Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered by Peter Orullian Page B

sort, creatures without conscience, to harrow the creations of light. Thousands of years did the council serve, the One becoming dark in his soul, consumed with his task.
    “The Great Fathers knew the One must be bound, else men were lost. So, together they sealed him to the earth that he so wanted to destroy, creating for him a sepulchre in the farthest corner of the world to live an eternity in his rancor. And thus the High Season came to an end; the time of creation, of newness at the hands of the Noble Ones, passed from memory.”
    Ogea’s hair flailed in the wind, his cloak pulled powerfully by the gales. The sash at his waist likewise twisted in the gusts that rushed over the Fieldstone roof. His pallor shone down upon the people, as though the warning in his tale had stolen his own vigor. Yet his voice rose into the wind. And into the face of it his eyes remained unblinking as he surveyed those who listened to his words.
    “But by the time the One had been bound, balance had been undone. The land had gone awry of the Great Fathers’ plan from the foundation, and they could not hope to salvage their vision. So they abandoned their work, sealing those given to the Quiet within the Bourne and leaving the unfinished world to mete out its own fate. And many scornful races there were who had, indeed, given their very souls to Quietus’s hateful designs. So, into the land the First Ones introduced the Sheason, an order ordained to establishing peace and equanimity, set apart to guide the other races throughout the rest of Aeshau Vaal.
    “But legions of the One pressed against the Shadow of the Hand where the veil between the Bourne and our world grew weakest. Quietgiven roiled with bitterness and chaos, unsure of their place since the Abandonment by the First Ones. But none more than the Draethmorte.”
    Gasps escaped the crowd at the mention of the Draethmorte. An unnatural chill rippled Braethen’s flesh. He had heard Ogea utter the word only once.
    “They were the first to be given breath at the hands of the One, in a time before his banishment, when the Gods yet held hope for this world. They knew well the power of the First Ones, for they learned at the feet of the council itself, serving in that first High Season, believing themselves chosen to set the world upon its path and guide it to its own glory.
    “But like their creator, their arts grew cankered. And when the One was exiled, they, too, were sent into the Bourne, where their bitterness and hatred were likewise bound. There they served as the One’s highest council, organizing his followers. These armies eventually penetrated the veil, passing the Pall Mountains. They marched south from the Hand into the lands of men after the Framers were gone.”
    From the roof the reader began to cough, the rasp in his chest sounding like the wet tearing of flesh. Blood oozed onto his lips, and when he spoke again the blood spattered in red-grey droplets down his tunic.
    “The land has grown old since the Craven Season, ages passing, millennia now often forgotten. They have names, all of them, but it is enough to know that we have lived, survived, tended the land. Until this season that rests upon us now. The Sheason have dwindled, some lost to the weakness of flesh, unwilling to accept the cost to their own lives to bear the call. More often, they cannot find suitable initiates to learn their path. And in this Age of Rumor, there are those who have sought the execution of the Sheason.”
    Ogea looked up into the sky and shook his fist, a strangled protest tearing from his narrow chest into the neutral light of the clouds.
    Braethen knew why the reader protested, and he shared Ogea’s disdain. The League of Civility had passed the Civilization Order in most nations to execute Sheason for rendering the Will even when in the service of others. The League claimed what the Sheason did was superstitious and archaic, akin to the dark talents the old stories ascribed to