Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (58 page)

“I see,” Wendra observed in an even tone. “Your education has confused your morality. You are like water left atable overnight, neither cold to refresh nor hot to brace. A hallmark of mediocrity.”

Jastail smiled sourly. “Perhaps,” he said. “But it is that very place you name, that very … temperature, that gives meaning to more than a few of these bardic phrases.” He tapped the book. “These men did not scribble about with dirty quills because they hoped to profit by it. They bared their torment at being caught
in between
.”

“You feel tormented?” Wendra interrupted. “You think you appreciate such reflection?”

Jastail sat with his mouth slightly agape, his words apparently lost to him. With a pleasant grin, he closed his lips and opened the book with ready familiarity to a page that Wendra could see was often read. She expected him to recite a verse to her, something to prove his point, answer her accusation. The highwayman read in silence, a curious twist upon his lips that tugged his mouth into a slight frown. In that moment, Wendra thought she saw a glimpse of the unsure child this highwayman had once been. Then he closed the book again, setting it aside near his bedroll.

“Shall I talk to you of being caught in between?” Wendra said. She sent Penit back to the horses to retrieve the waterskins. “What of being taken into the company of thieves by one who barters you upon the table like a loose coin, or of watching a child marched upon the block before a crowd to be auctioned like a hog or goat at breeding season? Do these things strike you as being in between?” Her voice continued to rise as she lashed at him with vicious accusations. “Tell me how as a child you offered your hand to your elders to find an ally, elders who used you to cheat another, a friend, as you did the boy.” Wendra stood, her hands clenched into fists.

Jastail shot a menacing glance at her. “My answer to that might surprise you. But you forget yourself, woman. We are not in a place you should dare to be bold.” His glare did not falter, but his voice softened subtly. “And none of what you speak tells of being in between.” He rose and kicked dirt into the fire. His broad mouth and bright eyes again shifted to the inscrutable expression he’d worn at the card table where he’d wagered Wendra’s life. The look sent a shiver up her back. The heat of their exchange still burned in her, but the utter indifference of the man robbed her of focusing the anger into action.

Without a word, he mounted and led them north. He would not give her a clear opportunity to escape. Sooner or later she would have to make a gamble of her own.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Memory of an Emotional Scar

As a boy Braethen had once taken down a crystal goblet Author Posian kept high on the shelf in his study. It was the only fine thing the man owned, something he’d gotten as a young apprentice himself.

Early in his own readings, Author Posian had traveled south with his own mentor, Author Selae, to the court at Kali Firth during the high festival of Summer Eve. There, A’Selae read the work of his winter’s pen. People came from every corner of Reyal’Te, many from neighboring nations, and some from dominions and principalities far distant, to the celebration. The artists of cloth, parchment, and song gathered there each year to entertain and edify and remind the celebrants of the harshness of the most recent winter and celebrate the warmth of summer sun. Musicians played every hour of the day, and tables assembled in the great square were kept filled with early harvest vegetables, roast goose, smoked fish, and chilled wine.

Posian remembered the tables of nuts and fruit candied with syrup and molasses, and the sweet punch ladled out to children whose cheeks showed the red-orange stain of several glasses. The air filled with the sweet smells of food and the haze of sunset; men and women danced and clapped as fiddles played lively tunes and tambourines marked time. Women strolled and skipped, their blouses falling off their shoulders and their hair let down from the pinch-combs he usually saw them wear.

At night, large torches lit the square nearly as bright as day, and the food was continually replenished, but the gaiety abated as people gathered to witness the shapes and fancies of authors and dramatists and sculptors.

Sometimes a burst of laughter would swell from one small crowd here or there. But on one night, Posian listened near a group of people whose eyes glistened wetly in the torchlight. That Summer Eve, Author Selae had drawn a large group to him at the steps of a tall building. Standing within the stone entrance, Posian’s mentor used the natural echo to add resonance to his voice as he read aloud from his pages. Late in the evening, Posian had gotten the signal from Author Selae that he needed something to drink, and had rushed to the tables at the Center Square to draw him a cup.

In his haste to return, Posian dodged around a coach and ran into a tall woman wearing a white satin dress. The mug of red wine splashed and spattered across the perfectly white gown. Posian looked up to apologize, and was immediately forced to his knees by two guards wearing heavy chain mail and holding spears. The woman looked at her gown, a stern frown on her lips. Suddenly, at her side, a third man appeared, this one dressed in raiment as fine as the lady’s. He wore at his side a sword in a sheath encrusted with colored jewels. His cloak, trimmed gold and red and bearing the mark of sheaf and scythe, hung loosely from his shoulders. At the sight of the stain, a scowl narrowed his eyes, and he began to direct the soldiers to take Posian away.

Just then the woman raised her eyes from the ruin of her dress and saw Posian kneeling in front of her. The boy had never seen her, but knew from the descriptions uttered by all that he had just spilled Author Selae’s wine on the queen’s dress. She was an exceedingly beautiful woman, and it worried Posian, because the stories he’d read in the books always equated beauty with vanity and an intolerance for imperfection. He was sure the king prepared to have him cast into prison, or at least taken from the festival; either would earn him disfavor with Author Selae. The queen and king were not known to come to the festival, not due to arrogance it was thought, but because they believed their presence might distract the revelers. Their appearance any other time would have been fortuitous for Author Selae. But this was disastrous.

In an instant, the queen raised her hand to stop the guards. She gave them a commanding stare and then turned her eyes back to Posian.

“What have you to say for yourself, son?” Her voice did not shrill, and she did not bark her question. Posian immediately felt hope that he could extricate himself from this situation.

“I was sent to fetch a cup to moisten A’Selae’s lips while he reads his winter’s pen, and in my haste I did not pay attention to my path.”

The queen’s eyes did not waver as she considered his words. She touched her sodden dress and rubbed the moisture between her fingers. “Author Selae, where is he from?” she asked.

“North from the Hollows,” Posian replied.

“Are you scolito to Author Selae from the Hollows? And do you pursue your study diligently?” she asked.

“Yes, for two years now,” he replied.

The queen dismissed the guards with a slight elevation of her chin and motioned for Posian to stand.

Humbly, he rose to his feet but found that he could not meet the queen’s gaze.

“Then you shall be pardoned for this infraction upon one condition,” she said.

Posian could think of nothing he could do to redeem his error. He licked his lips and stared into the spreading wine stain on the beautiful satin of the queen’s dress.

“You will create for me a parable,” she said. “Something new. It must be something you’ve never heard, written, or thought before.” She raised her brows to determine if Posian understood the terms.

“I am a novice, your Majesty,” he protested lightly. “I do not write well, and I am not gifted with fancy.”

The queen held up her hand, wet with wine. “I’ll not have bargaining,” she said with the authority of her office. “I am convinced you can entertain me, remind me … teach me. It is a royal request, scolito. Will you deny your queen?”

Posian stood dumbfounded. The guards looked on through their heavy beards, and the king stood beside his wife, a plaintive look on his face.

He wanted to do as the queen asked, but nothing came to mind. He tried to remember the things Author Selae had taught him, but all he could think of was the darkness of a prison and weak light cast through iron bars, or straw for cleaning oneself and bedding down at night, and the squeak of rats rummaging for food. He looked again at her soft shoulders, milky white even in the firelight, and of her words:
teach me
.

Slowly, Posian began to speak, the words sputtering out in half-formed thoughts.

“There was a bird. And the bird was still in its shell. All the other birds had hatched and left the nest before this bird could be born. The Northsun festival came and went and still the bird did not hatch. Maybe because the mother bird had left the nest after laying her eggs. Yes, the bird was alone from the start. But he didn’t know it really, because he was still in his shell and he didn’t know anything different.”

Chortles from the guards were silenced with a look from the queen. But Posian’s parable began to crystallize within him, and he spoke more confidently.

“Then one day the bird hatched and looked around at the emptiness of the nest, and felt alone. He knew he had to get out of the nest because he was hungry, but his legs and wings were still too weak. So he began to squawk and twitter, using all his energy to attract attention.

“A hummingbird flew close, hovering above the nest, and asked in his singsong voice what the new bird was doing in the nest still. The hatchling didn’t understand the hummingbird at first, but after a while, he began to imitate the hummingbird, and pretty soon they began to talk, the hummingbird humming old tunes to the young bird.

“But the hummingbird became hungry. He invited the hatchling to join him, but the hatchling still could not fly. So the hummingbird had to leave the nest alone. And before the hatchling could ask for any food, the fast hummingbird was gone.”

The queen granted him a thin smile, and Posian felt encouraged. He drew a deep breath and rushed on. He thought he now knew how to finish the parable just right.

“Then a red finch flew close and began chirping at the hatchling. Again the young bird couldn’t understand the song. He began to imitate the chirping noises, and soon they spoke to each other. The hatchling was so pleased to have a new friend and know a new tune that he forgot to ask for something to eat and soon the finch darted away.”

Posian looked at the soldiers and felt a streak of pride to find their attention on him. Their gruff beards seemed less ominous to him under the sparkle of interest in their eyes. The spears in their hands leaned at unconcerned angles as they waited upon the rest of his tale.

“For three days birds flew close, each one calling a different tune, and the hatchling learned them all, though none of his visitors ever returned with food or offered to remain close by and keep him company. The hatchling grew weaker, not just because he was hungry but also because he was lonely. He now knew many great songs, but there was no one to share them with.

“He realized he must learn to fly, and he beat his wings to test their strength. They felt fine, but they seemed small to him for carrying him on the wind as he’d seen the other birds do. Pretty soon, he couldn’t wait any more, and he jumped to the edge of the nest, ready to try his wings. He called out several songs and leapt into the air. He beat his wings furiously, but he could not stay up, and he fell to the ground.”

One guard gave a surprised sound, tilting his helmet back to free his ears.

“The fall hurt, but not too badly; the ground was close. So the hatchling started off to find food and friends. In no time he had regained his strength on worms and plant seeds. But his wings still did not work, and he hadn’t found any other birds to talk to.

“Then he spotted a quail and several baby quails, and realized they kind of looked like him. They were not flying, either, and he got excited that he wouldn’t be alone anymore. With all his might he ran to the covey of birds. But his legs were not yet coordinated and he lost control and skidded toward the mother bird. Before he could stop, he fell into her downy plumage and knocked her off her feet.”

Posian saw that now even the king was listening to his story. The king took the queen’s hand in his own and watched Posian with a father’s gentle eyes. The queen’s other hand, wet with wine, was forgotten to her, her face filled with expectation.

Posian took a breath and let the story take its final shape in his mind.

“The mother quail got up and looked at all her babies and their sure feet. Another child to protect would be difficult. The hatchling understood the concern in the mother quail’s eyes and feared being left alone again, especially because he was still weak, had no friends, and was all alone. He didn’t know what he could say to convince her that she should let him stay with her and her children. Then it occurred to him. He knew the songs of all the other birds, wonderful melodies that might be lost to birds on the ground that could not fly.

“So quickly the hatchling began to chirp the tunes of the other birds that he had learned. Their melody seemed to please the mother quail. She began to speak to the hatchling, and it was only an instant before he could understand her song, too. He told her that he would keep the songs of the others, the large birds and the predators, the beautiful mountain finch and the fragile hummingbird, and that those songs would live forever. He told her that he would sing her song, too, and that her kindness in protecting him would live as long as the songs of all the birds of the air.”