Trial of Intentions (23 page)

The others sat or stood in a rough semicircle in front of him, waiting. These were men and women of powerful understanding and ability. They led entire disciplines of study for the Sheason Order. They were his closest friends. Part of his full council. And they didn't hide their concern as they waited for him to explain this meeting leagues from Estem Salo, at the foot of the Tabernacle.

He didn't waste words. “I'm calling for a Trial of Intentions.”

The four looked around at one another without speaking, then back at him.

“Because of Vendanj,” Jak finally said, matter-of-factly. Jak Obsen was Exemplar of Discernment. His brow was perpetually smooth, as though discernment earned him continual peace.

“Not only him.” Thaelon clasped his hands between his knees. “There's dissent in the order. I can't ignore it any longer. Thought differs on the right way to serve and how we should use the Will.”

“You might want to be slightly more accurate,” Warrin suggested. Warrin Cochellas was Exemplar of Argument, and his brow was the opposite of Jak's, always in a pinch—concentration and objection ever present. “Isn't it whether or not to
use
the Will that is dividing us? And the
League
is responsible there.”

Odea Ren, Exemplar of Battle, cut in sharply. “We can remedy that. The surest way to solidarity is to define a common enemy.”

Odea let her comment linger a moment before adding the wry grin that always followed her invocation of combat strategy to solve any problem. The rest of them laughed softly in the weak morning light. Still, her eyes had a unique glimmer whenever she suggested it.

“You actually have two dilemmas, don't you,” Jak offered, again with his calm certainty.

Thaelon nodded at his discerning friend. “I do. And maybe three, depending on how you look at it. First, there's the League. Their Civilization Order tightens.” He sighed. “I have reports of the sick and weak, who go uncared for because it's unlawful to call the Will.”

“Like Rolen,” Lorra pointed out—Lorra Fonn was Exemplar of Imparting. “Rolen is one of the Sheason appointed to Recityv. Imprisoned for rendering to help a sick child.”

“What to do about the League is one thing. Second,” Thaelon said, “
some
Sheason are finding hope in a man like Vendanj, who counts costs later.”

“It's the thinking of an outlaw,” Warren commented. “I respect Vendanj. But I don't think he's been the same since Illenia died. He blames the League for that.”

“That may all be true,” Thaelon conceded. “But it doesn't change the mounting support Vendanj is finding within the order. Many believe in his fearless use of his gifts to do what he thinks best.”

Warren stared back at him, his brow deeply pinched. “To my mind, Vendanj has crossed into aggrandizement.”

“And yet he takes the fight to the Quiet. Who among us has been so bold?” Odea didn't follow with her wry grin this time.

Thaelon nodded again. “That's the third question that I've asked you here to help me work through. Regardless of what the League does or believes, we know the Quiet press at their bonds. Whether or not we agree with how Vendanj chooses to meet this threat, the threat is real. The nations of the east are unprepared. And their warcraft is insufficient, in any case. We must decide how to stand against the Bourne.”

Odea picked up a stone and tossed it away with some irritation. “The Sheason aren't ready for war, either.”

“I know,” Thaelon agreed. “Though I suspect you could fix that.”

Odea found her grin again.

“What do you plan to do with a Sheason who declares sympathy or support for Vendanj?” It was Jak, cutting to the heart of the matter, as he always did.

Lorra, who had been mostly quiet, looked up into the heights of the Tabernacle. “Thaelon, you could have held a private meeting anywhere. You chose this place to remind us of who we are.” She lowered her gaze to him. “On the first question, about the League, ours is the authority to render. No law will change that. And it's foolishness for the League to preach that our gifts threaten the self-determination of men. The time has come to meet the Ascendant and make him see this for himself.”

“I'll go,” Odea offered. Her grin this time showed eagerness.

Thaelon smiled briefly. An envoy, then. To try and reverse this damned Civilization Order. “Someone will go, but not you.”

Jak laughed out loud. “As I see it, your real dilemma is what to do about the Bourne, since we all know that any answer there will require Sheason to fight. The question then becomes: Will it be your way, or Vendanj's?”

Warrin nodded to himself as though he'd found his own clarity of thought. “On your second question, about Vendanj and the right use of the Will: You should still conduct your Trial of Intentions.”

Both Odea and Lorra turned scrutinizing eyes on their Exemplar of Argument. He seemed not to notice.

“We can all agree not to submit to immoral League laws any longer.” Warrin pointed at each of them one by one. “But we should
also
agree that Vendanj's use of the Will is a perversion of our oath. Yes, he's trying to meet the threat of the Bourne. But he does so in rogue fashion, and his methods are irresponsible—”

Thaelon held up his hands to stop Warrin. He'd deal with the third question, the Quiet question, later. “Thank you, my friends.” He looked at Odea. “Escalate battle training. Double the practice time on defense and attack strategies, as well as personal fighting techniques.”

Thaelon didn't like having to give the next directive, but he'd found no alternative. Looking both Warrin and Jak in the eyes, he commanded, “Proceed with the Trial of Intentions.”

They each nodded, and Jak repeated the question he'd begun with. “What do you plan to do with a Sheason who declares sympathy or support for Vendanj?”

Thaelon turned then to face the Tabernacle. “You were right, Lorra. I chose this place because it's a reminder of who we are. But much of what we are is
given
to us.” He paused, being certain he wanted to relate what was in his heart. Moments later, with the certainty he'd come here to find, he added, “And what is given can be taken away.”

Morning birdsong at the foot of the Tabernacle of the Sky became loud in the silence that followed. The scent of dew on ivy and old stone warming in the sun usually gave Thaelon some peace. Not today. Their discussion had seeded in his mind dangerous thoughts about the oldest of schisms. About the Quiet. But that was for later.

He watched his friends begin their descent back to Estem Salo. Once they were out of sight, Raalena emerged from a copse of aspen seedlings. Together, they mounted the southern steps to the Tabernacle. Deep within its vaults, he hoped to find, graven in the stone, inscriptions that held the answer to the one thing not recorded in the Vaults at Estem Salo: how to divest a Sheason of the authority to render the Will.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Poison of Politics

When the Mors escaped the Bourne and came into the Eastlands, they were welcomed with steel. Even the chroniclers died in what is referred to as the Retribution of the Mors. We can be glad they now keep to themselves.

—Drawn from chapter “The Mor Nation Refrains,” belonging to The Unmusical Historian, a consideration of song in history

H
elaina looked east over Recityv from the aerie of her High Office atop Solath Mahnus. Tendrils of smoke still worked their way into the sky from the recent burning of Bastulan Cathedral. Roth was on his way to see her. Word had been passed ahead of his approach. She'd been having him followed for several cycles now. Not perfectly. Sometimes he slipped her spies, which made her only more sure he had something to do with Bastulan.

Through the crisp autumn air, Helaina gazed northeast. Far distant, the plains disappeared from sight. Beyond them lay the dry, lifeless span of the Scar, home to Grant's wards. Her own son had gone there days after she'd pushed him from her womb. She'd had reports of him, of his training and education. But they were vague at best. She knew him no better than prisoners she sent to her pits. But she did remember his birth. That night pulsed in her memory more than any other—the night Tahn came into the world, ending many sad years of barrenness.

She'd seen him only once since he'd gone away, when he'd returned to Recityv with the Sheason Vendanj and others. Tahn had freed a convicted Leagueman and gotten thrown into the pits. A Dissent brought by his friends to release him had failed. But he and the others had escaped the city. In the time since, she'd had the ruling against him reversed, hoping he'd find his way back. From Tillinghast. From the long years away from her.

“This is what aching bones do to the aged,” she complained mildly to herself, “force us to remember.” Helaina rubbed her hands together, massaging the ache and stiffness that had beset her joints in her elder years.

Lately, she could scarcely hold her pen to write more than a few words before needing to relax her hand. The message she'd been composing this morning had required ten long pauses to rest—and that was just
her
portion. Belamae had begun the letter, leaving the rest for her to finish. It had taken her a long time to decide how to conclude it.

But this morning, watching the smoke from her east window, it had come to her. She'd been standing here ever since, slowly committing her thoughts—and plea—to paper for the third time. To her right sat the cage of three falcons. It was a precautionary redundancy to send three. And for this particular letter, she'd called her falconer—this time, the shrikes would not do. Three grey falcons taken from the cliffs of Masson Dimn perched hooded, waiting.

As she prepared to finish the last of the three copies, a light rap came at her High Office door. “Come,” she said. She turned and straightened herself, so as not to show her caller the least weakness.

Roth Staned, Ascendant of the League of Civility, strode with his particular self-assured gait into her chamber. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist, though he never dropped his gaze from her own.
Using the appellation, bowing—he's already setting the tone for our exchange.

A tall man, Roth carried himself as one ready at any moment to lend a hand. His expressions and mannerisms were those of a
pleaser
. And because everything about him seemed so
considered,
she found him particularly unsettling.

“Ascendant Staned,” she replied formally, using the leagueman's title. She bowed, but not as deeply.

Roth smiled. “You've no doubt had news of the fire.”

“And seen it from my window.” She gestured to her right. “Who would benefit from the destruction of such a holy place…”

“You assume it was arson, then.” Roth looked across her High Office at her, betraying no guilt.

“I assume only that there are precious few who gain from its ruin.” She took her seat behind the black marble table she used for a desk, and folded her shaky hands in her lap to avoid the appearance of age or fear.

“The League, you're thinking.” Roth went to the window and looked out at the smoke, now thinner, whiter.

“What is the tradition of Bastulan?” she said, answering Roth circuitously. “It's said that hidden somewhere inside—in its crypt or many towers—is the Lens of Samalnae, the Pauper's Drum, and other relics that appear only in the oldest stories.”

“Which the League would like to see destroyed, you think.” Roth's voice carried a hint of amusement now.

“The idea of a relic is to place importance on a physical thing to answer some human need. Last I knew, the League preferred personal endeavor to meet the trials of life. Thus, I don't think relics have a place in your doctrine.” Helaina sighed quietly, already weary of the effort to trade exchanges with His Leadership.

“I don't suppose any of us will mourn its loss,” Roth conceded. “But that's not the same as causing its destruction.”

“I wouldn't want to have the Dannire looking for me,” Helaina replied, a wicked, thin grin on her face.

Roth looked truly surprised. “What? The old story about holy assassins? A few heedless sword-bearers, fighting in the name of dead gods? Those Dannire?” He smiled.

“If I was the arsonist of Bastulan, I would fear even the idea of the Dannire. Let alone the stories that make children believe the gods sanction murder.” Helaina nodded toward the smoke. She was goading him with the very myths he hated. “I'm not sure the arsonist who got that blaze going was thinking too far ahead.” She then changed the subject. “Why have you come?”

“Ah, the patience of old age, I see…” He turned from the window.

So now you'll seek my office.
It was a long time coming, intimations here and there over the last three years. But the timing couldn't be worse. And yet it made perfect sense that he would choose this time to make his play.

“The regency is an appointment of lifetime tenure. I'm still alive. These facts were obvious to you before you called on me today,” she pointedly reminded him.

“Indeed, Your Grace, but I come with genuine intent. Please forgive my remarks. They're nothing more than my awkward attempt to seem less … forward. Perhaps neither of us has been a good ally to the other since our service together began.”

Helaina laughed inside. His politics were truly exceptional. Though, she paused long enough to consider that perhaps her cynicism had gotten the better of her. After all, she herself had thought lately that her office rightly belonged to a younger leader.
One who doesn't have to rest from the composition of a simple letter.

“Fair enough,” the regent offered. “Why have you come?” This time, she spoke with her own earnestness.