Trial of Intentions (39 page)

“And if there are Quiet beyond the Pall, beyond the Rim, and they flood into our world like a black tide, then what?” the question came from the First Sodalist, E'Sau, who had yet to speak.

“Then we'll meet them together, unified with a brighter purpose than living in the shadow of these gods you speak of, and their abandonment of this world so long ago.” Roth's words came more genuinely than Helaina ever remembered.

E'Sau wasn't done. “And in meeting this threat, what help would you have of the Sheason?”

The air in the council chamber seemed suddenly very heavy. Helaina put a hand under the table on Artixan's leg. The Civilization Order had already seen more Sheason killed than she dared count. She'd fought the law, but Roth had conjured a magic of his own, formed of threats, to secure the votes he needed to enact the Civilization Order.

Before he spoke, she knew this would be his third request of the day.

“Artixan,” the Ascendant said, turning to face the Sheason squarely. “I respect the creed of service you've sworn. You and I differ only on
how
to serve. But the time for conjuring is through. It makes men lazy, reliant. It breeds false security. And the ability to do it cannot be granted to all, and so is necessarily elitist. Anything that places one man above another is something we must eliminate from our society.”

Artixan asked simply, “And would you accept
anyone
into your League of Civility?”

Roth looked back at Artixan, unspeaking.

Helaina had had enough. “Take your seats,” she said, with a tone that would brook no quarrel. She then stood herself and narrowed a sharp gaze on Roth, feeling the rage of a woman half her age. “I find your requests contemptible.

“Let me tell you what is going to happen.” She pointed at Roth. “A formal inquest will begin to discover how much the League knew about my brother.”

“I've already said—”

“And a separate inquest, with all the same zeal, will investigate how it is the League went about poisoning the child of one of its members. You remember that, don't you, Ascendant Staned?”

“That is not at all what—”

“Silence!” she commanded. “Do
not
interrupt me.”

Roth's face relaxed, as he sat back, biding his time.

“And last,” she continued, “a third inquest will look into the burning of Bastulan Cathedral. The same fire that left Prelate Noleris with burns over most of her body, and killed dozens of others.”

“Are you suggesting the League is filled with arsonists?” Roth asked with icy calm.

“I'm suggesting that you should hope the League is innocent of these crimes. I will exercise the full power of my office against the perpetrators we find.” Helaina sat again.

After several moments, Roth said, “Are you finished?”

Helaina nodded.

“Very well. Then I now make the formal request for a vote on the office of regent. I think First Counselor Jermond will confirm that, by law, the request of a single member of the Council is enough to force a vote.”

Helaina looked not at Jermond, but at Scrivener Cheyin, who reluctantly nodded that she believed it to be so.

“My lady,” Jermond said, drawing her gaze toward him, “it's not personal. It's simply what the laws allow.”

Helaina took a hard look around the table, trying to gauge the heart of all those seated here. Men and women with whom she'd served for some time. All save the Child's Voice, and she trusted the boy's wisdom. When she came around to Artixan, she said, “Very well, call your vote.”

Ascendant Staned put his hands on the table and knitted his fingers. “With the state of affairs as they are, and given all we've discussed here today, I propose that Regent Helaina Storalaith be removed from the office of regent. I further propose that I, Ascendant Roth Staned of the League of Civility, take her place to lead the free city of Recityv, the nation of Vohnce, and the immanent proceedings at the Convocation of Seats.” He paused, then sat back into his chair. “I would remind you that only a majority vote on either question is needed to succeed.

“On the question of Helaina's removal from the regent's office.” He raised his hand, the indication of his vote.

Helaina watched as the People's Advocate, Hemwell Or'slaed; First Counselor Jermond Pleades; Ambassador Patrelia Calon; and Commerce Chair Krystana Surent, all raised their hands, as well.

It appeared the vote would fail, when reluctantly, Prelate Noleris raised her bandaged hand. The look in her eye as she stared back at Helaina told the regent much about who had burned her cathedral and the fear in her heart.

But even with just thirteen of the fourteen members present, Roth had lost … until the Child's Voice likewise raised a reticent hand.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

More than Scales

It's said he found the resonant note of a whole people, and singing it, destroyed them all.

—A recent song myth believed to originate from current Maesteri

W
endra awoke to the sound of someone humming. It drew her from sleep just moments before the knock came at her door. She lit her lamp and went to answer it. She found Belamae there, humming a lightsome tune through his smile.

“Come, my child, let us begin your training.” He didn't wait for a response, and turned away, strolling up the corridor as if he hadn't a care in the world … as if he weren't dying.

Wendra hastily pulled on a bedcoat left on a hook beside the door, and hurried after him, smoothing down her hair as she went. The old man continued to hum as he led her through the cathedral in these wee hours of morning. He paused at the bottom of a set of stairs, before going up. It was a long climb, and at the top he paused again, coughing and looking a bit pale. When it had passed, he smiled and led her to a room with a grand view over Recityv.

“For inspiration,” he said, pointing out the window to a vista of the eastern part of the city and the reaches beyond.

Wendra briefly noted the view before her attention turned to the room itself. Instruments of all kinds rested on stands or hung on the wall: lutes, lyres, flutes, violins, a harpsichord, trumpets, horns with circular tubes, drums of all sizes, a piano, and other instruments she hadn't names for. Most of them she'd never seen. She was drawn to them all, to the different possibilities of sound, music.

Around the room, set on small shelves, were reams of musical scores, some labeled in languages or musical notation she couldn't read. To one side, a slate stood with various scribblings rendered in chalks of different colors.

Belamae took a seat at the harpsichord, and directed Wendra to stand at the center of the room behind a wooden stand that held several sheets of music.

“Can you read any of that?” he asked.

Wendra glanced at it. “Yes, most of it. A few are in systems I haven't seen.”

“Good. That's the easy part. Now then,” he said, shifting himself on his small bench, “you are Leiholan, my girl, which means ‘wrought by song.' And the techniques I share will prepare you to sing Suffering. I mentioned the Song takes a good seven hours to be sung. Those seven hours come roughly in nine movements. Their names are like so:

Quietus

The Bourne

The Placing

Inveterae

War

Self-slaughter

Vengeance

Quiet Song

Reclamation

“Sometimes ‘Self-slaughter' is called ‘Self-destruction,' but no matter. Each has its own feel, and its own portion of the story taken from the Tract of Desolation.” Belamae eyed her, seeming to check if he was moving too fast.

Wendra smiled. “So one of the things I'll be learning is stamina.”

“Just so,” he said, and gave a pleased laugh. “Stamina with purpose. Direction …
intention
. And some internal fortitude on your part. The movements of Suffering are not just athletic to sing, they're an emotional journey. A hard one. Stamina of the spirit is maybe the better part of it.”

She heard some caution in his words.

“But understand, my girl,” Belamae held up a finger, “singing sadness and pain has its place. It can heal as well as harm. We'll teach you the difference.”

He then played an ascending scale on the harpsichord, its plucky strings resounding pleasantly around the room. “Now then, music is the
quickening art.
It can stir the soul to peace or anger, even when rendered without Leiholan influence. It goes inside.” He tapped his chest. “And it does this better than … well, anything. Music speaks to the heart as nothing else does, is it not so?”

He spoke with such gentle but sure passion. She began to lose herself to the instruction. For the next few hours Belamae taught her several music techniques: the turn, portamento, crescendo, pianissimo, and a handful of others. Wendra was soon combining these techniques in snatches of song.

Near midday, he invited her to sit and rest. “All these things, and so much more, are a part of the Song of Suffering. Every known musical, vocal skill is needed to sing it. You must have mastery of them all.”

She frowned. As thrilled as she was to be learning so much, she hadn't decided to stay. In fact, she'd already begun to consider how these new vocal techniques might help her achieve a very different goal.

The man's keen insight was sharp as ever. “You haven't decided to stay, have you?” The old man looked on from his player's bench.

Wendra wouldn't lie to him. Not simply because it would do no good—the man would see through it instantly—but because she didn't want to. He was as near a father as she had now.

“No,” she said. “I know you said my mother was Leiholan, and sang here. And I know you believe in my voice. But I'm not sure it's the right thing for me.”

“Are you afraid because Soluna died while singing Suffering?” he asked.

She thought a moment. “It's not that.” Belamae was watching her intently. “It's … sometimes I think my voice was meant for something else.”

A look of disappointment rose in the man's face. “You are, of course, free to choose. And I should say that if this is your feeling, you may not be the voice I'm looking for.”

The words stung, though Belamae hadn't spoken with any real malice.

“At the heart of it all, a Leiholan tries to be selfless.” His tone darkened, the delight of their musical exchange gone. “I learned that a very hard way. Your own wounds and losses must be put aside for Suffering.” He swiveled in his seat to look at her directly, a firmness entering his face now. “You think about this, Wendra. We've spoken of it before, but only briefly, and since then things have gotten worse.”

She stared back at him, feeling uncertain. “What if I can't control my song? Would you still want me to stay?”

He gave her an appraising look. “Tell me about your song.”

Wendra shared with him the battle on the Soliel. She told of Quietgiven losing form in the sound of her dark song, which was little more than a series of screams drawn together with just a bit of melody. And all of it wrought with a coarseness in her throat that gave rise to a powerful shriek.

“Things, even people, become bright and dark and little more. Until I sing them down…” she finished.

The old man surprised her with a smile, and raised a finger. “The rough sound of abrasion in a singing voice has power. We call it a dysphonic technique. It's most often used in war, and well suited to songs of anger and violence and vengeance.”

She nodded, understanding better than he knew.

“I don't want you to lose or forget this ability, Wendra. It's a part of your art and should remain a tool to you. You'll have need of it. The danger, however, is that it has a way of consuming the other parts of song, the other ways of singing. It tends to lead the vocalist onto a path where they find little need of other sounds. The song takes over. You've felt this.”

She
had
felt it. Nearly every time she sang with Leiholan influence. “Can I control it?”

Belamae's smile changed, became more serious. “Yes, of course. It's not easy, though. And it brings us to the larger part of the Leiholan gift: attunement.”

She stepped closer, eager to understand this new idea, especially if it could help her control her song.

“Now, attunement,” he explained, his eyes locked on hers, “is a state in which you recognize the sound in all things. The
vibrations
of life that exist even in a rock or mountain, in the waves of sound that emanate from trees or rivers … or people. Being attuned is hearing song in
everything
. And once you do, then you can learn to direct your song, and resonate with other songs you hear. When you can control your song, Wendra, so that its vibration matches that of the thing you sing to or about, you will have become truly Leiholan.”

I can learn to control it.
Relief flooded her. “How do I become attuned?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager.

Belamae gave her a long look. “
Resonate
with me.”

She began shaking her head, more from confusion than from fear or defiance.

“I can keep myself safe, and guide you besides. So, what shall it be?” He thought a moment. “Your mother. You and I both have a fondness for her, do we not? Sing to me about Vocencia. Find that song in you that best captures how she makes you feel. And then share it with me. Use it to seek that place in
me
that feels the same. Do you understand?”

Her hands felt suddenly cold. She was nervous and excited to try. “I think so.”

“Much of this is intuitive,” Belamae said. “In the beginning, anyway. As you find the song and focus on me, you'll begin to hear how to modify the sound to bring these parts of each of us into resonance. I'll help you. Now, let's begin.”