Something unseen, something of Tahn, shot from his string and struck Zephora in the chest. The Draethmorte wailed, a cry like a chorus of mourners.

  Tahn stood in awe. Almost unbelieving. He’d fired his heart. A small portion of his spirit.

  But Zephora wasn’t done.

  The Draethmorte had a heart of its own. It rent its garment and exposed its awful flesh. From the earth and abyss and heavens all at once came a thunderous ovation that Tahn knew was only ever heard in his mind.

  There came to him a taste of the Quiet.

  Not malice. Or hatred.

  But a lack of empathy.

  Tahn fell, his body numb. His spirit numb. He was still aware. Still awake. He lay in the deafening silence of lament and regret that followed the rain of dark applause. His will had been bled from him.

  In that moment, he forgot his name and all the history—good and ill—that had been his own.

  Accountability no longer even mattered.

  And suddenly he watched himself fading into a canopy of white so immense and stark that he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t blind. The world was as empty as new parchment.

  He was ceasing to matter.

  At the far side of his consciousness something rang. Another blade being broken in the air of Tillinghast.

  Then came the soft words of a familiar voice speaking in an unfamiliar tongue.

&n
bsp; It gave him enough mind to cry out for help: Rolen.

  The scream filled his head, echoing out to silence, where he heard simply: Be still, Tahn. Remember standing in the dark, waiting on the light of the sun.

  He opened his eyes. Mira stood between him and Zephora, invoking some ancient promise and holding the Draethmorte at bay, if only for another moment.

  Feeling returned painfully to his body. And mind. He had little left to give. And little time. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet and drew his bow. As Zephora’s dark resonance reached out again, Tahn finished his own prayer:

  … the Will allows …

  And released an empty string.

  Not at Zephora.

  But into the abyss.

  With it, he was swept away, carried into the roiling mists, the arrow of his own shot.

  A great roar erupted behind him, making Tahn think of the dying of nations. Then it was quickly gone, shut out by Tillinghast.

  He disappeared into the clouds, seeing not himself, but only the rush of forms gathering and dissipating all around him in the empty mist. He sensed that he had left his body behind, becoming something more pure, more vulnerable. A feeling of motion captured him, but not physical movement, movement through time. Through possibility.

  Faces appeared before him, as though sculpted from the mist. Some of the faces were smiling, some frowning, others talking, though Tahn couldn’t hear them.

  His mind raced on, streaming through the abyss, light and dark swirling in close and flitting away again. Each time, he saw a choice, a word, a deed, a way of responding that directed him to other choices. He marveled at the winding of his own path through this matrix of interconnected moments.

  Some moments brought him shame. Most painful were those when he could have helped, but did nothing. These brought a cascade of images showing the tumble of consequences resulting from his unwillingness. He felt the raw pain of those who struggled with sadness or loneliness because of his neglect, even when unintended. Opportunities to make a difference cascaded in wild succession before him, opportunities he’d passed up.