Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (108 page)

The author began to point, and Braethen dashed to a bookcase to the man’s left on the far wall. He scanned the books and found it quickly. There were eight volumes. He fingered the bindings in a blur, and pulled down the second book. With an audible crack, he opened the tome and flipped by memory a third of the way through the pages. He scanned, his mind and heart racing with remembrance and urgency.

“Here!” Braethen passed the open book up to A’Garlen. “Halfway down the left page.”

The author took the book with a look of skepticism, but read the printed page. His face took on a conspiratorial smile. And before he did anything more, he reached down. Braethen took the author’s grip, one he knew well.

“I thought so,” the old man said. “Thank you, lad. Of course, this is pedestrian language, and won’t do for a telling.” He harrumphed. “But it gets me what I need.” He shook his head, and cast a gleefully wicked eye over Braethen and the rest. Then the diminutive man stretched his arm up to draw back his sleeve, and made a grandiose movement of dipping his quill in an inkwell. His gaze flitted over the top of his glasses toward Vendanj as he withdrew the instrument, seeming to ask if the Sheason really meant to use what the author was about to produce. Vendanj nodded gravely.

As Braethen returned to the window to watch the street, the Sheason caught his arm and gave him a brief grateful nod. For Braethen, it was a world distant from the feelings of disappointment he’d once felt over his choices and aptitude. He settled one level deeper into the skin of a sodalist.

Garlen looked down at his lectern, put his quill to parchment, and began to write. The scratch of the quill against the parchment came loud. But Garlen never looked up once. His hand moved with practiced ease to the inkwell, but so quickly that it scarcely seemed anything more than another stroke in his current word. No pause came, no waiting on something more to write. The scribbling was feverish but not panicked. Braethen watched the author’s eyes look beyond the page under the quill to whatever he created. In those moments, Garlen’s gaunt cheeks seemed robust and his elderly eyes clear. Braethen’s skin prickled at the sheer thought of what the man might be creating inside his mind and committing to parchment.

No one spoke or moved. None wanted to break the spell of silence. In the quiet, the only sound was the solitary quill roughing its way with black ink over a patch of vellum. That sound seemed to Braethen immeasurably lonely, and in the same instant impossibly important. It reminded him of his father’s work, and somehow, so far from home, his esteem for A’Posian grew manyfold.

The sodalist stood near the door, one hand idly draped over the sword at his hip. Penit smiled as he stood next to Wendra. The boy appeared to revel in the idea of words, of story being written out. Braethen had almost forgotten that Penit had until quite recently earned his way by using the words of authors and acting the parts of characters in an author’s scenario. Wendra herself had an odd expression on her face. Braethen thought he’d seen it come upon her when Garlen mentioned the cathedral.

But he watched the man with quiet reverence. Vendanj waited on the author with perfect attentiveness, the Sheason’s face upcast into the soft glow of the old man’s lamp.

Braethen did not know how long they’d stood waiting, watching Garlen create his telling. However long it may have been, it seemed an instant. The author was creating words that Braethen—from his years of study—knew could be sung in order to bridge great distances. The legends of tellings were like legends of the Far.

Suddenly the door burst open. Mira swept past Braethen to Vendanj, who did not look away from Garlen.

“A mob searches the next street,” she said in a quiet, urgent voice. “They come here next. If we don’t leave now, we will be overmatched.”

Vendanj appeared not to hear her. And Garlen could not be disturbed. The author was alone with his words in a room full of strangers.

“Shall I run a decoy south? Grant and I could lead them false long enough for you to reach the cathedral.” Mira looked up at Garlen. “Is he near to finished?”

Vendanj raised a hand to silence her. That same moment, fighting broke out in front of the house. Mira bolted from Vendanj’s side and into the street as clashes of metal and heaving grunts told of swordplay beyond the door. Shouts of alarm rose up.

“Over here,” one man called in a fierce bellow.

Rearing horses whinnied loudly, and frantic hooves echoed in increasing volume toward them. Scuttling boots pounded the soil of the road; the clink of armor and blade jangled Braethen’s nerves. The shouts and calls became furious. Oaths accompanied the sounds of sword blows. Protestations echoed down the hard-packed dirt of the street.

The Sheason looked up at Garlen again. The author’s quill still leapt across the page, undisturbed by the combat outside his door, unperturbed by the intrusion of voices and the threat of weapons in his own house. The fight seemed to rage closer to the stoop, impacts slamming the walls from without. Panes of glass rattled in their frames and wall hangings bumped occasionally, displaced momentarily by the force of a blow. A shrill cry rose—the sound of a mortal wound. The rumble of a mob, the shriek of dissonant voices, and the tumult of blind aggression advanced toward them. Still Garlen wrote; still Vendanj watched him write. Neither could be disturbed.

Someone came to the door, hollering an oath of death. The words gurgled in his throat, Mira’s blade cutting short the imprecation. A hollow thud followed as the man fell across the entry.

Tahn looked up and saw a maniacal look in Garlen’s eyes. His lips worked over his yellowed teeth. The hair upon his head and in his ears seemed to stand on end. It was as though he experienced a chill, yet he did not stop. His quill worked now at such a pace that it sounded as one long stroke, the individual letters and words indistinguishable from the whole.

“Here!”

Garlen dropped his quill into the inkwell and dusted the parchment with sand to dry it. Then he rolled the parchment with stubby fingers. The author lashed it with a braid of horsehair and tossed it at the Sheason.

Vendanj caught the scroll with a deft hand, and swept it into the folds of his cloak in the same motion.

The lantern rocked slightly over Garlen’s head. The author leaned out over the lectern he used to write upon. “Never forget that you asked this telling of me, Vendanj. I am glad I don’t know the names of your company.”

Vendanj pulled a small bag from his cloak and placed it on a nearby table. “For a great many skies to come, my friend. Watch yourself well. I regret what finds your street tonight.” With that, Vendanj whirled and strode to the door.

The others followed. Braethen lingered a moment to note the strange look on Garlen’s face. It was as though he’d just returned from another place, and found the world he’d come back to a relief. The author turned toward him. Garlen did not speak, but he smiled thanks again to Braethen and nodded.

Then the sodalist moved fast to the door. He stepped across the body lying there and onto the stoop. Eight men stood near Mira and Grant, wearing the color of the League. The two had successfully kept them at bay.

Vendanj rushed into the center of the street and pushed his cloak off his shoulders. With one fist drawn to his right hip, he pointed splayed fingers toward the sky.

The wind began to stir.

Vendanj dropped his arm toward the men. A faint yellow luster engulfed them, and in that same moment, the wind descended in punishing waves. Small pieces of wood from houses down the street tore loose from their nails, rocks and cast-off bits of iron rose from the ground. Panes of glass shattered; shutters, barrels, everything light ripped into splinters, streaking through the air toward the glow around the men. A rain of detritus struck them like a swarm. A few fled; some fell to the ground under the assault, their bodies writhing beneath hundreds of pointed pricks and the bludgeoning of stone and metal.

In a moment Braethen and his companions all clambered aboard their horses and bolted as the wind howled past them, tearing at their cloaks and whipping dust into their eyes.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Leaving Peace Behind

More shouts followed them. Searchers, spotting them as they raced through the streets, called alarms and pointed accusing fingers, spurring their mounts to move faster. Shadows blurred past, smears of grey beneath a bright moon. Wendra had the impression of long, sleek arms snaking toward her as they passed beneath the more profound dark of tall, narrow alleys.

Then they turned onto a broad street that ended at the steps of Descant Cathedral. The sight relieved her. Beneath the lesser light, it rose like a monolith against the starry sky. Great domes marked dark half circles against the night. From there, upper windows showed the dim light of candles.

They headed for the cathedral, looking behind them to see if they were still being followed. Wendra glanced back, too, noting the strain on the faces of Grant and Braethen, who brought up the rear. Sutter rode beside her, chin lowered, giving his steed his head as he kicked the horse’s flanks. Wendra held Penit against herself with one arm, coaxing her mount on with her reins.

More lights flickered in windows on both sides of the street, a few men coming to doorways as they notched sword belts over nightshirts.

“You there,” a man called.

“Hey, slow or be stopped!” another demanded.

Ahead, the street began to line with more denizens of this dusty quarter of Recityv. Mira pushed harder, pointing her sword at one man who stepped into the street with violent intentions. Her warning stopped him in his tracks.

Suddenly, behind them a roar erupted. Wendra looked over his shoulder and saw many horses burst onto the street, a block behind them. A chorus of battle cries came after them, raised from men in league chestnut and Recityv crimson all muted in the neutral tones of the large moon. Their pursuers bore down on them, the sound of bloodlust in their cries.

Looking ahead again, Wendra’s heart fell as three horsemen emerged from the end of the street and took position in front of the cathedral steps to block them. If they should somehow evade these new challengers, those behind would surely be upon them before they found safety beyond the cathedral doors.

Bur Mira did not slow. She pulled both swords and rode with an easy grace and rhythm on Solus’s back, eyeing the obstacle. As they fast approached the end of the street, Grant rode past Wendra and took up position beside the Far, barreling down upon the three horsemen.

Nearer to the cathedral, Wendra saw that the men sat in old saddles on horses as shaggy as meadow mares. They wore armor pieced together from whatever they had at hand, and bore sigils that looked as though they had sewn them themselves. They meant to earn a reputation and esteem at Solath Mahnus in this time of convocation. But they seemed little more than highwaymen or opportunists. All save one, who wore a plain suit of black leather and carried a pike forged of a metal equally black. Though he wore no cloak, a hood shielded his face. This, most of all, struck fear in Wendra’s heart.

And still Mira did not slow.

A cacophony of angry shouts rose from those who stood in the way. Wendra lowered her own chin and followed the others into the melee.

The man in the hood reared his horse and pointed his mace at Mira. The Far hurtled forward undaunted, driving her mount directly toward him. Grant angled right for the rider on the end. Vendanj leaned forward, urging his mount on.

Of a sudden, Braethen passed Tahn on the left, whipping his steed forward and drawing his own blade as he raced to the front and arrowed toward the horseman at the far left.

On the sides of the street, torches flared into life, the growing crowd eager to see as well as hear the contest about to take place. Men howled loudly with glee, asking for blood and declaring their own ability. But the words rose and fell, waves of violent sound, joining the white noise of the blood roaring in her ears.

She turned to see their pursuers. The mob now filled the street, a wall of men and horseflesh. The glint of fire on dull metal winked at her, and she realized she and Sutter now held the rear position. If the three horsemen stopped them long enough, the swarm would find them first, and she and Sutter would be pulled under like capsized boats in an angry sea.

Ahead, the man in the dark hood lifted his black mace and began swinging it at a dizzying speed, creating a wide, whirling barrier of himself and his weapon. In the air, an ominous, painful moan began to grow, like the deathbed sighs of an entire generation—this was no ordinary warrior. The sound stole Wendra’s breath, and she began to choke. She clutched at her throat and looked over at Sutter, who was doing the same.

A squeal pierced the air, and Wendra turned toward the sound in time to see Mira rein in hard on Solus, using the forward momentum to vault herself from her saddle toward the man in black armor. For a long moment, she seemed suspended in air, sailing toward the whirling mace. Then her arm flashed and caught the weapon in its arc, stopping it in the same instant as her second blade sliced toward the hooded face. The rider leaned back to escape the blow and rolled from his horse to the ground, keeping hold of his weapon.

Grant forced his mount into a collision with the rider on the right, who made a weak attempt to thrust a sword into Grant’s chest. The man out of the Scar twisted his fist into the other’s hair and wrenched him from his saddle. A jarring crunch of mismatched armor accompanied a snap of bone, and the man scuttled away on his knees, dragging one arm uselessly.