Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (62 page)

“Mira, you need to listen closely. I am your mother because I am taking care of you right now. But I did not give you life. The woman who brought you into the world was called Mela. She fulfilled her call in your first year.” Genel cautioned that her foot was too far back for proper balance.

Mira corrected her stance. “What does it mean to fulfill her call?”

“When a Far reaches the age of accountability, she is called home, into the next life. This is the honor given us for our stewardship. We will never have to taste the fear or pain of reckoning for stains of word or deed. It is a great blessing.”

“It’s a blessing to go to the earth so young?” It confused her. Mira naturally thought that doing well meant the reward of pleasant things, not something like dying.

Her mother interrupted Mira’s next movement, and took her face in her hands. “Yes. You must understand. We protect a very important knowledge. To do so means we must be willing to do anything necessary to keep it safe. And that will sometimes mean doing something that seems wrong to you. But understand,” she said, commanding Mira’s attention, “that in the service of our oath, nothing is wrong. And so when our life is done, we go unblemished.”

Mira looked back, understanding dawning in her young mind. “But accountability is when you have eighteen cycles. Does everybody die then?”

“If they are Far, they do,” Genel said. “Though we are given the full turn of our eighteenth year.”

“How old are you?”

“I have seen eighteen turns of the sun, Mira. I will go into my next life in but a few months.”

Mira began to cry. “I don’t want you to go. Please. Can you stay? I will be very good. I won’t beat up on any of the boys anymore.”

Her mother smiled. “As long as you don’t really hurt them.” Then she wore her serious face, her teaching face. “Mira, this is who we are. You will have many mothers in your life. And they will all love you and take care of you. And then one day, you will take care of a young Far. And then you can tell her it’s okay to beat up on the boys.”

Mira didn’t smile. “I don’t want to. I just want you to stay. I don’t want any more mothers. One is enough. Just until I’m old enough to be by myself.”

Her mother held her close and hugged her. And rocked her. “One day, you may even have a child of your own, Mira. It is such a blessing when that happens. Especially for you, because you belong to an important family for our people. And then you’ll be happy to know that when your time comes, there will be able and willing Far to take care of that child, just as I am doing for you.”

Mira shook her head. “But then the only way she’ll ever know me is because someone else told her my name. And we’ll never be able to sing the Soliel songs or Run the Light as you and I do, because I will be gone before she is old enough to do those things.”

The woman who called herself her mother tried to hug her again. But Mira didn’t want her hugs right now. She didn’t want to love Genel anymore, because she was going to die and give her to another mother. And she couldn’t understand why this was a blessing. So she ran. Ran out the door and into the city and moved as fast and long as her small body would allow her.

Why do I have to be a Far?
she thought.
Just train and learn and fight and … die. What if I just want to be a mother and keep being one?

*   *   *

As the memory receded, Mira stood from her vigil and sprinted into the Scar night, running with every whit of speed with which she, as a Far, was endowed. The rushing night air cooled her skin, but could not calm the troubled thoughts in her mind.

There was life and love and duty. For a Far these were supposed to mean the same thing. But somewhere in her youngest childhood had been sown the thought that perhaps they needn’t be. And while the broken hopes of that four-year-old girl had never healed—could never heal, because she was after all, Far, and always would be—she had made peace with her own brief, childless life.

Until her sister died.

Mira didn’t know how long she’d been running when she arrived back at camp. The heat of the day had receded, leaving the night air pleasant—not cold enough for a fire. The sodalist lay asleep, fitfully dreaming. The Sheason sat awake in the dark, looking northeast toward where they hoped to find the exile they sought.

“You should rest,” she said, and sat on the ground opposite him. “This may be one of the few places the Quiet will hesitate to follow. I’ll keep watch.”

Vendanj said nothing for some time. When his eyes finally left the dark horizon to find her own, he said, “Does running help you forget?”

Mira had shared the Sheason’s company for too long to be surprised at his ability to divine the inner concerns of those around him. Still, she was guarded. “And what do you believe I run to forget?”

“Your sister. The mantle she’s passed you by her death. The struggle with childhood—yours, and your people’s.” His eyes seemed sad as he said it, though she had the impression the sadness was not for her alone. “This place,” he went on, “it causes us to remember. And for you and I, my friend, remembrance is not cheerful. But neither let it cause you despair. Coming through this place, bearing our memories … it is a good test for what may come.”

Mira stared back, saying nothing.

“It is hard, though, isn’t it?” Vendanj said. “Especially when feelings stir inside you for the boy.”

It would be pointless to deny it, nor did she feel inclined to do so. “It has no bearing on what I must do, or why I came,” she said.

Vendanj showed a wan smile. “I know, Mira. But be careful that in spending so much time with me, that you do not become too much
like
me. Your future may be short, but it is worth living. Don’t let anything, even a Sheason, influence your decisions.”

She looked back at him for a long moment, then offered her crooked smile. “You say that now…”

In the dark of the Scar, they shared between them a rare laugh, low and even and mild. She had the thought that it might likewise be rare that laughter was heard by
anyone
in this place. Afterward, they sat in companionable silence for some time, each seeming to carry lighter thoughts, even if just barely.

Finally, she said again, “Get some rest. I’ll keep watch.”

As Vendanj nodded, she saw his brow furrow and his face change, as one who anticipates troubled dreams.

*   *   *

Vendanj never slept well in the Scar. More than the land’s loss of Forda, or the memory of war that lingered ages later across its barren surface, the problem was that the Scar had a way of reminding its travelers of their own emotional wounds. Sheason were no exception.

Looking up at the hard, dim flicker of stars, Vendanj knew that what plagued his sleep wasn’t a vestige of the Quiet’s power. It was the emptiness and hopelessness that was rooted in this place. It came near the feeling of the Bourne, where Vendanj had traveled more than once—a place he would not visit again, if he didn’t have need.

Because the memory of a moment long past pricked like a canker in his soul, and each visit to the Bourne tore the wound wider still.

As it did here in the Scar.

*   *   *

Vendanj ran. The streets of Con Laven Flu still showed signs of the Quiet attack. Black scorchmarks on the sides of buildings, some homes razed to the ground. He thought he saw smoke in a distant part of the city, though that could have been a cook fire.

But all he could think about was Illenia, his wife, and their unborn child.

He tore through the streets at a maddening pace, cursing himself for being overlong in his journey to Recityv on Sheason matters. He’d helped bring a dissent against the new law forbidding Sheason to render. The league had sponsored the law for all of Vohnce and he’d fought it at the seat of the regent. But their baby wasn’t due for some time, so he’d felt safe in leaving for a few days. And Illenia was also Sheason; she could serve equally well without him.

He turned into their street.
No!

The mortar stood in rubble. He raced to their doorway and stepped past the half-broken door. Fragments of wood and fallen stone lay all around. He picked up long crossbeams and peered beneath piles of broken rock. She was not here.

But his panic did not abate.

He jumped into the street, thinking to try the homes of people she knew, when Amalial called, “Vendanj!”

He followed the voice, and saw the woman. “Where’s Illenia?”

“She was taken to the league’s hospice, yesterday, when the attacks came.”

Vendanj heard the last in fading tones as he sprinted toward the far end of the quarter where the league’s healing ward stood. His lungs burned and his head pounded with dark suggestions that threatened his sanity.
Please be all right, Sweet One. I will be there soon.

At the door he slammed through and shouted her name. A scholarly looking gentleman in a dark brown tunic bearing the league’s emblem came right up.

“Calm yourself, my friend. We have sick people here. Tell me the name of your friend or family and we’ll see what we can do.” The fellow smiled paternally.

Vendanj hated the obtrusiveness and grabbed the man by the arms. “My wife’s name is Illenia. I’m told she was brought here. Please, I must see her. Is she here?”

The man then spied the three-ring sigil Vendanj wore, and his countenance visibly changed. He asked to be unhanded and then called to a standing guard, who came forward with his palm on the hilt of his blade. Vendanj let the healer go and implored them to tell him where his wife lay.

“Please, she is with child. I need to see her!” Panic seized him afresh. He thought he would scream soon and keep screaming.

Shortly, three more guards came to reinforce the first. They did not snarl or curse, but simply barred him from two shadowed hallways that led to several doors and private rooms. The healer then took Vendanj gently by the hand and patted his knuckles.

“You are probably a fine man. And I understand your worry. These fellows will accompany us, and we’ll take you to see your wife. They are a necessary precaution in these troubled times. That seems most reasonable, doesn’t it?” He smiled his patronizing smile again.

Vendanj nodded.

The four sentries went first, directed by the healer down the left hall and through the third door. Vendanj came after, still fettered to the healer, who held his hand in a tight embrace. He thought the gentleman may have thought this a supportive gesture, but Vendanj was going to need his hands free soon, and the grip of this other began to irritate him.

But it all faded when he entered and saw Illenia lying in a bed of white linens. Her face had been heavily bruised and her arms were completely bandaged. Still, the noise of their entry brought her eyes open, and when she saw him a pained smile rose on her purpled lips. “You came,” she said. “You came.”

Vendanj tore free and rushed to her side. “Dear Sky, Illenia, what happened?” He wanted to caress her face to comfort her, but the bruising advised against it. Instead, he put his hand on her stomach, as he had grown accustomed to doing, and stroked slowly.

She could speak only in the barest of voices, and then just a few words at a time, but she managed, “Quiet came. They had Velle with them.” She swallowed. “The guard failed. Didn’t know what to do. League”—her eyes darted to the men behind him—“ran. The people started to fall, Vendanj. Fall.” A tear coursed across a yellowed bruise at her temple.

He could see how the memory upset her. “Don’t talk. You’re going to be all right.”

“Had to do something. I went to the gate. Called the Will.” Her voice cracked, and she squinted against some pain.

“I think this is not helping her,” the healer said. “She needs rest. This whole affair has been most … unbelievable. We need to assess. And she’s taken serious—”

Vendanj silenced him with a stare. The guards moved closer to him. Their presence angered him all the more. He didn’t need them;
Illenia
didn’t need them anymore, either. Vendanj could care for her now.

“Wasn’t enough,” Illenia said. “Too many. I’m sorry, Ven. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have gone. The baby. But no one could stop them.…” She ceased to talk, crying openly now, her tears silent and hot and painful, he knew, in more ways than one.