Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered

by Orullian, Peter

  The teacher shook his head. “There’s no shame in not knowing a thing, Wendra. Only in not attempting to learn, never asking the question.”

  He struck the fork again and asked her to sing a higher note. He then added his own voice in a lower register. Wendra thrilled at the sound. Sometimes in the Hollows, a few would attempt to create such sounds, but it had never come out like this. The three notes sang together in a unity she had never heard, seeming to fasten together as one, creating a triad of perfectly harmonized intervals. Her own voice faltered the wondrous unity as the awe of it pulled her lips and sank her jaw. Belamae doused the chime and ended his own note.

  “You’ve come to study,” the teacher said.

  “I don’t know.” Wendra glanced at the music stands and their sepia parchments scrawled with notes and signatures inscribing music in a language she couldn’t read.

  Belamae captured her attention, his kind eyes intent. “You have a gift, Wendra. I hear it even in the single note you’ve just sung. It no doubt brings you great comfort, and has probably amused and delighted your friends and family. But what you possess is not meant for them alone.” His eyebrows rose as though to ask whether she understood him. Wendra remained silent. “The warmth and enjoyment of a voice, a musician’s hands upon his strings or fingering the notes on his flute, these are joys to be heard after evening meals are taken and tobaccom smoked to calm the day’s worries. But given to some is a double portion of that ability, an excellence that requires a higher call, that is a higher call. For these few, the fulfillment of that gift can only be achieved by careful training. This is what I do.”

  “I cannot stay,” Wendra blurted. “I’ve friends to find, my brother. There are things…”

  “Child,” Belamae began, infinite tenderness leavened with the certainty of experience. “Take stock of what you know. Look within yourself and ask if there is any priority higher than this.” Wendra tried to interrupt, but the man held up his hands. “Tut, tut. Hear me. I know your mind tells you this is selfish, perhaps self-indulgent. But you may trust my ear. What I hear is more than notes. And there awaits you, child, more in the exercise of this gift than anything you’ve dared to imagine.”

  Wendra had questions, but she found she could not frame them. She looked around desperately, thoughts of Penit, her own stillborn child, and finally Tahn careening through her mind. She saw herself sweating on the floor of a cave, saw the chalked feet of women and children on the blocks, and saw the world flash in a relief of dark and bright and nothing more. She closed her eyes and heard the distant lilt and rhythm of song and grasped one question.

  “What is the music that emanates from this place? Is it the Song of Suffering?” She opened her eyes and looked her question at Belamae.

  The teacher let a lopsided grin light his face. “As good a place to begin as any,” he answered, and stood up from his chair. “Come with me.”

  Belamae went directly to the rear door and opened it as a servant might, holding it for her. He ushered her through and pulled his study door closed behind them before quickly taking the lead again.

  “We will educate you about a few things this very hour.” All grace and flowing robes, he bustled down the hall. His white hair floated in the long bob of his stride. Wendra had to step lively to keep pace with the elderly Maesteri.

  They passed more oil paintings. Many depicted what appeared to be recitals, musicians at the center of amphitheaters filled with listeners. Further on, the paintings depicted battles. In some, a single man or woman stood before a terrible onslaught, in others a chorus of men and women stood together. But in each one, Wendra saw that one side came armed as warriors, the other without weapons, though typically with mouths open in an attitude of song. In some, those without armor lay pierced beneath the instruments of war, white robes stained with the capricious design of flowing blood.

  They walked through another door, and left the intimate warmth of cherrywood for the relative coolness of marble. Then they strode into a large vaulted hall, their footfalls like small things in a great cavern. Here, striations textured the smooth stone surfaces in red, blue, green, and a dozen other hues. It reminded Wendra of the play of light upon the water’s surface when viewed from several strides below the surface. Ahead, on the other side of another door, the music became louder still. No more did it merely rise like a melodious hum from the stone; it fell from it like a last echo.

  Up steps and across short mezzanines they went, the ceiling a full six stories above them. Statuary replaced the oils, as did great, wide, intricate tapestries four times a man’s height, woven with obvious skill. Natural light fell through windows set in the ceiling high above, and through the halls wafted the smell of rosemary and water. Soon, they passed small pools set into the floor and surrounded by low benches. Within the pools, shallow steps allowed one to dip one’s feet and relax them there. Warm mist curled over the water’s surface.

  To the left and right, arched passageways led out of sight down other halls. The glow of candles set upon simple, but elegant pieces of ironmongery gave the marble a fleshlike quality down these corridors.

  At the far end of the vaulted hall, they approached two women in hooded robes who stood beside yet another door. The women bowed as Belamae approached, keeping the posture until the door closed behind Wendra. Beyond the door, a wide corridor stretched under a ceiling not much taller than Belamae himself. At the far end, there appeared to be no door, though a man stood stolidly with his back against the dead-end wall. His lips were moving, and strange incantations fell from his mouth. But it was the floor that unnerved Wendra.

  At each end of the hall, two strides of the same marble provided landings. But between them, water stretched from wall to wall. The pool was recessed as those she’d just passed, and a narrow walkway proceeded through it to the landing at the far side. Here the teacher paused, considering the water and the path across it. The water was not deep, but in it Wendra sensed a warning. The vibrations that Wendra had felt in the stone seemed to ripple the water in subtle response to the music.

  Belamae walked to the edge and looked back at her. “You must cross,” he said. “Keep your feet and move slowly.”

  “Are you coming?”

  “If you reach the other side I will join you.”

  “What do you mean, if?”

  “The water is not precisely what it appears to be.”

  Wendra looked at the pool. “What is in it?”

  The teacher’s mouth curled into a curious expression, part frown, part smile. “Reflections,” he said and nodded for her to begin.

  Why was she being tested? She had not asked to come here. A distant part of her remained grateful to the man for visiting her when she’d been alone and tormented by thoughts of dying alone, of being unable to safeguard Penit once he’d left to find her help. But she chafed under these sudden expectations, the need to prove herself against standards she hadn’t yet learned. A familiar discontent roiled in her bosom. But Belamae’s gaze remained insistent, and Wendra realized she wanted to see the source of the music that caused the water to stir.

  The length of the pathway could be no more than ten strides. Wendra sighed and started across.

  Halfway to the far side, the water around her began to roil and churn fiercely. The ripples rose like small waves, the musical splash of water against stone becoming more frantic. She looked down and instantly felt light-headed. She blinked against the sensation and the image of a tree flashed through her mind in stark white relief against a blackness as deep as midnight. Her vision began to swim—things, people running in and out of focus. She rushed to reach the other side. Water splashed over the pathway as small waves crested the stone. Wendra’s foot slipped on the slick surface. She felt herself falling, but slowly, like an autumn leaf drifting earthward. She fell backward toward the troubled pool. She snapped her head around in time to see the water turn black. It glistened darkly, as though fraught with anger and despair. Then the caress of
cool wetness surrounded her. The water shifted and bubbled at her touch, as though it meant to escape, but could not flee its own nature. She sank deeper, her head descending beneath the surface. The wash of water over her face felt like an accusation. She refused to close her eyes, and the blackness shut her in. The music subsided, replaced by the unnatural loud silence of water. She held her breath involuntarily, but felt no urgency to leave the water’s grasp. She touched the bottom of the pool; her legs strangely content to drift, still against her own rescue.

  This is what it is like. The end of my song.

  Then Belamae was hauling her to safety. The man in his sodden white robe supported her while she focused on his intelligent eyes. Pain in her chest forced her to breathe in quick pants, sour bile in her stomach nauseating her with every inhalation.

  Before she steadied herself, Wendra thought she saw dread concern in Belamae’s face.

  But why? I don’t care for his secrets!

  When the dizziness had passed, Belamae led her back through the door and supported her across the expansive mezzanines and down the several short stairs, eventually finding his study again and helping her to a chair. He stepped out briefly and returned with a blanket and a cup of warm mint tea. After wrapping her and placing the cup in her hands, he took his own seat and sat quietly appraising her while she tried to forget the look and feel of dark water in her eyes.

  Clumps of hair hung wet in her face. She peered up through them at the old man, whose cheek and jowls rested in the crook of his thumb and finger. She had no will to speak, wanting only to have him explain what had just happened. In answer to her questioning eyes, the teacher sat forward and picked up the parchment Seanbea had provided him.

  “Our friend says you can create.” Belamae looked alternately between the notation of her song from the highway campfire and at the song’s composer.

  “We all make our own songs in the Hollows. It is part of the cycle every—”

  “He does not mean tunes, child,” Belamae interjected. “He speaks of composition. Do you understand? To create.”

  She knew what he meant. The act of singing herself well, the fire and ache in her chest and throat that meant to force wailing lines of explosive song up from her bowels, the leeching of color and definition from her eyes as everything became blurs of dark and light. The folding of everything toward one or the other.

  Like the dark water in her eyes.

  “No,” she said. “I do not know what he means. I only make simple tunes with the voice my father gave me.”

  Belamae frowned and fingered the tuning fork on his desk. “All knowledge, learning, and song begin with honesty, child.” He chimed the fork against his desk. “Mark me, any gift may touch two eternities.”

  Wendra remembered the Ta’Opin saying the same thing. She said nothing in reply, only looked into her tea and saw the image of her and Tahn singing to Balatin’s cithern. For the time being, she held all thoughts and desires of song safely locked away.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  A Servant’s Tale, Part II

  “I do,” Rolen said with a quiet steadfastness. “I chose to stay bound here in the bowels of Solath Mahnus. But with good reason.”

  The Sheason cleared his throat and began again. “Eight years ago the Recityv council debated a new law. It came to the High Council from the People’s Advocate. But the action fooled no one; the Exigents had rallied the support, calling it a progression in civility. Only two days did the debate rage, and when it was done, the regent’s Civilization Order on all those found manipulating the Will was read into the Library of Common Understanding.”

  A pained silence followed.

  “By my Father’s name,” Tahn finally muttered.

  “They claimed that it made for a slothful working class, and destroyed self-reliance. They mocked us, saying ours was the work of scops, deceiving others for gain, standing, and position, manipulating them for our own ends. Some even called us spies for the Quiet.

  “What followed tore at the heart of all we are, rippled into the city and carried its taint into the kingdoms bordering Vohnce.” Tahn heard the anger in Rolen’s words, though his voice never rose as he spoke. “The gravely sick passed to their earth ahead of their time. The protection we offered the standing guard could be no more. Small battles claimed the lives of many we were not allowed to defend. Only a handful of Sheason kept residence in Recityv. How poorly we were treated after the Civilization Order went forth! It would seem that, for most people, respect comes only by way of fear. Some thought we should abandon Recityv, move to other places. But since the new law, the three-rings are feared on every road, in every village. Mistrust and lies narrow the eyes of most men we meet. I suppose, to be fair, it was so even before the law. But since …

  “Our call is to serve,” Rolen said with halting speech. “Some of us thought we could do so without recourse to our gift.

  “And in time, even our order became divided. Many sought justice for others without regard for the laws of their lands. To serve, they said, by doing what was right, even if it was not legal or ethical. For them, there could be no separation of the use of the Will and their ability to serve. The schism in the order persists, grows stronger, even as resentment grows among those the order has sought to help.”

  Admiration for Rolen bloomed in Tahn’s chest. “You stayed in Recityv when the others left.”

  “As did Artixan.” The Sheason swallowed, and Tahn wished he had left some water in the man’s decanter. “Two months past, a young girl came to my door begging my help. Her name is Leia. She’s twelve years old, and has for several months come to help me distribute supplies on beggar’s row. I let her in and listened through her sobs to a plea on behalf of her sister, who she said had suddenly taken very ill.

  “I remember it vividly, as it was the first time I remember seeing her hair matted and tangled; her face was drawn and soiled. I don’t know why, but I marked those things that night as I agreed to go with her and offer what aid I could.

  “Leia pulled me through rainy, empty roads in the small hours of the night. And at last we came to a modest house in the merchant district. One feeble lamp burned in the window, the rest of the street dark. We rushed into a one-room dwelling that had boxes and sundries cluttered near the walls and obscured in the shadows cast by the lamp.

  “Her little sister, only four years of age, lay on a pile of rags and old clothes in the corner past the window. Kneeling over her were her parents, speaking softly and wiping her brow with a wet cloth. I can still recall the smell of mold and wet wood where the roof leaked in steady drips. Leia’s home was one step from beggars’ row itself. Theirs was a family that labored hard in the streets to get by. I guessed before even getting to the girl that it might be fever from the cold and rain, gotten inside her in that drafty hovel.

  “Her father looked up as I entered. I could see concern in his face as he began to shake his head. But over his daughter’s feverish body, his wife’s hand came to rest on his own. He looked back at the woman, then down at his little girl. Some internal debate waged for but a few moments. I saw him let go a sigh and nod.

  “I removed my cloak and came to the little girl’s side, where I saw the man actually weeping silent tears. It’s the kind of grief parents learn when their children are close to death … I’ve seen it too many times.

  “I knelt and felt for fever, listening to the child’s breath and blood. It was too late; Leia’s sister was dying and there was nothing I could do for her unless I violated the law and rendered the Will to save her.

  “Then I caught sight of something familiar partially tucked under the girl’s head as a pillow. Pulling back one fold of the garment, I found the crest of the League emblazoned on russet wool. If there was danger in coming to the aid of any man, woman, or child by use of the Will, tenfold more would it be for aiding an Exigent, or even the family of an Exigent.

  “I understood, then, the look in the man’s eyes. He was a member of
the League. My presence in his home alone represented danger for him and his family. Helping his daughter by rendering …

  “And for me, the law was clear. Using the Will meant death if I was caught.

  “I cursed the law then, trying to understand how letting the girl die could be an advancement in civility. All their arguments that our order reduced the need for self-sufficiency and caused sloth in the citizenry fell like so much wax from a spent candle. They had fashioned hatred and mistrust of Sheason into a law that could bring me here to this prison.” The Sheason’s fist slammed against the prison stone in the darkness. “For the crime of saving a dying child.”

  “I turned to the girl’s father, whose name I never learned, and meant to tell him of my conflict.” Rolen’s wheezing ceased. “I never uttered those words. I simply saw the terror in his eyes at the prospect of having to watch his little girl die. The anguish of it got inside me. I’d seen too much suffering already that might have been avoided if it weren’t for this law. And perhaps helping a member of the League would somehow help change their attitude about the Sheason’s call.

  “So, I leaned close and put my hands on her head. I spoke the words, and called health from the Will into the child’s fevered body.

  “When the girl opened her eyes, her mother took her gently into her arms. Around the child, she reached and touched my hand, a strange look of gratitude and regret in her eyes.

  “I understood that look,” Rolen said with sympathy. “Since the woman knew that what I’d done may have forfeited my life. But there was something more. When I put my hands on the girl, I learned of the deception that had ensnared me. This child burned from a poison fabricated by Exigent hands. The truth of it passed into me as my Forda passed into her. This little one had been poisoned as a way to test both this family’s loyalty to the League and my obedience to the regent’s order.

  “The talk of the Whited One has grown among the people, and there are some who have expressed the desire to have the Civilization Order repealed and the power of the Will again to protect them. But a rogue Sheason in open disobedience to the decision of the Court of Judicature would reaffirm the need for the Civilization Order, and focus the people elsewhere, rather than on the Quiet that creeps toward us.