Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (88 page)

Tahn grew impatient. “But why do you remain in chains? Even if
you
fell victim to greed, you have the power to free yourself, don’t you?”

“The plate I shared with you,” Rolen began, “always comes bearing small, stale portions. Moldy bread usually. And the water is barely enough to wet my tongue and make me want more.” He paused, but went on when Tahn did not reply. “My rations keep me weak,” he concluded. “The darkness is oppressive, and the poor food starves my flesh. My irons turn more freely around my wrists and ankles today than when I came here. My Forda I’Forza has been impoverished. If I tried to draw on the Will here, it could well mean death to me. Even if I could survive the use of Will to break my bonds, another ten barriers lay between me and freedom, and I could not survive the drain of repeated renderings.

“But this is not why I stay,” Rolen added quickly, then paused.

Tahn tried to make sense of the things the Sheason said. He listened in the dark to the man panting with the exertion of relating his story. He certainly sounded weak. The rasp in his lungs reminded Tahn of the winter fever and pox he’d had several years ago. Rolen coughed with a wet tearing sound that made Tahn wince. He heard the man spit liquid onto the floor, and Tahn found himself grateful again for the darkness.

When Rolen’s breathing had calmed, he chuckled again, causing a few more stifled coughs.

A troubling revelation insinuated itself into Tahn’s weary mind. “You choose to stay, don’t you?”

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Maesteri

Wendra looked up when she heard Penit gasp. The boy’s eyes were impossibly wide, staring into the distance before them. Turning, she saw what no reader’s description could ever do justice to: a wall more than a thousand strides across, rising from the plain as high, it seemed, as the cliffs of Sedagin. The encampments along the road and at the base of the wall would fill the Hollows a hundred times and more. Wendra wondered what would become of these people outside the protection of the immense barrier if an army laid siege to Recityv.

“There she is,” the Ta’Opin announced. “The jewel of Vohnce. Home of the regent and mendicant alike. House of song and floor of debate. Hearth to draw nigh to, and table with many seats.” A wide grin split Seanbea’s face—the grin of a man returning home.

“How big is it?” Penit asked with evident awe.

“Why, how big does she look, lad?” Seanbea spoke through his smile. “Mountains have fallen to quarry her stone. And forests have been harvested and replanted more times than a man can count to fuel the forges that built her.” The Ta’Opin swept his gaze from far left to right. “She’s a jewel,” he repeated.

Seanbea drove them through the thronged highway to the expansive gate. Several dozen soldiers in deep burgundy cloaks over bright suits of ringmail checked each entrant with a critical eye. Wagons and carriages were directed to one side where they could be inspected. Merchants offered lists of the contents in their wagons, many fidgeting as their loads were examined and checked against bills of lading.

Seanbea took his place in the line behind an elaborately decorated brougham. Delicate scrollwork had been carved in dark mahogany wood. Wendra caught glimpses of a lush fabric over the seats, burnt umber in color. Brass fixtures sparkled on the regal exterior, hinges, corner fittings, and lanterns attached to the sides. From a standard atop the carriage, a white banner ruffled in the wind, bearing the image of a taloned bird in simple, elegant strokes.

At every corner of the carriage, a small platform extended, and upon each stood a man at arms in a bright white and chestnut brocade. These attendant soldiers held onto brass handles secured to the cab, and watched the Recityv inspectors with raptor eyes.

“What have you?” a voice called, drawing Seanbea’s attention.

“Instruments for the cathedral,” the Ta’Opin said, pulling a parchment from his coat and extending it to the same inspector who had entered the previous carriage.

The man made a cursory look over the wagon before drawing back canvas tarps to verify the list.

“And who are they?” the inspector asked.

It did not sound to Wendra like a formal question, but the man raised his eyes from the list when Seanbea did not immediately respond.

“I’ve never been asked that before, sir. Can it matter who they are?”

Impatience edged the inspector’s tone. “There’s been trouble lately with all the … immigrants. We like to know who’s … visiting.”

Seanbea nodded. “The boy’s name is—”

“I’m Penit.” The boy stood up in the back of the wagon and put a thumb to his chest. “I’m going to run in the Lesher Roon.”

Seanbea smiled. “That’s right. And this is Anais Wendra, who’ll be a student of the Maesteri as soon as we arrive at Descant.”

The soldier gave Wendra a skeptical look. “She will, will she?” he said with displeasure. “For all the good their songs have brought us, I’d tell her to do her work in a tavern. Better pay.”

Seanbea maintained his smile. “There are all kinds of wages. We’ll make out just fine.”

The inspector handed back the bill of goods and looked past them to the next cart while waving them inside. Seanbea thanked the man and released his brake, taking them into Recityv.

Wendra thrilled at the buildings, her own surprise as vocal as Penit’s. Seanbea seemed to enjoy their innocent delight at the immensity of the city around them. He pointed out certain inns, shops, and merchant exchange houses, sometimes adding a bit of history in the telling. Wendra sat in the bed of the wagon, clinging to the side and gathering in one sight after another as they rolled onward.

They passed a hundred treasures as the throng of people pressed in around them like water around an island. Then gradually, the elegance of the edifices on either side of the road diminished. Stonework seemed older, more often in disrepair and stained from seasons of rain and sun. The buildings themselves were not as tall, their mortar crumbling and leaving gaps in their facing, like missing teeth. Awnings tilted over entries to various establishments; many windows looked like sharp-toothed maws where shards of glass rimmed an opening once completely paned. Even the livestock here reflected the general dishevelment of the structures around them, horses with deep-swayed backs and ungroomed manes and tails, dogs coated with burrs and mud. People went about with heads bowed, their coats and breeches puckered from poorly mended tears, their boots creased by too many strides to remain comfortable. The streets themselves remained unpaved here. Muddy pools stood in potholes and shallow ditches at the edges of buildings where rain fell from rooftops and beat their stale troughs, which filled, too, with slops thrown from windows—the smell of human filth rose from more than a few of these.

Between buildings, pigs and goats had been penned in narrow alleys awaiting a cook’s pleasure for butchering. Wendra pulled her coat up over her nose against the smell of livestock and piled table scraps untouched by the animals. Flies sought waste to lay eggs, humming at a pitch that rose and fell as Seanbea drove Wendra and Penit past the many poor inns and dilapidated trade shops. She couldn’t imagine this place being a part of the same city they’d come through after entering at the gate. Hers and Penit’s delighted exclamations fell to disappointed silence.

Then the Ta’Opin turned down a cross street, and Wendra suddenly forgot to hold her coat over her nose and mouth. At the end of the avenue rose a grand building in the midst of the squalid surroundings. Four times higher than the closest building, the majestic cathedral ascended in a series of spires and pitched gables that left Wendra with the impression of a castle. The roof and cupolas shone green in the afternoon light, resplendent and luminous.

“Wow!” Penit remarked.

“Descant Cathedral. I told you,” Seanbea said.

Each turn of the wagon wheels brought them closer, making the cupolas seem higher and the face of the great edifice loom larger. High in its darkened stone, colored glass caught the sun and glinted violet, crimson, gold, lapis, and emerald. Nearer still, the green cupolas disappeared from view. As she looked up, the spires seemed to angle toward the sky like spears thrown toward heaven.

The wagon creaked to a stop, and brought Wendra’s gaze earthward. At eye level, the windows showed none of the magnificence of those higher up. Slats of wood boarded them over, either protecting the colorful mosaics or filling gaps left behind by a vandal’s work.

Yet despite the unattractive windows and the aged stone covered in patches by lichen and withered vines, the cathedral made Wendra forget the distasteful quarter around it. Descant pressed up and out like a monument of strength and nobility. It seemed to both know the future and preserve the past.

They had only been stopped a moment when a large set of double doors swept inward, and two men bustled out and down the stone steps toward them. Each wore loose breeches tied with a wide crimson sash knotted on the left hip and a simple coat with a pocket over each breast.

“We’ll bring you in under time,” one said cheerfully, arriving at the wagon and ignoring Penit and Wendra as he pulled off the tarpaulin and hefted some of Seanbea’s load.

The second man paused on the bottom step, taking note of the extra human cargo. “What’s this, Seanbea? I hope you don’t expect additional pay for these.” He pointed fingers toward Wendra and Penit, and smiled.

“And hello to you, Henny, Ilio.” Seanbea jumped to the ground. “These are friends of mine. I intend to introduce them to Belamae.” The Ta’Opin leaned against the side of his wagon and smiled as though holding a secret from the two men.

“That’s nice,” Henny said, and bowed awkwardly before turning to pack his armload of instruments into the cathedral. Despite his rush, he handled them with great care. “Come on, Ilio, we’ve work to do.”

Ilio did not take his eyes off Wendra as he lifted two small boxes from the wagon. “Is she spoken for?” he asked, inclining his head toward the Ta’Opin, his stare still locked on Wendra.

“I don’t think she heard you,” Seanbea mocked. “Speak up and perhaps she’ll answer you herself.” The Ta’Opin bent over to hide his laughter.

Ilio gave Wendra an embarrassed smile. His face flushed. Holding the boxes against his chest, he rocked side to side, seeming not to know what else to do. He started suddenly, as though just hearing Seanbea’s taunting laughter. His reddened face became angry.

“You’ll be responsible for them,” Ilio said, leaning out over his boxes. “Rooms, rations, clothing … manners.” The man scurried up the stairs after Henny.

“I’m sure you impressed her,” Seanbea called after Ilio. He turned his smile on Wendra. “Pardon me, Anais, but I simply can’t resist the opportunity to see Ilio’s face turn that color. If I could duplicate it, I’d make a fortune in textiles.”

Wendra caught the infection of Seanbea’s laughter as the Ta’Opin helped her down from the wagon. Penit giggled brightly, joining in, though he seemed hardly to understand the joke. Seanbea hoisted the boy down, and waited a moment for Henny to emerge again before climbing toward the doors.

“Will you see to my wagon and team?” Seanbea asked the man.

“Surely,” Henny replied.

Seanbea patted the man’s bald head, and led Wendra and Penit to the double doors, now open to admit them.

“It is a special place,” Seanbea said, speaking as much to himself as to either Wendra or the boy.

At the top of the steps, the doors seemed much larger, and bore engravings Wendra could not read. The scars of time made them appear to her more like skin than doors. Past them, cool, mild air caressed her skin with the scent of cedar incense and fruit rinds, and something else … the faraway echo of song that came from no one direction, but seemed to emanate from the walls themselves.

“What is that?” Wendra asked, putting her hand to a pillar and looking up at the ceiling of the vestibule in which they stood.

“It is the Song,” Seanbea said with a deeper reverence in his voice Wendra had never heard. The Ta’Opin moved further into the cathedral without any further explanation.

Penit trotted past her to follow Seanbea. Wendra lingered a moment, feeling the hum through the marble pillar. Under her fingers, the beautiful stone felt vibrant, imbued with life by the uttering of words and music deep within it. Pulling away proved difficult. But she sensed that the song touching her fingers—just a whisper in her ears—came from voices somewhere deeper within the cathedral. She wanted to hear it, every word, every note.

Beyond the vestibule, three hallways sprouted, each passing beneath great stone vaults and housing a few cherrywood tables bearing silver urns. Intricate scrollwork had been carved directly into the stone walls. The doors were heavy and panelled. Candles burned in long glass hurricane tubes, lending the halls an intimacy and guarding the light against the air of loud voices. Brass handles and fittings had the look of small arms and hands drawn out of the stone itself; they had grown dark with time. Their footsteps echoed flatly down the clean marble floors.

Wendra caught up to Seanbea and Penit, who had angled left and paused briefly before an oil painting—the first of many—that adorned the hallway wall. The image shone beneath the warm illumination of a candle and revealed a man holding a piece of parchment in his hands with the same type of ink notes as the sheet Seanbea had given Wendra. A thin fringe of hair circled his head just above his ears, and he peered at them with kindly patience. The gentleman sat in a modest chair, wearing a long, white robe.