Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (59 page)

Posian finished and watched the queen closely, hoping he had satisfied his end of the bargain. The queen did not look angry, but her face held no hint of acceptance. Then a tear ran from the corner of her eye, a single drop that hung delicately for a moment from her chin before dropping into the wine stain Posian had splattered on her dress.

She then turned her head and said something to an attendant behind her. Posian glanced at the guards; their beards framed smiles. He realized that an audience had gathered around them, but he’d focused so narrowly on the queen’s eyes that he hadn’t noticed.

“Your name?” the queen asked kindly.

Posian turned back toward her. “Your Majesty?”

“What is your name, my boy?”

“Posian,” he answered, feeling uncertain what she thought of his tale.

A courtier came forward and, smiling, handed the queen a crystal goblet. Another courtier then poured brandy from an elegant bottle. When the glass was full, the courtiers withdrew and the queen looked down at Poisan. She smiled warmly, and causing a gasp from the onlookers, knelt before him.

“Posian, as a reminder to me of this night I will not wash my dress.” She handed him the crystal glass, the smell of brandy sweet and sharp in his nose. “Your parable did all I asked and more. I will sleep well tonight knowing you have learned those songs.” She winked. “Now go to Master Selae, but go a touch more slowly.”

Awestruck, Posian put his second hand around the goblet and received a kiss from the queen upon his cheek. She did not, as he thought she would, return to her carriage so that revelers would not see her stained dress. And when her lady-in-waiting came forward to protest, the queen dismissed her with a simple smile. She then walked freely among the people, wearing the wine proudly. Posian watched her for several moments in a daze, then hastened to Author Selae’s side. He believed his mentor would pardon his lateness once he heard his story.

And so he did.

When Braethen began as scolito to his father, Author Posian, he saw the crystal goblet displayed on the top shelf in his study. His father dusted it once a week, and looked reflectively at it in the early light of Endweek morn. Then he sat at his desk and read and wrote.

One evening, Author Posian was away to offer some solace to Relan e’Foraw, whose wife had died in childbirth. The story of the queen and the goblet fascinated Braethen, and he’d drawn a chair close to the shelf and reached to take the glass in hand. Stretching for the goblet, Braethen fell against the shelf and knocked the glass from its perch. Off balance, he grasped at it as it fell, not quite catching the goblet before it dropped out of reach. A horrible shattering sound rose in the quiet of A’Posian’s study. Braethen regained his balance only to find shards of the crystal gleaming in the light of the oil lamp atop A’Posian’s desk. He knew in an instant that the goblet could not be mended, and his heart sank.

He’d destroyed his father’s single most precious possession, the symbol of the life he’d taken as an author.

Their front door opened and closed. Braethen jumped to the floor and knelt, preparing to gather the pieces together and hide them. But before he even began, he knew it was useless. He waited there for his father to come.

Shortly, the old man entered the room, his eyes tracking down at his son and the broken goblet. Braethen’s chest heaved with guilt and sorrow. He wanted to express it, but words would not come, and he only looked at his father, whose hollow cheeks to this day still defined infinite sadness in Braethen’s mind. He expected the wrath of the old man, or perhaps a torrent of tears. Neither came. Author Posian had simply looked woefully at Braethen and the ruined token of the queen’s esteem and closed the door, leaving him there with his clumsy mistake and its awful consequence.

*   *   *

Braethen woke from sleep with the nightmare memory alive in his thoughts. He had finally placed the feeling of this wretched place. That awful moment of his childhood was the feeling of every moment in the Scar. It was the weight of disappointment, sorrow, and irreparable damage to something precious. Just as Braethen had felt in his father’s study that night.

He had broken something he couldn’t mend. He would have lived better afterward if his father had struck him, at least reproved him. Instead, Braethen had lived with that awful look of disappointment and loss on his father’s face. He wondered now if it was at least part of the reason he hadn’t followed his father in the author’s way: a fear of disappointing him.

His father had come to him not long after, and they’d made peace over Braethen’s mistake. A’Posian had just needed some time to himself after finding the broken goblet. But those few hours had felt like a lifetime. Nothing, Braethen thought, would ever feel worse than utterly disappointing someone you love.

But this feeling of the Scar, forever …

And that someone
lived
here—this Grant—left Braethen’s heart cold; what kind of man could endure such a place every day? What unfathomable penance could keep any man so deep in the Scar? The sodalist wanted to journey on to meet this man Grant as badly as he wanted to flee the Scar and never return.

In the heat, Braethen shivered.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Qum’rahm’se

Behind Tahn, Sutter’s feet shuffled, and his friend emerged beside him, his sword raised menacingly toward the destroyed cliff face. Tahn nocked his arrow again and aimlessly pointed ahead.

“And what damage would you do that hasn’t already been done?” the voice asked with sad sarcasm. “I, for one, am relieved to see the fright so evident in your trembling weapons.”

Tahn traced the source of the voice up the melted cliff face, and saw a hollow-chested man sitting beside a rock. The fellow had seen maybe fifty Northsuns and wore both an unkempt greying beard and spectacles perched on a rather protuberant nose. A feather stood tucked over his ear and several more fixed into his vest, which buttoned over his right breast. Beside him lay a staff. Not far behind him, plumes of smoke issued continually, flakes of ash rising into the air in a steady stream. Instinctively, Tahn lifted his aim toward the man.

They waited for the man to speak again. Instead, he sat where he was, saying nothing. He moved not at all, except every few moments, he lifted a small book secured to his waist by a rope and heaved a sigh over it.

Sutter whispered, “Let’s get out of here. He may be more dangerous than he appears.”

Tahn nodded, but stepped over the black crust of glass at his feet. “Tell us what happened.”

The fellow’s head cocked, then made a long survey of the world around him. “I should think that it was evident. And quit pointing that thing at me. Can’t you see the kind of day I’ve had?”

Tahn lowered his bow and looked about, noticing for the first time several melted columns of rock evenly spaced on both sides of the clearing. He guessed they might have been statues before the fire that had consumed the cliff face and trees.

Knowing the answer, Tahn nevertheless asked the stranger, “Then who is responsible for this?”

Hefting a small stone, the man threw it at them weakly. “Go away. Two quivering boys don’t need these answers. They’d only send you sniveling back to your mother’s teat.”

Sutter laughed in spite of himself. “I like him,” he whispered.

Tahn ignored his friend. “Perhaps not as quivering as you,” he said, having an idea about the man. “How is that everything is burned, even the rock, and yet you sit unscathed?”

He seemed to have unnerved the stranger. The fellow glared back at him, then began to pick his way carefully down the cliff. As soon as he got to level ground, he strode across the charred earth of the clearing toward them, crusts of glass cracking beneath his boots. Anger grew in his eyes. They were the astute eyes of a scholar, an observer. He struck Tahn as someone on whom little was lost. Nearer, Tahn saw not one but two small books fastened by silken bands to his waist. In his belt he carried a vial and several more quills.

Striding with his thick staff toward them, he stopped directly in front of Tahn and stared up into his eyes with open scorn. “You needn’t speak your third assumption, stripling,” the man said, his voice a mix of self-loathing and detestation. “I will own my ignominy, but be sure it has nothing to do with your feeble attempts at deduction. Fah, language is too precious to be abused in the mouths of those who think themselves clever.”

“I didn’t—”

“Of course you did,” the man returned bluntly. “So, hear it now. I am Edholm Restultan, a scrivener of Qum’rahm’se Library.” The man looked back over his shoulder. “Or what was once Qum’rahm’se. It has come to this. And in the hour of its destruction, while sitting watch atop the cliff, I raised no defense against those that brought fire to incinerate a hundred generations of study.” He brought baleful eyes back around to Tahn. “However impudent, boy, you are nevertheless right. I survived the attack by keeping quiet whilst my colleagues … my friends … cried mightily for deliverance. It is the weakness of men that they think first to preserve themselves. And as you will both be men someday, you will no doubt also someday understand my shame.”

Hanging his head, the man fell silent. Tahn had no response. The scrivener began silently to weep.

In a whisper, he said, “I am undone as surely as if I’d stepped into the blaze.”

“Quietgiven,” Tahn said solemnly.

Edholm nodded. “Past innumerable wards they came, past the guard—though a small detachment to be sure—and past the vault doors, granite twice as thick as a man is tall. Unnatural fire spread from the hands of hooded beasts. The sheer heat seared the surrounding trees. But their object was the library, the books.…”

Tahn looked past the scrivener to the cliff face. “The entrance was there?” he asked.

The man nodded.

“What interest would the Quiet have in books?” Sutter said, resheathing his blade.

“Not just books,” Edholm explained. “Qum’rahm’se has stood for milliennia with one purpose.” The scrivener looked back at the charred earth and rock, seeming to judge if even now it were appropriate to speak its function. “I’ll have your names first,” he finished.

“Flin,” Tahn blurted, “and Crowther.” He nodded to Sutter. “Just hunters.”

“I see,” the scrivener said, unbelieving. “Well if not your names, at least something to call you. Have you been hunters long?” the man asked.

Neither Tahn or Sutter answered.

“You understand my question, since seasoned hunters know that their quarry flees from fire.” A tone of condescension drifted on the man’s words.

Tahn put away his arrow. “True enough. But fire does not melt stone.”

“And common hunters do not deduce Quietgiven so easily,” Edholm put back. “But neither do your trembling limbs speak of allegiance to the Bourne.” The scrivener gave them another solemn look, gathering their attention. “Look upon it, striplings, the ruin of Qum’rahm’se. The vault and library dedicated to discerning and deciphering the Language of the Covenant.”

Tahn nearly dropped his bow. Sutter gave Edholm an appalled stare.

“That’s right. Our commission since even before the time of the Convocation of Seats has been to gather the most remote, arcane documents we could unearth, and piece together what remains of the covenant tongue. Scholars from every nation and realm committed their lives to this place, this work.

“Each generation, the library has grown, expanding deeper into the safety of the mountain, filling new shelves with theory, commentary, minor breakthroughs, bits of translation.

“It was thought that one day the language would be needed to turn back the minions of the Quiet. Or that knowledge of its use might call forth the promises the First Ones set in store for us.” The scrivener paused, grief tightening his face. “The darkness out of the Bourne surely seeks the same power. Their depraved goals would be within reach, their power unquenchable, were they to have the language as a weapon.”

Edholm sighed. “We did not have it for them. We had not yet revived the covenant tongue. But what we have learned over time might have been enough for the Quiet to hasten the end of peace and light upon the land.” A bit of ash fell between them. “How many lifetimes are now reduced to ash,” the scrivener said mournfully, “their labors so much char to litter this mountain.”

Something occurred to Tahn. “Wait. If you weren’t inside the library when the attack came, how do you know it has been burned? Perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps the Quiet’s fire only sealed them out from the books they hoped to steal.”

The scrivener pointed to the top of the cliff at the vent of steam and ash issuing into the sky. Tahn suddenly knew why his first whiff of fire had not been of burning pine alone. Edholm spoke darkly, mocking Tahn’s hopefulness. “Perhaps the pages burn by the flames cast from Velle hands, the heat igniting the gentle tinder of bindings and parchment even through the stone. Or perhaps to deny them their prize, those scholars trapped inside the library set the books alight to keep them from Quiet hands.” Edholm whispered, “How it must have pained them to do it.”

Tahn watched the ash spew into the mountain air and waft lazily south on a gentle breeze. The empty feeling of defeat stole into his chest. Edholm finally explained.