Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (109 page)

To the left, Braethen raised his blade, which began glowing a bright white in the night. He took a path that would carry him to the side of the rider, holding his sword ready for a strike. As the sodalist closed in, Wendra caught a flash of shadow well to his left. At the corner of the last building, two men huddled with crossbows aimed at him, their heads lowering to the stillness Wendra knew came just before firing.

Tahn pulled his bow from his back, nocked an arrow, and loosed it at the first man.

The arrow hit the very corner of the stone building, striking sparks into the shadows. But it was enough to disrupt the crossbowman’s concentration. The bolt sailed high and disappeared into the blackness across the street. A wicked eye turned on Tahn—the man who had not yet shot his bolt. His crossbow turned on Tahn, the point aimed at him.

At full ride, Tahn could not nock another arrow as quickly as he could on his feet. He would be too late. Sutter could not help. Wendra looked at the man and loosed a burst of angry song. The sound filled the end of the street before the great face of Descant Cathedral, the force of it pounding the crossbowman like the impact of a great gavel. In but a moment, he lay motionless on top of his own weapon. The echoes of her short song rose with the din of the mob.

A scream broke the sound of her dying note.

Wendra followed the wretched sound and saw the left-hand rider pulling a barbed sword from Braethen’s leg. She knew what had happened. Her harsh melody had also struck Braethen, and ruined his stability. The sodalist had tried to swing in the direction of his attacker with his bright blade, but his stroke, off balance, had been weak and unthreatening. Braethen had managed to keep hold of his sword, but he was exposed to attack and unable to defend himself. The rider flashed a triumphant grin, batting his gauntlet twice against his breastplate in self-acknowledgment. Then he raised his blade to finish Braethen.

His sword never fell. His mouth opened in surprise, his eyes closed in mortal pain. Wendra saw Mira shove the man from his saddle while pulling both blades from his back.

Vendanj now rode past the fray and up the cathedral steps. To her relief, Maesteri Belamae drew back the wide double doors. Wendra and Penit followed him up, Tahn and Sutter close behind.

Hooves clatterd noisily on stone. Roars of displeasure and foulness echoed from the tall face of the cathedral. The wall of pursuers bore down upon Braethen, Mira, Grant, and the man with the black hood.

Again the moan of human wailing rose up. The man in black armor, who stood behind Mira, had begun to swing his mace in crushing arcs toward her. The Far danced back a step and brought her swords up in defense.

Less than twenty strides separated the charging mob and Mira. She could easily have escaped them all and mounted the stair, but she stood between the dark rider and Braethen like a mountain cat before her litter.

Vendanj ordered Wendra and the others inside, where a handful of men waited, eyes wide.

“Quickly!” Vendanj shouted. “Theirs is not your fate!” The Sheason followed, looking toward the bottom of the steps.

Maesteri Belamae drew Wendra and Penit inside. Sutter jumped from his horse and started down the stair, both hands on his blade.

“No!” Vendanj commanded. “Your one blade means nothing against so many.”

Sutter scowled at Vendanj, but stopped and looked again toward Braethen.

The din of shouts and howls and hooves and clattering armor rang around them.

Then, as if from nowhere, Grant appeared. He lunged quickly and purposefully at the back of the hooded man, ducked low at the last moment, and drove a knife into the fellow’s calf.

The mace ceased, the moan slowed. But a screech of anger and betrayal echoed like a malefic prayer. The shadow inside the cowl turned on Grant, who pulled back to wait for a counterattack.

Mira did not hesitate. She took Braethen’s reins and her own and began racing up the steps. Grant took his own and followed, as the hooded rider disappeared into the darkness of a nearby alley. A rain of arrows began striking the steps about them, chips of rock flying, sparks leaping where metal met stone. But none found its mark, the arrows slipping from their trajectory by fractions, as if parting around their quarry.

It was then that Wendra realized she heard a melody like a battle song, but low, directed. She turned to make way for Mira and Grant and their steeds and saw Belamae’s gaze fixed upon her friends and singing just under his breath.

The leaguemen and city guard had reached the cathedral steps. They brought their horses to a skidding halt. Several voices shouted commands and warnings. But they faded as Braethen at last was pulled inside and Vendanj ushered the last of them through the doors, which the gentleman with white hair pulled closed with less haste than Wendra expected.

As soon as the door was closed, two men and two women pulled crossbars through great iron rings to hold them shut. Belamae gave some quiet instruction to these men and women, who then quickly led the horses away.

Then Belamae turned his clear, patient gaze on Vendanj, looking a question at him.

“A telling,” Vendanj said. “And quickly. It must be sung with precision, nothing erring.” Vendanj paused, pulling the scroll from his cloak and handing it to the man. “And my apologies for bringing this on you, Maesteri. This will not be easy for you, even if the regent shows you favor.”

Belamae smiled as he received the parchment from Vendanj. “You are right in that, Sheason.” His voice rang deep and clean. “But though our gables and spires are tarnished, our purpose is not. It was easier to open our doors because you bear this one company.” He looked at Wendra. “You’ve kept her safe. In this you’ve won an ally of me. She must now remain here, though. Wherever your author has written you, it is certainly not a haven if this mob is any indication.”

Vendanj turned to Wendra, his impatience to be about his business momentarily forgotten. The Maesteri and Vendanj then drew Wendra from the others.

The Sheason gave her a solemn look, but spoke softly. “Wendra, when I came to the Hollows, I came not only for Tahn … I also came for you. I knew your parents.” He paused briefly, seeming to consider what to say. “Before you knew it yourself, I knew the gift you possess. It is a mighty endowment, and one desperately needed here.” The Sheason glanced up, indicating the Descant.

Wendra felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. Vendanj had known? Had her father also known, her mother? She felt manipulated, deceived. She’d nearly been sold to the Bar’dyn through all of this. Then she realized it was also her voice that had saved her from that fate. And, of course, she would never have met Penit. She turned to look at the boy. Her heart relaxed briefly just seeing him safe.

Then she looked back at Vendanj and Belamae. “Why?” she asked. “Is it for what lay beyond your pools of reflection, Belamae?”

The Maesteri explained to her that the Song of Suffering was the singing of the Tract of Desolation, that it must be constantly sung to keep in place the veil that held the Quiet within the Bourne. He told her that the Lieholan were few … and tired.

When he had finished, Vendanj again spoke. “You are the reason we came to Recityv, Wendra. There is still much to be done, and that is work we go now to do. But your place is here.”

Again she found it hard to breathe. The revelations had come hard and fast. “What about Penit?”

Vendanj did not turn away when he said, “He is coming with us. You’ll have to let him go.”

In some ways, this scared Wendra more than everything else she’d heard. Desperation filled her chest. She could feel the weight of her decision bearing down on her, and felt trapped.

Often, in her panic, she would sing or hum, or even play in her mind a tune to calm herself. But now the thought of doing so only reminded her of the choice before her. It was impossible.… Then she looked at the boy again, and thought of her lost baby, and all she had done to reclaim Penit after she had lost him, too.

Calmness returned to her. She looked back at Vendanj, returning his stare. The Sheason’s penetrating gaze took in her brow and cheeks and chin before he looked at the Maesteri.

“She has chosen,” Vendanj said. “She will accompany us. But my oath to you, Belamae, that I will protect her.”

The man’s demeanor shifted noticeably; Wendra thought it less one of anger than concern. The Maesteri nodded and stepped away, leading them down a dark hall.

No one spoke, and Vendanj went directly after Belamae, followed closely by Wendra and Penit, then Tahn and Sutter. Mira and Grant came last, supporting Braethen between them. Distantly, Wendra heard the same melodic humming she’d heard before: the Song of Suffering, being sung deep within the cathedral.

Beyond the walls, shouts could still be heard, lending haste to their steps.

If they rush the cathedral, will the doors hold?

Belamae led them through several halls where small candles burned on shallow shelves to dimly illuminate their steps. They went past closed doors, catching phrases of song, and musical passages played on citherns, flutes, and violins—sometimes together, sometimes solo. The snatches of song sounded mournful to Wendra’s ear.

The Maesteri strode to a closed door. He produced a key, turned back the tumbler, and admitted them before he himself entered and locked the door behind them.

“What voice?” Vendanj asked.

“I would trust none other than myself, Sheason,” Belamae replied.

Without further words, the man went around the room and lit several lamps. Gradually the shadows receded, revealing to Wendra’s eyes an oval chamber with a ceiling fifty strides high. Murals had been painted there, the details of which faded from the eye at such a distance. A great oval rug of blue and white interlocking patterns stretched to the walls but left bare a smaller concentric oval of stone at the room’s center. The stone there was seamless, and shone like a black mirror.

Chairs were placed at even intervals around the perimeter of the inner oval, appearing as though set at the edge of a dark, placid pool. At the back of the chamber stood a lectern like Garlen’s, wrought from the same sleek stone as the floor.

The Maesteri went to Wendra and stood quietly before her. He gently took her hand, cupping it between his own. He let out a sigh and smiled wanly. “You’ll never know how difficult it is for me to see you go,” said Belamae. His voice caught with emotion. He swallowed and patted her hand. “Go safely, young one,” he said. “Remember that when you open your mouth to make song, there is responsibility in it. Rough, strained tones have their place, child, but are always forgotten and never create. There’s a special endowment in you, Wendra. And you are the only one who can look after it once you pass from this place. Please, come back to me. So much depends—” The Maesteri cut himself off, though wanting, it appeared, to say more.

Wendra realized as the words died that they did so after a slowly fading roll of echoes. The chamber resounded with the cast of Belamae’s voice, making each word larger than itself, a quality of depth and dimension Wendra had not quite heard before.

“Your horses will be with you shortly,” the Maesteri said to Vendanj without turning away from Wendra, who still held Penit’s hand.

She smiled appreciatively at the old man, but in her heart she held reservations. It had been a long time since she’d felt anything she could use that word to describe—
endowment
. The Maesteri might not use the word if a child had been ripped from his womb, or another sold on the blocks, or had himself been the wager in a game of chance.

The Maesteri left her and walked around the black oval to the lectern. He climbed a stair behind it, and soon stood overlooking the room from several strides above them. Carefully, he untied the scroll and unrolled it on the lectern. His eyes read the words. He looked up. “This is A’Garlen, I can tell.” He smiled. “Please be seated,” he said.

Vendanj pointed to the seats. Each of them took a chair, Wendra yet keeping her hold of Penit’s hand.

Sitting last, the Sheason spoke to the Maesteri. “Belamae, speak strongly for Helaina when you are given the opportunity to do so. With laggard seat holders, pretenders, the League, and the Quiet … Help her where you can with this convocation. We go to attempt an important task, but our success may mean nothing if the convocation fails.”

The old man smiled devilishly, as if he relished the debates in store for him with the likes of Roth Staned. He laid a finger aside his nose in what looked like a salute. The Sheason gave a grateful nod.

When they settled, the Maesteri began to hum in a rich, deep voice, the sound of it resonating in the chamber until the entire space seemed filled with it. The sound came at Wendra from every direction, washing over her like her most vivid dream. The music thrummed with life of its own, so that she could not be sure the Maesteri sang it at all.

Then the man began to sing the words on Garlen’s vellum. The telling unfolded in glorious detail, the words fitting together as naturally and rhythmically as any lyric Wendra had ever heard. The dance and play of each phrase gave life to the words and what they described, and from the lips of the Maesteri, the music soared as though it might stretch outward and upward without end.

In moments, the words ran together with the song and became something more. It touched Wendra deeply, striking a chord at once in flesh and spirit. Wendra felt the chamber about her begin to recede, becoming insubstantial, visible more as elements of something much more vast.