Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (53 page)

Into the street they strode. Men and women were running past them toward a square where all the town seemed to be gathering. Wendra could feel an excitement in the air, nothing spoken, but nonetheless singing in her nerves as if everyone in town knew the same secret. The crowd did not jostle for position, but found places from which to see and then waited. She noticed that many of them held in their hands colored sticks, marked with numbers. An ominous feeling crept over her, like the darkest prophecy ever spoken by Ogea from the rooftop of Hambley’s inn.

Jastail led her to a place near a raised wood platform. “The boards,” he said, indicating the single most finely crafted structure in the ramshackle town. Long slats of oak lay fitted neatly together to form the raised platform six feet off the ground. On either side, stairs ascended to the platform, which stretched thirty feet long. A short table and chair stood near the left edge, a locked ledger and quill set upon it.

Moments later the crowd parted and several individuals came in a line toward the platform led by a tall man, thick in the waist and shoulders and well muscled. Wendra could not see who they were, but the procession stopped at the foot of the stair. The tall man bent to do something before escorting a bound woman to the desk. A second man, clasping a key fixed to a chain he wore around his neck, rushed up the stairs to the right and took a seat at the table. Quickly, he put the key to a lock that sealed the book, and opened it. Dipping the quill in a reservoir of ink, he inclined his ear as the big man said something softly to him. Then the big man ushered the bound woman to the center of the platform and turned her toward the crowd.

Looking on, Wendra now knew what “dust is up” meant. The woman’s feet had been powdered with chalk, and with each step dust rose in a faint blue-white cloud.

The big man raised his hand and gestured with several fingers, whereupon Wendra watched as members of the crowd lifted their colored sticks with the painted numbers on them. No one spoke, allowing Wendra to hear the mild breeze occasionally whistle through cracks in the poorly built structures around them. The woman stared at her feet, her bedraggled hair hanging limp from her scalp and obscuring her features. She wore a shapeless smock to her knees, drawn in at her waist with a length of rope. The man pointed to one of the many sticks, then raised his hand again, performing a complicated series of hand gestures. More sticks went up, but not as many as the first time. Again the pattern was repeated, each time fewer sticks rising into the air, until but one stick rose above the crowd. The bullish man pulled the woman to the stairs at the right, where she met the woman who had purchased her.

The officious little man at the table wrote in his ledger, dipping his quill feverishly to record the transaction. Then the large fellow descended the stair, and again bent out of sight before rising and escorting a young girl to the boards. Information went into the book under the small man’s quill, and powdered feet trod the boards to the center, where frightened eyes looked out on the bidders.

Wendra’s gorge rose.
This is madness! People cannot be bought and sold!
But Jastail stood beside her, a living rebuttal to the notion that even Wendra was free. And something more lingered beyond her awareness, something awful, something that her mind shielded her from, would not let her see. Wendra desperately tried to recall a melody or lyric to give her comfort, but at the sight of the young girl her throat swelled shut. Jastail put a hand on Wendra’s arm to steady her. She did not shrug it away.

Again the large man lifted his hand and declared some unknown price. All sticks went up. The man smiled, showing a mouthful of bad teeth. He’d grossly underestimated her value. This time his hand fingered a simple gesticulation. Half the sticks remained still this time. The cycle repeated, and the girl on the boards watched in dawning horror at the event unfolding around her. The rounds of bidding extended further this time, but still only the wind talked, ruffling the girl’s downy hair and kissing her chalked feet with delicate plumes of dust over the neatly planed lengths of wood.

As the bidding wound down to two, one of the bidders waved his stick. At that, the auctioneer removed the young girl’s dress so that her potential buyers could view her naked body.

Wendra fell against Jastail. The realization of this horror stole her strength, but also stirred a song deep inside her. The tingling began to crawl into every part of her, leaving the disorientation of a body at war with itself—weak but angry, unable to act but desperate to do something, to release the anger and bitterness mounting inside her.

More came to the boards, chalked feet, vacant eyes. Mostly women and girls, occasionally a frail man, but never the old.

And then a young boy was put upon the boards.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Wards of the Scar

The place was aptly named, Braethen thought. The Scar felt like a wound opened up to the sky. The earth rolled in dry stretches, desperately needing the nourishment of rain, but unable to make use of the moisture. The sodalist could see low spots where rainwater pooled, leaving behind alkali flats. Juts in the land showed coarse streaks of limestone; other spots had turned red from long exposure to the sun, their surface rough like the dry tongue of a mongrel dog. An unsteady breeze blew in fits and starts at long intervals. When it had passed, the Scar returned to the heaviness of the unforgiving sun.

That sun lay on their left near the horizon, its weak light casting violet shadows. It struck Braethen as the loneliest moment he could remember. Only the sage remained behind, clinging to life in the arid, eviscerated land.

“The Scar runs deep,” Vendanj said, drawing Suensin to a stop.

“Will it ever be alive again?” Braethen asked.

“A question better for a seer,” Vendanj answered. “But as long as the Quiet remains, I don’t believe that it will ever flourish with life again.”

The light of dusk lingered in the sky. Braethen started a fire and Mira joined them as they opened their food bags. She looked away at the darkness to the north. “A voice will carry far across this stretch.”

She did not need to interpret the warning for Braethen. The sodalist nodded and continued at his bread.

“They could cast him into prison when we arrive at Recityv.” Mira looked to the east.

Vendanj regarded Braethen with appraising eyes. “He’ll be questioned. And the league will take undue interest in him if he arrives with us. But that can’t be helped.”

“You speak of this Grant. Who is he?” Braethen asked.

“Perhaps you ought to work with your blade some more,” Mira suggested. “Before the light is gone.”

“A fine delay, but I won’t let this one sleep,” Braethen warned with a smile, and went to practice with his sword.

But the answer would find him before he returned to the fire.

Braethen strode well away from their camp. In the twilight beyond the firelight, the faintest white glimmer in the steel shone against the night. It might have been little more than starlight reflected in the blade. He touched the workmanship softly, running his finger up the fuller to the tip and testing the point gingerly with his finger.

Then slowly, he began to practice the strikes Mira had taught him, moving with careful deliberation to position his legs and center his balance. Braethen paused to wipe his brow, dropping his blade to his side. In that instant, he caught sight of a shadow streaking through the darkness. Before he could look up, someone dealt him a crushing blow to the chest, and he fell gasping to his knees.

Immediately, a boot struck him in the face and he went over on his side, his sword peeling from his grip and landing on the dead soil a stride from his hand. Quickly, he rolled, expecting the jolt of another boot in his ribs. The sound of scuttling feet rose in the air, and several more shadows darted in his blackened vision.

In a panic, he swept his arm out toward his sword. His hand slewed across it in the darkness, the blade cutting easily into the meat of his palm. He fought the immediate urge to pull his hand in as he looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of a human shape lunging forward. Again he rolled away, the stamp of boots loud just behind him. A wave of nausea swept through him, blood rushing to his head, his chest still tight from the first blow. He could not draw breath, could not call to Mira or Vendanj for help.

He scrambled on his hands and knees toward a line of the faintest white—his sword! Quick steps followed, but Braethen retrieved his weapon and twisted onto his back, lifting the blade toward the figure closing fast upon him.

The shadow stopped, a ready, catlike posture in the evening light. Braethen could not see its eyes. His chest heaved with the desire to pull air into his lungs, but his bosom yet felt constrained. He could not call for help. The figure drew a sword, and in that moment, Braethen slammed his blade down three times upon a nearby rock. The clank of steel on stone rose sharply in the still, dry air like a vespers call.

The figure before him raised its head toward new foes who were fast approaching and stepped back lightly, shifting its blade toward the sound. Braethen watched as three forms coalesced from the darkness to stand in a staggered line facing the approaching help—like shadows born out of the ground, spirits of Quiet put down in the Battle of the Scar ages ago.

Blood ran down Braethen’s arm from the cut in his hand, making his grip slippery. Movement to his right: Mira and Vendanj running.

Braethen hunched low and turned to see Vendanj shooting red fire into the sky from his hands. Hellish light lit the faces of their attackers. There stood four striplings—not wraiths, not creatures out of the Bourne. None of these lads could have seen more than twenty Northsuns. Their eyes dilated in the sudden glare, awe and fascination clear upon their faces. Immediately they lowered their weapons.

“We thought you were Given, Sheason, forgive us,” a voice said out of the night. “The use of steel here is always accompanied by darker intentions.”

“Is Grant with you?” Vendanj said, coming close.

“No.”

Braethen slowly dropped his sword as understanding came over him. Only a renderer of the order would use the Will here. Velle would have nothing from which to draw power; the ground had already been sapped of its Forda.

He rose from his knees as he recovered his breath. He’d come close to his own ground. But he thought they’d found their reason for coming into the Scar.

“How far?” Vendanj asked.

“Another day,” the boy said. “I can take you there. It is not easy to find.”

“I think I know the way,” Vendanj answered. “But before you leave, sit near the fire and let us talk.”

The four striplings cautiously walked past the Far.

Mira watched as the striplings sat down near the fire and began talking softly with Vendanj. “You don’t have a lifetime to learn your art, sodalist. When your body is at rest, you must practice in your mind. There will not always be someone at hand to assist you. You should go to the fire and let Vendanj dress your wound.”

He looked down at the sword in his hand and turned it over and back, catching dim glints from the far-off flame. Then he sheathed the weapon and walked wearily to the fire. Braethen shook his head and sat a few strides from the boys who’d just tried to kill him.

“I am Meche,” the man who had struck Braethen said. “Please accept my apologies. Grant sends us to the borders for much of each lesser cycle. We set markers, watch for intruders, and learn the folds in the Scar. Shall we go ahead and announce you?” he asked. “If we do not, it is likely that others will respond to you as we did.”

“I will not let that happen a second time,” Vendanj said in an uninflected tone that Braethen nonetheless thought held some disgust.

Meche turned to Braethen. “Are you all right?” he said.

Braethen raised his sliced palm.

“A practicing swordsman in the Scar is not a man to be questioned, only taken down.” Meche showed no hint of remorse.

But the logic eluded Braethen. “And why is that?” he asked, a more acerbic tinge to his voice than he’d intended.

Meche looked at the sodalist with level eyes. “Because only one type of man comes into the Scar. And he is one who would try to bolster his reputation by killing its warder.”

“This Grant,” Braethen surmised.

“Braethen,” Vendanj said, trying to end the conversation.

“And we are his wards, sodalist. We watch here, live here much of the time, and when it’s necessary we defend the only good thing in the Scar.” Meche ran a hand through his hair.

“Which is Grant,” Braethen said again, a bit incredulous this time.

Meche nodded. “And the primrose at his hand.”

Vendanj noted Meche’s words with dark concern.

But Braethen had had just too many mysteries. “Wonderful, a primrose. But how did this man become warder of the Scar, and why would he possibly stay in such a scorned place?”

Meche looked at Vendanj. “We’ll see you soon.” Then he stood and nodded to Vendanj before departing into the darkness southward with a subtle placement of two fingers beside his mouth in a cryptic salute. The others followed him, each in turn performing the same gesture.