Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (68 page)

Helaina’s use of the Maesteri’s true name startled the doorman. He would not have heard it often used. But the musician-composer and she were friends since their childhood, and she could think of him in no other terms.

“Of course, my Lady.” The man bustled ahead, retreating into the dim halls of the cathedral. The regent followed.

She registered the distant sound of song, like a hum emanating from the marble pillars themselves. Among the things she must discuss with her old friend, this song was the most important.

The doorman led her beneath great vaulted celings until they came to an unremarkable door. The man knocked and bowed as he stepped back. Shortly the door opened, and her old friend with his blazing white hair offered his wide smile in greeting before wrapping Helaina in a firm embrace.

“You don’t come to see me often enough,” Belamae said.

“Nor you me,” Helaina countered. “But mine is the greater sin; your cathedral is a more pleasant place to spend an afternoon.”

“Yet you have come after dark hour, choosing secrecy for your visit. I think I may not like what you have come to discuss.” Belamae nodded in satisfaction to the doorman and sent the man away.

Together, Helaina and Belamae went into his brightly lit office and took chairs beside each other before a cold hearth. She relaxed back into the leather, made for comfort and not ceremony—a fine treat. And for a brief time, she closed her eyes, concentrating on the distant hum, before coming to her purpose; she needed a soothed heart. The requests that she carried with her were heavy, indeed.

Moments later, Belamae said, “You’ve come about the Song of Suffering.”

The regent sighed, then nodded. “There are rumors, Belamae, and if they are true, there is likely only one cause. I know you will not lie to me, and I need to know the truth.”

The Maesteri patted her knee, then stood and went to his music stand. There he fingered several sheets of parchment. He gathered them into a pile and sat once more. “I read it every day.” He handed the sheets to Helaina.

She took them in hand. “What is it?”

“The music that accompanies the words of the Tract of Desolation.” He sat back into his chair. “I do not sing the notes. That is left for the Lieholan in the Chamber of Anthems. But I review it in my mind. It gives me some comfort to do it.”

“The tract is safe?” It was not truly a question.

“I would have come to you if it was not,” Belamae said.

Helaina grew thoughtful. “How long have you been its steward, my friend? Since long before I became regent, I think.”

Belamae laughed warmly. “I hadn’t even had my own Change. And I sang the Song for twenty years before I began to teach.”

“Responsibilities fall too much these days to the young.” The regent looked into the flameless hearth.

“If I recall, you were rather young when you were called to be regent,” Belamae said. When she looked up again at him, he was smiling. “Daughter of the wealthiest merchant family in Recityv, a year, maybe two, beyond your own Change, when the commerce guilds asked you to represent them on the High Council. What was it, a year later when you took the regent’s seat? We were both young once,” the Maesteri said, wistfully, “both making far-reaching decisions at a tender age.”

Helaina nodded, thinking that she was here now, at a not-so-tender age, with more far-reaching decisions to share. “I have called for a running of the Lesher Roon.”

“That is what I hear,” Belamae replied. “You’re filling your table in preparation for the convocation. It is wise to do so. Is that why you have come? You’d like me to sit again on your council?”

“That is only part of it, but yes.”

“The others do not accord the opinions of the Maesteri much consideration, but I will return to my seat there if you wish it.” Belamae patted her knee again. “So now I must tell you the truth about these rumors. There is word of Quiet in the land again, yes? That is at the heart of it.”

Helaina nodded.

“Then I will tell you that I believe it is true.” The Maesteri uttered a weary sigh, and scrubbed his woolly brows. “The Leiholan are tired. There are few of them left, Helaina. The gift to create with song does not come as often to the family of man as it once did. I have less than a dozen who can sing the Song of Suffering, and they are mostly young and inexperienced. You know the song is long—the entire Tract of Desolation sung without pause takes seven hours, and it must be sung constantly. One Leiholan rests a full day after performing it.”

“Belamae,” Helaina said, staring at him straight, “do they falter?”

Her old friend looked back. “Some days, yes.”

Empathy swelled in her for the keeper of the tract, even as utter dread gripped her. “Then the veil weakens, and the Quiet slips through.”

Belamae said nothing.

Helaina handed back the parchments. She did not blame her old friend. The gift of Leiholan was rare to begin with. And not all who possessed the ability to create with song could even learn the Song of Suffering. Fewer still could endure singing of the horror described in the Tract of Desolation. The act of singing it took a heavy toll on the Forda of the one who sang. In some ways, it was remarkable that there were even a handful who could do so.

And now, this last bulwark against the Quiet, hidden among the rags and filth of Recityv, had begun to fail. The Song kept the veil in place. Without it, the veil would fall.

“It is time,” Helaina finally said, breaking the ominous stillness that had settled around them.

The Maesteri met her confident gaze.

“Time for what, Helaina?”

She cleared her throat and spoke as the iron hand. “I have recalled the Convocation of Seats. Suitors with dangerous ambition flood our gates, looking for position and alliances. This will take time. And the League has its own agenda. I have instructed General Van Steward to begin recruiting to build his army. But now…” She paused, taking her own fear in hand. “Now the veil, our best defense against the Quiet, is at risk, and I am convinced the Quiet does come into the eastlands. I will leave no request unmade, however dangerous. Do you still deal with the Ta’Opin?”

Maesteri Belamae nodded in grave understanding. “Yes.”

“Then send word that I wish an audience.” She took a deep breath. “It is time that we seek the Mor Nation Refrains. Their warsong is written of in the Tract itself, is it not?”

“It is,” Belamae affirmed. “Helaina, once we start down that path, we cannot turn back from this. Are you sure?”

The regent fell quiet, listening again to the distant hum of the Song of Suffering. In truth, she’d started down this path long before she’d arrived at the cathedral. She reached out and placed a hand over his. “How soon can we speak with the Ta’Opin?”

“You know that the refrains are just a part of the need. You still have the problem of finding Leiholan to give voice to those hymns.” He glanced down at the parchments of music—the Song of Suffering—in his other hand. “It isn’t known if the Ta’Opin have kept the Leiholan tradition alive. I’ve had but one Ta’Opin student in many years that has come to me.”

Then Belamae offered a gentle smile. “But I have not been neglectful of my stewardship … or the changes of late in the Song of Suffering. Even now, I have voices on the roads of men seeking records that might help us find those endowed with the talent.” He squeezed Helaina’s hand. “And there is at least one bright hope out there, my Lady. I have seen her.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The Wilds

The day cleared steadily as the greater light rose high toward the meridian. Tahn and Sutter walked their horses through Stonemount toward the northern rim. In the full light of day, the empty city left Tahn feeling hollow. Somehow, in the brightness of the sun, the place felt even more alone. The iron-shod hooves of their mounts clopped on the stone street, echoing loudly against the walls. Spaces between the stones showed dead grass, riffled by an occasional gust of wind. That is what it had come to—the glorious city that Tahn imagined as a vibrant center of thought and skill and family still stood tall, but at its edges unruly grass grew and died. All the craftsmanship had become a mere shell left behind when the lives that inhabited it were gone, and each street felt rather like a bone left after a body had decayed.

They crossed a wide bridge near a riverhead. The weathered emplacements were as solid, Tahn thought, as the day they’d first been set. Along the crystal clear waters, broad granite stairs descended into the river. The stranger paused at the bridge railing and looked out across the river’s course.

“A place to take comfort from the heat,” the mysterious man said. “Can you practically see the children wading in the water there? Splashing one another and running to hide behind a mother’s legs?”

The image hit Tahn forcibly. He could think of no better use for the long stone terraces. Along the stair, a number of decanters lay overturned, some broken, many still whole. He imagined that water was fetched here for use in the homes of Stonemount. The simple task of bringing in water to prepare supper reminded him of the Hollows. Though his hometown was far less grand in design and size, its needs, some of them anyway, were every bit the same. Yet the people of Stonemount had left this paradisiacal home. He found himself wondering what their strange companion might discover about their demise. Or what he knew that he wasn’t telling them.

The water could not be resisted. Tahn dismounted, jogged ahead, and rounded the last bridge post, hopping down the three wide stairs to the water’s edge. He could see the bottom clearly. The scent of the clean, fresh spring caused his mouth to water. He cupped his hand into the stream and drew several mouthfuls. When he finished, Tahn pulled the cap off his waterskin and dipped the opening into the flow. Waiting for the skin to fill, he watched the mirrored reflection of the sky above in the surface: the tops of the tallest buildings west of him, the sky, the bridge, Sutter, and … where was the stranger? Tahn looked more closely, a cold chill running up his arms and down his back. He could see nothing more in the glassy surface.

His waterskin was full, but he kept it submerged and casually looked up. He saw the man striding from the bridge without looking at Tahn, his movements swift and effortless. It might be foolishness, but he’d thought the man had been standing beside Sutter. He didn’t know what, but there was something dreadfully wrong with this stranger. He turned his attention back to his waterskin, drawing it up and corking it again.

As casually as he could, Tahn stood and climbed the steps to the end of the bridge, where Sutter joined him.

“What’s wrong?” Sutter said immediately.

Tahn shook his head, looking away at the stranger, whose back was still to them.

“Later,” Tahn whispered and swallowed. “But let’s just keep an eye on our new friend, huh? There’s something about him.”

“You think that’s news?” Sutter said and threw a light tap to Tahn’s chest with his knuckles. “I don’t trust anything I can’t dig whole from the ground.”

“Come,” the man called back without sparing them a glance. “We’ve a way yet to go, and the roads get tricky from here on. But never fear, once we reach the wilds, I’m a sure foot to get you to the north canyon.”

Tahn slung his waterskin over his head and nudged Sutter. He fell in behind the man again, but allowed several extra strides between them this time.

Late sun was touching the last outbuildings when they suddenly came upon a narrow strip of unoccupied ground, beyond which lay a profusion of trees and brush.

“The wilds, lads,” the man said in self-congratulation. “I told you I would get you here.”

“It’s late,” Tahn said. “We can sleep in one of the houses close by. There is no need to rush into the wilds tonight.”

“Nonsense,” the man replied. “You can be clear of them while light still clings to the eastern rim. Besides, a Stonemount bed is a hard thing to sleep on. You’d do better with a plot of earth.” He grinned broadly. “Never mind me,” he said. “I’ve overstated their danger. I’m not entirely sure the Stonemounts even called them the wilds. Come, come, I’ll show you the way.”

The man started again, a decided clip to his step. Sutter shrugged and fell in after him. Tahn felt for the sticks in his cloak. The sooner they arrived at Recityv, the better. Twenty strides on, the trees rose up around them.

The thick hardwoods of the wilds were coated with damp, mossy lichen, and the air rolled with the smell of rot after the rain. Root systems snaked along the ground, as though unable to find purchase deep in the soil. It made for uneven footing and labored walking. Branches did not naturally grow skyward, seeking the sun, but reached in strange directions, seeming to turn at random, many growing back toward the ground, where they took root or continued to grow laterally. Tahn wondered if, in time, the whole of the forest would be an impenetrable wall of wood.

Soon, the light diminished, obscured by the densely interwoven branches overhead. The trees bore small, budlike leaves, hardly enough to provide shade, but the profusion of limbs, having grown together in tangled knots, more than compensated for the lack of foliage.

Tahn listened for the natural sounds he’d become accustomed to when hunting in the Hollows. Instead, he heard a low sound deep in the woods, like a mallet striking a hollowed-out timber. Infrequently, he heard the stridulation of a cricket, but the chirp never lasted, cutting off for several moments before repeating the same halting cadence. As they passed deeper into the wilds, a musky fog began to rise from the loam.