Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (50 page)

“It went on like that for nearly the entire span of the First Promise. So it was that at the end of the fourth century of war, when the largest legions out of the Bourne were reported to be marching on the world, one of the Wombs of War ascended the palace stair at Recityv with a newborn babe.”

Braethen mouthed her name: Anais Layosah. They had seen Penit play this rhea’fol not a week ago.

“For three days Anais Layosah called for the formation of a council of nations to answer this threat. King Baellor heard her, dispatching birds and riders to the other remaining independent nations. And by sunset on that fourth day, a proclamation was read calling for appointments to a convocation.”

Braethen’s heart quickened at the tale of Layosah holding her child aloft and decrying a king and the noble elite to which he pandered. He had read a different ending to that tale, though, one of pity for the infant.

“Appointments were made from every quarter of society. Dethroned kings, leaders of cities under attack, all took a seat. These rulers committed every last man and weapon to the amassing of an army to march against those cutting a swath into the nations of the south, a force numbering two hundred thousand. But it became clear that steel alone could not put down the Quiet or drive them back to the Bourne. Scouts reported the presence of renderers and other creatures of nightmare from beyond the veil. When King Baellor heard that dire news, he went to Maral Praig, randeur of the Order of Sheason, asking him to violate the oath of the order and commit his followers to the use of force, to war. Baellor convinced Praig, and the army that marched west from Recityv to the blare of brass horns grew by four hundred Sheason.”

Vendanj pointed to the land around them. “Into this place they came, sodalist. It was here they met the Quiet, here that the War of the First Promise was decided. Baellor’s army was outnumbered four to one. Wave upon wave of the Quiet descended into the plain. Baellor knew he could not fight a war on many fronts, so he commanded his line to form a great circle, leaving no flank.

“At first, only flesh and steel clashed on the plain. But soon, Velle lifted their hands to the sky and called terrible fire and wind and lightning to smite Baellor’s army. They drew the great power of life from the world they sought to own, from the earth upon which their enemies stood. Their drain upon the land was massive, stripping it of life and vitality, color and scent, the very marrow of the world, leaving the land an utter waste.”

Vendanj looked about him.

“But the Sheason refused to draw upon the land or others to exercise the Will, so they exhausted their own Forda at an alarming rate. Journals record Sheason giving unto the last, expending their spirit until nothing remained to give.

“The battle raged on for eight days. The Quiet sought a way through Baellor’s line. The army of the First Promise fought a final battle in that great ring. There could be no escape, and Baellor’s circle of defense shrank through attrition.

“It was then that Maral Praig, First Servant, gathered his fellows together at the center of the great round. While the remnants of Baellor’s army held the line, the Sheason stood together, each one joining hands with the Sheason next to him. In an attitude of prayer, the Sheason bowed their heads, and Praig uttered a soul-rending cry that filled the entirety of what would become the Scar. A light flared with the magnitude of a thousand suns, and with it, every man with the stewardship to direct the Will, Sheason and Velle alike, fell.

“In three days, those Quiet that were still alive retreated. And across the dry, dusty land lay the stain of blood like an artist’s spillage. Ten thousand men still stood when the Quiet vanished into the north. Here”—Vendanj swept his arm across the horizon—“the stench of the dying filled the air, and the heap of Sheason forms in their long, dark robes lay like a benediction on the Battle of the Scar.”

Vendanj cast his gaze from left to right, finally looking back at Braethen. “It is an ugly wound, sodalist, but one that reminds us of the cost of freedom from the Quiet.”

Braethen gazed across the barren landscape. Beneath the smells of dry sage and grass lingered a smell like dirt from a burial cave. But there was something more. Ever since they had come into the Scar, the quality of light, of movement, seemed strained. A lethargy permeated the place, like the broken spirit of a man. And as the sun rose over the vast inhospitable waste, it grew hot and oppressive.

When Braethen sensed that the Sheason had finished his recounting, he asked, “All this time, and still so little grows here?”

Vendanj took a deep breath of the dry air. “Some have tried to cultivate crops in the Scar. They’ve given up. The Forda is gone, drawn into the bodies of Quietgiven to replenish their life’s breath ages ago. It is a mark upon the land, a reminder, a remnant of violent thoughts and deeds. This place will yield none of the promise inherent in the world beyond it.”

“A promise forgotten by most of those who trod upon it,” Mira said, loud enough to be heard but not so loud as to become part of the conversation.

Braethen took Vendanj’s silence as agreement with the Far’s comment.

“If it cannot be healed or changed,” Braethen asked, “then why do we ride directly into it?”

Vendanj regarded him, and first asked a question. “Your books, sodalist, they did not prepare you for this, did they?”

Braethen looked again into the bleak land around him. “No,” he finally answered, “they did not prepare me to see the scale on which life might be snuffed out by the actions of those who render the Will.” He gave a furtive glance at the Sheason. “The dark soil is stronger testimony than that written on the pages of my books.”

Vendanj seemed satisfied by this answer. But Braethen’s mind churned with the horror that what he saw around him could be the fate of the world beyond the Scar.

Then the Sheason finally answered Braethen’s question. “We seek out the man Grant, who lives in the Scar.”

Someone
lives
here?
Braethen shuddered at the thought.

“You mean for this man to join us.” Braethen wasn’t asking.

“What if he says no?” Mira said.

“He mustn’t decline,” Vendanj replied. “This place he lives in has no doubt gotten inside him, so it will not be easy. But he must be convinced. He was the first to challenge the Exigents and the Sheason and the Recityv council. I deeply fear what will happen if he refuses us.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The Wages of a Kiss

A thousand tales of caution and distrust and hatred resounded in Tahn’s mind. Inveterae were creatures of the Bourne. Some stories spoke of them as synonymous with Quietgiven. Others related a malevolence and stain so terrible that the gods had deemed them unfit to live among men. The very word—
Inveterae
—that described these races sent into the Bourne ages ago with the Quiet meant literally
unredeemed
.

Yet something in the Inveterae’s unperturbed stillness belied all Tahn had heard. As Balatin had always taught him when greeting someone strange in peace and friendship, Tahn put his hand out with his palm up and thumb out. “I am Tahn Junell,” Tahn replied in a whisper. “And I need your help.”

The Lul’Masi did not respond. The two stared at one another in the dim light of the cage. Then the creature spoke, but low so that only Tahn could hear. “No man has ever helped my kind; the Lul’Masi have no friends in the land of men.”

Tahn spared a look at Sutter lying in the straw. Returning his attention to Col’Wrent, he raised his hand higher. “Then let me be the first.”

A strange look passed across the Lul’Masi’s thick features. And with some hesitation, it raised its massive arm and locked hands with Tahn, whose fingers were lost in the massive palm. When they joined hands, the Lul’Masi’s face softened. “Quillescent,” it said. The word disconcerted Tahn a little, but he had no time to ask about it.

Sutter could be dying. He suddenly had a new bargain to strike.

He leaned closer, the sharp smell of the creature strong in his nose. “The tenendra girl threatened you to force your help. I will make you a different promise. Help my friend and I will free you from your cage.”

The Lul’Masi’s grip on Tahn’s hand tightened uncomfortably—reflexively, Tahn thought. The creature closed its eyes for a moment, the way Tahn did when he thought of the sunrise. The Lul’Masi breathed deeply, its belly expanding, the air it drew producing a deep rumble in its chest as it exhaled.

Finally, the Lul’Masi nodded, its face as unreadable as the moment before. But Tahn thought he saw gratitude pass across its eyes. “What is wrong with your friend?”

“He was struck with a spiked ball thrown by a Bar’dyn. He lost his balance, his speech, and now he’s unconscious. I think he’s been poisoned. The healer in town said you may know what to do.”

Panic filled Tahn’s chest again as Col’Wrent did nothing more than stare at him for several long moments. Perhaps there was nothing he could do, and Sutter would die in the straw of the low one’s cage.

“Bring him to me.”

Tahn dragged Sutter to the back of the cage, the straw heaped around him.

Col’Wrent knelt over Sutter like a mass of boulders. “Your friend will not die. The poison in him is meant to slow, not kill. But without a cure, he could sleep for days.” Col’Wrent put a massive finger in its mouth and drew out a thick stream of saliva and mucus. It gently pried Sutter’s mouth open and wiped the viscous fluid on his tongue.

Then together they waited several long minutes in the hiss of the lantern and stink of the tent. Sutter lay unmoving for some time. At length, his eyes opened. He began to writhe in the straw and spit foulness from his lips. “What the Sky did you put in my mouth?”

“You don’t want to know.” Tahn put his hand on Col’Wrent’s shoulder in appreciation, feeling the strong, rough skin of the Lul’Masi.

Suddenly Sutter realized where he was, and looked up into the massive face of his healer. He scrambled back against the side of the cage, trying to free his sword but fumbling with the weapon.

“Easy, Sutter. There’s no need of that.” Tahn pointed at Sutter’s blade. “You were poisoned by the Bourne, and you’ve been healed by the Bourne. Maybe a thank-you is in order.”

Sutter stared, incredulous. “Thank you?”

“Good enough,” Tahn said.

From behind them, Alisandra called, “Looks like you’re finished. I’ll take my second half now.”

With his back shielding their exchange, Tahn spoke in low tones. “The girl is quick and wary; she won’t allow you to approach the door. I will go out and get the key from her—”

“No,” Col’Wrent said in a deep whisper. “Her mistrust will guard against your task. Tent folk thrive because they are greedy and assume all others are like themselves. You won’t succeed without feeling her blade.”

“Then how?” Tahn asked.

“What’s going on?” Alisandra asked, impatience edging her tone.

“Yeah, what
is
going on?” Sutter echoed.

“Not now, Sutter. Be quiet for once.”

Alisandra called again. “Your friend looks fine. Get out here.”

“What bribe bought your entrance to my prison?” Col’Wrent asked with a hint of distaste.

“Three and six,” Tahn replied.

“You were wise enough to hold back full payment?”

“Yes. Half before, half after.”

The Lul’Masi looked over Tahn’s shoulder. Its patient eyes surveyed the cage door, then returned to Tahn. “Tell her how low and stupid I am. Tell her you believe you’ve already trained me to perform simple tricks, like a dog. That you got me to lift my hand, and that you are going to have me hold out the balance of her payment in my servile palm for her to take. The tent folk are wary, but infected with greed and pride beyond their caution. I will play my part, until her hand is close enough to grasp.”

There was no murder in Col’Wrent’s eyes, but Tahn had not yet seen any real emotion in them, either. Caging the Lul’Masi was wrong, but he didn’t want Alisandra slain.

“I can’t help you if you intend to kill her,” Tahn said.

Col’Wrent’s brow tightened. The Lul’Masi hovered over him. Tahn craned his neck back to look up at the towering creature. Slowly, Col’Wrent extended both arms toward the roof of the tent, then lowered them while bringing them slowly together. When its hands touched, they were at Tahn’s chest. The Lul’Masi interlocked its thumbs and pressed its palms against him. Tahn peered up in confusion. Col’Wrent removed its hands, and spoke earnestly. “I vow, from the sky to one, to do as you ask.”

Tahn took out his money pouch and dropped the coins in Col’Wrent’s large hand. He then immediately whirled, fixing a self-congratulatory grin on his face, and strode confidently to the door.

“He is indeed low,” Tahn said to Alisandra as he came close to her. “But hardly the monster you described. He has the mind of a child.”

“But the body of a Slope Nyne,” Alisandra put in.

“I’ve never seen such a thing,” Tahn answered. He leaned casually against the inner bars of the cage. “A dog bites when it is threatened or beaten into a corner,” he explained. “But let the dog smell you, show no fear, and it welcomes you into its home. Will even perform tricks for you.”