Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (61 page)

As he wrote, Tahn nodded to Sutter, who shrugged again and stuck his tongue out playfully, concentrating as a child might over a mundane task.

Nails finished first, his page half written upon.

Tahn filled his sheet, noting the smell of singed flesh and charred wood and iron as he related the devastation around him.

Together, Tahn and Sutter waited for Edholm to stop writing. The man used three pages to make his account, his fingers moving lithely, tracing words in quick, elegant strokes. Tahn watched letters and symbols fill the parchment, lines being written in alternating directions—left to right and then right to left—all in a language foreign to him.

The scrivener then put his quill aside on a layer of ash, blew the last strokes dry, and rolled his parchment tightly. He bound it with several strands of what Tahn thought must be hair. He then produced three ordinary-looking sticks from an inner pocket of his tunic. Taking the first in hand, he opened one end, revealing a hollow compartment within. Into it he stuffed his rolled parchment.

He sealed it again, the seam undetectable. Reaching for Tahn’s and then Sutter’s parchments, he read each with amazing speed, seeming to take it all in at a glance. Then he rewrote their epistles on new pieces of parchment, having them sign their names again to words they could not read. Afterward, he likewise placed their parchments in the remaining sticks. Having sealed them all, he stood and surveyed the room, a profound look of melancholy drawing his face. Then he gave both Tahn and Sutter a grave look. “Now come,” he said curtly.

Through the maze of halls and stairs and small inner courtyards they retraced their way to the entrance, but not before searching each room of the library. The hope that had lit the scrivener’s face never touched it a second time. More figures lay curled into charred human balls, the fire having consumed everything in the vast library. The soft glow of the rock bore them company, shining dully through warped mortar and stone. At the entrance, the scrivener peeked through the hole they’d created to assure himself that all was well in the clearing.

“They succeeded, Tahn,” the scrivener said. Tahn immediately realized that he and Sutter had signed their real names to their parchments. Edholm did not draw attention to the uncovered deceit. “The Velle came to this place and by destruction stole countless ages of accumulated thought and wisdom.”

Having spoken it like an epitaph, Edholm went through the hole, and out of Qum’rahm’se a final time.

Tahn and Sutter ducked back out into the light.

Standing together, the two of them shared wary looks before the scrivener handed the sticks to Tahn. “Never allow these out of your hands. These are sealed words. The encryptions are a simple matter, understandable only to those prepared to know their truths. But the parts that a foe might decipher could be nearly as dangerous to them, to
us,
as the full truth.

“They are safe against water,” the scrivener explained, “but take care not to break them. You’ll present these at Recityv. Not to some low officer or pundit. Take the sticks to Dolun’pel, head of my brotherhood, and watch as he removes their seals. Attest to their contents. If you cannot find him, give them into the hands of someone you trust, someone with authority to act on what they find therein. Do you understand?”

“Why don’t
you
take them?” Sutter asked.

“I won’t need them,” he replied. “If I make it as far as Recityv, my presence and testimony will be proof enough that Qum’rahm’se has fallen.” He poked Tahn’s chest. “
You,
however, are just striplings, and I’m guessing by your garb you are unknown at Recityv. These will be needed should I never make it there, and our chances are doubled if we both go separately.

“Those in authority must know what has befallen our work here. It is imperative.” Edholm’s eyes grew distant once more. “They must know the loss and decide what must be done.”

Focusing again, he said, “Make haste, lads. Don’t dawdle. This season may end sooner than you might imagine, and if it does, it will come with desecrations we can only imagine. Don’t be a party to it by failing in this simple commission. The Quiet are still very close, so I will head west for a time, traveling obvious roads, burning bright fires, and singing loudly at every step to draw undue attention, before proceeding to Recityv. You follow the river north. Make no fire, stay beneath the shadow of the leaf. If you can see the river blue, you are too close to it. In a few days, you’ll come to an old overgrown road. Any other time, I’d tell you to follow it west to the main road north.” The scrivener shook his head. “But not this time. Follow the road east back to the river. There you’ll see a grand old bridge arcing toward high cliffs. That’s the way for you. It’s an old road, a forgotten way. But the Given won’t look for you that way, either. Take care and you’ll be all right.”

Tahn could feel the scrivener holding something back. “Where are you sending us?”

Edholm motioned them close and whispered so softly they almost couldn’t hear him. “It is a very old city, very old.” He looked them each in the eye. “Take care and you’ll be all right,” he said again.

As an afterthought, the scrivener reached for one of the books at his belt. He tore out several written-upon sheets, and rolled them as he had done the others before stuffing them inside yet another stick, this one larger. “Take this with you, as well. Those to whom you present the sticks will be glad of its reception.”

Edholm fell silent, his aspect weary. “I am but a scrivener, boys. I have loved my days recasting what has been, laboring over it with bone and muscle, carrying forward in time the simple and dear words that authors in the tradition have given us.” He lifted a quill and spun it slowly between his fingers. “There are other methods of producing the words, but none that imbue the text with all the depth of soul and intention set out in the first seasons of man.”

Shaking himself from his reverie, the scrivener looked a last time at Tahn and Sutter. “It is an imperfect plan, but likelier to succeed than three untested men leaving together to outfoot the Quiet.”

Edholm was right, and even if he had been wrong, it would have done no good to try and convince him otherwise. Tahn sensed that the scrivener had written upon his scroll things that Tahn and Sutter had not put to their own: a last testament to his life because he didn’t believe he’d ever reach Recityv.

“Should Will and Sky smile at once, we may meet in cleaner air, and I may take your hands to show my thanks.”

The scrivener extended one hand, which Tahn took willingly. With his other hand, Edholm traced a circle around his and Tahn’s thumbs. Without another word, the scrivener set out through the still smoking trees and spared no backward glance.

“Whew,” Sutter exclaimed. “I don’t know what to make of that little fellow.”

Tahn stuffed the sticks into an inner pocket of his cloak. “Really … I thought he was your brother.”

Bandying a series of similar retorts, they retrieved the horses and marked a northward course. They soon reached the river and resumed their journey under the cover of the tree line not far from the river’s edge. Until evening they traveled, speaking low, Tahn occasionally clutching the sticks inside his cloak to assure himself that they hadn’t worked themselves loose.

In the twilight, ignoring the scrivener’s admonition, they agreed to a small fire and warmed their meat and cheese together over bits of stale bread.

Smacking his lips with delight over the makeshift supper, Sutter asked, “If the cycle turns and there is no one around to witness for us at our Standing, do we still pass into manhood, the fullness of alchera?”

“You won’t,” Tahn jibed. “I think ‘manhood’ is rather picky about who is allowed in.”

“I see. And you feel confident that ‘manhood’ has a place reserved for a hayseed whose only manly activity is shooting helpless animals.” Sutter chortled through his food.

“I think I’m in line right ahead of the clodhopper whose closest friend is a worm.” Tahn threw the last bit of his fusty meal at Nails. Then he thought more seriously. “I don’t know. I’d always thought Balatin would Stand for me. And when he went to his earth, I chose Hambley.” He adjusted a log on the fire. “I don’t think we’ll be home in time for that to happen. I guess one way or another we’ll get older.…”

Sutter brushed his hands together and drew up his blanket. “Not me, Woodchuck. I think I fancy that if we never Stand, we never age. Imagine an endless lifetime of trackers, scriveners … and women.” He winked at Tahn and rolled over to sleep, leaving the first watch to Tahn.

In moments, long, slow breaths rose from Sutter as he went to his dreams. Tahn leaned back against a fallen tree and looked up through the darkness toward the lesser light, his thoughts turning to Mira: A woman who looked his age, but who seemed to have lived a lifetime of experience; her reserve; the latent skill and energy in her arms as they rested near her sword. Something did seem ageless, timeless, about her.

Removing his neck wrap, he rubbed at his wounds. Despite the foulness so recently pursuing him, Tahn lost himself in reverie of an imagined life with the Far. The responsibility of the sticks, the ache in his foot, the guilt of his inaction over Wendra’s child, all receded if for but a moment as he thought about possibilities.

*   *   *

They rode a full day, speaking little, each caught up in his own thoughts. Evening meal and night watches were more of the same. On the morning of the second day after leaving Qum’rahm’se, they broke through to a road choked with foliage, high grass growing in the middle, nearly obscuring the wheel ruts. Tahn angled east toward the river, stems brushing his legs and the bellies of their mounts. In the breeze, the air filled with seeds blown from river cottonwoods shedding their plumes. The soft fall of the light, downy seeds seemed to assuage the urgency that had been growing in him to safeguard the messages entrusted to him by the scrivener.

The ripple of leaves rustling together in the wind like the rush of whispers reminded Tahn of the Hollows, and he relaxed in his saddle. Slowly, the sound of running water grew. The dappled light gave way to an open sky above them as Tahn and Sutter suddenly found themselves at the edge of a bridge arching up to span the river.

Neatly cobbled stones mortared together with clay and sand made up an elegant overpass. The bridge was bordered by balustrades and supported by stout pilings of seamlessly fitted larger stones. The architect had invested great care in fluting the masonry posts that rose at even intervals to the flat stone ledges on both sides of the bridge. Beveled edges marked the ledges themselves. The stone, darkened from long years of river moisture and sun, stood stately in the morning light.

Grasses grew over the foot of the bridge, some taking root in the cracks where wind and water had eroded the mortar.

Across the river, the bridge dropped to the base of a sheer cliff, a chasm there opening like a rift in a risen plain. Suddenly, Tahn wondered if the chasm had been built to service the bridge or the bridge to service the chasm.

Sutter, giving Tahn his cavalier smile, started across the bridge. The clop of hooves on stone seemed loud, causing Tahn to swing his head about like a thief wishing not to be heard. Reluctantly, he followed his friend.

The great arching bridge ended at a stone gate. Sutter pushed on it with his left hand. The huge block did not move.

“Your assistance?” Sutter requested in a sarcastic tone.

Tahn rode to the gate and together they pushed. The gate gave, slowly. A moment later they had opened it far enough to pass beyond.

Sutter hesitated a moment.

“Scared,” Tahn mocked.

Sutter’s smile broadened. “You’ll remember that I was the one who pegged Anais Polera in the ass when she turned to flee our root attack.” With that, Sutter went in.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

More Scars

Mira had been to the Scar once before. She understood its secrets and silences. Not as well as the Sheason, whom she believed could hear in the dust the voices of those fallen ages ago in a final act of defiance against the Quiet. And not like the man Grant, who lived here. But the way of it haunted her the way the Soliel Stretches did when she walked their vast tracts alone, save that here, the reminders were far more bitter.

Mira knew this time her visit to the Scar would bring more painful memories. She knew it because of the recent arrival of a raven bearing a message from Naltus. She knew it also because the Children of the Soliel all shared one common childhood misfortune. As she considered that misfortune, she remembered when she realized how hard it was to have more than one mother.

*   *   *

“I don’t understand,” Mira said. “I thought you said you were my mother.”

She stood in the warmth of her home, going over basic movements she’d been taught. Only arms and feet so far; she was only four. They’d get to start practicing with weapons the next turn of a cycle. As she repeated the forms again and again, taking correction from her mother, they spoke. This was her favorite time, because her mother, Genel, always taught Mira things while she was practicing the basic movements. Her friends didn’t seem to have the same kind of relationship with their mothers.