Peter Orullian - The Unremembered

For Cheyenne,
in the hope of more daddy stay-home days

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This artifact youre holding owes its existence to a multitude.

First, to Nat Sobel, the best kind of gentleman, who happens also to be a world-class agent. To Jim Frenkel, a great story guy, who also edited this tome and helped me through my first go at being published. And then theres Irene Gallo, who makes art happen; and the rest of the marketing, publicity, and editorial crew at Tor, all of whom have impressed me immensely. Finally, Tom Doherty. You, sir, are the very definition of epic. Thank you for the opportunity. Im humbled and grateful.

Heres to Mannheim Steamroller, and their song Red Wine, in particular; Ive had more early years writing fugues to this tune than I care to admit. Then to Terry Brooks, both in eighth grade and these last few yearsanother epic fellow. And oh my, to Stephen King, whose book Night Shift (my first King) I bought the year I graduated high school and realized I was indeed going to take hold of the flame (yes, thats a Queensrche reference). I should also thank a great list of writerssome of whom Ive had the good fortune to meetbut that would make these acknowledgments overlong; so this time out, Ill mention Dan Simmons, whose work helps me strive to be a better writer. To all my writer compatriots in the Pacific Northwest: Youre tops. Thanks to Dean Smith, who was there at the beginning and at the endand points in between. And to Eph and Virginia, Id be nothing without your example.

Of courseand not least of alltheres the family: Cathryn, for keeping us all sane and somehow happy; Alex, for his systematic chaos (yes, thats a Dream Theater reference); and Cheyenne, whose picture kept me company in the dark hours of early, early morning as I dragged myself to my writing chair and continued to hope.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

The Whiting

An uncustomary quiet fell over the council as its last member entered the tabernacle. The One strode confidently toward the rest, who occupied their seats as though theyd convened some time ago. His steps echoed up colonnades of fluted granite columns that rose the height of thirty men and ended at the open sky. The depths of morning stretched above. Over ornate inlaid designs of marble his boot heels clapped, his dark mantle trailing him as if he were a bridegroom come to enter his final covenant. A mocking smile played on his lips, seen in snatches of shadow and sun as he strode between the pillars toward the council table.

Upon each pillar lay inscribed patterns of starsbodies deep in the night firmament, many too deep to be seen from this world. They read like a book, a journal, an accounting of feats, travels works. The One sneered, and muttered, Arrogant, immortal biographers. With a narrowing of his gaze, he caused portions of the pillars to erode, the stone sloughing like sand in a time-glass and marring the designs with patches of emptiness. His smile widened, darkened. Then he continued on, returning his attention to the deliberation he knew awaited him.

Into the central chamber strode the last council member, still wearing his smile. He paused, gathering the measured looks of his eight brethren already seated at the great semicircular table. Above them, the sky shone a peerless blue, the winds absent from the day, everything a testimony to the creation they had sought to bring forth yet again. When hed greeted each one of them with scrutinizing eyes, he folded his arms across his chest, making no move to claim his seat amongst them. Nor was there invitation to do so.

The moment stretched like one eternal breath.

Dossolum, the Voice of the Council, stood, his face drawn with both regret and resolve. Maldaea, you were chosen among us, charged to ensure in the founding of this world the balance of hope and trial, growth and despair. Given into your stewardship was the power to refine the work of the council and create harmony. Dossolum stopped to regard the others. You have corrupted the special sanctity of your office. And in your labors, the balance of Ars and Arsa, body and spirit, is lost.

Am I too effective at the task you gave me? Maldaea asked with casual sarcasm. Or is the rest of the council too soft in its beneficence?

The Voice of the Council looked up from beneath a stern brow, preparing his words carefully. You glory in torment, Maldaea. You draw upon the Will to fashion and purpose life diseased from its inception. Your creations do not refine the races of this world. The intention of all that is given life at your hand is subjugation, imposition, dominion.

The very qualities instilled in the breasts of your nobler imperfect races. Maldaea sauntered several steps closer, threatening with his insolent informality.

Imperfection is not always immoral or iniquitous, Dossolum countered.

Maldaea nodded appreciatively. Then why the creation of this Bourne to banish and imprison all my work? Ive not known a world where such a thing was necessary. The One took a square stance and leveled knowing eyes at Dossolum. Or permissible.

We are the Framers, Maldaea. We decide what is permissible. The Voice of the Council let his words ring in the vault of the open sky, echoing their dual meaning. So we are convened to render a decision concerning your part in the foundation of this world and your seat among us.

A terrible, dark loathing drew Maldaeas features taut. And what would you do, Dossolum?! He turned savage eyes on the rest. What would any of you do?! I am not one of your creations to be trifled with! Just as some stars burn brighter than others, so does the power to command the Will come to some of us in greater measure. Is that not the very reason that I alone was given the responsibility of setting avarice upon the land, forming prick and briar to smite the heels of men, siring life with a lust for war so that men might learn the value of peace?

Your talents are certain, Dossolum replied evenly. It is your intention that makes you foolish and dangerous. The wisdom and strength of the council is in its several members.

The Voice of the Council looked around the great table at those assembled. He nodded as he began again to speak. In the formation of other worlds, each of us here has labored in the same office you occupy in this world. But never did the work of ruin become our delight. Even you, Maldaea, have peformed this dark labor before, and not allowed it to become your joy nor to overrun the balance youre meant to create. Dossolum paused, then softly asked, What has changed in you?

Hatred surged inside Maldaea. The arrogance and condescension were intolerable! You are all fools! You convene to breathe life into a world as you have done for eons, but your own design has not grown or deepened. Youve become complacent in your labors. Have you forgotten why we do this? These countless races, created on countless worlds, are not lifted up by the trials and hardships of their lives. They are not evolving to inhabit the divinity that you claim is their inheritance. They live and die and nothing more. Why is this tabernacle not filled with these children become your equals, to aid in the work? Perhaps something is amiss in your efforts.

Enough! Dossolum roared. The very sky shivered. You desecrate these halls with your slander and lies! Do not twist the accusation back upon us. Your work is overgrown, it is grief for its own sake nay, for your own glorification. That is the change in you.