Trial of Intentions (15 page)

But it wasn't any of that. What he found instead was simple and wonderful. What he found instead was that love made the rest bearable.

Finally admitting those feelings, he realized they weren't filled with romance or poetry. His love had been tempered by real loss, the kind that helped you know you could live without someone, but also that you didn't want to. He spent his last night in Naltus embracing that simple truth.

Afterward, they sat at the window, looking up.

“Do you see that?” Tahn asked, pointing.

She followed his arm. “Where?”

“Those three stars.” He twirled a tight circle with his finger.

She nodded.

“It's called the Chapel asterism—a unique triple star.” He smiled, happy to be sharing something he enjoyed so much. “Two of the stars are fixed. They track across the vault of heaven as the world spins its course. The third, though,” he indicated the top star, “that's Reliquas.”

“A planet,” Mira observed.

“A wandering star,” Tahn said. “That's what I like to call them. The Chapel asterism only occurs when Reliquas's path crosses the dual Chapel stars. Happens a few times each year.”

She grinned. “You're making a bad metaphor about us, for tonight.”

“Reliquas joins the Chapel stars for a brief time, then wanders on.” He laughed. “It's not an amazing coincidence. Just a sky pattern. Reliquas will cross the Chapel path again.”

“I see,” she said, and got up to undertake a pattern of her own—oiling her blades.

A knock came at their door, then a voice. “Elan would see you in the kingchamber.” Footfalls receded down the hall, followed by knocking on other doors.

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Nothing More, Nothing Less

Some say the language of the gods—the language they used to make the world—held power because of sound pairings and particular emphasis and intention. Are these things not learnable?

—Extract from “On the Nature of Diety,” a principles of preparation text use by Emerit

L
ight shone brightly in Elan's kingchamber. Lamps in each corner. Lamps on ashwood pedestals set around the room. And more lamps across his long table of a desk. Vendanj paused to let himself feel the warmth and brightness of this place, set at the dark heart of the shale plains.

Bookcases had been chiseled directly into the shale walls. Likewise, words had been hewn into the rock above and behind the king's desk:
Deleadem solet a rahmen caleendra ruel.
They were words every Far child learned as soon as he or she could speak:
We will keep our trust to serve your last, most desperate need.

They were all waiting on him. Tahn, Grant, Wendra, Sutter, Braethen, Mira, and, of course, Elan. Vendanj went in and stopped in front of Elan's great table, facing them for a long moment.

“The book of the Language of the Covenant is no more.” He shared a regretful look with Elan, for whom the news would come hardest. “I tried to restore it. But what remained was little more than ash.”

Braethen turned to the Far king. “Surely you keep copies.”

Elan spoke with the weariness of a man well beyond his years. “Two copies, kept in separate vaults elsewhere in Naltus. Velle found both. The standing order is to destroy the book before letting it be taken.…”

Vendanj had tried restoring what remained of each volume. But no amount of rendering could undo the work of the flames.

The silence of failure deepened in the kingchamber.

Until, with the slow cadence of confession, Elan spoke. “We failed to keep the Language of the Framers … even if we had saved the book.”

The Far king crossed the room and took down one of many volumes from a bookshelf there. He caressed its cracked cover for a moment, then opened it and read a few lines to himself. He shook his head at something and crossed back to Mira, handing her the book. Pointing to a spot on the page, he invited, “Read this.” Vendanj joined them.

They looked down at a passage set apart by a lined border. Though it was unfamiliar, he could tell it was written in the Language of the Covenant.

She shook her head. “I can't. What does it say?”

“What it says isn't the point,” Elan said. “That we cannot read it
is.
”

Mira looked up from the page into the sullen face of her king. Elan said nothing more for a long time, letting the revelation settle on them. Mira shook her head in denial. “You're mistaken.”

Elan returned a sad smile. “When you left for the Saeculorum, I spent several days trying to convince myself that the preservation of our stewardship over the Covenant Tongue rested with you. But I've been piecing together this passage from fragments of the Language we still memorize in our schools.…”

Mira took his hand. “What does it say?”

With an unsettling monotone, Elan answered, “It says that the commission of the Far is to protect the Language.”

She shook her head. “We know this.”

Elan pointed to a specific place in the text. “The word
silaetum
means ‘to protect.' It also means ‘to possess.' Somewhere along the way, we grew too enamored of our physical gifts. We developed our regiments to train and study the art of movement. We mapped them with efficiency and anticipation. We kept the Language as part of our instruction, but only a few poems and quotes—things that lent vigor to the Latae dances.” He turned to look at the inscription on the wall of his chamber. “But over time, we simply memorized the translation, without being able to translate it ourselves.”

“What of the invocations we use in battle? They're from the Tongue,” Mira argued.

“But do you know what the words actually mean? Or just what they do?” Elan paused, looking back at Vendanj. “We've made a trifle of our commission. Not because we're slothful or irreverent, but because we focused on the wrong thing. We were supposed to keep the Language alive, and we've let it die. We stored the texts like treasure, instead of carrying them inside ourselves as we were supposed to.”

Vendanj kept hold of his anger for the moment. “Is there no one who can speak it?”

“Only fragments.” Elan looked up, as if he might petition gods for an epiphany. “And it was more than the words. It was how to couple the sounds, the various inflections when they are voiced, proper intention. That knowledge … is gone.”

“Fools.” Vendanj's effort to restrain his anger made the declaration more savage. “Generations have lived and died fighting the Quiet. Never in all that time have men called on the Far to make good on their stewardship. And at the hour of our need, when we could use the Language as a weapon against the Quiet, you find yourselves incapable.” He paused, spoke through gritted teeth. “It's shameful. By every dead god, Elan, what choices have you left us?”

Elan accepted Vendanj's contempt without a word.

A long silence fell between them. Slowly, Vendanj put his anger away and began to reason it through. “The library at Qum'rahm'se is gone. The Naltus library is gone. We no longer have the Language of the Framers, but we've also kept it from the Quiet.”

His thoughts turned south, to the Convocation of Seats called by the regent at Recityv. They could still succeed in uniting the nations of the east. That was now more important than ever. But it wasn't the
only
important thing. The Sheason were divided. They needed to be one again. One in purpose. Without the Covenant Tongue, Sheason support would mean everything when the Quiet came.

Vendanj let out a slow sigh. “We need to get to Estem Salo. But the third Convocation of Seats is about to commence. That must come first.”

Grant rubbed his chin like a man with a suggestion. “The Sheason Artixan is in Recityv. He sits on Helaina's High Council. Let
him
speak for the Sheason.”

“I have great respect for Artixan. Spent many years learning from him. He's a good friend. But he's not young anymore.” Vendanj reflected a moment. “Besides, I've personally seen the threat Convocation is convened to address.”

Grant raised a finger to make a point. “Not all nations are going to answer the regent's call. Some will view Helaina's invitation as political maneuvering. Others will refuse because they see no personal advantage.” He gave a cynical laugh. “Some will dispute the need of a Convocation at all. Our time would be better spent persuading these holdout nations. We both know who they're going to be.”

Vendanj agreed, and turned to Elan. “My friend, the Far have never claimed their seat at Convocation. Yours has been a unique commission. It's existed outside the governments of men. But that time has passed. You must now—”

Elan held up a hand. “I'll consider it.” He looked at Mira.

“Strong as the Far presence would be at Convocation, it wouldn't be enough,” Grant pressed.

Vendanj knew who Grant had in mind: Jaales Relothian, the smith king of Alon'Itol. Vendanj had been thinking the same thing for several days now. Manufacture and trade into and out of Alon'Itol—all warcraft. Like a rank chore, it had eventually become routine. When Jaales Relothian had ascended the Throne of Bones, he'd been a smith—a gifted smith, who'd taken that rank chore and made of it a real craft. Their war engines, their … gearworks, had become modern legends.

But ties with the smith king had been badly damaged. Much of that was Vendanj's fault. “Years ago I was assigned to King Relothian as an emissary of the Sheason. I counseled with him, hoping to broker peace between his court and those he fought. I was less successful than I might have hoped.”

“Deaf gods,” Braethen said, recalling the memory he'd shared with Vendanj. “You burned one of the king's towns.”

“Nevertheless,” said Vendanj, “we need their help. And no army is better trained than Relothian's. But Jaales won't lend his strength to us out of goodwill or common interest. We need him bound to Convocation some other way.”

Sutter straightened. “I'll go.”

Vendanj turned to look directly at the young Hollows man, surprised and pleased.

Sutter offered a soft laugh. “Silent hells, after everything that's happened, if I can't convince a blacksmith to fight with me, I may as well go home.”

Grant's eyebrows rose. “That's not a half-bad idea, actually.” He looked at Vendanj. “We're forgetting Sutter wears the Sedagin glove and carries their blade. The smith king respects the Sedagin like he doesn't anyone else.”

“It gives him a chance, doesn't it?” Vendanj said. He fixed Sutter in a stern gaze. “Try not to offend the king in the process.”

“Don't worry. Tahn and I are a good pair to—”

“Tahn goes to Aubade Grove. Alone,” Vendanj quickly added. “There may be knowledge in the Grove that can help us against the Quiet. He'll go and do what he can to uncover it. None of you will repeat that. Don't even discuss it among yourselves.”

Sutter rounded on Tahn in honest surprise. “Woodchuck?”

“We'll have no need of a rootdigger, Nails,” Tahn said with a smile.

Vendanj smiled, too, if only for the normalcy of something as simple as nicknames: one for Tahn's time spent in the woods, the other for Sutter's farm-dirty fingernails.

“Your glove will serve us best in the Relothian court, Sutter.” Vendanj pointed to the Sedagin glove he wore. “And Mira would like your company.”

Sutter laughed at Vendanj's mild attempt at humor, filling the kingchamber with its first real life of the evening.

“For double pay,” Mira said, her own smile a crook at one corner of her mouth. She shared a look with Elan, who returned a reluctant nod of agreement.

Vendanj then looked back at the brash lad. “Just remember that carrying Sedagin emblems doesn't make you fully Sedagin.”

“Appreciate your confidence in me,” Sutter quipped.

That business taken care of, Vendanj shifted focus to Wendra. She sat somewhat apart from the others. “Wendra, I'll ask you to accompany me to Recityv. Return to Descant Cathedral. You can train with Maesteri Belamae. I know he'd be glad to see you.” He offered her a confident look. “Once you gain control of your song, my guess is you'll sing Suffering like no other.”

Her expression was one of tentative thanks. She looked around the kingchamber at all her friends. Then, just above a whisper, said, “I killed so many Far.” She paused a long moment, holding a distant, mournful stare. “And I could have killed any … all of you. I wouldn't even have known.” Her voice thickened with regret. “I'm sorry.”

It was Elan who went to her. The Far king gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “It was war. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

Wendra shut her eyes and took a steadying breath, obviously holding back tears.

Vendanj let them linger in that moment only briefly. He needed to keep them focused, their spirits high. “Grant, you'll come with Wendra, Braethen, and me. I'll need your experience in Recityv.”

Grant laughed, the sound rough in the man's throat. “I'm not terribly popular there.”

“I don't need your popularity. I need your dissenter's skill in the Hall of Convocation.” Vendanj gave his old friend a wry look. “You have a flair for convincing shiny-button procedure hounds that they squat over privy holes the same way the rest of us do.”

Grant returned a devious smile, seeming to take a certain delight at the notion.

Vendanj decided to add, “And you don't seem to get caught in logic games. Your rhetoric is impenetrable—which is a puzzle to me—but undoubtedly something we'll need when we address the Convocation.”

A few of them realized he'd attempted another small joke, and looked at one another as they laughed.

Vendanj then took six strides to the door, stopped, half-turned. He thoughtfully appraised the young king and then the rest, each of them, a last time. For a reason he couldn't explain, he simply wanted to mark the moment.