Trial of Intentions (44 page)

She looked around the room then, calling each king and queen and ruler by name, until she had spoken them all. “The corridor you walked to enter this place is lined with the memorials of men and women who, like you, came to this place for one reason. I ask you to honor their memory, and commit yourselves and your defenses to the threat that has reawakened.

“
This
is why we are here. It is
your
sovereignty”—she shot Roth a glare—“that is at risk, and your sovereignty that I would enlist in a common cause. Let our banners fly together, stronger collectively than any one or few flown separately; and stronger, too, than a single banner flown by one who holds no throne.” She finished, still holding her glare on the Ascendant.

Roth only smiled and nodded. “Nevertheless, a fifth faction has been created. Five arms now, instead of four. For peacekeeping. Not war with a myth.”

Vendanj's anger boiled over. “You ask for proof of the Quiet.” He thrust his hands forward, and concentrated on the space above the great round table. In the air materialized an image of Zephora coming upon him and his companions in the Saeculorum. He caused the memory to unfold in such vividness that one might have imagined he could reach out and touch the things he saw.

The sights, smells, voices, and sounds—everything was recounted for the Convocation. The dreadful feelings of hopelessness and hatred filled the room as though the Draethmorte had appeared before them. Vendanj expended great energy to relate every detail of their fight. The air itself stirred, as if the winds of the mountains were blowing here, now.

Like a tempest it raged before them, blocking out mutters and gasps. Vendanj deepened his call of the Will, creating a full vision that engulfed every man and woman seated here today. The hall seemed to disappear. It was as though they sat in the heights of the Saeculorum, personal witnesses to the battle.

His companions were thrown and beaten. Zephora shot great bursts of darkness from his hands, blackening stone and air and minds. Vendanj shared the filth that Zephora's touch of darkness had left on them.

The storm and battle raged as real as he could command it, until he was spent, and he let the vision recede. The room around them came into focus again, the images dissipating.

Profound silence settled around them all as Vendanj collapsed over the front of the Sedagin's empty chair. Braethen rushed forward and eased him to the floor, where he lay on the stone in the quiet. Vendanj hoped the nightmarish sight had moved proud and cynical hearts.

At the sound of the first words to break the silence, he shut his eyes.

“A parlor trick that insults our intelligence. And having rendered the Will, the Sheason has broken the law.” It was Roth, speaking coolly. “Helaina, will you call the guard, or shall I?”

Vendanj then heard steps, and a sword being drawn. He didn't need to see it to feel the power of the Blade of Seasons raised in Braethen's hand.

“Leave him alone.” There was real warning in Braethen's voice. Vendanj knew the others could hear it, too. The sodalist was not just a man with a sword. The blade had infused him with a sense of authority that went beyond steel alone.

“Obstructing the rule of law, my young sodalist friend, will only earn you your own prison cell. And raising your sword here is not only caddish, but unwise.” The Ascendant sounded as though he spoke while smiling, though his voice remained solemn.

Braethen replied with measured calm. “Test me.”

Then another stepped forward and spoke to Braethen in a soft voice. Vendanj opened his eyes to see Grant standing next to the sodalist. “Now is not the time,” Grant said, and put his hand on Braethen's sword-bearing arm. “You're of no use to the Sheason, or anyone, locked away in the pits of Solath Mahnus.”

The sodalist sheathed his sword, then knelt beside Vendanj. He reached into the folds of Vendanj's cloak, found the small wooden case, and produced one of his sprigs. After placing it in Vendanj's hand, he asked, “What should I do?”

“Grant is right. Now is not the time.” He quickly ate the sprig, and had Braethen help him to a sitting position. He then turned to the regent. “We won't be a distraction.”

Helaina nodded appreciatively. Shortly, three more guards came to escort him from the hall. With Braethen's help, Vendanj got to his feet. Before leaving, he spoke to Grant. “When the time is right, say what must be said.”

A look of eagerness rose on Grant's face. Except for his deeply weathered skin, Grant looked very much like Denolan SeFeery again, the man who twenty years ago had defied everyone, even his own wife.

Vendanj went with the guards, Braethen accompanying him to the door. They passed those seated at the table, including Roth, who eyed them with indifference.

“Go see E'Sau when you have time,” he said softly to Braethen. “You'll appreciate his perspective.”

Then he left Convocation for the darkness and stench of the dungeons below. He went with some anticipation, though. There was a man in the depths of the Recityv prison that he wanted to see. A man who stood on the other side of the rift in the Sheason Order. He wondered if seeing him again would help Vendanj see a way to bridge the schism that divided their order. Or make it clear that such could never be done.

 

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The Bourne: Canon

When the Mor houses escaped the Bourne with the Refrains, they managed to sweep the very memory of song from the minds of those they left behind.

—
Studies in Exodus,
a Quiet chronicle of Veil crossings, and resulting suppositions

B
alroath said simply, “Follow me,” and led Kett from the Assembly Hall down a different passage than he'd entered by. They traversed dimly lit corridors, Kett in a bit of a haze. He was trying to reconcile what he'd just done—giving himself to Quietus—with the larger plan he still held in his heart of liberating the Inveterae from the Bourne. He focused. He needed to find out what he could about these rumors—that the Quiet had discovered a way to pass over the Pall into the south.

Soon enough, Balroath halted at another door, which stood in deep shadow somewhere in the depths of the Assembly Hall. He knocked once and entered. Inside, a small office was lit by two double-wick candles set on either side of a burnished ilexwood desk. The walls were entirely covered with bookshelves, deadening their footfalls.

The room had a quiet, studious feel. Behind the desk sat another of the Jinaal—smaller, with rounded shoulders as if slumped from long hours hunched over his desk. Only when Balroath and Kett had come to a stop in front of him did this new Jinaal finally look up.

“Is he given?” he asked, his voice also deep like Balroath's, but more coarse.

“Yes,” Balroath replied.

The other nodded. “Kett Valan, you are a more important Inveterae than you know. I am Stulten, and I've some things to tell you.” The Jinaal tapped the parchments on the desk in front of him and sat back into his chair, which groaned beneath him. “But let me start by asking you a question: What do you feel now, having given yourself today?”

He had the feeling Stulten knew his answer already. “I didn't understand what it was until Balroath put his hand on me. I feel some grief over the vow.”

Stulten laughed. The sound became a hoarse cough. When he'd gotten control of his voice again, he looked up at Kett. “I think you are well sworn, Kett Valan. Now, I will reveal to you your true purpose. We know who your friends are. We know the extent of your plots and plans. If it had seemed prudent to us, we would simply have brought them all here and put them on the Assembly Hall floor for slow execution. We would have received their confessions and any additional names they might cry out to end their own prolonged suffering. Or, if we hadn't the time, we would simply have sent tribunals to their various homes, as we did yours, to try, convict, and execute them as quickly as possible. Can you guess why we did not?”

He stared hot grief across the desk at the old Jinaal. “Because you want me to do it for you.”

Stulten looked pleased. “You were the right one to enlist,” he said. “Of course, you're right. Your responsibility will not be to convince these Inveterae separatists—indeed all Inveterae—that we seek the same thing. Most would laugh at you, and certainly distrust you.”

Kett meant to argue with him. But before he could speak, the Jinaal lifted a hand to stay his tongue. “Oh, I know your kind has great respect for you. But few would believe your words, and most would come to doubt you. Soon enough, your access to those who interest us would be compromised.”

Stulten then picked up a piece of parchment and handed it to Kett. In the weak light, he could see it was a long list of names—friends, and those who'd worked beside him pursuing escape from the Bourne. When Kett looked up, a gratified smile rested on Stulten's lips. “A bit shocking to you, isn't it?” he said.

“These are my friends,” Kett answered. “There's no need to kill them. They'll listen to me. Let me convince them. They're worth more to you as allies than as dead martyrs to other Inveterae.”

Stulten laughed again. More coughing ensued. “A true leader you are, Kett Valan. But I think you overestimate your coconspirators' influence—they are not martyr-worthy. And we don't believe ages of distrust and hatred can be changed, even by you. No, the example of their execution is far more valuable to us.” The elder Jinaal leaned forward, a few bones in his neck cracking the way knuckles do. “More than that, Kett Valan, the example
you
will make of them is what will matter. One of their own, one who has led their hopes of separation, one who knows them, is now with us. It will demoralize them to learn that you have sworn to us your allegiance. And when you have scratched out the last name on that list, not only will you have rid us of the separatist threat, you will have sent a message to the rest that we are watching, that we cannot be deceived.”

Kett looked over the list names of again. Without looking up, he asked quietly, “What if I can't do this?”

No laugh came this time, only a silence into which candles burned. When Kett looked up, Stulten stared without emotion. “You already know the answer to this, Kett Valan. But I
will
tell you that the rendering of your spirit is a pain you cannot imagine. And beyond that—” He paused dramatically. “—it unmakes you. Whatever hopes or beliefs you have of a life after this life … forget them. The essence of what you are is stripped away, and you are returned to the void shapeless, nameless. You cease, Kett Valan, to be.”

Stulten let his words hang in the air before adding, “And if you think you can suffer this, then consider your children.”

Kett stared, disbelieving, and shook his head.

“Quite so,” Stulten affirmed. “But there's another path for you. And as unsettling as it may be, if you succeed, you'll find prominence here. Trust me when I tell you, things are going to change.” The old Jinaal tapped something on his desk that looked like a star chart.

“Think about where you want to be standing when it comes,” Stulten said. “Think about where you want your children to be standing. You, Kett Valan, have the chance not only to be on the right side of this old quarrel, but to stand with distinction. Because the truth of it is this: We really do want the same thing. We want to live where we decide. We want to undo the unfairness that sent us here so long ago. These are things everyone inside the Bourne should agree on, should work together to change. The difference between us is only that we are no longer patient or gentle in how we do that work. This is what you will learn; it is what you will help us do.”

“Then the rumors are true,” Kett said, getting to his true purpose in giving himself to the Quiet. “You've found a way out of the Bourne.”

Stulten eyed him closely. “We believe so.”

“A way to bring down the barrier.” Kett's voice sounded very nearly reverential, despite his effort to show no interest.

“Or open a way through, anyway.” Stulten smiled with some satisfaction. “Now that you're given, there's no harm in sharing some of our plans. After all, you're part of that now.” He took a deep breath, his eyes becoming distant. “For ages we've discounted the stories of the labraetates, the songmakers said to keep the barrier strong from somewhere deep in the Eastlands. I'm proud to say I've helped amend that notion. More evidence that we're not what we were.”

Understanding bloomed in Kett's mind as he thought of all the humans brought into the Bourne. “You're trying to breed one.”

The Jinaal laughed without any hint of mockery. “Well of course. But that's not even the better part of our efforts with the humans. We'll talk of that some other time. But our plans,” he said with gentle correction, “don't hinge on successfully breeding a labraetates. I'm not sure we could train one if we did. The Mors took that knowledge with them when they fled the Bourne, the selfish bastards.”

The final piece of it locked in place. “You're bringing one here. From the south.”

“And that plan is under way. But before you're a part of it, we have this work for you to do.” He indicated the parchment in Kett's hands. “It will prove you to us, while it also brings the Inveterae firmly in line.”

Stulten then reached into a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a dark chain necklace bearing the signet of the Sedgel, the Quiet leadership ranks. He handed it across to Kett, then nodded and waved a dismissive hand.

Kett looked down at the small medallion: an inverted letter
V
—a fulcrum—and atop it a line. He knew the symbol, an archaic emblem for a balance scale. The line in it did not tilt or lean. It meant equanimity, fairness. He might debate that. He might argue the Sedgel weren't fair or balanced at all. In fact, the symbol was better described as indifference. But whatever he or they
thought
it meant, it marked him as given until they either branded or scarred the same signet into his skin.