Trial of Intentions (22 page)

“Why is there no record of the formation of the Sodality?” Braethen asked.

Vendanj held up his hand. “Patience.” He held a long silence, then began to tell a story.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Two Sides of the Same

Things that matter are born from pain. It's a special kind of madness.

—Expression Eight from the
Faces of Madness,
author unknown though often attributed to Hargrove

V
endanj grew silent for many long moments, his eyes fixed in thought. Then he began to tell the story of the Sodality's creation.

*   *   *

Efram closed the bedroom door, leaving his two small ones at the kitchen table, eating their supper. He turned to his wife, Volleia, who lay on their bed. “Jo'ha'nel is returning,” he said.

Volleia stood up immediately, fear rising on her face. “We must leave. I'll get what we can carry.” She started past him to the door.

Efram reached out and put an arm across her chest, gently grasping her shoulder. “It's too late,” he said softly. “He doesn't come alone this time.”

His wife's face slackened with horror. She stared, unable to speak.

Efram nodded, feeling helpless to reassure her. “Palamon isn't sure how many, but they come up from the south and down from the north. We're surrounded.”

“We'll go up the bluff face,” Volleia desperately suggested.

“With the children?” Efram shook his head. “And there's no time, anyway.”

She put her arms around his waist and hugged him close. “What are we going to do?”

Efram held her for a long time, noting the smooth feel of her arms and the lilac smell of her hair. He would want to remember those things later. Then he drew gently back, taking hold of her hands. “Palamon is alone. A few of the people are trying to flee. Others are hiding in their cellars. Most are still away in the south, looking for warmer, more fertile lands to till.”

He watched as realization dawned in her eyes, without him needing to say what was in his heart. “Efram, no. What can you possibly do? You don't render. You've got only a hayfork—”

He squeezed her hands. “I may be little more than a diversion, but if I can give Palamon some time…”

“You would throw away your life to buy the Sheason a few seconds?” Ire lined her tone.

“I will be more trouble than that,” he said. It was not idle talk. He didn't go lightly to the Sheason's side to stand against Jo'ha'nel. But he also knew there was little hope of returning to this home, this room … to Volleia and his children.

“And what of us?” Her question came as if she knew his mind.

His silence was the only answer he felt strong enough to give.

The sadness and disappointment in her face would surely damn him. “You would choose to stand with him, rather than stay here with your family? We will die, and you will not be here to fight or fall with us,” she said, an awful resignation in her voice.

Efram tried to think of what to say. There really wasn't much more to it. But he hoped he could help her understand. “Volleia … the only chance we have is for me to help Palamon. It's not a hope for those of us caught here, not for you or me … not for Tula or Ridel.” His throat grew tight as he spoke his children's names. “It's for those who may come after us.”

As she always did, she reasoned it through and found the most right way. This time, Efram—after great struggle—had simply realized it first. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I know,” she said.

“And we may defeat him, Volleia. All may not be lost.” He tried to smile.

“How soon?” she asked.

He fought his own grief. “I need to say good-bye to the little ones.”

The immediacy of his departure brought fresh tears to her eyes. He kissed her, tasting the salt of them on her lips. Then he led her by the hand out of the bedroom to the kitchen table. He walked to Ridel's chair and hunkered down to his son's eye level.

“How's that turned duck?” he asked.

“Good,” his boy said.

“I'm going away for a while, son.”

Ridel nodded, still eating.

Efram pulled his son around and took him in his arms. “Be helpful to your mother while I'm gone.”

When Ridel finally looked into his father's eyes, something registered in the boy's face. But at three years of age, the lad hadn't the words to express it. So he wrapped his arms around Efram's neck and squeezed his hardest—what he always did to say good-bye when Efram went away. But this time he didn't let go. Efram hugged his son back, fighting the emotion so he wouldn't worry the boy. “I love you, son.”

“Love you,” the boy repeated.

When Ridel released him, Efram turned to Tula, and his tears finally came.

Without a word, she leapt into his arms and hugged him with all her strength. “Take me with you,” she whispered in his ear.

“I cannot,” he whispered back, his voice catching with emotion.

“When will you be back?” she asked.

In all his life he'd never lied to his little girl. “Not long, Tula. Not long. You be a help to your mother, too.… I love you.”

Tula's eyes were still slightly skeptical, but perhaps that was only Efram's own worry. “I love you, too, Papa.” His little girl reluctantly let him go.

Efram gave them each a last look, smiling at them, and hoping it didn't look too fateful. Then he led Volleia to the door and kissed her one last time with the cool night air on their wet cheeks. “I love you, Volleia.”

“And I you.” She gave him a tortured, earnest look, one few women will—or should—ever know. It was the look of a wife and mother encouraging the man she loves as he goes to die. “Give Palamon your best.”

Efram's heart surged with loss and pride and the desire to prove he deserved her love. He brushed the tears from her cheek and started out into the night, allowing himself to wonder if he would return. And if he did, would his family … He couldn't finish that thought.

All night he walked, arriving at Palamon's house in the small hours of morning. He'd hoped others would have gathered to stand with the Sheason. But it was as he'd feared. It was only the two of them. Under a starry sky they walked to the high ground, where they could survey the valley below and stand to defend it against Jo'ha'nel, who marched out of the canyon to the northwest.

As the first inklings of light lit the eastern sky, the other emerged, four hulking figures at his back. And the battle began.

Efram proved more than a distraction, keeping these Bar'dyn from getting to Palamon, while the Sheason fought the nightmare out of the Bourne.

The sun had not yet touched the sky when screams from the valley began to echo up to them. Tears flowed from Efram's eyes as he fought. He wondered if each new agonized cry rising up on the morning sky came from one of his family found by the Quiet.

Until one particular scream.

After that he fought with abandon, his wrath and anguish fueling a furious attack. And still, they were losing. The Quietgiven that swept in from behind them were drawing nearer. Efram glanced over at Palamon, who looked like he might drop at any moment from exhaustion.

In a blinding moment of realization, he screamed to the Sheason, “Use
me
!” and bolted at a dead run toward Palamon.

Efram saw a look of dread acknowledgment in the renderer's face as he neared. But it softened fast to acceptance and gratitude. Then hardened as new determination lit Palamon's eyes. A moment later, Efram stepped into the iron grip of the Sheason, and a warmth spread immediately throughout his body.

He had time to utter, “I'm coming,” and think of lilacs before his spirit entered Palamon and gave life to a thought so devastating that he had no word for it. Then his spirit rushed outward, dispersing with awful power and disregard, like a firewind.

He passed through the bodies of the Bar'dyn that still stood as well as those climbing to the high ground, and through the bitter form of the Draethmorte, too. His consciousness faded as all those he touched fell dead, leaving Palamon alone in the desolation when the sun came fully into the sky.

*   *   *

When Vendanj finished the story, he found an unsettled expression on Braethen's face. “In the season that followed,” he added, “Palamon realized that if he meant to build an order of Sheason to stand against the Quiet, he would need help. Perhaps not always the same kind of sacrifice as Efram's, but more than a Sheason could do alone. Efram had shown him the way.”

Vendanj stopped, the story lingering heavily in the air around them.

Braethen stared across the fire at him.

“The use of another to render wouldn't happen again for a long time,” Vendanj said. “Even the name ‘Sodality' came much later. But that's where it started.”

Braethen shook his head in disbelief. “I thought only the Velle used others to fuel rendering.”

He feels betrayed.
Vendanj couldn't begrudge Braethen the feeling. “You want to know if you'll be required to do the same as Efram.”

Braethen said nothing.

Vendanj offered a tired, reassuring smile. “I won't ask it of you. No Sheason ever does. It must be offered.”

“Like when I helped you in the Naltus library,” Braethen said with calm certainty.

Vendanj nodded. “You revived me. Lent me a portion of yourself. You did it naturally, never having done so before. That told me you were ready to learn what it could mean to give more. Which brings me to an important question.” Vendanj sat forward, so that his face could be clearly seen.

The sodalist did likewise.

“If you wish,” Vendanj said evenly, “I'll relieve you of your oath. There's no shame in leaving it behind. Whatever you decide, you have my respect and thanks for all you've done.” He paused a moment. “You're one hell of a seamster.”

Braethen showed him a blank look of surprise. But Vendanj meant every word. He hoped Braethen would embrace the fullness of the Sodalist call. But the young man had doubts. And it would tear him apart in more ways than one if he didn't give all of himself. It was that, or quit. Vendanj owed him the choice.

“Don't answer now.” He stood, rubbing his fire-warmed knees. “You should ponder what I've shared with you, consider your feelings carefully. And not while I watch and wait for your answer. We'll stay together until we go in to Recityv. Then, if we part ways, at least you'll be in a safe place to decide what's next for you.”

Before Braethen could respond or ask another question, Vendanj turned and strode out into the cool evening air. He needed some time of his own to think. About his friends. About his own doubts.

As he walked in the shades of evening, he looked up at the stars and thought of his wife, Illenia, and their unborn child. He thought of the Quiet attack she'd defended without him. He thought of the League blackcoat who'd forced him out of the room while she died trying to give their child life.

“I miss you,” he whispered.

After several moments, he dropped his gaze to Recityv, which stood proud against the horizon. And his mind turned to Convocation.

Most of his companions were too weak to go into the city. It had taken some rendering to restore his own strength. But earlier he'd seen a Wynstout Dominion wagon parade moving south toward Recityv. He'd gone to meet it and learned that Convocation wasn't set to convene for a few days yet.

He finally stopped walking, far enough now from their campfire that he could hardly see it. He hunkered down and dragged his fingers across the hardened earth, if only to remind himself that some things had a sense of permanence about them. It was an important thing to remember.

Vendanj clenched a fistful of soil. All the insecurities of those around him, piled on top of his own losses, led to a manic grin that felt strangely good on his face. It should have been the Sheason who did this, who stood in the gap. But somewhere along the way, they'd begun to interpret service as servility. The League had used this to its advantage, twisting the use of the Will into a crime, imprisoning Sheason like Rolen for doing nothing more than healing a sick child.

The way of things was backward. And it led to his dissent with his own order, a schism that made him an enemy to his own kind. His smile tightened, and he slowly let go the earth from his clenched fist. He would make them see. Those at Convocation. And those in Estem Salo. By the name of every last absent god, he would make them see. Or die in the attempt.

Vendanj looked one last time into the starry night, then stood and strode back to camp, wrapping his determination about him like a suit of iron.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Given or Taken

What can be given, can be taken away.

—The Parity Principle, considered part of the Charter, and one of many ethics rumored to be expounded upon in the very stone deep inside the Tabernacle of the Sky

I
n the light of morning, Thaelon paced the gardens south of the Tabernacle of the Sky. He'd gotten there early, before his trusted friends arrived, to ponder the gathering he'd called. Behind him, the Tabernacle rose in failing majesty. Time had worn at her, dulling the stone, crumbling its ceilings, the forest creeping in. And still, the pillars cut deep into the sky, appearing to support the firmament above and connect it to the earth below.

A gentle feeling of safety resided here. Perhaps something of the authority of the Tabernacle yet remained, from when gods had trod this place, framing the world. Ages ago. He had never entered the ruins to investigate. By unspoken assent, no one did.

His friends began to arrive, emerging from between towering hemlock and aspen. Each nodded a silent greeting, keeping the reverence of the morning and tabernacle for now. Thaelon sat on some lower steps that were cracked and overgrown by ivy. He settled himself, breathing the fresh scent of dew nestled over the holly scrub brush.