Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (87 page)

He finished by recounting his arrival at Recityv and discovering another public punishment about to be meted out. He described the division in the crowd that watched the hanging, and his feeling that one of the men should not be put to death.

“And here I am,” Tahn said, ending his story. “It seems like a lifetime ago that I sat near a ravine and watched for a herd of elk to climb the draw.” Tahn looked up. “That’s where it began,” he said. “With a man wearing a dark cloak that shimmered crimson when he moved. He killed the elk I spared, whipping rain into a spout that crushed the animal into the earth.” Tahn shook his head. “When he was done, I watched him thrust hands into the mud and cause the wet earth to burn to glass.”

Tahn wished for another draft of lukewarm water from the man’s decanter. His mouth and throat were again dry. The cell was silent until his cellmate exclaimed in quiet amazement.

“In the name of Palamon, son, who are you?”

Tahn tried again to look through the shaft of light between them. The sallow glow never seemed so bright. “Tahn,” he said. “Tahn Junell. My father was Balatin Junell, who took his earth just three years ago.”

“And you’ve not seen Vendanj since the Male’Siriptus?”

“No,” Tahn answered. “But I heard him call for us to gather at Recityv. I’ve seen nobles and gentry and others not as highborn crowding the roads and towns on their way here.” Tahn tried to lean back against the wall and winced when he struck the gash on the back of his head. “There are rumors that the Shadow of the Hand is open…” Tahn trailed off momentarily. “They are not rumors. I’ve seen them. I assume that is why everyone comes in a panic. I just hope the others arrive safely.”

“The Hand is a focal point, Tahn, but it is not the only passage out of the Bourne. The legions of Quiet press against their borders as far east as the forests of Saecula. But it is the land west that bleeds, Mal’Tara, Mal’Valut, Destik’Mal, even Ebon, where life so near the Bourne corrupts the soil, the air, the people. It is an inhospitable place, and the veil there that holds the darkness at bay is thin. The nations and kingdoms beyond the Divide are all but lost to us. Once they stood as a defense against the canker of the Bourne. Just an age ago, the Order of Sheason was strong there, assisting in the fight to prevent the Quiet from descending into the land the way the Lul’Masi came into our world during the War of the Hand.”

Tahn listened now, the sound of the man’s voice whispering over the hardened stone like a prayer.

“But the suspicions of those who followed the order in the west have grown into sanctions carried out by the League. Hysteria infects weak rulers, who are anxious to remain in good stead with His Leadership.” Disgust tinged the man’s words. Tahn thought he heard the gnashing of teeth before calm returned to his companion’s voice. “But that is not the greater part, Tahn. The Quiet of the One grows even without the conscious assistance of men. Our fields produce less each year; our litters and folds diminish. The growing season shortens; the sharpness of winter air lingers, smothering the work of the greater light. Our land grows to resemble what we imagine of the world beyond the Pall.” He quieted, conveying an import to what was to come next. “The rumor that binds us, Tahn, and moves the regent to recall her full High Council and the Convocation of Seats, is that the veil thins once more. And, in this maddened day, belief in the Tract and the Song wanes to the point of their abolition.”

A chill stole over Tahn. He had heard the names, but they had the same effect on him now as they had before. Even naming these things inspired a reverence and awe that was both frightening and hopeful. The words themselves called to something deep within him, something crucial and frightful. He realized the chains that bound him were clattering on the stone paving, but he could not stop his arms from shaking.

The man did not seem to notice. “And now for
my
story, Tahn,” the man said in a slightly more genial tone. “I am Rolen. And I am Sheason.”

Tahn’s head snapped in Rolen’s direction. “Sheason,” Tahn echoed. “But then you could free yourself. Why do you—”

“Easy, son. Patience.”

Tahn had a hundred questions, but sat straight, wanting to know how a renderer could be held against his will in the most vile of places. A guard came to the door, looking in on them and letting out an oath before passing by, satisfied that they were sufficiently miserable. His steps retreated down the hall. Tahn listened with rapt attention, peering into the shadows where this Sheason sat. Rolen stood and began to pace slowly. The lengths of chain swayed almost musically in time with his steps. Forgotten to Tahn were the conditions surrounding him, his hunger, the cuts and bruises, even the outside world. A burning thought hampered his breathing: If a Sheason could be bound and caged, then the promise of escape, and perhaps the hope Vendanj had placed in Tahn, were foolish things. Tahn considered that he might learn more of what was true by sitting in this stinking darkness than in every dawn he had awakened to see.

“I was from Maven Wood originally,” Rolen began. Though weak, his voice grew wistful. “My mother had but one book, but she read it to me every night of my life. A hundred times or more we turned the last page, only to start again at the beginning. That book was
The Will’s First Son
.

“I would sit and watch my mother’s lips move, forming the words on the page, and imagine that I was there, standing witness to the first battle of Palamon and Jo’ha’nel. And every night those same lips that shaped the words on the page would kiss my forehead to usher me to sleep, and I would tell mother that I would one day follow Palamon, and pledge what I am to serving others, even if it meant at the cost of my own life.” A whimsical laugh escaped Rolen’s lips. “I imagine now how it must have sounded to her. But she always replied, ‘I know you will, Rolen,’ and turned down the lamp before descending the loft.

“The day I left my melura behind and crossed the break of Change, I packed all I had and rode north over the Balens Road to this place.” Wonder crept into his words. “I’d never seen such a city. I’ve been told Ir-Caul and Dalle are grand to behold, but I fell to my knees when the Recityv walls rose off the plain before me. It was to me almost like the Tabernacle of the Sky that had always been in my dreams.

“When I passed the gate, I wasted no time in inquiring after a Sheason with whom to train and learn. Every face, every pair of eyes scowled, oaths and taunts scorned me. ‘Throwing away my youth,’ they said. ‘Chasing after secrets and abominations,’ said others. Most called me ‘fool’ and turned away.”

A sad laugh followed. “I couldn’t understand these feelings toward the order. And more than once I tried to retell the story in my mother’s one book, assuming that they did not know the tale. It earned me the taste of used bitter spewed from loose lips, and more than once I had to pick myself up off the floor. I learned that Maven Wood was smaller than I’d thought. Or perhaps my mother had been the victim of a clever but false author, crafting stories to earn money rather than to illuminate.”

Rolen’s breathing grew labored, and the Sheason sat again, his chains rattling, his lungs wheezing with the effort to draw breath. Tahn waited, patient but eager to hear the rest. Finally, the man caught his breath, and went on more slowly.

“For a full cycle of the lesser light I sought the order, working from one end of Recityv to the other. I searched every inn, every tavern, every store, shop, and alley. In some streets, my search was met with haughty sniffs or lancing glares down washed noses. But then one day I turned into a byway stinking of rotting cabbage and moldy wood guarded by vagrant cats. A short stair descended into a sunken bitter room with three tables and a few couches set at the back used to transact deals of the flesh, the tavernkeeper taking a price for their rental.

“I went in more from habit than any belief that my search would ever yield fruit. One man sat at one of the low tables, a wide glass filled shallowly from a burgundy bottle. One couch creaked with two occupants trading service for coin. I was grateful for weak candlelight in the place and took a seat. A man whose height kept him high in the shadows left a glass and a bottle on my table, and took himself back to a stool near a cutting board in the corner.

“I remember the smells of grit underfoot, bad candlewicks, and unmopped wine left to stain the wood. It was no place to find an honorable renderer of the Will. It was a forgotten place, a last place. It suited my mood just fine, and I poured my glass. I’d decided I would search no more.

“Silently, I drank, in no hurry to dull my senses, and waited for day to come so that I could return home and tell mother the awful truth: Her book was just a story. I watched the candle flame, and tried to block out the intermittent moans from the back of the room. It occurred to me that a coin went further than I thought.” Again the sad laugh.

“When my bottle neared empty, I took it in hand to finish it when a figure appeared out of the gloom. ‘Will you finish your bottle and not offer me a drink?’ the man asked. I looked up into a kind face, the man’s smile faint in the light of my candle. I remember thinking that his smile brightened the room, made it less woeful, less unsavory. I nodded and the man put his own glass down on the table and sat with me.

“He asked me who I was, why I had come to this little drinking room. I told him everything, expecting one of the various reactions that had followed my inquires all across Recityv. But instead he pushed his glass toward me. All that remained of my bottle was a swallow for each of us, but I poured. He then pushed his glass aside and asked me why I wanted to follow this man in my mother’s book, saying that if he wasn’t a fable, he was surely dead so many seasons gone that nothing remained of his noble fight.

“I looked into my own glass, my face distorted in the curved surface.” Tahn heard the man’s chain rattle, as though he lifted a hand toward the memory of the glass. “‘If it is true, then what he began surely lives,’ I said. ‘But I am tired and perhaps still too young to see things for what they are.’ My own nose, large in the reflection of my glass, made me feel every bit the fool. And I turned my glass over to pour out the sour wine where it would join the stains of the other fools who came to drink here.

“I then pushed my empty cup aside, and stared into the kind face of my guest. Behind us the moans came with more frequency, and my companion’s eyes caught the flame between us with mild amusement. Whether for me or those on the couch in the rear shadows, I wasn’t sure.”

Rolen’s voice fell. “The man placed his hands around his glass. I felt his concentration as he fixed me with a stare, seeming to speak with his eyes. A moment later, his brow eased, and he stretched forth a brimming glass of brandy, pouring my cup half full from his own.

“I had found the Sheason after all. His name was Artixan, and I became his pupil. For twelve years I studied and read. I walked the streets of Recityv, traveled to other towns and villages with Artixan to observe and assist. I did not acquire knowledge easily; many things I had to learn and learn again. But in the end, my desire qualified me; it pushed me to work and gain the understanding necessary to become Sheason. And the day finally did come when the power to render the Will was conferred upon me.”

“Conferred?” Tahn asked. He’d always assumed the power to draw upon the Will was inborn, a natural gift.

“It surprises you.” Tahn thought Rolen must be smiling. “Yes, conferred. But it isn’t given without being earned; at least it wasn’t in the beginning. Anyone seeking to hold the power to render was required to study no less than eight years. The trial of years was meant to prove the intention of the pupil. Very few last the course of study and training. You are either given to patience, or you learn it. Those who do not, leave the order unendowed. And the right to render the Will may only be bestowed on another by one who already possesses the authority to wield it himself.”

Tahn followed the reasoning ahead. “Then what of the Velle?”

A grimace sounded from the darkness. “The Whited One has his Draethmorte that can render and have the power to bestow the ability just as a Sheason does.

“That, and”—he sighed mightily—“the Sheason order is constituted of men and women, my friend; and mankind is fallible. Among us there will always be some who cannot live the full measure of their call and responsibility. Vanity and greed bite at a Sheason as surely as the next man, and there are those who, over time, have given in to these base qualities. The promises of the One have even enticed good servants to seek a different path.” His voice fell low. “And the power to render remains unaltered in them. They may even confer upon others the right to draw upon the Will as they see fit. These lost Sheason observe no trial of time, no training period. And so they often die from being prematurely given the gift. But these rogues still flock to the Whited One. And their devotion to their cause is perhaps stronger than ours because bitterness, disillusionment, and disappointment with their
original
cause sends them to the easy promises of the One’s false, hollow call.”

“Why are there not more of them?” Tahn asked. “Wouldn’t an army of Velle easily defeat an army of swords?”

“To render the Will is still a difficult thing, Tahn. Conferring the ability does not guarantee the safety of the practitioner. And the haste of the Quietgiven to teach and qualify and confer the power to render claims most of their initiates in the first moments they attempt to direct the Will … as it does some Sheason.”