What Was Forgotten (2 page)

“You have lost much, but you need not lose everything. I was once where you are now. Do you know of Tauth?”

The seer nodded.

“I was a young man when Tauth was invaded. We thought we would win the war against Ryferia, and when it became clear that we could not, many wanted to die fighting instead of surrendering. Part of me wanted that, too. But I made the choice. The hardest choice there was.”

“You gave up your gods,” the seer said, and he looked at Zayd in a way that surprised him. It was pity in his eyes.

“Yes, I did. My people did. We gave them up and accepted Xidius, the Beacon. We live in his light now, out from under our darkness. My people now don’t resemble the people we once were, but we remember. We were strong, and we are strong now. Stronger that we are in the emperor’s domain, and my wife and my son are alive because of the sacrifices we have made.”

“That won’t last,” the seer said softly. “There will be a time when no generation remembers, and then your people will be gone. Is your son learning the old ways, the things that your father taught you, and his father taught him?”

Zayd looked back at the pile of books and flipped open the nearest one. “You are a man made wise by knowing the wisdom of others. My son is in Lycernum, the heart of Ryferia, the centre of civilization. He is learning the wisdom of others, only he will learn a hundred times over by the time he is a grown man what you have learned your entire life. There are scores of books in the Xidian colleges, hundreds upon hundreds of tomes. My son is blessed to have the chance to be there, and many of your people may share the same chance.” Zayd closed the book forcefully. “If you yield.”

“The Dramandi will not yield. We’ll not abandon Aulvennic and Ulrodin. They’ve kept us strong in life…”

Zayd heard the words coming before they were spoken.

“… and they will keep us after death.”

“Is this your choice?” Zayd motioned to the historians behind him as they pored over the piles of books. “To have them make your people into a chapter in a book that no one will ever read? To make this country into a grave without a marker?”

The seer shook his head. “It is not my choice. There is no choice to make.” The seer spoke no further. Zayd recognized the look of utter resignation. He had seen the same look many times. He stood, looked at the soldiers and shook his head, and they picked up him and took him out of the temple.

And that was it. Hundreds upon hundreds of lives would be ended because of the pride of one old fool. Zayd hoped he would not be near enough to see or hear the executions. He had had his fill of the brutality of this war. The executioners, the warrior-giants from the province of En Kazyr, would be glad to know they would be needed as they never seemed to tire of crushing the emperor’s enemies, no matter how bloody the task.

He looked about the circular room and saw a number of doorways spaced at even intervals, except for one which was clearly out of place and, as he stepped closer, had clearly been chiseled away quite recently. The hallway beyond was without light, but Zayd could see perfectly. The black eyes were the gift of the Tauthri that Ryferian soldiers envied and also loathed, but he knew their loathing only disguised their fear, and their fear was a mark of their ignorance. General Vaetus knew his worth, Zayd assured himself. Vaetus knew how valuable the Tauthri were to the army. Not all Trueborn were fearful and unenlightened.

The smooth stone floors quickly gave way to jagged earth, and the path descended at a steep angle. Stones jutted up from the ground, and there were gaping holes where other rocks had been dug out. As Zayd cautiously navigated the path, he felt as though he could smell the centuries of this place. He thought he heard the echoes of stone and earth being hauled out of this darkness. The stone and earth would be the only ones to remember the people of Yasri as they were.

The path went further and deeper and became narrow until all sound vanished except for Zayd’s breathing. And then, a few steps further, the walls opened and the ceiling rose to a great height, and before him was a wall of metal, nearly ten feet high. This was the relic. His eyes adjusted further, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Gold…”

It was not just metal – it was a solid mass of gold. At the top and bottom, there were dozens of lines of text, some ancient language unknown to him, and in the centre, some calamitous tapestry. There were two silhouettes, one on each side facing each other, things that resembled men, yet they were misshapen and grotesque. This world had its own monsters, Zayd knew, but he could not bring himself to imagine these carvings as living creatures. Their spider-like arms reached, from the left and right, towards the point in the centre, as though offering some sort of sinister invitation. The space between the two hands drew the eye, but there was nothing there but a smooth, circular spot bereft of any decoration. He reached out to touch it, but his hand stopped short and hung for a moment in the air. There was a sensation he felt travel through his outstretched arm, something he had never felt before.

“I am in the light of the Beacon,” he said to himself. He imagined the creatures carved in the gold were alive and looking at him, pleading for help, for escape from being buried for centuries. But they were not pitiful; they looked like a nightmare wrapped in gold.

Zayd stood for a few moments longer, moments seeming to him to stretch out for hours, before he walked back through the darkness and out of the sanctuary. There was a feeling in him he could not name, an unease that spoke of things unknown, telling him words of caution in a language long lost.

Chapter 2

Autumn had shown Lycernum little sunlight, but on the morning that Osmun Arus was summoned to the great Xidian Cathedral, the sun rose over the Whitewing Mountains unobstructed by clouds. Osmun accepted it as the clear omen it was. The Beacon had blessed him with divine sight, and he would finally be recognized for his great ability. He knew it was only a matter of time before he was officially granted the title of cleric. There were few who had the gift of divine sight, and no one who could manipulate it as he could. It was because his faith was stronger; Xidius Lycern Ryfe, the Dispeller of Darkness, the Founder of the Faith, the Beacon himself, could see into Osmun’s heart and could see that he was a truer disciple than any other. It was the reason that Osmun was about to be the youngest priest made cleric in the long history of the Xidian Church.

Osmun lived and studied in a small monastery in Lycernum, the great capital of the Empire, and every morning at sunrise he walked the streets of the city, hands clasped behind his back. It was the same route every day; from the monastery through Garrend’s Gate, where he would bow his head respectfully to the stone likeness of the great Garrend Vellix, one of the heroes of the Dominion War. Through the gate were the slums, where even the poorest of the city deferred respectfully to any man wearing the yellow-trimmed robes of white, a sun emblazoned over the heart. From there he walked past the mills and bake-houses and was invigorated by the smell of burning wood and fresh bread. Almost daily he would buy a
ractha
, an especially delicious bread roll from Tumanger Toron, an Ivesian immigrant to the capital.

The near-endless stalls of the market vendors would be next, many of them either still closed at the early hour or just opening up. He would make his way downhill then, as he did this morning, to the harbour. Osmun liked that there was always activity here, the one part of the city that never ceased, as if it was to the city as the heart was to the body. And if that were so, then the Cathedral surely would be the city’s soul. It was where he went next, and to the tremendous monument to the Beacon in the great open square in front of it. Half as tall as the Cathedral’s bell tower which dominated the cityscape, the monument was of Xidius himself holding a fiery sphere – the sun –– in his palm, a reminder that he was the light and the way to it. In his other hand, a sword, a reminder of a different sort; everlasting vigilance was needed against the enemies of the faith and the Empire. The monument had stood for so long, had even survived the destruction during Ivesian Storming of Lycernum, that most of its defining features had worn away. The Empire was centuries removed from when the carving was new, and its true appearance was lost to legend. Osmun thought it was more appropriate, for how does a sculptor, no matter how skilled, recreate the face of God?

From the foot of the monument, one could see the Father Whitewing to the north and the Son Whitewing to the south, the two great peaks of the mountains between which Lycernum rested.

It was said that the body of Xidius Lycern Ryfe was interred atop the Father. Sometimes Osmun wondered if that were true; after he was murdered by the Betrayer, the Beacon’s own disciples had supposedly taken his body to the peak to that he could watch over Lycernum for all of its days, but in the decades and centuries since, none of the pilgrims that climbed the mountain had ever completed the ascent. Many said it was impossible. Perhaps Ryfe’s disciples knew of a way and kept it secret so that the tomb would remain undisturbed.

Osmun whispered a prayer to himself as he knelt before the monument. The twenty-four years of his life had led him to this moment. He rose to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back once again, and walked purposefully towards the Cathedral. He had never felt such unyielding anticipation. The sounds of the awakening city were dulled by the beating of his heart. So fixated was he on what was to come that he did not see the hooded figure approach, only turning when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Orry?” Osmun said, stupefied. Oridas Ruhla smiled and gave a slight nod. “Orry, by the Beacon, how long has it been? Three years?”

“Four, though it has felt far longer.” Time looked like it had aged Osmun’s friend far quicker than normal. Orry’s hair was black, combed back behind his ears, reaching to the base of his neck, and his thin beard that covered his cheeks and chin was almost entirely grey. It was in his eyes, though, where Osmun saw the youth and wonder his friend had once possessed had been replaced by something else, something cold… the look of a hunter after prey.

“I knew I would see you again, but I worried it would not be until we were both old men, our duties to the faith fulfilled.”

“I was in the border provinces for a time, as I believe you were as well. Then I was in Falkir.”

“You’ve returned from Falkir?” Osmun’s mouth hung open. “So that means…”

Orry nodded. “That I’m one of the Ardent now, yes.” Osmun gave his friend a smile, formed both of happiness and disappointment. The Ardent were the church’s soldiers, secretive warriors who hunted down enemies of the faith at the order of the church leadership. The wild region of the Falkir Valley was their proving ground, a place where many eager candidates had died.

Much of the time the enemies of the faith were found in the heart of Ryferia, so the Ardent worked in the shadows or while hiding in plain sight; they wore nothing to signify what they were save for the brands that were seared onto their wrists, though it was said they could convince anyone of their position by show of force.

“So when mothers tuck in their children at night and tell them to behave lest the Ardent take them away, they’ll be speaking of you now as well,” Osmun said.

Orry laughed. “Yes, I imagine so.”

“Why are you here now? Am I…wait, Orry…”

Osmun’s old friend laughed harder. “No, no. By the Beacon... I came because I know that your trial is today and I wanted to wish you luck. I always knew you were meant for great things. The blessings that Xidius has given you… You will lead the church, one day. I’m sure of it.”

“I hope so, if only so that our paths converge once more.”

Orry returned the half-sad smile to Osmun, acknowledging what they both now understood: that it might be years, or even decades, before that happened. What would their friendship mean at that point? They grew up together, but what value would that hold when they will have spent vastly more time apart than together?

Without speaking another word, Oridas hugged Osmun tightly, patted him on the shoulders, and walked away, swallowed up into the morning crowds. Osmun looked up at the building looming over him.The Cathedral’s bell tower seemed to gaze down upon him as he pushed open the heavy iron doors and walked inside.

There were scores of candles, torches, and braziers lit inside the Cathedral, making it nearly as bright inside as it was outside on a clear day. Tall, wide windows high above also helped flood the chapel with light. It was so expertly engineered that the image of the Xidian sun in the immaculate marble floor seemed to radiate its own light. Even the stone pillars seemed unable to cast a single shadow in the beauty of this place.

On the stage where the sermons were preached daily was the sun altar, and beside it was the Eternal Flame, the candle that was lit from another, and going back thusly all the way to the very creation of the faith.

“Ah, Osmun! You’ve come.” Cleric Egus looked up from the lectern, his eyes squinting to see all the way to the Cathedral entrance. “That is Osmun, yes?” The old man scratched his bald head and then rubbed his eyes.

“Yes, Cleric Egus. I have come as you asked.”

“Good, good! Please, forgive me… my sight is not what it used to be.” Egus rubbed his eyes again and stepped off of the stage. “It will not be long before I can no longer read the scriptures. What a sad day that will be, though I suppose such things are inevitable.” Egus waved Osmun forward. “Come, come, young man. Pray with me.”