Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (35 page)

“When you gave me the sword,” he asked Vendanj, “darkness swallowed me…”

Vendanj looked first at him, then at the encroaching wall of mist. Cautious footsteps could be heard approaching. The Sheason put a finger to his lips to silence the sodalist, stood, and turned in the direction of the sound. From the bank of darkness, Mira slowly emerged, her swords drawn, her face flushed.

“The girl?” he asked.

“Bar’dyn found her and the boy deep in the mist. She fled while I fought them back.”

Vendanj nodded. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Out of patience with the beasts out of the Hand,” she said sternly.

The mists followed her as she approached, and quickly Je’holta filled in the large hole above, occluding the sun. She stopped near Braethen and appraised him carefully, her gaze alternating between him and the sword in his hand. Under her scrutiny, Braethen got to his feet and replaced the sword in its sheath. Around them, plumes of mist rose and fell, their touch feeling as a willow bud might in early spring.

“We will go north to the edge of the mist,” Vendanj said. “Perhaps the others have reached safety beyond its grip.” The Sheason extended a hand. “The power of Male’Siriptus still exists around us. If even one of the Velle came with Je’holta, we are far from safe.”

Braethen took the renderer’s hand, and put his own out to Mira. The Far sheathed one sword, and took the sodalist’s hand in a firm grip. Together they walked on through the mist.

It took time, but eventually they emerged from the low, dark cloud, into the light of day beyond. Braethen raised his arms and turned to face the sun.

“I’ll find the horses,” Mira said. “The Je’holta cloud will not go quietly.”

“I know,” Vendanj replied. “It will rage soon.”

Mira left at a run, covering ground at great speed, scanning the terrain she passed. In a moment she disappeared from sight. Braethen had not seen her move thus. He gaped openly at her rapid departure.

“We must find shelter,” Vendanj said. “The rushing of Je’holta is painful to the point of death. It will howl and blow like a storm dropping off the slopes of the Pall. The despair and loss of those that inhabit Male’Siriptus race over the body in torrents and tear at the mind like daggers. Come.”

Vendanj hastened up a low hill. A dense copse stood halfway down the lee slope, the rain and weather having hollowed a space beneath the gnarled root system on the downhill side. Braethen and the Sheason ducked under the cover.

They sat silently in the protection of the hollow, looking out on the day and watching cloud shadows move across the land. Then a wind rose up, mild at first, nothing more than the breeze that precedes a summer shower. But soon it became a gale, carrying leaves and dust in streams down the hill below them. The trees swayed, low oak and sage rippling in the fierceness. Above them, the sky darkened, and the wind screamed in horrible gusts. Braethen squinted at the mists that rushed past them at incredible speed. Branches were torn from their trunks and smaller plants uprooted entirely. Small sticks wheeled into the sky like feathers, and the dark cloud rushed out. The gale raged for several minutes, the tree roots around them groaning and straining against the onslaught of wind. The noise was deafening, like standing beneath a waterfall during spring thaw. Braethen grasped a root nearby to anchor himself, and hoped the Far had found cover. The Sheason sat with his cowl drawn up, a shadow in the rooted hollow, patiently waiting out the rushing of the winds.

The angry cloud expanded outward, dissipating to nothing. Soon, the howling died and the wind grew still. Light filtered through, replacing the darkness, and revealed the terrain around them, ravaged in the passing of Je’holta.

“Will and Sky,” Braethen muttered.

“Let’s go,” Vendanj said, and stepped out from under the trees.

They hiked back to the top of the hill, and watched as Mira appeared over the rise to the west, leading four horses. Moments later, the Far arrived with their mounts, and Penit’s besides. Her hair had blown free of its band and fell in long, silken strands about her face and neck. Braethen had not seen Mira like this; the difference surprised him.

“We may find them traveling east toward Recityv,” Mira said. “But the rushing winds have erased any trail we might have followed for leagues in any direction. The boy is either on foot, or with Wendra. They should be easy to find.”

The Far did not mention Tahn and Sutter.

They mounted and rode east, Mira taking the lead, constantly scanning the ground and horizon. All the rest of that day they rode, stopping finally when the light became too dim to see any further.

Mira secured the horses, then started a fire. Braethen helped her gather wood before sitting near the blaze and placing his sword in his lap to look it over. The blade bore the mark of a craftsman’s care, but had not yet seen its polish and finish. The metal was unyielding though. It glowed in the night, but so imperceptibly that Braethen half doubted any glow at all. Yet, when he looked closely, he could see the metal held a faint white cast, as though lit somehow from within.

Vendanj took a seat near the fire and removed his small wooden case from his cloak. Opening it, he took two leaves from a stem and placed them in his mouth, then, without once looking at Braethen, settled in, clearly exhausted, to savor the fire’s warmth.

Mira left for some time, returning without a sound. She seated herself on the trunk of a fallen tree. “There is no sign of them. But there is also no sign of Quietgiven, either,” she reported. “We are beyond the land affected by the rushing. Perhaps they moved farther north before turning east.” Mira shifted her attention to Braethen. “We need to continue your training.”

“And you asked me of the darkness, sodalist,” said Vendanj. “I have not forgotten. But that must be left for another time.” The Sheason drew back his cowl and looked at Braethen. “There are things from your books that you must know the truth behind if you are to fulfill your oath as sodalist. I know your heart now, but your inexperience and lack of understanding are more dangerous to us than the boy, Penit.”

“Why?”

“Because you are aware of the histories and the truths they offer us, but you haven’t comprehended them. To hold that sword, to lift your arm with others as your emblem suggests, you must have an understanding of the power of the Will, its meaning and purpose.”

Braethen listened intently.

“The Will is the power of creation, sodalist,” Vendanj declared. “You’ve read this countless times. It is what moves us, the wellspring of all life. The Will is without beginning or end. It is the power that resides in all matter, and the matter that resides in all power. It gives purpose to each age, those past and all those that will ever be.” The Sheason lifted the symbol fastened to his necklace, three rings, one inside the next, all joined at one point. “Each age is a part of the one before it, its consequences spreading, resonating, outward like ripples on a pond. But you may also read the emblem in its opposite, focusing inward.” Vendanj ran his finger across the circles toward the point where they were joined. “An inner resonance reducing forever to a single, perfect point.” He traced the woven figure of the rings thoughtfully. “The Will is both these things. Indeed, its meaning is forever dual.”

“And Forda I’Forza?” Braethen asked.

“Yes,” Vendanj answered. “Called also Ars and Arsa in the Language of the Covenant. Its true meaning is ‘energy and matter.’ All things are a marriage of the two, or one that becomes the other through transformation or growth or offering. Matter and energy have always been and will always be. They can be neither created nor destroyed. They list and heave under pressure from each other, becoming new, sometimes refining each other into beauty and balance, sometimes becoming discordant and unstable in a struggle to reach harmony. The Will is the union of these separate and everlasting elements.”

The Sheason spoke with deep reverence. Braethen thought that it must be because he invoked the power of the Will, taking it inside himself to cause change in the way of things, the cost of its use evident in the sunken cheeks of his face.

“To be confirmed a Sheason,” Vendanj went on, “is to accept the responsibility of wielding the power of the Will. The authority cannot be claimed; it must be conferred by those who already possess it to a pupil worthy to bear such a mantle.”

Mira tossed two pieces of wood into the fire. “It is a noble call, sodalist, but not all those who receive it live to know its worth.” She stared at him across the fire, her grey eyes bright and knowing.

“She is right,” Vendanj said. “But you must understand this first.” He touched an open palm to his chest. “We ourselves are Forda I’Forza. Our physical bodies are one half; thought and feeling the other half. For some this second part is known as the spirit or soul. In the covenant language, it is called us’ledia. But it is all Forda.”

He lowered his eyes and took a handful of dirt from the earth between his feet. “The Will was not intended to be drawn upon and used to influence this age, or any age since the High Season when the Noble Ones walked among us and used the Will to give form and variety to the land. It was their first hope that there be balance sufficient in this world that men would strive together to know the Will without trying to manipulate it.

“But while the Great Fathers yet held council at the Tabernacle of the Sky, the One put at odds all they had hoped to achieve. The peace begun in that blessed age started to fail.”

Vendanj looked away, the words distasteful in his mouth. Flaring eyes returned to Braethen.

“It was the Sheason who kept the dream of the Fathers alive. The Sheason were those who served the First Ones with untiring arms and perfect conviction. No power did they wield, only the desire to serve, to assist, to sustain. Sheason means ‘servant’ in the covenant tongue.” He took a deep breath and let the dirt slip from his palm as though it were sand in a time-glass. Then he gathered Braethen’s attention with a hard stare. “The world all but surrendered itself, becoming wicked and craven, and the age that followed the departure of the Fathers was given its name for it. It was a dark season, when the veil was thin and the emissaries of the One wrought havoc and destruction over most of the kingdoms south of the Pall.

“When all seemed lost, a Sheason known as Palamon rose in battle against Jo’ha’nel—the first dark messiah out of the Bourne—and defeated the beast. Palamon was a simple servant who had studied the writings left behind when the scola—the first disciples and scholars of the Framers—fled their colleges after the Fathers departed. He learned how to vender the Will, to use its power to direct change and organize matter. But he could do so only because he had been deemed a servant by the First Ones, and so was conferred the ability to render.”

Vendanj paused, lending weight to what he said next. “That ability came with a price.”

Several long moments later, he continued. “Since matter and energy can be neither created nor destroyed, to draw upon the Will in order to change things as they are requires an expenditure of Forda I’Forza. The Sheason were ordained to serve the land and its people; they were entrusted with this authority by the Fathers, and Palamon would not abrogate that trust. So he drew the power of the Will from himself, costing so much of his own Forda I’Forza that he could never fully recover. All those who have come after him have honored this covenant of personal sacrifice.”

Braethen stared with wide eyes in amazement. “Then each time you draw upon the Will, you die a little?”

Vendanj said nothing, but Mira’s eyes answered Braethen plainly. The Far rose and glared across the fire at Braethen. “Mark well what has been added to your understanding this night, sodalist. It is dangerous knowledge. It inspires your compassion and admiration, I can see, but joining yourself to this cause has put a price on your head.” She stopped, the sound of her words replaced by the yowl of coyotes in the prairies to the west and the crackle of pine boughs in the fire between them.

Braethen’s hand tightened instinctively upon his blade.

Mira noticed his whitened knuckles. “Well enough, sodalist. Tomorrow then. We will show you better use of that steel.”

Mira left the fire, disappearing in an instant beyond the circle of its glow. Braethen knew he would not see her again until morning. He still had so many questions. Some of the gaps in the accounts he’d studied had been filled, but what of himself? What of the Sodality? And he desperately wanted to know what had happened in the mist when he’d taken hold of the sword.

He turned to Vendanj. “What of me? What of—”

“Not tonight, sodalist,” Vendanj interrupted. “Sleep. We will talk of these things again. But now we need our rest. We have a longer route to Recityv than the others, stops to make.”

“The Scar,” Braethen said.

“And before that, Widow’s Village.” The Sheason’s voice became thoughtful, soft. “We have names to record.…”

The Sheason lay down and soon his breathing slowed. But Braethen’s mind would not be quieted. For hours into the night, he sat pondering the words Vendanj had spoken. What was Widow’s Village? What names did he speak of? But mostly, Braethen worried that every time he used the sword lying in his lap, the darkness would return.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Tenendra