Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (89 page)

One by one, Seanbea stopped at each painting, never speaking or offering insight or names. Wendra marked the same patient look in the aspect of every portrait. Some showed women dressed in the same style as the men. A few held instruments in their laps, and a few sat reposed holding a kind of baton.

As they silently proceeded down the hall, Wendra thought the music grew louder. Each step excited her. Something in this melody felt familiar, though she was sure she’d never heard it before.

As she tried to remember, three women turned into the hall ahead. The one in the middle wore a thick white cloak, the hood up, her arms wrapped about herself as though she fought the shivers. On either side of her, the other two walked attentively, supporting the one in the middle as if afraid she might fall. When they drew close, Seanbea stepped into their path.

“Sariah?”

The woman in the middle looked up. “Seanbea?” Her voice sounded weak and tired, but pleased.

“It’s good to see you. I thought when we arrived that the voice of Suffering I heard might be yours. But you’ve just finished a turn at the Song. Our reunion can wait until you have rested.”

Sariah hugged Seanbea anyway, allowing his strong arms to hold her for several moments. Wendra watched the young woman’s face lay against the Ta’Opin’s chest, and saw a kind of concern and frightful wisdom that didn’t belong in the face of one so young. It was something she thought she recognized from her own recent past.

Then finally she drew back. “Therin sings now. He’ll want to see you, too, before you go. Can you stay until his turn at the Song is complete?”

“Of course,” Seanbea said. “You’ve a fine voice, Sariah. And I didn’t even hear the transition from you to Therin. Nicely done.”

The young woman smiled, and the two girls beside her helped Sariah continue toward a set of doors Wendra guessed were personal quarters. Wendra didn’t understand it all, but gathered that the song she heard was sung without ceasing, one voice taking over when another was exhausted. And Seanbea had said “the voice of Suffering.” Could this melody she heard now in the very air and stone of Descant Cathedral be the Song of Suffering?

Just as she opened her mouth to ask, Seanbea pointed at the last painting at this end of the hall.

Wendra gasped, covering her mouth against her outburst.

She knew this face: the paternal smile, the patient eyes.

The visage at once warmed and frightened her. It was the face of the man who had appeared to her when the fever visions had found her in the cave near Sedagin. She’d nearly forgotten the counsel he’d given her, the comfort, the instruction. Seeing him in this portrait gave the memory a reality that caused her to tremble.

She’d doubted that simply singing the song from her songbox had healed her. Even the events in the mountain meadow near Jastail’s cabin had blurred in her mind. But in the presence of the eyes looking out at her from this painting, Wendra considered that perhaps her song was more than mere melody. And the burden of it burned in her. Singing had forever been an escape and source of solace. Now it seemed it might bring consequences with it, reshaping the world around her. The thought turned her mood black. After all she had lost, this one private pleasure and reminder had become something more. She looked away from the painting with a scowl.

Behind her, Wendra heard the soft rapping of knuckles at a door. As she turned around, she saw the door open, revealing the face of the man in the painting, the man from the cave. He looked out and past Seanbea, directly at her.

“You’ve found your way,” he said.

Wendra gave him a look of surprise and wariness. The elderly man’s studied gaze retained its benevolent smile, but one brow rose as though he noted her caution.

“Well, Seanbea,” the man said, shifting his attention to the Ta’Opin. “Always good to see you. Am I to thank you for shepherding this young woman to us?”

“There’s no fee on it, Maesteri,” Seanbea said, smiling. He embraced the old man, who gathered the large Ta’Opin in his white robed arms like a mother bear cuddling her cub. The gentleman stood an apple taller than the Ta’Opin.

Releasing Seanbea, the man said, “And who’s this?” He bent over to look Penit in the eye.

“I’m Penit. I’m going to win the Lesher Roon.”

“Is that right?” The old man winked. “I like a confident tone. Well you’ve arrived just in time, then; the race is tomorrow.” The Maesteri then glanced at Wendra. “And you came along with Wendra, did you?”

Penit looked back at her. “We kind of watch out for each other. The others—”

“That’s enough, Penit,” Wendra interrupted. “Let’s not plague anyone with our problems.” She stepped beside the boy and put her arm around his shoulder. “Seanbea says you might let us stay a night or two. I can work to earn our meals.”

Both Seanbea and the man in the robe gave Wendra a puzzled look.

“You are both guests here,” the old man said. “You will stay the night and rest for Penit’s big race tomorrow. I am Belamae. I teach the art of music for the Descant.” He watched Wendra closely, appearing to expect her to acknowledge him. She kept a careful ambivalence. “We’ve plenty of room and food, and you’re invited to partake of the music given voice within these walls.”

“I see they’ve added you to the wall,” Seanbea said, indicating the portrait. “A dandy likeness, I’d say.”

Belamae gave a somewhat self-conscious smile. “Not my idea,” he said. “And the placement is kind of conspicuous. But I am honored to be numbered among the Maesteri. They were rather forgiving with my nose, don’t you think?” He chuckled warmly.

Seanbea joined him, while Wendra made another survey of the painting. The Ta’Opin’s voice drew her attention back to Belamae.

“She creates,” Seanbea said, an odd tone to his words, “new song such as I’ve never heard.” He pulled a roll of parchment from an inner pocket and unfolded it before handing it to the old man.

With a gentle smile, Belamae began inspecting the sheet. Wendra caught a glimpse of the unique musical notation and knew Seanbea had transcribed for himself a copy of the duet she had sung with him some days ago. Slight embarrassment mingled with resentment. What she had sung spontaneously from her heart was now copied and recopied and set before the old man’s eyes for approval and inspection. She felt scrutinized, naked. She glared at the Ta’Opin, though he did not see.

Belamae’s smile faded, the light in his eyes flickering like a candle in the wind. Wendra might have thought the man had just read a warrant or elegy. His eyes rose from the parchment and locked Wendra in a serious gaze. She returned the old man’s stare, partly arrested by his inscrutable eyes, partly out of defiance. After a long moment, he stepped back inside the room and motioned her to follow.

“Take the boy to the kitchen and get him something to help him grow,” Belamae directed. “Give us an hour. Then we’ll join you.”

In each corner of the room, stands and easels stood overflowing with large books opened to more of the musical notation like that on the parchment Seanbea had given the Maesteri. Beside each, instruments lay carefully set on pedestals uniquely crafted to receive them. On the walls hung more paintings, smaller portraits and a few of landscape and nothing more. In the middle of the room sat a large desk with twin lamps burning brightly, one at either end. The entire study shone with a great deal more light than the hall, the several easels and pedestals casting washed-out shadows across the floor like veins under skin. Directly opposite them, another door remained closed. Wendra thought the sound of the distant song emanated more strongly from behind it. The sound still came vaguely, audible only in the silence. But it never ceased.

Belamae took a seat behind his desk and folded his hands in his lap. “Please sit down,” he said.

Wendra sat and surveyed the scattering of music sheets and quills and drawing graphite. Near one lamp lay a metal instrument like a small horseshoe attached to a handle. Seeing her interest, Belamae picked it up and struck it against the edge of his desk. The tines hummed and vibrated a single musical pitch.

“Can you match the sound?” Belamae asked.

Without thinking, Wendra hummed the sustained note.

“Harmonize with it.”

Wendra shifted her pitch several times to sing different harmonies on the chiming fork. She caught herself relishing the feat because the fork did not vary, and she could easily find and sing a musical dyad that rang in perfect intervals.

“Can you name the separate harmonies you’ve just created?” Belamae asked, deadening the instrument with a touch.

Wendra shook her head. “My father taught me how to create harmony, but I don’t know their names.” She looked down, embarrassed by her lack of understanding.

The teacher shook his head. “There’s no shame in not knowing a thing, Wendra. Only in not attempting to learn, never asking the question.”

He struck the fork again and asked her to sing a higher note. He then added his own voice in a lower register. Wendra thrilled at the sound. Sometimes in the Hollows, a few would attempt to create such sounds, but it had never come out like this. The three notes sang together in a unity she had never heard, seeming to fasten together as one, creating a triad of perfectly harmonized intervals. Her own voice faltered the wondrous unity as the awe of it pulled her lips and sank her jaw. Belamae doused the chime and ended his own note.

“You’ve come to study,” the teacher said.

“I don’t know.” Wendra glanced at the music stands and their sepia parchments scrawled with notes and signatures inscribing music in a language she couldn’t read.

Belamae captured her attention, his kind eyes intent. “You have a gift, Wendra. I hear it even in the single note you’ve just sung. It no doubt brings you great comfort, and has probably amused and delighted your friends and family. But what you possess is not meant for them alone.” His eyebrows rose as though to ask whether she understood him. Wendra remained silent. “The warmth and enjoyment of a voice, a musician’s hands upon his strings or fingering the notes on his flute, these are joys to be heard after evening meals are taken and tobaccom smoked to calm the day’s worries. But given to some is a double portion of that ability, an excellence that requires a higher call, that
is
a higher call. For these few, the fulfillment of that gift can only be achieved by careful training. This is what I do.”

“I cannot stay,” Wendra blurted. “I’ve friends to find, my brother. There are things…”

“Child,” Belamae began, infinite tenderness leavened with the certainty of experience. “Take stock of what you know. Look within yourself and ask if there is any priority higher than this.” Wendra tried to interrupt, but the man held up his hands. “Tut, tut. Hear me. I know your mind tells you this is selfish, perhaps self-indulgent. But you may trust my ear. What I hear is more than notes. And there awaits you, child, more in the exercise of this gift than anything you’ve dared to imagine.”

Wendra had questions, but she found she could not frame them. She looked around desperately, thoughts of Penit, her own stillborn child, and finally Tahn careening through her mind. She saw herself sweating on the floor of a cave, saw the chalked feet of women and children on the blocks, and saw the world flash in a relief of dark and bright and nothing more. She closed her eyes and heard the distant lilt and rhythm of song and grasped one question.

“What is the music that emanates from this place? Is it the Song of Suffering?” She opened her eyes and looked her question at Belamae.

The teacher let a lopsided grin light his face. “As good a place to begin as any,” he answered, and stood up from his chair. “Come with me.”

Belamae went directly to the rear door and opened it as a servant might, holding it for her. He ushered her through and pulled his study door closed behind them before quickly taking the lead again.

“We will educate you about a few things this very hour.” All grace and flowing robes, he bustled down the hall. His white hair floated in the long bob of his stride. Wendra had to step lively to keep pace with the elderly Maesteri.

They passed more oil paintings. Many depicted what appeared to be recitals, musicians at the center of amphitheaters filled with listeners. Further on, the paintings depicted battles. In some, a single man or woman stood before a terrible onslaught, in others a chorus of men and women stood together. But in each one, Wendra saw that one side came armed as warriors, the other without weapons, though typically with mouths open in an attitude of song. In some, those without armor lay pierced beneath the instruments of war, white robes stained with the capricious design of flowing blood.

They walked through another door, and left the intimate warmth of cherrywood for the relative coolness of marble. Then they strode into a large vaulted hall, their footfalls like small things in a great cavern. Here, striations textured the smooth stone surfaces in red, blue, green, and a dozen other hues. It reminded Wendra of the play of light upon the water’s surface when viewed from several strides below the surface. Ahead, on the other side of another door, the music became louder still. No more did it merely rise like a melodious hum from the stone; it fell from it like a last echo.

Up steps and across short mezzanines they went, the ceiling a full six stories above them. Statuary replaced the oils, as did great, wide, intricate tapestries four times a man’s height, woven with obvious skill. Natural light fell through windows set in the ceiling high above, and through the halls wafted the smell of rosemary and water. Soon, they passed small pools set into the floor and surrounded by low benches. Within the pools, shallow steps allowed one to dip one’s feet and relax them there. Warm mist curled over the water’s surface.