Trial of Intentions (40 page)

He sat back and showed her an encouraging smile. Wendra took a deep breath and began softly to sing. The melody that came first was from her song box—a tune she'd sung with her mother often. But it didn't take much for the memories of Vocencia to shape the song. Wendra saw images in her mind of the woman working despite her tiredness, placing a cool wet rag on Wendra's forehead when she was ill with fever, laughing as their family took turns dancing the three-foot jig while her father clapped his hands to keep time.

The song she sang wasn't mournful. It became lively and quick, and sung with open vowels that let her scoop up and down easily to the memories that cascaded in her head.

And when she had the song, she added the thought of Belamae, and the many warmths he had shown Wendra. She imagined he'd done the same for her mother. She let her song flow over him. Into him. And sooner than she might have imagined, she could feel a part of the Maesteri amplifying her song.

Perhaps it had happened so fast because their mutual love for Vocencia was so strong. But whatever the reason, the song grew. Not in volume. Though there was some of that. But in strength. In weight. Like a physical thing that could be used as a shield.

And when she saw Belamae's wet eyes, she knew he was seeing and feeling every good part of that song with her.

Then an image flashed, bright and hot like a stroke of lightning. It came again, longer the second time. It left an afterimage, too, just as lightning does: Wendra, as a child, angry and crying for having to leave Recityv.

She stared at Belamae, confused, her song drifting into a new melodic signature, more halftones, darker—the sound of threat and confusion. Belamae stared back at her as she sang. She sensed he could stop her at any moment. He did not.

And as her music unfolded, she saw Belamae sitting knee to knee with her mother, teaching her a song technique—something outside the regular lessons. Something he'd learned, used, in open battle. It was a dysphonic song. Rough and abrasive sounding. He'd sung it in war, and with it … killed indiscriminately. Like Wendra had on the Soliel plains.

Only his song …
Oh my deafened gods … he refashioned Suffering … for war.

Her song coaxed the music into this shared moment and memory. She
heard
Belamae teaching her mother this weapon-song before she went away to the Hollows. He thought she might one day need it to protect her little family. Protect Wendra, and Tahn.

She felt it in him now, like an impossibly deep-toned string plucked and resonating. He understood her dark song beyond the power of it. He had a song of his own. One he was ashamed of. One that had changed him.

Without realizing it, Wendra pushed her song toward Belamae's private shame and sound. She sought to resonate with it, caught in a reverie of shared pain. It was the pain of accidentally slaughtering innocents when the intention of one's song was actually to satisfy the grief of losing a loved one.

She and Belamae sat together in their grief—hers new, his quite old. But it was a common chord to them both. And Wendra sang the sweet, awful sound until he finally nodded that it was enough. His eyes told her that this lesson had taken a turn he hadn't expected. But one he'd allowed.

She didn't want to stop, though. The song was teaching her. Teaching her Resonance. Teaching her Suffering. Teaching her something about her own song. She'd found a new voice. The very sound of grief. Its purest tones. So, she didn't stop, but sank deeper into the vibratory notes she and Belamae shared.

As though far away, she saw him shaking his head. A moment later he was singing. And his own song found hers—in tempo and rhythm and melody—and began to guide it, shape it.

But she wasn't ready to let go. She shook her head and sang more forcefully, invoking the strongest song she knew to keep hold of this resonation—her own rough, dark song. She lost herself in its sound. Lost control. As she always did. And did not care.

Dark and bright filled her eyes.

The joys of new sounds and new ways to craft her song were displaced by the song she'd learned naturally. It shot forth from her mouth in shrieking waves. Only this time, she sang with new understanding, giving her song life with crushed notes offered in violent staccato.

The force of it should have killed Belamae. But the sound of his own music must have blunted the attack, so that her dark song only pushed him brutally back against the far wall. His old body crumpled to the floor, blood running from his mouth. He looked up at her in shock and disappointment. A moment later his expression turned to fury unlike any Wendra had ever seen, except maybe in the eyes of Vendanj.

Holding her in a firm stare, the Maesteri began to sing a deep bass note. The unwavering sound was so resonant that the air itself shimmered with it. It touched Wendra's skin, pressing in on her, forcing the air from her lungs, robbing her of the ability to produce song. It then lifted her from the floor along with sheets of music and began to spin her like a wind-up doll. Parchment fluttered around her, revealing a vortex with her at its center.

The world swam in her vision. Images of grief and destruction and murder filled her mind as the physical world whipped by—Belamae, instruments, the harpsichord, the window and a sky brightened now with sunrise.

Like a pirouetting toy, she spun faster and faster. Then the deep-pitched song ended, and she fell to the floor amidst the music notations, which fluttered down around her. Her head was spinning, her gorge rising. When her equilibrium returned, she looked up at Belamae, whose bloody mouth began to move again, his words coming in a singsong cadence.

Belamae smiled sadly. “Even when we look for a smile, your song finds the darkness, doesn't it, my girl.” He must have seen the worry she was feeling, because he bent and put a hand on her shoulder. “Don't fret, Wendra. We've only just begun. And this,” he motioned toward her chest, then his own, indicating the Resonance they'd shared, “… a strong first step to Suffering.”

She stared back at him, unsure how to take what had happened, or what he'd said.

“It's always dangerous to train Leiholan,” he added, seeming to talk mostly to himself. Then his eyes focused. “You're gifted, my girl, and have such great potential. But it's not going to be easy, is it?”

She pushed herself onto her knees, nearly afraid to ask. “Belamae,” she said softly, “can one be attuned whose songs … whose intentions … are like mine?”

His smile returned. “Come Quiet or chorus, we'll keep at it.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

It's Not What You Hear

And when the creature unfurled its every limb, and began to move in its strange rhythms … the echoes. There were silent echoes, if you can believe it. And living things died.

—Historical account of the Sotol Ravages, a largely forgotten series of Quiet battles, written by Robart Mcamin, and largely discounted due to his narrative flourishes

M
ira followed Leelin and Eledri a short distance through the streets. The sun tracked high overhead, warming the mild air. Sutter kept pace just behind her, commenting to himself about everything he saw. He sounded like a child at a midsummer festival. Another time, she might have joined him. But not today.

They came to an area where the cobblestone ended, replaced by trimmed grass. Around the green, low buildings hemmed the area in. Several old broadleaf trees grew in the enclosed park, casting dappled shadows on the lawn. From the limbs fell the occasional late bloom; these trees would bear winter-fruit.

A pleasant look rose on Leelin's face as he led them onto the grass and beneath one of the large flowering trees. Mira noted the sweet scent of the blossoms as both Eledri and Leelin sat near the trunk of the tree. Leelin gestured for them to do likewise.

When they were all seated on the ground, Mira regarded Sutter a moment. What she meant to ask the Laeodalin would raise doubt in his mind—he didn't know she was losing her Far gifts. But he had a right to know what was happening to her, in any case.

She spent a moment regarding Eledri, who sat with almost musical poise. The young woman's body was her instrument, and had been carefully tuned. When a subtle wind pulled gently at the chiffon shawl loosely draped around her shoulders, she swayed with it, as though similarly stirred. The simple movement reminded Mira that Far training figures were patterned after Soriah dance.

With old stories about the power of the handsongs in her mind, she turned to Leelin. “Have you heard rumors of Bourne races crossing the Pall?”

Leelin's easy manner faltered briefly. “Is this why you've come? We did receive word of the Convocation. But we live outside your governments. Even Elyk Divad doesn't require tribute of us.” The man's smile returned. “Happily, the Laeodalin are only stories to most. And those who know us aren't sure how to think about the Soriah. We very much want to keep it this way. The Laeodalin don't go to war anymore.”

He related Mira's words to Eledri, speaking in a tongue Mira had never heard before. Eledri's expression shifted to concern, and she glanced at Mira.

“We're not here to ask you to attend Convocation.” She shook her head to try and put Eledri at ease. “Our stop here is personal.”

Leelin quickly gave Sutter and Mira an assessing look, as one might who expects to find injury or madness—something that needed the handsong to mend.

Mira spared a last thought of concern before revealing her condition. “My natural Far ability … is fading.”

She watched as understanding bloomed in Leelin's face. But she needed what she wanted to be perfectly clear. “For many reasons, I need to stop this. Reverse it.” She gave Sutter an apologetic look. “I should have told you sooner. I'm sorry.”

Sutter's mouth had fallen comically agape, though his eyes showed real concern.

“More than once I've been late to a fight. And my blade is slower when I get there. So it's a good thing you're practicing so much.” She gave Sutter a weak smile and turned back to Leelin.

“How did you lose your Far gift?” the man asked.

She stared, unspeaking for a long moment. “I broke my oath for a friend.” She tried to keep her stare from hardening. “I don't regret it. What I did was necessary.” She stopped, sighed. “But now there's an imbalance inside me I cannot mend.”

Leelin was nodding as she spoke. “And you've heard fireside tales of Soriah handsong used to restore balance. You believe we can cleanse you.”

“That's my hope,” she admitted.

“So that you can claim your inheritance when you go to your earth,” Leelin surmised. His face showed a father's tenderness.

“And give my king an heir,” she added.

Sutter showed her another look of surprise.

Leelin quietly relayed it all to Eledri. The girl's pleasant expression slackened, and she turned to look at Mira. Gently, she raised her hands and began to sing with them a lament so piteous that Mira, who hadn't cried since the truth about Far motherhood had struck her, wept silently. The subtle intonations of air, moved delicately by the turn of a hand and curl of a finger, came to her like so many sighs. It was the sound of disappointment. And the sound of seedling hope. Not of reclaiming the swiftness of her step, but the willingness to bear a child she wouldn't live to know.

The song wove on. She lost track of time listening to the bittersweet music. Sometime later it ended, and the young woman's hands grew still. Mira was left looking into the faces of Eledri and Leelin, sad and thankful. Some few blossoms fell around them, plucked free by gentle winds. She didn't dry her eyes or cheeks. She wasn't ashamed of the tears wrought by the things that burdened her heart. She would simply have to turn them into new determination.

“What did she say?” Sutter asked.

“She said she cannot heal me,” Mira answered softly.

It wasn't until that moment that the full weight of her loss came to her—the inability to produce a Far heir, perhaps restore the Covenant Tongue … see her family again when she passed this life. Her flesh weighed heavy on her bones, and she sank down, shutting her eyes. She should be grieving more for her people, more for the danger of war the Far no longer had an answer for. But more than these things, she grieved at the loss of her inheritance, of meeting those who'd given her life and loved her first and best.

A small smile touched her face at an ironic thought: Were her priorities all wrong because she was more human now than Far?

She sat in the self-imposed isolation behind her eyes for a moment more. Then, she opened them again. “We'll leave as soon as we fill our waterskins and find some flatbread.” Mira extended a hand to Leelin. “Thank you. You were kind to interpret for us.”

He reached out a hand, and when Mira took it, he covered their clasped hands with his other palm, and gave her a searching look. “For what it's worth, Mira Far, I don't believe in any oath that robs you of its promise when the offending sin is sacrifice. The First Fathers may have left us to ourselves, but I'm not convinced they're bastards besides.”

She started to thank the man, when he spoke again.

“I'll ask you to remember that Eledri's song wasn't all sorrow and regret. Her hands also sang of the hope you brought with you to Laeodalin. I'm no great songmaster. In fact, it's your good fortune not to have heard the songs of my rough, clumsy hands.” He gave an easy laugh. “But I'm wise enough not to ignore the notes of a song. On the roads away from here, I trust you'll recall them properly. Will this be good enough?”

Mira placed her other palm over her and Leelin's intertwined hands, a particularly warm gesture, given the company.

“I think you're plenty wise,” she said.

They all stood, and just before leaving, a question rose in Mira's mind. “When we began, you said that the Laeodalin don't go to war anymore.”