Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (103 page)

Sutter turned his mind to his Standing. Today of all days he missed Filmoere; his father would not be there to stand for him. No one would. He guessed he would still leave his melura years behind him, but they would go with a whimper, nothing to commemorate the occasion except the dank, cloying smell of filth and a few humble cellmates.

He spent a moment peering into the dark at Thalen. He could barely make out his form. Perhaps he could stand as First Steward, but would he know what to say or do? Sutter had always heard the same words, or near to them, when someone spoke the Change. A Reaper from Risill Ond would not be a bad choice, though, he thought. Not after the tale the scops had told.

He surveyed his cell companions from the pageant-wagons. Perhaps they would know the right words, and add something ceremonial besides. But the dark irony of it stole up on him—more of his old wounds. Even should they agree, Sutter wasn’t sure he could ever stand with a wagon trouper.

But he still would not let his mind spiral down into his past.

And he lamented, for a long time in those small hours of night, his flight from the Hollows. Not in homesickness for the place, but in unspoken gratitude to the simple people who had given him a home and enough hope to think he deserved to ever leave the Hollows behind for something bigger, better. Leave, and cause them to suffer costs both practical and emotional.

Again he wished he’d had the chance to say a few things to his mother and father before this journey had begun. And just now he wondered if they’d be proud of him. He realized suddenly he wanted that. On the day of his Change, he wanted that most of all.

Then, as always, his thoughts turned to Tahn.

Now that fellow had some secrets.

A few he’d shared with Sutter just days ago on the banks of a deep river. But Sutter sensed more. And yet, none of that mattered. His friend had ever treated him well, something many in the Hollows found difficult due to his own unending jokes.

He hoped Tahn had survived his own beatings here in the Recityv dungeon. If he had, what would his friend do for his own Change? What would either of them do if they never escaped or were freed? Would the others find them? Why did a Sheason and Far come to the Hollows in the first place?

Sutter knew his solemn musings grew from his own beatings, lack of sleep, and the dreariness of this place.

He certainly was weary.

And not, he knew, simply from their flight since the Hollows. The costs were older, deeper.

So he lay back down on the stone, seeking escape in sleep for a few hours yet. And sleep took him quickly, easing the many pains.

Until another face rose up with the mists.

Until another waking dream.

Though this time, Sutter did not start or shiver quite so much. Perhaps because he grew more accustomed, or perhaps because the sadness of it tempered the fear.

He stared back for a long time into the vacant eyes of this one who soon would die.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Choices and Revelations

The echo of many feet brought Tahn half awake. The hallway beyond their cell door stirred with an unusually large number of guards. Then the sound of a key turning the lock caused Tahn to come full awake. Always before, the sound had brought to him a degree of hope. Today he did not turn to greet the guards. Instead, he kept vigil on the stone and waited for them to either leave his food or set to beating him again.

A harsh wash of light came suddenly into the cell. Tahn squinted against the intrusion, even with his back to the door. Murmuring voices interrupted the solitude as sharply as the light upon the stone stair, and soft shoes carried their owners down toward Tahn and Rolen’s world. The guards moved about in hard soles, leaving Tahn to wonder what visitors these might be. He raised his head, the effort shooting a stabbing pain down his neck. The bright light blinded him, causing his eyes to water. From the corner of his vision he could see several people descending the stairs, dark shapes like the figures in his dreams.

“There,” he heard one say.

A collection of feet, all shuffling gracefully down the steps. Slowly, Tahn’s eyes adjusted. He blinked away the water and attempted to focus. Faces swam in and out, seeming familiar before blurring again.

One of the forms began to approach him, when a man beside her clasped her arm. “Patience, Anais. There will be time for reunion and mending. There is a dispute to be settled first.”

Tahn knew this voice, but a haze remained over his mind. He struggled to sit up, managing only to roll onto his back. He panted shallowly from the effort. Though lying flat against the stone, he no longer had to support his head. He squinted against the light now directly in his eyes, and peered toward the gathering, anger growing in him that they stood and gawked as he lay bruised and winded on the first day of his alchera.

“What are you staring at?” he said, unable to invest it with the recrimination he’d intended, sputtering the words unevenly through his gasps.

No one replied. Tahn suddenly felt as though he were in a dream: vaguely familiar faces and voices, soft shoes, the quality of light thin yet penetrating. Perhaps it had all been a dream: Rolen standing with him; the trembling of the guards at the Sheason’s command; the taunts, the beatings. Perhaps he would yet wake to find that he slept in his Hollows bed and Wendra would have apples and cream on the iron for breakfast when he woke.

Then in his dream, one of the forms assembled at the foot of the stair detached itself and came toward him. The figure did not pause at the chalked line drawn upon the stone floor to indicate a prisoner’s reach. The man stepped across it, fixed his eyes on Tahn, and fell to one knee beside him. The figure’s head blocked the light from the door, becoming a misshapen silhouette in which Tahn could distinguish no face. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and still saw nothing. The man took Tahn’s hand, lifting it into the light from the door and seeming to study the mark there. Gently, the stranger placed it back on the floor, and turned to the rest.

“You must see this for yourself,” the man said. And again Tahn thought he knew the voice, though it came with more rasp than he thought he remembered, as though too much wind and heat had traveled through it.

A second figure then came fully into the light. Tahn thought she looked old, though not fragile. She walked with a cane, her slow steps accented by the tapping of her stick upon his hard bed.

“Be sure he behaves,” the woman said.

“He’s in no condition to threaten you,” the man above Tahn replied. He stood and stepped aside, making room for her. “This archer you’ve chained, Helaina, is the boy Tahn.”

The woman tapped her way closer and bent over him. A look of understanding bloomed in her eyes. She dropped her cane and fell to her knees, taking Tahn’s face in her wrinkled hands. Tears welled over her lower eyelids, falling directly onto Tahn’s chin. All in a moment, Tahn witnessed joy, relief, concern, and shame. The old woman thrust her face into Tahn’s neck and cried in silent heaves. Hot tears rolled down his skin into his collar. He was confused, but grateful for the warmth of both the woman’s tears and embrace.

The woman repeated something over and over, but Tahn could not make it out, her cheek muffling his ear. When the tears ceased, she drew back, looking through eyes already clouded with age. An expression of grief stood on her brow as she put her forehead to Tahn’s and whispered, “Good Will.”

The woman let go of Tahn’s face, wiped her eyes and cheeks, and extended a hand for help in standing. The first man came to her aid.

“Release him,” she said, at which a sentry rushed forward and set upon Tahn’s manacles. The rattle of the irons stabbed at his tender skin, but he had no energy to complain. “Take him to the levate healers immediately. We will join you shortly. Do not leave him until I come to you.” She pivoted. “Recorder.” The man with the ledger scurried to her side. “Write that Recityv honors the season of the Charter. The ordinance of Preserved Will is just in this matter and prevails upon the High Council. The prisoners are free.” She tapped his ledger. “See that the Court of Judicature is made aware. I will come to you later to be sure that it is done. Go.”

Tahn watched as people leapt at her bidding, this strange woman who a moment ago had wept upon his neck. She pointed to a second guard, this one the man who’d poured his water upon the stone floor. The guard strode swiftly to her and went to one knee. “You will release the other. Is he in need of a levate’s hand?”

“I regret to say that he is, my Lady.”

“Take him likewise to the healer,” she said, her tone indicting. “See that no incident causes either of these boys another whit of harm.”

The first guard finished removing Tahn’s shackles and hoisted him as easily as a father might a child. Tahn’s muscles sang painfully at the sudden jostling, but he bit back his cries. The guard began to carry him off. A sudden bright bolt of clarity and action filled him.

“Wait,” Tahn said. The guard did not stop. “Wait!” Tahn yelled, filling the chamber with a violent threat. This time the guard halted, sending a look of inquiry to the woman for instruction.

Tahn ignored them both and turned toward the shadow where Rolen remained cloaked and forgotten.

“You must free him, too,” Tahn said. He clenched his teeth against pain drumming in every cut and sore. “If I am innocent, if the man I cut free is—”

“Tahn.” It was Rolen. His voice came like a calm out of the shadow-veiled corner, interrupting his plea. A moment after, the Sheason stepped slowly into the light. “Do not worry for me. Remember, I chose this.”

“But Rolen,” Tahn protested. “They see it was a trap. They are letting me go because the man I cut free was innocent. You should not have to—”

“Tahn.” Again a voice of serenity and assurance. “Whether a trap or not, I have violated the law. I knew what I was doing. And I have new strength in my confinement after what I have seen here today.”

“What do you mean?” Tahn asked. “This isn’t fair. It isn’t right.” He wrestled to free himself from the guard’s arms, but his body held little fight.

“I will not accept a pardon from the regent that would bring criticism of her.” He turned to look at the woman.

Realization spread through Tahn, and he ceased his struggle.

In the same moment, he saw clearly for the first time the faces of those standing near the wall: Vendanj, Wendra, Braethen, Penit, and Mira. Even in the dark, even weakened, he could see her grey eyes, and even now they lit fire in his loins. A crash of emotions descended upon him. His heart swelled to see his sister safe, to see his old friend. Even the sight of Vendanj was comforting. Emotion tightened his throat and he could not speak. Soon Sutter would join them, too. And as he reeled from intense gratitude and the alarming words of the woman Rolen had called regent, Vendanj approached him.

“You are weak, but you are well,” Vendanj said.

“Vendanj,” Tahn began. His mouth betrayed him, his tongue clucking dryly and robbing him of words. He licked his lips and swallowed. “Vendanj, don’t let them do this, please. You have to know about Rolen. He is one of your order. He was only trying to help a dying child, and for that he is condemned. Please.”

Vendanj gave Tahn a watchful look, then stepped past him toward Rolen.

“Is this how you intend to serve, fraterna?” Vendanj asked.

“It is,” Rolen answered. “If I seek to avoid punishment for my crime, the strife between the people and the councils will grow.” He smiled weakly. “I do not believe in this law, but I am bound to it as others are bound to the rules that govern them. What servant am I if
I
choose which laws are just?”

“We will not agree on that,” Vendanj said. “And I make no such covenant. If you ask it, I will accept the risk for you, and remove you from this place.”

“No,” Rolen said. “This is how it must be. I’ve no regret.” He looked past Vendanj to Tahn. “I’ve found meaning in it beyond merely maintaining my oath.” He returned his eyes to Vendanj. “Yours is a great stewardship, my brother. Give to it well.”

Vendanj inclined his head. Rolen did likewise.

The guard started away, bearing Tahn with him. As they mounted the stair, eyes followed them up—all save the woman’s and Rolen’s.

At the door Tahn reached out and grasped the wall, stopping them again. He looked down at the prison cell, and saw the regent in her resplendent dress facing the filthy Sheason, who yet stood nobly before her. “I will not forget your gift, Rolen. Thank you.”

The Sheason turned and looked up at him. “My friend, it was the most honored moment of my life.”

The guard bore him away.

*   *   *

Tahn lay still while attendants worked swiftly but methodically through their ministrations. One woman wearing a scarf tight around her face applied a cool salve to his wrists and ankles. The cream smelled of peppermint and nut oils and burned icily, soothingly. Afterward, she wrapped the areas with clean, white strips of fabric. A second woman soaked a rag in a pungent liquid and rubbed it over the purple bruises that covered Tahn’s body. Another forced him to sip water from a glass, and washed his head and face with a damp towel.