What Was Forgotten (12 page)

Osmun took the teapot outside, drained the remainder of the liquid, and scooped out the soggy leaves from the bottom of the pot. He could hear the voice of Vicar Eldon approaching in the distance. Keeping the small leaves clenched in his hand, he returned the teapot to its place on Nestor’s table, and Vicar Eldon entered moments after.

Eldon had been a cleric with the army in his youth and still comported himself with the same military slant of his old life. His hands were clasped in front of him as he entered the library, and he looked from the table to Osmun, examining the room with his chin jutted out. He ran a hand lightly over his grey-brown beard. Eldon’s aide and two other monks entered in behind him.

“Thank you, Osmun, for notifying me,” Eldon said quietly. As he walked towards Nestor, he paused next to Osmun. “You may leave. This is a church affair. I’d prefer not to have any spectators.” Osmun clenched the leaves tightly in his hand. He imagined Andrican telling the rest of the church leadership of Osmun’s suspension with barely constrained jubilation.

He walked away without saying a word, biting back the urge to say “Yes, vicar.” If he was no longer considered
brother
, then why bother with niceties at all? As he stepped into the hallway, Osmun looked back into the room and froze.

It was standing behind the vicar, as plain as any of the men in the room. It leaned forward as if to whisper in the vicar’s ear. At once, Eldon and the shadow both slowly turned their heads and looked at him. Osmun nearly tripped over his own feet as he ran.

For some reason he expected them to follow him. The shadow seemed such an adversary, always hiding, always peeking out at him. Always talking to him, the same phrase, over and over. Walking through the garden, Osmun looked over his shoulder as he picked the green tea leaves out of the palm of his hand, leaving only the black leaves behind. There was something about them. He knew they did not belong.

Nestor was a man of habit, always getting the same kind of green tea every morning at the same time. Why was today different? Though he could not say why, there was an itch in Osmun’s conscience that told him Nestor did not get what he normally did. He felt certain about something he could not even put into words. Perhaps that is what instinct is, he thought to himself: preternatural certainty.

He walked back into the dormitory, through the halls where the priests, disciples, and monks all had their quarters. Osmun noticed Julian somewhere along the way, standing with other disciples, and felt a silence command them as he walked past. If the entire monastery had not yet heard, it would not be much longer. Osmun continued on through to the kitchen.

It seemed empty at first; breakfast had ended and there were still hours before the midday meal, so the brothers that normally tended the kitchen were absent. Osmun heard shuffling coming from behind one of the ovens. He walked around to find one of the bakers on his hands and knees, his head and shoulders fully within the oven, cleaning out ash and old fragments of charred wood. The man was short and round, and Osmun could hear his laboured breathing as he walked closer.

“Pardon me, brother,” Osmun said.

The baker jumped, letting out a surprised gasp, followed by a groan of pain. The man withdrew himself from the oven and held a tender spot on his bald head. Black marks of ash covered his head and face.

“Bloody Betrayer,” the baker said. “Think you could not sneak up on me next time?”

“Forgive me, brother…”

“Harald. And I’m not Brother Harald. I just do the cooking.” He rubbed his head and looked at his fingers. “Am I bleeding? I feel like I’m bleeding.”

“You aren’t bleeding.” Osmun was curt. “I need you to show me where you keep your tea leaves.”

“What? Tea leaves? What for?”

“Just show me,” Osmun said, staring hard at the man. It had the desired effect.

“All right, then. This way.” Harald walked past a set of wooden tables that had innumerable cuts in them. There were still traces of food on them from the breakfast that Osmun had missed. They made their way to a store room that was made entirely of shelves along each long wall, and each shelf was laden with a bag or crate or jar. Harald walked inside and stopped near the far wall and pointed to a cluster of fist-sized glass jars.

Osmun looked through the jars, five of them altogether.

“There’s only two kinds,” Osmun said.

“Were you expecting more? If you want, I can see if we can get some other kinds, though the vicar can be pretty miserly with our budget…”

“No, that’s not… Are there usually only two kinds?”

“That there are. Mostly everyone has the white leaf tea. Not sure why. Not like it’s any better or any worse than some of the other common types. I think it’s because most of the people here think that it grows on the mountains.”

“It does grow on the mountains.”

“True,” Harald said, then lowered his voice as if revealing some terrible secret. “But most of this here comes from the provinces. Kind of funny, don’t you think? Everyone thinking they’re being more righteous and holy because the tea leaves supposedly come from the mountain Xidius is buried atop.”

Osmun closed his eyes and winced. “What about the
green
leaves? Who handles those?”

Harald shrugged. “No one, really. Nestor the archivist usually makes it himself in the morning. He’s the only one that drinks the stuff. Weren’t for him, we wouldn’t keep any around.”

Osmun held out his hand to show Harald the clump of damp black leaves.

“So you don’t keep any of these leaves anywhere?”

Harald squinted and held Osmun’s hand closer and poked at the leaves with a chubby finger before taking a half-step backwards. He looked up at Osmun in alarm.

“That’s black thornleaf!” Harald whispered. Osmun remembered as soon as he heard the name. The leaf that grew in the Falkir Valley. The plant that every traveller was warned about. “What are you doing with poison?”

Chapter 9

The song of the kisolark was rarely heard, and its repetition is what cemented the day in Zayd’s mind. It was dusk, and their songs lilted through the trees and into the village. They were unlike other birds who sang to attract one another; the kisolarks sang when they had found one another and made their young. That was the only time they sang. They were silent, otherwise. An evening breeze carried the songs through the thatched walls of the hut.

Symm was looking at Zayd angrily as he adjusted his bowstring.

“It isn’t fair,” she said as he pulled the string tight.

“It’s what Savyl has decided,” Zayd replied. “There’s nothing to be done about it.”

“What if you refuse to go?”

“You know I can’t do that. These invaders take more ground each day. I cannot stay behind. What would my father think?”

“He would think nothing of it if it was just once. Just
once
, stay here. Take care of your son. It isn’t fair that I can’t go.”

Zayd smiled. “I’m a better shot than you.”

“Hardly.”

Cassian let out something between a squeal and a laugh from his cradle.

“Even our son agrees with me,” Zayd said. He wrapped his free arm around Symm’s waist and pulled her close for a kiss, but she snuck her hand over his mouth at the last minute.

“You’ll have to wait until you return,” she said. “Unless you let me go on tonight’s raid.” She was slowly reaching for his bow and taking her hand away from his mouth. Zayd looked from her eyes over to the bow in his hand, which he slowly moved out of her reach.

She pushed him off of her. “Fine. Go.”

“Don’t pout, Symm.”

“I am
not…
” She cut herself off and took a breath. “I am going to talk to Savyl. I should be going on these raids, too.”

Zayd hoisted his quiver over his shoulder as he walked over to the cradle and kissed Cassian on his forehead.

“So talk to him.” Zayd knelt and traced his family sigil in the clay floor of the hut underneath the cradle. He knew she wanted to ever since the attacks had started. He even saw her approach Savyl, but she said nothing. She wouldn’t leave Cassian.

The ropes rubbed Sera Naiat’s wrists raw, and every time the wagon lurched, the rope pulled her forward. She would keep her balance if she was lucky, but most of the time she was not. The skin of her rope-burned wrists cried for attention between each step she took. It had hardly been a day and she already imagined what it might be like if she let her legs go limp and allowed herself to be dragged across the uneven ground until she was dead.

Another nine of her sword-kin were tied in the same way to different wagons. When the
nasci
had taken her, she had prayed that they would tie her to the carriage that bore the Raan Dura. Perhaps being close to it would give her some strength. Yet they had not tied any of them to any carriage that held the treasures they had taken from Yasri. And there was one carriage that no one save the giant went near.

She could hear Cohvass somewhere behind her. The
nasci
were goading him until he would lunge at one of them pointlessly. Sometimes they would beat him when he tried, and she could hear them laughing when they did. He could not even speak their language, but she knew he would not stop trying to fight them until he broke free, or until they killed him. Sera thought he might last another day if he continued to lash out. Eventually they would tire of mocking him and be done with it. Why they hadn’t killed him already, she could not say. Why were they keeping any of them alive at all?

Sera looked over her shoulder, trying to find where the Raan Dura was being kept. They might untie her at some point, perhaps to take her to their commander for him to use, or to take her away and execute her. In any case, she wanted to be ready. If she had a chance to escape, she would make sure to take what belonged to her people. If Aulvennic’s gift to her people was to remain in the hands of the enemy, she hoped to die so she did not have to endure knowing of it.

The march came to an end at dusk. Sera let herself fall to the ground the moment they stopped moving. What seemed like an endless number of soldiers walked past her as she lay on the ground behind the supply cart, and they all had the same smirking face. She was surprised that she had enough energy to feel anger towards them. What about her suffering amused them?

She propped herself up so her back was against the rear wheel of the cart so that she would not look as weak. Cohvass would not surrender to them. Neither would she. Sera realized why they were smirking and laughing as she rested her head in her hands: she had fallen in the waste of the horses pulling the cart. She allowed her head to drop back against the wheel with a thud and surprised herself when she heard her own laugh. She had failed to take the Raan Dura from the Ryferians, and now she was covered in horse shit. She could not conceive of any other defeats that could be suffered at this moment.

The darkness became full and she sat unmoving against the wheel. She was on the edge of sleep when one of the Tauthri approached her. She stiffened.

“It’s alright.” He spoke in the Dramandi tongue. As he knelt next to her and reached out, Sera reflexively swatted his hands away and tried to get to her feet, though she quickly found she did not have the strength for it. The
gattra
put his hands out. “It’s alright,” he repeated. He held a wet cloth in his hand.

“The last time I was this close to one of your kind, I was standing over his dead body,” she said.

There was no reaction from him. He only looked at her with his solid black eyes that betrayed no emotion. “You’re covered in shit,” he finally said. He held out the wet cloth to her, and after a few long moments of silence between them, Sera grabbed it from his outstretched hand. She eyed him warily as she wiped away the filth and when she was finished, she tossed the dirty cloth at his feet.

“Many of us thought it was only a matter of time, after your land was defeated, before Ryferia went to war against us,” Sera said. “But at least we’ll have the courage to die instead of becoming our enemy.” She spat the words at him, but he still did not react. Several nearby soldiers who saw laughed to themselves. He tilted his head, very slightly, at the laughter, and for a blink of a moment she thought she saw the smallest hint of a grimace. The Tauthri stood.

“No one will remember your courage,” he said before he walked away.

He came back what seemed like a long time after, but the sun had not even fully set. It would be a long night, Sera thought to herself, unless she could find sleep. The Tauthri brought her half a loaf of bread and a water flask. She did not move or acknowledge him as he held out the bread to her, so he dropped the bread and the flask in her lap. Only when he left did she tear ravenously into the bread.

When she had drained every drop from the flask, she thought about the others. Were they getting any bread or water? Or were they only intending on keeping her alive and killing the others? She was uncertain if she could recapture the Raan Dura alone, and even if she managed to, could she find the rest of her sword-kin? She wondered if they were still following the
nasci
or if they had given up and gone back to be with the rest of their kin who had remained in the Yasur forest.