Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (81 page)

Braethen sat tiredly in the mud, his legs weakened to exhaustion. Several of Grant’s wards wandered off to mourn, some went to their fallen brothers. Others examined the bodies of dead Bar’dyn.

When Braethen regained his breath, he tromped from the mud to see for himself what Vendanj had done to the first Bar’dyn he’d faced. Just being close, Braethen felt the freezing cold emanating from the corpse. The soil around it was white with frost. Braethen imagined that the Sheason had frozen all the fluids in the beast’s body with a wave of his hand. He turned to see Mira run into the dark; the Far never ceased to amaze him with her endless energy.

Vendanj had taken himself out of the slop and knelt where the Velle had been, looking over the emaciated corpses of Grant’s fallen fosterlings. Grant came up beside the Sheason, Braethen came to Vendanj’s other side.

They stared at the lifeless bodies.

“They were your own,” Vendanj said through labored breaths. The Sheason finally succumbed to his exhaustion from the battle and sat directly on the ground.

“They were already dead,” Grant answered. This man from the Scar spoke with a bluntness that chilled Braethen, even after just confronting the Velle. He then took a parchment from the saddlebag of his mount and handed it to Vendanj. “I finished reading your list of names … to the last. You win, Sheason,” Grant said. “I’ll come with you to Recityv. There are old debts to pay. But I am not the man I was when I left there. You’d do well to say as much to those who might grow hostile at the sight of me.”

Vendanj nodded, still looking at the dead youths lying in front of him. The Sheason then lay back on the hardpan of the Scar to rest. He took a sprig of herb and laid it on his tongue. He looked not so different from the corpse beside him.

A thousand questions boiled in Braethen’s mind. But his Sheason was in need of rest. He stood watch over him for a long time, thinking, wondering. Somewhere in that time he cleaned his sword. When Vendanj stood again, they reckoned by the light of the dog star and started on their way to Recityv.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Recityv Civility

Tahn and Sutter traveled north for three days, passing towns with greater frequency. Always, as they rode closer to town, wood gave way to stone and stone to brick. And as frequent as were the towns, more frequently did they see encampments of brightly appointed wagons and carriages. Standards rose high on staffs and spears, some borne by flinty-eyed men who would not return a look. But more often the pennons appeared hand-fashioned, their dyes less brilliant and the embroidery competent but unrefined. These came lashed to lances that Tahn guessed had once been farming implements. The two of them passed unnoticed through these towns and camps. Only standard-bearers seemed to be interesting to the townsfolk and to those who bore crests of their own.

At dusk of the third day since the public execution, russet hues lit striated clouds like grand versions of the banners they saw. Dusty weeds lined the road, dirtied by the passage of hundreds of wheels and hooves. Occasionally, Tahn and Sutter passed a cluster of wagons circled in a fallow field against the evening’s chill. Fires blazed in their midst, the faraway hum of conversation and vague scent of roasting meat enticing on the air. Even there, standards rose against the shadows of sundown, announcing loyalties or bloodlines. The symbols and colors stood vividly against the gathering gloom, but Tahn recognized none of them. Noble families, he assumed.

As they continued up the road, they were almost run down by a fast-moving caravan.

It was led by a lone rider carrying a horn. Behind him, eight riders clad in full dress armor and helmets galloped, one bearing a standard on a long pole. The banner showed a bright silver hammer set against a field of black. Next came a war-wagon drawn by a six-horse team. After it, four carriages, each pulled by a team of four horses, sped past, followed by another war-wagon. Behind the procession, Tahn counted no less than thirty men, most in lamellar and brigandine armor. Half of these carried bows.

The rumble of wheels and hooves filled the evening sky like thunder.

Sutter’s jaw dropped, and his eyes widened. Tahn clapped him on the back in jest, but was no less impressed. The parade of standard-bearers surely meant royal delegates of some kind. Tahn did not know the crest, but one thing seemed certain. They were on the right road to Recityv. In seconds the highway was clear again, save for a lingering dust that refused to settle.

The following morning, the road widened drastically and became more pocked and rutted by the hour. Ranches of cattle, sheep, and goats sprawled over several hills alongside the winding road. Tahn noticed that many of the gates leading out to the houses bore a black iron sigil of a tree with as many roots as branches.

Then, unexpectedly, a great wall appeared in the distance, rising twice as high as any Tahn had seen before. It extended so far to the east and west that trees concealed the ends. Above it, Tahn could see even taller domes and spires and great vaulted roofs, gables pitched like the tip of a spear, each one higher than the last. From afar, he sensed the sheer size of the place, of Recityv. In the distance, the wall bore a hazy golden hue that shimmered behind heat rising up from the land.

But Tahn knew the city was no mirage.

More and more travelers joined the stream of people moving toward the gate, some walking, others riding as he and Sutter did, still others in ornately decorated carriages. Again, he felt for the sticks in his cloak. Their touch reassured him slightly, until he thought of Wendra. He only hoped that she and the others had arrived safely.

The thought of the others reawakened in him a suddenly powerful longing for Mira. He thought maybe the next time they were alone, he’d be more bold. Merely recalling her face made him flush.

“Well, Nails, this is what you came for.” He gestured ahead. “That’s more adventure than I think even you can handle.”

A distant look passed over his friend’s eyes before the familiar smile returned. “We’ll find out, then, won’t we, Woodchuck?”

As the road widened, it also become more congested. A league from the city wall, houses sat nestled among hosts of tents woven of bright-colored, expensive-looking canvas. More cook fires burned, the smoke settling like a low cloud over the many temporary dwellings.

Along the road, merchants had staked out space for their carts. Standing before their wares, they held samples of their goods and eagerly sought to catch the eye, pitching to anyone who looked their way. Everything he could imagine was displayed by well-manicured merchants and traders. Some hawked exotic foods, claiming origins as far west as Mal’Sent and as far south as Riven Port. Tahn noted pairs of soldiers adorned in burgundy cassocks and cloaks, a white circle prominent over the left breast bearing the sigil of the tree and its roots.

The chaos of countless merchant barkers, squealing children, stock and pets braying and barking, laughter, insults and curses, quarrels, all rushed at Tahn in a swirl of humanity.

It reminded Tahn of the road to Myrr, but much bigger, more crowded, dangerous, and somehow startlingly hopeless—these people beyond the gates. More of them here looked on with hawkish eyes and weapons on their belts; while others huddled in shadows raising dirty hands for alms.

Tahn took it all in, and thought longingly of home.

In many ways, this city outside the city differed from others he’d seen of late. But one way proved more than a little unsettling: As he and Sutter rode closer to the Recityv wall, the roadside became increasingly populated by street prophets.

Calling as enthusiastically as their trading counterparts, these men, women, and children looked at everyone with astounded eyes and seemed to see no one. Matted, dirty hair hung from tanned scalps as they gestured maniacally with their arms and turned skyward to rant.

“Every son and daughter is an abomination, a curse from the Whited One.” The man calling out a wild-eyed screed shouted through lips cracked from incessant talking and exposure to the sun. Scabs, looking like dried leeches, riddled his lips, but did not stop his raving. “The end of Forda I’Forza has long since passed, and we live in a hollow time, a dead age. A dry wind blows south from the farthest places, starting at the other end of the Bourne and passing over us like a whisper. Don’t you see!” The man began to jump up and down, accentuating each word with the pounding of his heels on the soil. “We are Quiet already. We are come to our earth and haven’t woken yet to taste the worms. No Exigent, no renderer, no regent or general, no one can undo what has been done. Our Song of Suffering is over, it is the echo of it from a distant cliff that we hear. And when it is gone, we’ll have been dead a generation.”

Tahn and Sutter swung wide of the man, tramping close to a woman seated on an elaborate rug who clicked her fingers together and spoke in words that rhymed every third phrase. She spoke of lands west of Mal’Sent, whole worlds on the other side of the oceans. She told of a place that hid beyond the Bourne like the forgotten child of orphan parents. At the end of each rhyme, she opened her eyes to see if anyone had placed a coin in the hat at the edge of her blanket. Her substantial belly hung over the waistband of her skirt, and a slender wrap that hung loosely from her shoulders more than hinted at a full bosom beneath. Straight, dark hair had been gathered in a brass ring at the crown of her head, pointing skyward like a harvest bale.

But perhaps the strangest of all was a child standing on a wooden box, who tapped answers to questions with a wooden peg leg. They paused to watch. A man standing behind the boy interpreted the responses for those who paid for knowledge. A small wooden sign leaning against the boy’s box announced his ability was a gift from the First Fathers, and that he’d been rescued from the mountains fabled to house the Tabernacle of the Sky, where the fathers had sat at creation. When he raised a hand, exposing a long tear in the seam of his shirt, Tahn could see clearly the child’s ribcage.
What must he do for food,
Tahn thought, as the boy tapped out another answer to some riddle.

These strange and desperate people intrigued Tahn the most. He didn’t know if he felt sadness for them, or hope that one might be able to help him answer the riddles of his own life. Maybe it was both.

He and Sutter moved on.

A hundred strides from the wall, Tahn again looked up in wonder at the towering majesty of the structure. At its top, a parapet jutted up every fifty strides. From what Tahn could see, each housed two ballistae. He also saw the heads and shoulders of men walking across it at intervals, their eyes looking down to monitor the goings-on below. As he peered in each direction, it was still difficult to know exactly where the city wall ended.

Focusing on the wide gates, Tahn pressed forward through eddies of milling shoppers and travelers making their way to the city. Sutter nodded to a man in a brass helm and long crimson cloak. The soldier returned the greeting with the slightest movement imaginable. At either side, eight more men in crimson garb stood watching the flow of humanity through the city gates.

At the barrier, one line of wagons and carriages waited to be inspected; another moved more quickly where people on foot were scrutinized briefly before being allowed to enter. When he and Sutter reached a uniformed attendant who held a small copybook in one hand and a quill in the other, panic rose in his throat.

With a tired monotone, the man asked, “What brings you to Recityv?”

Before Tahn could answer, Sutter declared, “We’re hungry.”

A crooked smile crossed the man’s lips as he surveyed them both. “You’re not aspirants to any seat?”

“What?” Sutter asked.

“Move along,” the soldier replied, “and keep out of trouble.”

Relief washed over Tahn as he passed beneath the thick red stone wall of Recityv. He heard a distant cry in his mind—the voice of the Sheason telling them to get to this place. And now they’d arrived safely. In the shadow of the gate, he no longer felt like a child this side of the Change, regardless of the Standing. The end of the cycle might come soon, but part of him believed that when he returned to the Hollows, even if it were before then, it would somehow seem different. Smaller.

Inside the great wall, buildings towered several stories high. Just strides beyond the gate, storefronts gleamed in the daylight, the stone of their facings principally white. Some had been polished smooth, showing pale reflections of the street they faced, others were rough-hewn. On the rooftops, a variety of animal statues perched atop the stone, peering down like unmoving familiars. Windows varied in size and shape and color: Fancier inns seemed to have been crafted in straight lines and angles, fitted with rectangular panes of glass; other edifices had round, long, narrow, or polygonal windows; and many were tinted various shades of rose, azure, or gold, those on the east side of the road refracting colorful rays of light.

Some men walked the street in mail, others in cotton twill. Many wore tight leather breeches, mid-calf boots, loose-fitting coats that laced at the neck, and hooded cloaks of various lengths. Women strolled in gowns that shimmered or were oversewn with lace in intricate and delicate designs. Those that did not have such finery seemed mostly to go about in work dresses, often bearing stains deep in the fabric. Most of the women wore hats, the brims of those worn by the more stylishly dressed women long and curving subtly downward in the front and rear, while the brims of many others were short and generally flat, and often had no brim at all.