Trial of Intentions (14 page)

“Actually, what you're saying is sensible.” Vendanj nodded and rubbed at his eyes again. “I didn't want to take you away from Aubade Grove. But things didn't go well the last time you were part of trying to prove this hypothesis.” Vendanj showed him concerned eyes.

“Last time it wasn't my argument to make,” Tahn countered. “This time … it is.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Call for Intent

I've no fear of a man's beliefs. But I may fear his intentions in their regard.

—From the journal of Palamon on the eve of the first Trial of Intentions

I
t was night, deep in the small hours. A light rain fell on the rooftops and cobblestone streets of Estem Salo, the Sheason city high in the Divide. The storm came without wind or anger, the slow, straight fall of drops engulfing the sleeping city in a greater silence. Thaelon Solas, Randeur of the Sheason, stood in his study, watching the rain.

The private chamber was situated at the rear of the Vault halls. Its view from the first story looked out at a tall grove of aspen, interwoven with high mountain spruce, though none of their color or cheer was evident in the darkness. In recent days, he'd found himself here often, well after dark hour, keeping his own company.

The rear wall had been bisected and framed on stone rollers that were set in channeled grooves in the floor and ceiling. From inside, and with little effort, one could unfasten three iron latches and roll aside the two halves of the wall. It gave his study the feeling of being set among the trees, and he was glad of it.

Behind him, littering his desk, were letters. Some bore the seals of kings or councils. In looping formal script, these rulers and nations were informing him of the changing social and political landscape in their countries. The Sheason weren't yet being asked to leave, but the spread of the League of Civility's creed was reshaping the perceptions about Thaelon's kind. The League's Civilization Order, which made rendering a crime, was spreading. Sheason caught violating the law were being put to death.

Ignorant politicians.

He bridled his anger before it got away from him. “Emotion is no bedfellow to reason,” his father had taught him. It helped to consider the other letters on his desk, the ones that came scrawled in the unpracticed hands of those who might make better use of a hammer than a pen. They were the pleas of parents whose children had fallen ill to unknown disease or carried a blade to some vague purpose. Armies were swelling. The League grew more militant.

In different ways, all the letters asked the same question:
How
should the Sheason serve?

Vendanj.
The hard, outspoken Sheason didn't give a damn for anything but his own purpose and philosophy. That was the difference between them, and likely what lay at the heart of the League's condemnation of Thaelon's kind. Rendering the Will as a means to an end was wrong, and a short step from becoming Velle. Some renderings should never be made. Some uses went too far.

Vendanj's intentions weren't heartless. Just reckless. He was a problem.

Thaelon breathed deep the calming scent of rain, trying to focus on finding an answer. A moment later the quiet sound of footsteps through sodden soil rose in the night. Out of the dark and rain emerged Raalena Solem, his closest friend, and leader of the Sodality. Her hair lay flat against her head, drenched. She refused to wear her hood up.
Too much mystery,
she was fond of saying. Thaelon knew there was another reason tonight: She wore it down because she liked the feel of rain on her skin.

A pleasant musk arrived with her, a mix of wet wool and sweat—Raalena had been on the road for weeks. A small smile of appreciation touched his lips that she'd known where to find him.

She returned the smile. “You look like living rot. When was the last time you shaved your head?”

He ran a hand over his scalp. Several days of stubble. For good measure, he felt his cheeks and found the same. Deafened gods, he was tired.

She moved past him and dropped a waterproof satchel atop the letters. “One guess what's inside.” She fingered a raindrop off the end of her nose.

More letters.
Thaelon said nothing.

“It's accelerating. Regard for us wanes fast.” She came up beside him, and together they watched the rain. “Some say we're too secret. The pragmatists simply feel we've outlived our usefulness.”

He drew a heavy breath. “What of the sick and fearful? What protection is sought against the Bourne?”

She offered a sad laugh. “Many suggest the Bourne is an author's fiction, meant to urge children back to their chores.” Her tone grew quickly serious. “Those who know there's life beyond the Pall see those races as distant neighbors. Perhaps neighbors with expansionist ambitions, but not the malefactors of a child's rhyme.”

“But
you
still believe, eh?” he said, smiling.

“I don't get involved in politics. I prefer my wine have dregs.” One of her standard replies; Raalena didn't suffer fools, who she readily identified by their taste in wine.

They fell silent for a time, observing the rain in its unhurried fall. “But there
is
something that you need to be watchful of,” she finally said. “Vendanj has gathered dissenters around him.”

At the news, he nodded. “That was inevitable, I suppose. But don't judge him too harshly, yet. He's rash, but we're not sure of his intentions.”

“I don't give an tinker's damn for his intentions,” Raalena shot back. “Others will throw in with that one on reputation alone.” She then gave him a thoughtful look. “I have news of those who travel with him.”

“It must be gnawing at you to share it, too.” He laughed tiredly.

“Don't play as though you aren't itching to know. It's half the reason you sent
me,
when a hundred others could have gathered up these cowardly documents.” She waved dismissively with her free hand at the satchel she'd set on his desk.

He grinned at her ability to clearly read a man, and
inability
to sometimes keep those insights to herself. Men, as a rule, needed some thoughts to remain private. Raalena hadn't yet mastered the related skill of
not
sharing everything she observed.

“Where to start.” She tapped her lip, playfully drawing out her revelations.

Then she described each of Vendanj's traveling companions, after which a silence fell between them. She seemed unwilling to share any more. Perhaps she'd learned something, after all, about how much truth a man can—

“Vendanj is leading a boy to Tillinghast,” she said. “Hells, they're probably back by now. I suspect he'll also try to make it to Convocation, spread his unique brand of goodwill there, too.”

Thaelon smiled patiently. “I've already asked Artixan and E'Sau to sit proxy for us at Convocation. Had a feeling we'd be needed
here
.”

She pointed back again toward his desk, her satchel, and the official declarations of kings. “While the rest of the world goes one way, Vendanj goes another and damns the costs.” She gently put an arm on his shoulder. “You must choose a side.”

“Is this the insight I sent you to find?” It came out a bit more tersely than he'd intended. She'd only
brought
him the news, not created it. Less sharply, he added, “I knew this before you left.”

“And it's just half the story.” She showed him no wicked grin, as she usually did when doling out information in her successively shocking way.

“Oh?” And where a moment ago he might have braced again for the worst of the news, he found—or perhaps reclaimed—his ire. It wasn't an anger of retribution. It was the fire of his own decisiveness—the mantle of being Randeur.

As though sensing it in him, Raalena related the rest with caution. “I've been back five days already. I kept my return secret, to verify in Estem Salo what I've heard and seen beyond her borders.”

“Spying on your own? That's a bit coarse, even for you, Raalena.”

The silence that followed seemed to drown out even the mild storm.

Raalena bore the criticism well, saying only, “They've begun to choose sides, Thaelon. Here in Estem Salo. Some wait upon the path you would lay before them. Others believe in what Vendanj has been teaching since the death of his wife. Dissent mounts. Schism in the order has formed.”

Her words still lingered in the air of his private study, attended by the hush of the gentle rain, when he commanded in a soft, certain voice, “Call for the Trial of Intentions.” He paused. “We have to know who would render without regard to their oath.”

“You mean we have to know who sympathizes with Vendanj,” Raalena said.

He didn't look at her. “They are the same.”

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Asterism

If the distance between two bodies is halved, the attraction between them increases by a factor of four. And so on.

—From
Gravity and Attraction,
a bawdy rhea-fol penned by Martin Tye, former trouper turned astronomer

M
ira stepped into Tahn's room, glad to find him there. Wearing her father's swords, she felt almost normal. And the Laeodalin map she'd tucked into her shirt felt like a small bundle of hope. But Tahn brought more ease to her heart than any of these things.

She drew a chair close to where he lay on the bed. After sitting, she settled a regretful look on him. “I'm an oathbreaker, Tahn. My life has always been about one thing: keeping the Language safe. I gave that away.”

Tahn's expression tightened with guilt. “I'm sorry, Mira.”

“It was my choice. And now I'm losing my ability to react and anticipate the way Far do.” She smiled, feeling the map in her shirt. “But I've got a chance to restore what I've lost. Even bear the Far an heir. I'm going to find the Laeodalin handsingers west across the Soliel. I leave in the morning.”

Tahn sighed. “I'd go with you, Mira. I would. But I can't. I need to go to Aubade Grove. There are things I can do there.” He shared the conversation he'd had with Vendanj.

She listened as his words came in an excited rush. “You should go,” she said. “But I need to find the Laeodalin.”

“So you can become Elan's queen.” Tahn's words carried an undertone of resentment.

She smiled. “I'm essentially queen now. But it's more about having a child than a title. Elan isn't asking for my affection. That belongs to you.”

The look on his face pleased her, until it soured in a way that made her worry. “What's wrong?”

He didn't answer, but shook his head as if vying with himself. She could see the conflict in his eyes. “I may not see you again after tomorrow,” he finally said.

“That's been a danger since we met.”

“No…” Tahn's brow furrowed more deeply with concern. “I love you. And I can't…”

Then she understood. She might not officially be Elan's queen yet, but Tahn struggled with the ethics of loving her when she would be wed to Elan eventually. She smiled again. He truly was Grant's son.

She then showed Tahn a thoughtful look. She could make this easy for him. She could leave the room, perhaps even find someone else to watch over him tonight. But she didn't want to leave. In fact, she wanted to be closer still. But it would put him in a difficult position. And she didn't want to do that.

She smiled sadly at Tahn and began to stand, when he grabbed her firmly and pulled her into a hard kiss. He drew back once to look at her, then tugged her onto the bed. He rolled atop her and kissed her again, deeply, more gently. His hair fell down around his face, brushing her ears and neck. She shouldn't let him do this. But even as she thought it, she wrapped her legs around his hips.

Tahn smiled through his next kiss. Not a smile of self-congratulation, or even of lust. It was a comfortable smile that felt good to press her lips against, more so for the small urgency in it.

He whispered something to her then, something that meant more to her than any proclamation of love. “I won't let an oath come between us again. Not yours. Not mine. Not ever.”

She smiled. “That was rather poetic.”

He gave a small laugh. “You're a kind critic.”

Then, maybe because the Far needed an heir, she found herself wondering: If she and Tahn were ever to have a child, would it have her fair skin and grey eyes and narrow frame; or would it be more like Tahn, broader in shoulder, and more constantly wearing concern in its face? It would have their straight dark hair, and stand tall as they both did. And she'd teach it …

She felt his breath against her neck, warm, traveling in small exhalations. And her hesitation faded. She ran her hand over his brow and down his cheek, feeling the face that carried such weight now. And yet, there was newness in him, too. A kind of confidence that made her smile. They shared a different, silent oath.

Then they made love for hours, without regret, without self-consciousness. They were changed, each of them. And she reveled in that change for now, forgetting death, and the Quiet, and motherlessness. Those things waited for her on the other side of this night. But in these moments, she abandoned herself to Tahn, as he did to her. Their bodies wove a kind of dance and musical motion that she would remember warmly even if she never reclaimed the singular rhythm of being truly Far.

*   *   *

Their lovemaking pushed everything out of Tahn's mind. He'd thought for a moment that perhaps he'd sought refuge in Mira's arms from so many anguishes. That maybe some part of him wanted to feel pleasure as intensely as he'd been feeling pain. That maybe he needed to affirm life. That perhaps her love would be enough to mend the wounds that had opened inside him, because he could only imagine love having the power to do it. And he did love her.