Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (96 page)

A quiet pride filled Sutter’s chest, the kind that made you want to stand and die with the valor of those memorialized in the telling. And the root-digger from the Hollows heard a sniff from behind him, making him think of a hand-sewn emblem on an old rug and the honor to fulfill an oath made generations past.

Then an abrupt intrusion of light and the slam of an opened door stabbed the darkness again. Their turnkey bustled in and unfastened two of the scops without a word, herding them up the stairs toward the outer door. One of these was the woman who’d spent most of her time with her head laid upon her own knees. As she began to shuffle her bare feet over the cold stone, she looked down at Niselius and said with all the earnestness of her soul, “Tell my children I love them.”

Tears coursed down her face, which bore an awful cast of uncertainty.

At the door she and her fellow scop looked back at their friends, and that’s when Sutter knew their faces. Captured differently in the light at the door, the bruises and blood and garish paint faded in his eyes to the true faces beneath.

They were the faces in his waking nightmare.

The faces of the dead.

It hit Sutter with a horrible certain prescience, just as he now realized that he’d seen the spirit of the woman burned at Ulayla in his window the night before her execution.

The door closed, leaving them to their troubled hush and obscurity.

Sutter wept silent tears, knowing that the woman would never see her little ones again.

Nor would those small ones see their mother one last time. And that, too, touched upon his old wounds, and Sutter cried for each of them.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

The Lesher Roon

Wendra stepped into the street that fronted the Descant Cathedral. Seanbea accompanied her on her right, Penit holding her hand on the left. The boy involuntarily squeezed her fingers as he took in the festive decorations of a city virtually transformed overnight. Even the streets in the mercantile district celebrated the Lesher Roon, streamers dipping in low arcs between shops, lintels and sills adorned in makeshift garlands fashioned from corn husks and dried vines. Men and women walked about with small sprigs of various green herbs fastened to a lapel or hanging from a breast pocket, showing their awareness and support for the race.

Penit started ahead, pulling Wendra along. She hadn’t expected that the boy would actually run the race, but it gave her a good reason to leave behind the ruminations brought on by Belamae’s words and lose herself in the gaiety of the event.

The teacher wanted her to remain with him for several months at the cathedral to study, imparting a warning to her should she choose to do otherwise. Twice more—once last evening and once this morning—they had spoken since her arrival. Belamae had shown her the wonders of music, hinted at the methods and techniques she could learn to master her craft. The ways to compose and organize music astounded her. And she’d sensed that the things Belamae shared with her were merely those tools he taught to each student he mentored. Beneath these things, beyond them, his eyes seemed to tell her that her true training would consist of greater methods, things not spoken of among the other pupils. But she continued to maintain that she could not create as Seanbea had suggested. Each time she denied the ability, Belamae’s eyes darkened with disappointment and concern.

But there was no time for this. For her own reasons, she’d agreed to enter Penit in the race: She wanted to find the others, if they’d made it at all; and with the streets as full as they were, she felt safe from hidden or surprise dangers.

Past the end of the street, the crowds thickened. Barkers called out foods and souvenirs of the Lesher Roon for sale. Street performers sang songs that Wendra soon realized must attend race day as traditionally as the songs of Northsun—old folk tunes, by now, that most everyone knew. A general buzz of excitement hummed in the streets, bystanders speaking excitedly to one another but, she noted with relief, happy noise, not the kind of dangerous crowd she’d recently heard in Galapell. Very like Northsun, Wendra thought, a fraternal air prevailing in every face and word and song.

Carriages and wagons plied the streets, bridles and wheels woven with yet more garlands. The sweet fumes of spicy drinks filled Wendra’s nose, and here and there a child near Penit’s age received advice from parents or other adults as they streamed toward the Halls of Solath Mahnus.

Beyond the merchant quarter, the avenues and lanes thrummed with life, the people moving with more purpose but no less enthusiasm. Men dressed in fine cloth coats with two rows of buttons down the front and glossy boots carried tall, thin glasses of what looked like a rum punch that Wendra fancied to taste. Other men moved about in full armor polished to a bright shine, one hand swinging in time with their strut, the other settled comfortably on a ceremonial weapon. Women carried bouquets in the crooks of their arms, slender white and green grasses interspersed with deep red flowers and yellow roses. Here, the children sat politely, their shoes less worn, their shirts bright with vertical stripes that often matched the clothes of their parents.

Girls and boys alike seemed appareled for the race, though always near to the age of twelve, with longer legs and more visible coordination than the younger runners. Some of the potential entrants to the run had begun the growth of their stripling years and stood much taller than the rest—more than one boy had the beginnings of facial hair and a thickening in the chest. Wendra didn’t see how the younger runners could compete. But that was just as well. She did not want Penit to win; she was, in fact, glad to see competitors who so clearly overmatched him.

Through the thronged streets they wove, keeping an eye on the upper spires and domes of the Halls of Solath Mahnus on its low hill, towering above the surrounding city. As the time of the race drew near, movement became difficult, people jamming the thoroughfares and halting all progress except by foot. Soldiers in Recityv colors could be seen everywhere, their cloaks and helmets a constant reminder of the purpose of the race.

The Ta’Opin moved effortlessly through the masses, his powerful shoulders twisting to slip through narrow openings, sometimes creating more room for Wendra and Penit. Seanbea seemed to share the bubbling excitement, a constant smile exposing his teeth.

They moved past men and women with entourages—standards raised on poles staked an area of the street for a family of station or a member of the gentry. People crowded around acrobats, but peered away often in expectation of the race. Penit occasionally jumped to gain a view of what lay ahead, his small hand slick and sweaty with anticipation.

Seanbea led them down two less-crowded alleys and brought them out onto a wide concourse that crossed to the wall that separated Solath Mahnus from the rest of the city. “This is part of the course,” he said. “The children follow the line engraved into the street. It takes them around the Wall of Remembrance and through a few of the old streets of Recityv where the first regents lived. The race passes beneath their verandas. Then back here, ending at the gate to the courtyard of Solath Mahnus. Those with runners are allowed to stand against the wall to cheer them on. The rest line the outer half of the streets; the General’s men keep them well in hand, but it is largely unnecessary. Since, though it’s been a long time since the Roon was run, few would interfere with the race—the tradition and stories of it are often and fondly recounted.”

Wendra listened distractedly. She searched the crowds for signs of Tahn, Sutter, and the others. People milled around and were gone so quickly she soon realized the folly in hoping to chance upon them in such a vast city. But she still looked, even as Seanbea began leading them toward a table set near the inner city gate.

While they stood in a line of parents giving last-minute instructions to their children, others called cheers and encouragement to the kids. A few slurred voices offered less fitting support, but most hailed them and wished them well.

“A regent’s right lad,” one yelled.

“The truest voice at the High Table, you’ll be,” another called. “Don’t let them intimidate you.”

“Hey, Simba’s jaybird is small enough,” one fellow bellowed. “Don’t that qualify him to race?” Those around him bellowed with laughter.

Wendra couldn’t help but smile, naturally assuming the meaning of “jaybird.” In no time, they stood at the table, where two men sat with pleasant, intelligent faces.

“Are you running today, boy?” one asked.

“Yes, please,” Penit enthused.

“Very well. Is this your mother?” The man looked up at Wendra with thoughtful eyes.

Wendra froze. She stared back at the man blankly.

“That’s right,” Seanbea interjected. “She’s a little overwhelmed here. Their first time in Recityv.”

“Ah, well, don’t let it frighten you, Anais. We’re a little crowded these days, but Recityv goes on because its people are decent. Isn’t it so?” The man turned to his partner at the table.

“It is,” the other said. “May we have your names?”

Wendra gave hers and Penit’s names to the recorder, who wrote them in a ledger. After their names lay scrawled upon the page, the man gave Penit a blue pin to place on his shirt. He then leveled a serious gaze at the boy.

“Run hard but run fair, son. The only loser is the one who doesn’t give the Roon all he has. But the cheater disgraces the Roon, and earns himself a month in the regent’s stables as a helpmate to Gasher.” He turned to his partner. “Would you ever want to work for old Gasher?”

“Oh, my, no!” his friend said. “He’s an awful crank. Every minute would be drudgery. Wouldn’t want that.”

“I won’t cheat,” Penit put in. “And I’ll win. You’ll see.”

“A champion’s attitude,” the recorder said. He winked at Seanbea and Wendra and motioned for them to move to the left.

The children lined up behind a broad ribbon stretched from the gate to a building across the concourse. A line of guards held the crowd back on the far side. More of the soldiers were beginning to clear a number of streets branching from the main thoroughfare where the Roon tailed away from the wall and took the racers through several city blocks. A man holding a baton came forward and offered to escort Wendra and Seanbea to a place along the wall from which to observe the race. She looked down at Penit, the boy’s eyes brimming with confidence.

“Just have fun,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

Penit nodded and suddenly cried out, “Dwayne!” He rushed to a boy amid a host of other children. He talked excitedly with the other boy, the two jabbering over each other about things Wendra could not quite discern. Then the man with the guiding baton led her and the Ta’Opin to a place along the wall right near the gate to the courtyard.

For nearly an hour, more contestants gave their names and were herded to the ribbon. The mass of children stood a hundred across and perhaps ten deep. Some of those waiting there stood no more than six years old, eager parents enrolling them in the Roon with vain hope. The largest boys bulled their way to the front. Girls made up nearly half the runners, some taller even than the largest of the boys.

The racers fidgeted and looked over their shoulders toward parents who continued to shout instructions to them over the din. Youthful faces wore unsure expressions but nevertheless nodded understanding; other children shook their heads side to side in confusion. Penit stood in the middle of the pack with Dwayne, the two still avidly talking. Neither met the largest boys in height, but neither was short. He wouldn’t finish last, Wendra thought gratefully.
I can make him proud of his placement.

The hum of the crowd rose suddenly to a roar as trumpets blared into the sunny air over the wall. The men at the table closed their books and drew their instruments back from the street into the courtyard. A stiff-looking man with a thin mustache appeared from the inner gate door and began to speak. His first words were lost beneath the tumult, but the gathering quickly quieted.

“… this running of the Lesher Roon for the Child’s Seat at the High Table, to sit at council with those who speak for their constituents. So then, do we, by tradition and law, draw our Child’s Voice from this worthy field of contestants.”

Another roar rose from the throng. The man went on, but his words ended before the people quieted again. The gentleman walked in stately fashion to the head of the ribbon and solemnly cast his gaze upon the runners. Over the frenzied speculation and last-second admonitions of parents, Wendra could just make out the same exhortation that the recorder had made of Penit: “Run hard but run fair.”

Then, from above them, confetti rained in the air, streamers fell from the windows and rooftops. The trumpets blazed, calling a triumphant fanfare, and the children hunched, ready to run.

The man strode to the wall and lifted his baton, taking the ribbon in hand. At the far side of the concourse, another did likewise. Amid colored confetti and shouts and horns, the two men dropped their batons simultaneously, letting go of the ribbon. In a spurt, a thousand children dashed ahead to claim the coveted prize of the Lesher Roon.

Several fell as legs locked and intertwined, but each quickly jumped up and joined the lurching mob. Without realizing it, Wendra was caught up in the thrill of the race as she watched the children find their pace. She could still see Penit, his head bobbing with quick steps. He ran firmly ensconced in the pack. The same excitement and anticipation that always attended the Kottel Rhine now swept through her, and she forgot her reservations and raised a cheer for Penit. The shouts and exultation of the masses overpowered Wendra’s own, but she waved toward Penit’s back as the first children rounded a corner in the wall.