“It’ll look something like this.” Vendanj gestured away from the high plateau again, shifting topics. “The Heights of Restoration, Tahn. On the far side of the Saeculorum.”
“Because you think this time I’m the hero?” He stared at the steam rising from the dead Bar’dyn’s wounds.
Vendanj sighed. “I’m inclined to agree with the Velle. And I don’t think like that anymore.” He paused, his eyes distant. “If I ever did.”
“He said there were others,” Tahn pressed. “Called me a mule.”
Vendanj gave a dismissive laugh over that. “We’re all mules. Each hauling some damn load, don’t you think?”
Tahn waited, making clear he wanted an answer. He’d agreed to come. He was bone weary, and scared to think Vendanj had pinned too much hope on him.
Tahn could hit almost anything with his bow. There’d been countless hours of practice supervised by his father. Even before that, he’d had a sure hand.
Somewhere in those lost years of his young life he’d obviously learned its use; fighting techniques, too—his reactions were like Mira’s Latae battle forms, just less polished. But against an army? Against Velle? That thing had taken hold of him somehow. Not just his body, but who he was. It had stroked painful memories, giving them new life in his mind. It was a pain unlike anything he’d yet felt. This was madness.
What the hell am I doing?
The Sheason seemed to know his thoughts, and put a hand on Tahn’s shoulder. “There’s a sense about you, Tahn. Like the words you use when you draw your bow.” He paused. “But no, you’re not the only one we’ve taken to Restoration. Remember what I said at the start: We believe you can stand there. You’ve not passed your Change, so the burdens of your mistakes aren’t fully on you yet. That’ll make it easier.”
“Why would you need me if you’ve taken others?”
Vendanj let out a long breath. He settled a gaze on Tahn that spoke of disappointment and regret. “None have survived Tillinghast.” He paused as if weighing Tahn’s resolve. “That’s its old name. Tillinghast is where the Heights of Restoration fall away.” He gestured again toward the cliff’s edge close by. “Like this bluff.”
Before Tahn could comment, Vendanj pushed on. “And that’s those who went at all. Most chose not to go. Your willingness. It sets you apart from most.”
“He’s right,” Mira added, approval in her voice.
Tahn looked up at her, finding encouragement in her silver-grey eyes. She showed him the barest of smiles. And warmth flooded his chest and belly, chasing out some of the deep shiver still lingering inside him.
“Tahn,” Vendanj said, gathering his attention again. “The thing you need to remember is this. Standing at Tillinghast isn’t just about what ever mettle’s in you to survive its touch. It’s more about whether or not you can suffer the change it’ll cause in you once it’s done.”
Tahn shook his head, panic fluttering anew in his chest. “What change?”
“Different for everyone who stands there,” Vendanj replied.
“If they live,” Tahn observed with sharp sarcasm. “And then do what?”
“If the Quiet fully break free of the Bourne”—Mira nodded as though it was only a matter of time—“they’ll come with elder beings. Creatures against which steel is useless.”
Vendanj got to his feet. “And my order is at odds with itself. Diminished because of it.” He looked down at Tahn. “This time . . . we’ve asked you to go to Tillinghast. The Veil that holds the Quiet at bay is weakening. Could be that the Song of Suffering that keeps it strong is failing. I know there are few with the ability to sing Suffering. But whatever the reason for the Veil’s weakness, we think—if you can stand at Tillinghast—you can help should a full Quiet army come.”
Tahn shook his head in disbelief. And fear. “All because of the damned words I can’t help but say every time I draw.” He shook his bow. “And because I have a sense. Maybe it’s time you restore my memory. Give me back those twelve years you say you took from me when you sent me to the Hollows.”
He wanted that more than he let on. His earliest memories began just six years ago. Twelve years. Gone. And until Vendanj had come into the Hollows, Than had thought maybe he’d had some sort of accident. Hit his head. Lost his memory. But the Sheason had taken it. To protect him, the man had said.
“You may believe you’re ready for that. But think about it.” He pointed at the Velle, which had surfaced searing memories in him. “You don’t remember your young life . . . but it was a hard one. Not all hard. But most of it was spent in an unhappy place. And now, you’re far from home, chased by Quiet, asked to climb to Tillinghast, and you’re coming soon to the age of accountability.”
Tahn had been eager for his Standing and the Change that came after his eighteenth year. Eager for what, he didn’t exactly know. To be taken more seriously was part of it, though. And because he’d thought he might somehow get his memory back.
Tahn stood, shouldered his bow. “Wouldn’t that suggest I’m old enough—”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Vendanj cut in sharply. “I took your memory all those years ago as a protection to you. It still is. Before we reach Tillinghast I’ll return it to you. You’ll need it there.” He put his hand again on Tahn’s shoulder, his hard expression softening. “But not now. Trust me on this. I’ve seen what it does to a mind when so much change comes at once.”
Tahn thought about the pressure in his body and mind when the Velle had taken hold of him. The things it had
