Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (69 page)

“Never mind the fogs,” the man assured. “The heat and cold battle in the topsoil; it will settle soon.”

“You said this was the Stonemounts’ defense against attack?” Sutter asked, picking his way over a confluence of roots.

“Effective, don’t you think?”

“Seems to me it offers an enemy cover while he comes closer to battle,” Sutter said.

“There’s more to the wilds than trees, adventurer.” The man stopped and turned in a full circle, nodding as he surveyed the trees overhead. “The wilds have a way of turning a man around, making him forget himself. Many graves lay within the wilds, but none are marked, because none were planned. There are glyphs in the city that say the square came first, and others that say the wilds came first. Whichever is true, this dark grove has stood here for a long time. I suspect it reminded the Stonemounts to be humble as much as it warded off malefic trespassers.” The man smiled at his own insight. “How glorious a people. How enlightened. Beside the measure of their ingenuity and monument in stone, they allowed this grove to grow untamed, its natural state a marker to measure the height of their advancement.”

Sutter gave the man a curious stare.

“Or perhaps they are just trees,” the man said unconvincingly. “Perhaps I’m too long in my documents and studies here to have remained objective.” He turned a bright eye on Tahn. “You see, this is precisely why I hoped to escort you to the north canyon. A good student of the past must test his conclusions against the sensibilities of living, breathing … adventurers. Does that not seem right?”

Tahn nodded and surveyed the woods around them. The light fell in weak, diffused patterns. The tight weave of successive branches above them left him with the impression that this was as light as it ever got in the wilds, and that night would be deeper and darker than he imagined.

The man whipped his cloak around as he spun and continued deeper into the wilds. His route wound like a snake, and Tahn, even with his keen woods skills, soon felt completely lost. The land dipped and heaved, the roots growing more closely together and leaving little ground between. All about them was wood: roots underfoot, dark bark upon the trees, and a low ceiling of branches. A cavern of it. In every direction, Tahn could see nothing but the deep dark of endless trunks, grown black in the shadowy confines of the wilds. The smell of rotting wood hung thick in the air.

Then, in an instant, the light vanished. The dim half light fell nearly to utter darkness, the sun gone behind the western rim. Distantly, the strange sound of wood striking wood echoed in deep tones that Tahn felt more than heard. And, strangely, the cricket song ended, leaving a deathly quiet in the grove that undid even Sutter’s natural smile.

“I suppose we aren’t going to make it to the north canyon,” Sutter said with sarcasm out of the dark.

“It isn’t far,” the man replied, “but travel at night in the wilds is … ill advised. Don’t fret. I’m a cautious one, and I’ll see you through.”

“I’ll build a fire,” Tahn said. The abrupt darkness had brought with it an attendant chill.

“If you must,” the man answered. Tahn thought he heard a quarrel beneath the man’s assent, though it may have been that the damp feel of the wilds and the gloom that enfolded them had put Tahn himself in an objectionable mood.

Carefully, he shuffled his feet, seeking an open section of ground clear of roots. Sutter gathered a few fallen limbs and shortly they had light again, and warmth. Tahn sat on a humped root and pulled out some bread for himself and Sutter. The firelight glistened darkly on the nearby bark. Sparks from the fire drifted up on the heat, and winked out against the tight weave of low branches. Their guide sat close by, watching the fire and looking alternately at Tahn and Sutter. He produced nothing to eat.

“Do you trust me sufficiently now, after coming so far through the wilds,” he began, “to share with me your true vocations?” He cocked an eyebrow at Tahn.

Sutter put down his own crust of bread. He fixed the man with a hard stare until the stranger turned his eyes to meet it. “I dig roots,” Sutter said with fierceness. “Or did,” he added. “But now that I spend my time listening to tiresome stories, I long for the roots again.”

Tahn tried to quiet Sutter with a look, but his friend would not meet his gaze.

The man looked back at Tahn, undisturbed. “And you?”

“I’m tired,” Tahn said.

“Nonsense,” the man rebuffed. “Going into the wilds is easy enough. I’ve no particular care for your true labors, but they’re surely more interesting than your pretense of being adventurers. Life itself is adventure enough, wouldn’t you agree?”

Tahn studied the easy smile on the man’s face. The stranger likely suffered from a lack of companionship, and was intrusive only because of it. His jeweled scabbard, long cloak, and tricorne hat were the affectations of a man not sure of himself. He spoke with an elegant confidence, like the polished way a trader spoke. But he hadn’t anything to gain from helping Tahn or Sutter, and Tahn could sympathize with the feelings of lonelieness.

“I would,” Tahn answered. “I hunt game and watch after the forest near my home.”

“And where is home?” the man asked.

Tahn did share a look with Sutter then, his friend shaking his head in a nearly imperceptible motion to warn him off. “Reyal’Te,” Tahn said.

The man nodded to the small reservation. “At the edge of the Mal. You’re a long way from home. Maybe there is a bit of adventurer in the pair of you, after all.”

Their guide sat comfortably, looking rested after a day’s walk, and vital without a speck of food. The night air grew colder still. Tahn and Sutter circled closer to the fire, warming their arms and chests and cheeks while goose bumps from the cold rippled on their backs. Their guide seemed equally content in the dipping temperature.

Something had been bothering Tahn about their route through the wilds, and it occurred to him as he rubbed his hands near the flame. “How do you mark your passage through these woods? You can’t have learned the way after one trip.”

“Oh, I’ve been here a very long time, my fellow,” the man said. “The irony in studying the past is that we too often boil an entire generation into the notes on a single page. If history is properly studied, I do believe it may take as long to learn it as it did for others to live it. And if I am to discover what became of them, what led them to vacate this beautiful city, I must learn all the things a citizen takes for granted: the multiple meanings of words that are used to insult, edify, and produce laughter; the unwritten standards of behavior that show respect or intolerance; if the attitudes of their populace were harmonious with their poets or if the poets spoke individually, rebelliously.”

“I don’t see the purpose of it,” Sutter chimed in. “I mean no disrespect,” he added cautiously. “But they left, one way or another, and the world went on without them.”

Their guide’s face fell slack, the convivial look gone. He shifted his eyes to Sutter without turning his head. “You have answered your own question, root-digger. How does it escape you? Today we stood in the vaunted square of the most glorious city ever erected. From its central fountain to the edge of the graves around it, you walked the streets of a city that showed no despair in the architecture of its least citizen. The whole of it is a lasting tribute to unity, equality. This people literally traded on the understanding they accumulated by such common fellowship. And then they disappeared without a trace of contention or a single indication of where they went.”

The man stared at Sutter with wide eyes, clearly feeling as though his point should be obvious. Sutter shook his head. “Maybe they were invaded. If they were overwhelmed and taken captive, they could all have been led away somewhere. That would explain the city being deserted but showing no signs of war.”

Their strange guide continued to stare quietly for some time. It was his turn to shake his head.

“Boy.” It was spoken with utter evenness, an insult more searing than a curse. “Look at you, far from Reyal’Te, searching for something, I assume, keeping your little secrets because you don’t trust me, but ashamed of the life and work that held you there. And now you wear a sword and walk the highroads seeking more. Doing whatever you will, crossing the Ophal’re’Donn Bridge and sauntering down the Canyon of Choruses as though you’d earned the right. And yet you fail to see the miracle of Stonemount, that those who lived here overcame the kind of arrogance that makes you feel deserving of more than you have, overcame the combative nature such arrogance creates. In so doing, the Stonemount people outgrew their own city of rock and mortar, and when they left for something better, nobler, the world did indeed go on.” The man paused, the crackle of wood seeming suddenly very loud in the silence. “I want to know what they knew, go where they have gone. I am tired…” He stopped, a genial smile returning to his lips. “I apologize, I get very passionate about my studies.”

Sutter’s face paled. His hand found his sword’s handle, but he looked incapable of effectively using the weapon.

In a soft voice, their guide said a few words more. “All the rest are walking earth, upright dust, consuming breath in ignorance.” The words were familiar to Tahn, but he could not place them. He finished his bread, and later fell asleep watching the guttering fire, his hand on the sticks hidden within his cloak.

*   *   *

He couldn’t see the man’s face. He never could. But Tahn could feel the figure behind him, prepared to correct an errant move or loss of concentration.

The horizon rose pale blue at the break of day. Tahn stood upon a precipice of rock, looking out over an ancient canyon carved by a slow-moving river deep in its valley. The red stone and bleached sands appeared tranquil in the gentle light of predawn. The form shifted his weight to his other foot, the crunch of pebbles beneath his sole accentuating the quiet that had settled over the canyon. The air remained still over the outcropping he stood upon, and Tahn held his breath as he aimed his bow over the vastness of the canyon below.

“Breathe naturally,” the man said. “A rigid chest makes weak arms, causes anxiety. You must shoot your arrow without fear in order to hit where you aim. Every arrow, every breath is one less to your last. And each arrow is important, and must fly with the fullest intention of your heart.”

“But there is nothing here to shoot,” Tahn said. “The canyon is wide, and there is no game to hunt.”

Tahn felt the man’s head incline toward him, coming close to his ear. “We come at dawn to this place because when you release you must learn to focus on yourself, not the quarry.” His voice came softly, but firmly. When he spoke in such a way, he expected Tahn to listen and remember. “You create the energy of the weapon by making your pull. You can feel the force of it suspended in the string and the give of the haft. None is yet offered to the arrow. This is the moment of balance between Forda and Forza, the bow and the energy you give it. In this moment you stand armed with the potential to take life or save it. Your intentions are everything, Tahn.”

“How will I know when to shoot, and when not to shoot?”

The man let a slow breath out through his nostrils. “You will ask this question each time you draw. It is not something that can be answered once and for all. But the ability to make that choice is a power of its own. There are those that do not possess that power, but who will seek to own your portion of it.”

Tahn was confused.

The man went on. “Your life is a precious gift that you must safeguard against a particular enemy. They are known by many names, and often simply called the Ancients. They are forgotten in the land now, passed away beyond the memories of even the oldest reader. They may come to you as tempters, even messengers. But they are charlatans whose pride doomed them to a stagnant life deep inside the Bourne. With a thousand lifetimes they made their way out of their prison and began to walk among men, conniving like thieves to steal what their ambition robbed them of: a chance to feel the melding of Forda I’Forza together in their own breast.”

“And I must shoot them,” Tahn said naively.

“No, boy, listen to my words.” The man stretched an arm past Tahn’s face, pointing at the emptiness of the sky above the great canyon. “You must learn and remember the power of the draw itself, not the arrow. It is potential power, just as a boulder perched upon a hill. And it would be your only weapon against them.”

The man stopped, seeming to give Tahn time to comprehend what he’d said. But Tahn hadn’t grasped the man’s meaning before he went on.

“To test the honesty of an Ancient, put forth your hand in greeting. The Ancient will want to greet you, and in so doing forget himself. You will not feel the palm of his hand in your own. From this you will know of his appetite for your destruction.”

The man ceased speaking, and Tahn knew it was time for him to shoot his arrow. He looked into the gathering light of dawn and sought a target: a blackened tree a thousand strides distant on the far side of the gulf, then a mountain peak at the edge of the horizon, then a cloud gliding low across the hills to his left. He could hit none of these things, and his fingers began to ache from the constant tension of his draw. He took a deep breath, immediately exhaling as the man had instructed. But his young arms could no longer sustain the long pull, and began to quiver. The pain of maintaining the draw burned in his shoulders and ached in his knuckles. Was this the lesson, learning the power that existed in the weapon? Learning that a man must yield to it eventually? That the dual components of Forda I’Forza existed in men at the same time?