Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (124 page)

With that, he removed his hand and left Tahn without another word or look.

Tahn did not know how to feel. But he did see something he’d not seen before, since the man for once did not wear his battle gloves: a scar on the back of his left hand in the shape of a hammer or mallet. The image suggested to Tahn’s beleaguered mind yet more similarities between him and the exile. But he put them out of mind. Right now, this near Restoration, he could bear no more.

The exile took to the fire for some warmth.

Vendanj stared at Tahn, flame flickering in his steely eyes. He stroked his beard and began to speak. “Tomorrow we will come to Tillinghast. You must be prepared.”

Tahn believed the Sheason was talking to everyone but more specifically to him.

“Tomorrow, at dawn, you will come to the place where Forda and Forza meet, Ars and Arsa. It is a place of absolute power, absolute potential … for now, at least. There can be no prevarication at Tillinghast, Tahn. While it represents the finest and most potent gift given to men in life, it is indifferent to your hopes, indifferent to you. Take care to comport yourself with utter honesty.”

Then the Sheason looked deep into Tahn’s eyes, again making him think that the renderer could know his private thoughts. While holding his gaze, he began in a softer voice, “You will have restored to you all that you have done, all that you are. You have the shield of melura to answer for most of your years, but we have not come quickly enough to make that the fullness of your protection, nor would it be enough in any case. Even though you are not accountable before you Stand, these things must be restored to you—every misgiving, every ill thought. That will be painful enough.

“The ripple effect of your every malice and mischief is something you can’t deny, and will be yours to see and feel again, yours to admit to.”

Tahn realized then why the Sheason had restored his memory: if he hadn’t, Tillinghast would have. The shock of it there might have undone them all.

“But Restoration is more than remembrance,” Vendanj explained. “More than a scale to measure worth or value. Restoration will put a name to who you have become, who you are capable of being.”

“This is our purpose,” the Sheason explained. “This is the purpose of every night you’ve spent away from your Hollows skies. It is the meaning in your sunrise.”

Tahn puzzled at this, knowing the Sheason was aware of Tahn’s morning vigil, but sensing that Vendanj did not fully know any more than he did why he was compelled to witness the birth of every dawn.

“We have seen the destruction of that which we once thought timeless. In coming here, we have learned the threat is present from the simplest blade of grass”—Vendanj spared a look at Braethen—“to the greatest of our nations. The Whited One is restless; his influence widens, and does so at our own bidding. Against legions without number and his mastery in rendering the Will, we are of no consequence.

“And yet he has sought to put our purpose at an end. Why? Because he fears anyone he cannot enslave.” Narrowing his gaze, Vendanj lent fervor to his words. “You will draw your bow tomorrow at Restoration, Tahn, to know if you are chosen to continue to resist Quietus, and … Will and Sky … stand against Quietus himself if the time comes.”

The Sheason said even more softly, “This is the final answer to your question of what we set out to do.”

The revelation descended on Tahn and stole his breath.
Dear Fathers, they mean for me to stand against the Whited One!
He tried to speak, and could not. He looked at Sutter and saw a stark, dumbfounded expression on his face. Tahn then looked at each of his companions, seeking he knew not what, but feeling as though he needed to grasp onto something, someone.

Then from the crevasse, a deep wind rose up, shrilling into the night air. “When will you tell the boy the truth, Sheason? He is Quillescent.”

The word chilled Tahn to the marrow. Though pronounced in the awful voice of this dark intruder, it somehow held the ring of truth. Tahn didn’t know what it meant, but as he whipped about to look into the crevasse, he saw an ominous figure float up unaided from its depths, and knew that whatever its meaning, it would bring him harm.

Vendanj threw back his cloak, and rose in a single, graceful motion. Grant and Braethen jumped to his side, brandishing their blades as the Sheason crossed his arms across his chest and stared over them at the deep cowl of the floating form.

The figure rose three strides above the edge of the crevasse, and peered down at them. “This is the hope to which men cling?” A bitter laugh chafed the very air, and shook the stone beneath and around them. “Quillescent or no, the measure of your Will is feeble.” The cowl shifted noticeably, facing Tahn. “A mistake that I might rectify with but a word.”

“You’ve no dominion here!” Vendanj shouted above the howl of wind still emanating from the crevasse. “And no heart among us will yield!”

“No dominion? I am Zephora,” the creature declared. “My authority is as old as the first Draethmorte called after the injustices of Juliad, the closing of the Bourne, and the imprisonment of Quietus and all the works of his hand.” Zephora’s voice grew harsher still. “I am more lord here than all your councils; I am more enduring than all your restored choices.” He threw his head back and laughed with the voice of the damned.

Tahn hadn’t needed a name to feel the difference of this creature from the Quietgiven that had pursued them since the Hollows. His concealed countenance emanated abjection, the hint of a visage within the cowl frowning at them with pity and anger. Beneath its glare, Tahn’s skin prickled with goose bumps and his fingers tingled with an itch he could not sufficiently rub away. Somehow it reminded Tahn of the taste and feel he’d had of the sweating prison stone in his cell beneath Solath Mahnus. Only the light and will of Rolen had mitigated the debasement that place had forced on Tahn’s beleaguered mind. And yet that memory approached the despair and malevolence of this new being only as near as an aspen stripling might a cloudwood. His very voice reminded Tahn of the soughing of winter winds through dead trees, and the anguish of a mourner too overcome to articulate the words of his grief. That, and the patience and stillness of an ossuary. He invaded Tahn’s mind like a secret plaguing his conscience, and moved as one with the soil beneath his feet, as one presiding over interment.

Mira backed away from the creature, her swords held defensively before her.

Tahn raised his bow, nocking an arrow as Sutter drew alongside him, his sword gripped firmly in both hands. Speaking mostly to himself, Nails said in a whisper, “He said the first Draethmorte.”

Braethen’s sword began to thrum with a single, pure note as it started to glow, the light pulsing. The sodalist stepped protectively in front of Vendanj, but was recalled to his place with a soft spoken command.

Zephora descended to the edge of the crevasse, landing softly, always facing Tahn. On the ground, he stood as tall as Vendanj, though thinner and frailer looking. “Concede,” the Given said. “Do not martyr yourselves against the ages of my desire and power to wield more perfectly the Will that binds you.” He pointed toward Vendanj. “You labor under the misjudgments of generations that did not correctly interpret the meanings inherent in a Charter whose authors held no authority to write it. Your handling of these precious gifts dishonors you as you seek to keep locked a prison without knowledge of its prisoners.”

Anger flared, and Zephora’s next words came pushed on breath heated as by a furnace. “And we grow tired! The prattling of these generations fuels our passion for Quiet. No more will we accept the tethers placed on us for something—” The creature’s words degenerated into an anguished roar. “Prepare yourselves!”

As the folds of Zephora’s cloak began to unfurl, his arms stretching preparatory to some invocation, Vendanj lowered his wrists and cupped his palms. Light sparked in the Sheason’s hands and grew rapidly in intensity. The mountain pass lit as though from two suns, when suddenly Vendanj brought his hands together, and closed them into fists. Light streaked from between his fingers and sought Zephora, shooting from the renderer’s hands like brilliant shafts of sunlight through a darkened cloud.

The attack swept Zephora back, but only briefly. The rays of light began bending around him, unable or unwilling to touch him any longer. From within the depths of Zephora’s cowl, Tahn thought he saw a dark smile.

Vendanj grabbed Mira’s shoulder and roughly pulled her close, focusing his eyes upon hers, but saying nothing. The Far nodded, as if hearing something unvoiced. She broke past Vendanj and Grant and grabbed hold of Tahn. “Come!” she commanded.

Tahn did not hesitate to follow as Mira dashed to the far side of the pass. He stretched his strides to keep from slowing her. Reaching the far side, Tahn turned back to see the others position themselves between him and Zephora. As he watched, the member of the dark Draethmorte did not make any great or hasty countermove, no flames or shifting of earth. Instead, the fugitive from the Bourne slowly and with a darkly beguiling smile, opened his arms as though to receive them all unto his bosom. And with that graceful gesture, a cold silence settled across the pass, stealing sound and replacing it with an ineffable sadness, a mortal grief that chilled Tahn more completely than any rain or ice ever had. It stopped him in his tracks. It bore down upon everything, seeming to press in upon the stone and sand, weighing heavy in the air, touching their hearts with the gall of bitterness. The malevolent and destructive moment was rendered almost lovingly by Zephora, reminiscent of a mother looking into the face of her sleeping child, as though this was the creature’s purest, most powerful emotion and need.

A death of silence …

The moment lengthened, threatening to consume them utterly, when shattering the silence came a triumphant cry: “I am I!” The resounding blare leapt from Braethen’s lips, erupting into the pall like the dawn, and sending shivers of hope down Tahn’s back. The spell broken, Mira yanked him forward, and up they raced. He realized, with a sudden sense of dread, that she was taking him toward Tillinghast.

As they sped over star shadows and stone, Tahn looked back over his shoulder at the scene unfolding at the rim of the pass. Wendra’s head bobbed as she retreated and tried to force audible tones from her injured throat. He wondered if this would be the last time he would ever see her, and wished he had tried to speak to her again. Grant and Braethen danced in close to Zephora, attempting to use their dual attack to confuse and cripple the Quietgiven. With a casual pass of his hand, Zephora sent them both skidding across the rough ground like scarecrows ravaged in an autumn gale.

Vendanj spared a look up the mountain at Tahn before calmly lowering one palm earthward and splaying his other fingers over his breast. In the next moment, the rock itself seemed to come to life and lick at Zephora with shard tongues and clutch toward him with indifferent fists. One lashed the Given’s chest before Zephora went to one knee and drove a bony hand into the hard soil. With frightening speed, the earth took on a deathly pallor that began to spread around them.

Tahn and Mira swept over the rise and found level ground as behind them the world lit in an explosion of darkness as searing and painful as live coals. The concussion thrust them forward, driving Tahn to the ground. The blast echoed past them in long, diminishing waves, leaving in its wake an emptiness that he thought might have claimed the shrieks and suffering of friends. Tahn heard only his own labored breathing, and the sound of his boots grinding against Saeculorum gravel as he followed the Far toward Restoration.

The sky above shone darkly, revealing every star Tahn had ever looked at long enough to fix in his memory. He’d hoped to have time to consider Vendanj’s words, consider everything that led him to this moment. All his thoughts clouded in his mind, and were finally pierced by the sound of footsteps, far down the mountain, climbing in pursuit with a steady, purposeful rhythm. Perhaps Vendanj … perhaps not. Tahn fought to climb faster, pushing the Far to quicken the pace.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

Rudierd Tillinghast

Sweat drenched Tahn, stinging his eyes. The higher they crept, the tighter his chest felt, the pressure causing him to gasp. Deep breaths sent piercing pains through his body.

But up they climbed.

Twice Tahn looked back and saw nothing. But, holding his breath for a moment, he could hear the continued steps down the rocky way.

With renewed determination, he attacked the path, sliding in behind Mira as they forged through dense mountain brambles. At times, the steep pitch of the mountain made it seem like they ran up walls; the Far’s sure steps showed Tahn where to place his feet. The sound of his own heart pulsed in his head, behind his eyes, and in his wrists. He did not ever remember being so aware of the flow of his own life’s blood, and yet feeling so close to his own final earth.

Rushing after Mira up a steep leftward jag, he thought of his Hollows friends, Sutter, Braethen, and Wendra, and felt a pang of mourning. Surely the dark explosion had seared them utterly, claiming the lives of them all. In that instant, his concentration lapsed and he missed a step, crashing down and slipping toward the edge on loosened dirt and flat stones. He clutched at dry grass and sharp, buried rocks that ripped at his hands, tearing rough wounds in them.