Trial of Intentions (106 page)

“Why are you telling me this?” She could guess the reason, and was preparing to argue the point.

Belamae offered his paternal smile. “Because, my child, you must go with the envoy to the Mor nations.”

She looked back, her feeling of dread answered, but with a seed of understanding. “Because of my own song.”

The Maesteri nodded. “That's right. I can't afford to send any of the fully trained Leiholan. They're needed to sing Suffering.”

“Send another student,” Wendra suggested. “One with more training. Telaya—”

He shook his head. “No, you're the right one to go. You've only had a few lessons, but your understanding and ability are that of a three-year student.” His smile deepened in the lines of his cheeks. “Despite your having brayed your dark song at me, I consider you my abaretteli, my labraetates.”

Wendra shook her head in confusion and shrugged.

“My prot
é
g
é
. But that's rather a weak way to say it. It's a designation that will, by itself, mean something to the Mors.”

She shrugged again. “How will my songs help?”

Belamae's smile faltered, his gaze instantly looking past her toward some image he must have held in his mind. His next words came slowly, carefully. “The Mor Nation Refrains are very old songs. They arise from a place of pure and extreme brutality, though some are likewise as simple and beautiful as a flower opening itself to morning sun. Both airs,” Belamae explained, his eyes again focusing on her, “are … exacting. They're not unlike the harsh songs you've found on your own. Except that by comparison, Wendra, their severity is the difference between light … and the absence of light.”

Worse than my own song?

“The refrains will be needed if Suffering fails and the Veil falls.” Belamae looked again at the door to the Chamber of Anthems. “And in you they'll sense a kindred ability. The amplitude of your gift will convince them that song hasn't gone out of man. There's hope in that. But you need to remember control. You've learned a great deal, but you're at a delicate place in your training … control the darker songs if they come.”

I
have
learned some control.

Belamae's eyes showed some impatience then, something Wendra had rarely seen in the man. “There isn't much time. You must gather your things and get to Solath Mahnus within the hour. Recityv needs to be far behind you when the sun rises.”

Staring back at him, Wendra considered the request. She admitted part of her liked the idea of a place where her songs would be accepted. Most of all, she wanted to learn anything that could help her against those who had taken Penit, taken her own child … against those who sold men and women and children into the Bourne. Those were songs she wanted to hear, to sing. They might help her if she meant to go to the Bourne, to free as many captives taken there as she could. Maybe she'd put an end to the stock trade altogether.

Thinking of the Bourne and those traded into Quiet hands, she nodded and stood, ready to go. Belamae rose himself, taking hold of her hands. “Be careful, my child.”

Then he hugged her close. She felt the warmth of the man, smelled the mild musk of his robes. She couldn't help but feel like she was hugging her own father, and understood it was the love and concern the old man had for her that made the difference.

Then he stepped back and gave her a reassuring nod. Wendra offered a slight smile and rushed to her room. She gathered her things quickly and quietly, wrapped herself in her traveling cloak, and soon found herself striding from the Descant steps into the dark hours of a Recityv evening.

She might well return to Descant, finish her training, and sing Suffering again. She might also go to the Mor nations. But not today. And probably not soon. Before anything else, she would be led by a different need. A feeling that she must do something about all those being taken into the Bourne. People caught and sold by highwaymen like the one who'd taken her. And she now had more musical tools to help her do it.

Once out of sight of the cathedral, she turned left, not in the direction of Solath Mahnus, but in the direction of the river. In the direction, she hoped, of Jastail. And eventually, the Bourne.

She stopped only once, thinking about how her mother had also walked away from Descant and Suffering. She wondered if Vocencia had also been changed by Suffering, as Wendra had. Because despite Belamae's restorative song, something inside her was not the same.

Singing resonance changes both the singer and the thing resonated with.

Suffering was now inside her. Part of who she was.
How
she was.

For now, though, she was able to relax as a mild evening wind flowed around her. She let the songs of things wash over her. She eased through the streets, drawn by a powerful, low-pitched song she felt rather than heard. The song of the river. It gave her a kind of companionship that suggested she might never be alone.

 

Epilogue

The heavens make music. And if you watch the stars close enough, you'll hear it.

—Spoken to Tahn, age seven, by Mother Polaema, on his first night away from the Scar, hours after another of his friends had chosen to take his own life

T
ahn stared up from his chair at the night sky. Around him Polaema, Rithy, his Succession team, Martin, and Shaylas—holding her baby—passed out cups for a toast. They were in the rear open-air portion of a quiet mealhouse at the east end of Aubade Grove. Cornhusks, it was called. It was a place that let Martin hold court for his friends, and it served the best hot drinks, besides. Martin liked to play out skits and rhea-fols here. Tahn had seen dozens of them when he'd been here as a boy.

“Here you go, Gnomon,” Martin said, handing him the warm drink with a bit of flair. “With my own hint of concern added.”

Tahn arched a questioning brow.

“It's chocolate blended into cream milk,” Rithy said factually.

“With some mint leaves and a capful of something to sharpen it up,” Martin added, romancing the drink some.

“Brandy,” Rithy said, adding the last fact.

“Never cared much for mathematicians,” Martin observed. “But this one's got a sense of humor. I like her.” He took a sip of his chocolate. “Now then, our toast. Polaema?”

Mother Polaema raised her cup. “Gladly. First, I'll remind you all that we've only had one argument so far. And opinions vary on whether it's the easiest or hardest in Succession to win.” She glanced at Rithy with a good-natured grin on her face. “But it's worth celebrating. We're now in the College of Physics ledger as having shown a possible explanation for Continuity.”

“Resonance,” Martin supplied. “My dear dead gods, what a thought. I can't wait to watch what happens with the College of Mathematics.” He slapped his forehead. “Ho, and after that: the philosophers. I may sell admission to that one, Gnomon!”

Polaema lifted her cup and drank, signaling for them to join her. They all did. Martin had indeed sharpened the chocolate. But only a little. Mostly it tasted of mint and cocoa, and reminded Tahn of so many chill nights taking measurements of stars. He'd almost never done so without one of Martin's capped mugs of steaming chocolate. He looked back up at the sky, as he'd been doing when they brought him his drink.

“You're wondering about the chalkboard, aren't you?” Martin asked.

Tahn dropped his gaze again. “Scalinou was right, wasn't he?” Tahn wiped his lips, remembering the night he'd spent in the cosmology dome, just before he'd had to leave the Grove.

“He's one fine astronomer for a cosmologist.” Martin laughed and slapped Tahn's shoulder. “But it sure looks that way. Pliny Soray is off her course.” It was Martin's turn to look up. “The grand clock is telling a funny time.”

“The math says more than that,” Rithy interjected.

Both Tahn and Martin looked over at her with questioning eyes.

She shrugged. “I don't know what yet. But I don't think it's just a planet that's found a different way around the sun. Something made her go astray.”

Martin rubbed his hands together. “I love a mystery. It's the only thing that got me to quit the pageant wagons. These high-heaven secrets need our attention.”

“But why do you hide it on the chalkboard?” Tahn asked. “I'm sure there are plenty in the Grove who've seen Soray off her course.”

His old friend pointed at Rithy. “It's like your friend says, the math tells more than that. And the math on that board belongs to Lour.”

My skies, Lour Nail.
Lour used to be a member of the Grove. A philosopher. But he'd been run out. Lived north of the city. He'd become one of Tahn's best friends while he was here.

“How is he?” Tahn asked.

“Foul as ever,” Martin said, smiling wide. “But I don't know a better philosopher … or star man.”

Tahn wanted to see his old friend. But it would have to wait until after the argument with the College of Mathematics. Then, perhaps, Lour might even be of help to him. Especially in preparation for his Succession argument with Darius.

Shaylas' babe uttered a weak cry, and settled back into her mother's arms. Tahn wondered what dreams the child had that would cause its momentary distress.
And who cradled
me
the way Shaylas
cradles
her
child
? He'd learned Grant was his father. But his earliest memories were of the Scar, and no wife or mother had lived with them there. Only later did Vocencia begin taking care of him in the Hollows. And as much as she'd loved him, she'd not been the one who would have soothed him as a babe.

The unanswerable question gave way to images of his father. The thought of Grant, and the Scarred Lands, and the babies left in the hollow of a tree for his da to try and place in a home … it reminded him of the wards of the Scar. Tahn's friends. It reminded him that some of those friends had given up and taken their own lives in the wastes of that desolate place.
Thirty-seven
.

But the darker memories didn't claim him tonight. He was comfortable. And happy. Perhaps never so happy. He was in the company of friends, and doing something he was good at. And for a damned good reason.

There was a lot of work ahead. A lot of reading and researching and arguing. They'd have to prepare to face the College of Mathematics, the College of Philosophy, the College of Cosmology, his own College of Astronomy. He was eager for every test. He nearly wanted to leave their celebration now and get started. It had been a long time since he'd felt so useful, so needed. So able and ready. He couldn't help his sense of urgency and excitement.

There were large questions to answer. Perhaps one of them was the math on Martin's hidden chalkboard. Tahn guessed it had something to do with his reason for being here. But for now, they needed to focus on the College of Mathematics.

“Rithy?”

She turned, sipping her chocolate.

“I was serious, you know.” He smiled, taking another healthy draught off his own cup.

“About me singing?” she said, not missing a beat. She really did know him in an uncanny sort of way.

He nodded. Laughed.

“I know what you meant,” she said. “We'll have a look. But not tonight. Tonight we should be happy the physicists didn't have their way with us.”

“I couldn't agree more.”

Tahn finished his cup and made his way to every person there, to thank them: Mother Polaema, Rithy—who he very nearly kissed—and the rest of his Succession team, Martin, and lastly Shaylas. She hadn't been part of the argument. Nor even part of the discussion about Pliny Soray, their stray planet. But he went to her and thanked her anyway. Thanked her for a different reason. Thanked her on behalf of her child … who would never know a Scar. Not if he could help it.

 

GLOSSARY

Abandonment, the:
The cessation of Creation at the hands of the Framers, and their subsequent abandonment and absence from the lives of men.

Aeshau:
From the Language of the Covenant, meaning “gathered.”

Age:
A reckoning of time roughly equivalent to a thousand years.

Anais (Ah-NAY):
An honorific used for women, derived from Anais Layosah Reyal.

Ars and Arsa (AHRS and AHRS-ah):
Alternate terms from the Covenant Language for “body” and “spirit,” denoting also the beauty and elegance of both sides of Creation individually and as a unified whole.

Artificer:
See Quietus.

Ayron (EYE-rahn):
A Far drink made of plain yogurt and water.

Baenel (Bay-NELL):
Covenant Language term meaning “eternally left behind.”

Bar'dyn:
Creatures created at the hands of Quietus to balance the efforts of the Council of Creation, and consigned to the Bourne at the Abandonment. Three heads taller than a tall man, they have a thick, fibrous skin as resilient as most armor. Due to its roughness, the skin often appears to move independent of the muscle and bone beneath. They have protruding cheekbones and long arms ending in hands with a thumb on each side of three taloned fingers. Still, they make use of weapons, and possess an unsettling intelligence belied by their brutish appearance. Their strength is expressed in a common folk myth that with their bare hands they could crush stone.

Blade of Seasons:
A blade forged from a block of metal folded a thousand times. It is said to have the power of remembering.

boards, the:
A term referring to the platforms where the human auctions take place.

Bourne, the:
The great area north and west of the Eastlands where the races given life by Quietus were sent and sealed behind the Veil.