Free Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered by Peter Orullian

he’d only just met this Vendanj, the gentleness he heard now in the Sheason’s voice did not sound like it often belonged to the man, who wore an iron visage. Ogea remained unconscious, his face still streaked with mud. Vendanj laid his free hand on the reader’s forehead and spoke briefly in a tongue Braethen had never heard spoken. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he somehow felt the words the Sheason uttered. He regarded Vendanj with a look of disbelief. The Conceiver’s Tongue.
    Ogea’s eyes opened slightly, and he looked up at the man holding his hand. “Vendanj.” He coughed, swallowing hard against a spasm that threatened to steal his voice. “You should not have come. It is dangerous for you here.”
    “Quiet, friend.” Vendanj spoke in mild reproach. “Use your voice only for what matters.”
    The reader nodded appreciatively. “Bar’dyn. Two days outside the Hollows on the east road. I escaped … used a trick Artixan once showed me. Tell him that for me.” Ogea smiled, the expression turning sour on his face as the need to cough overcame him and he spat blood up onto Vendanj’s cheek and lips. The Sheason made no move to wipe away the blood.
    “I will tell him,” Vendanj assured the reader.
    “More. A Velle … with them. Careful, Vendanj.” Ogea trailed off, his eyes conveying warning. His chest rose and fell in shallow pants, a soft wheezing sound rising from his throat with each breath. He then shifted his head on the goose-feather pillow and looked at Braethen.
    “I don’t think we’ll be sharing that evenwine this year, my young friend. I’m sorry.”
    Braethen took Ogea’s other hand and shook his head at the apology.
    “Safeguard my scribblings,” the reader said, smiling weakly. “They are important to the right eyes.”
    Another wracking cough seized Ogea, the ripping sounds coming from deeper within his body this time. A fresh stream of blood coursed down his left cheek from the corner of his mouth. He licked his lips to wet them, leaving a bloodred coating like the paint the womenfolk wore at Harvest.
    “Is there more?” Vendanj asked.
    “Yes. You must remind them of the New Promise, because a passage has been opened again into the Bourne.”
    The room stood quite for a long moment. The revelation chilled them all.
    “Are you sure?” Vendanj asked finally, his voice strained.
    “The veil has not yet failed, but from the Shadow of the Hand the firstborn of the One bellow deep into the Bourne to call their lost brothers. Some are able to pass through. They are here in the Hollows for the same reason you come. But how they got into the Hollows, I know not. Something must be—” He tried to cough, but his chest only heaved, too hollow to force the sound.
    “Enough, friend. You have said all you will say.” Vendanj gently clenched the old man’s hand. Braethen still clasped the other.
    “No, the—”
    “Hush, my friend. Be still and remember.…”
    The old man did not protest. He turned his head toward the ceiling, his eyes growing distant, a vague smile playing on his reddened lips.
    Vendanj bowed, placing his forehead on the back of Ogea’s hand and holding it there. Braethen regarded the two men reverently. Sutter and Hambley looked perplexed, but Braethen bowed his head. A calm settled over the room, broken only by the whispering sound of the reader drawing air. It came softly, slowing.
    Sadness grew in Braethen’s breast, his heart simultaneously filling with pride for a man who had earned the respect of others for the eloquence and boldness of his words without ever lifting a weapon. He reflected on the friendship the old man had offered him; a friend who had never judged his dream of being a sodalist, but instead traded tales about the order with him. His heart also pounded with the fear of losing his one supporter, as though the dream would pass if Ogea were no longer around to help him believe.
    In those moments, Braethen also reflected on what it