Trial of Intentions (58 page)

It might have been a full half hour before she could see clearly again. When she raised her head, she saw a small tube inside the dead leader's boot. She pulled it free, opened it, and found a map of stock trading posts.

As she knelt in the midst of these slavers, she shuddered with the truth of Belamae's caution.

Anytime you sing the resonance of a thing … you both are changed.

She could feel a dangerous, sensuous sound laughing around inside her. An irrational thought floated through her mind:
Go sex the strongman.

You both are changed.

It made her wonder about singing Suffering. Had what she'd just sang been a kind of suffering, too? She didn't know. What had happened here seemed strangely unreal. And intoxicating.
What else can I sing … and who might it hurt?
But she wasn't sorry for killing the traders. There was none of that.

It was a long while more before she stood. Quietly, she searched the dead and found a set of keys on the man who'd briefly left their company. She slipped through the rear door and found a deck hatch. She keyed open the lock that fastened it shut, and pulled back the portal to find a stair that descended into a dark hold.

She climbed slowly down into the pitch black. She had the impression that she was being watched, evaluated. A moment later a small oil lamp was lit deeper in the hold. What she saw made her heart pulse hard with sympathy and anger. Seven women chained to wooden cots. Three of them were with child. These babies would come in a matter of a cycle or two, if she had any guess.

Without a word, she found the key to unlock their chains. They watched her with reticence. What surprised her most was that none of them rushed from their cots, from this hold, from this boat.

The youngest among them must have seen the question in Wendra's eyes. She shivered in the chill, her belly showing a child nearly ready to come. “They'll find us again.” It was the fear that kept them bound. Probably a threat they'd heard repeatedly since being captured.

“No,” Wendra said. “They're done taking women.”

She wanted to sing something for them. Something soft and reassuring. But all hells, was she tired, and still cold inside. So instead she lay down by the young girl, hoping she had enough body warmth to calm the girl's shivers. She smiled a small smile in the dim light, thinking that
she
might need more warmth than the girl.

“What do we do?” another of the women asked.

“Let me rest a little while. Then, we'll leave the docks, and you'll go home.”

Two of the women shared a skeptical look. “What about the dock hound?”

Wendra gave one more small smile. “I have a song for him.”

 

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Trial of Intention

Intention may be man's most defining quality. It gives him the forethought to ignore his animal instinct for survival, and thus the resolve to strive for an ideal.

—Excerpt from the defense made of the first Trial of Intentions, archived in the Vaults of Estem Salo

T
haelon entered the trial theater to find every seat filled and a buzz of quiet conversation. The broad hall had several hundred seats in rows ascending a gentle slope, and two balconies with hundreds more. Its ornate ceiling was brightly lit thirty strides above. And beyond the stage where debate would take place, an open vista of Estem Salo. The theater had been constructed without that wall to give a poignant backdrop to the discussions this hall was meant to serve.

Whispers fell quiet as he passed, some sounding deferential, some accusational. The rift in his fraternity was never more clear.

He took note of the grand murals painted on the immense walls on each side of the theater. Unlike in the gallery where he'd prepared for this moment, these depictions were of civil disagreement, animated at times, but not resulting in death. The idea of this hall was dispute and deliberation.

On the raised stage at the front of the theater, and to the right, sat four Sheason exemplars—those who oversaw argument, effability, discernment, and rhetoric—his panel of judges. To the left, standing at a lectern facing the judges, was the first Sheason who would be tried. A man of middle age, himself a teacher of ethics. Toyl Delane was his name. A father, and a man whose hair always looked windblown.

Thaelon mounted the stage and came to stand in front of his judges. “Are we ready to begin?”

He hadn't seen her all morning, but suddenly Raalena was at his side. She said nothing, but put him a tad more at ease for her presence.

“Toyl.” Warrin, his exemplar best trained in history and belief, spoke the name softly. “He volunteered to be first. I think he intends to make a speech.”

Thaelon gave Warrin a smile meant mostly to reassure himself, and strode to the center of the stage. He looked first out the rear of the hall at the wide vista of his city. A magnificent view. A thousand rooftops. More. And beyond them the great mountains and forested hills of the Divide. It settled him to his task.

He turned and faced the theater. Voices hushed. He waited several long moments, then spoke as a man does to a friend.

“I don't call for Trials of Intention frivolously. We're here because there's real danger.” Thaelon remained standing where he was. He would not pace. He would add no theater to his words. “I've spent many long days preparing. While I've not doubted that this was necessary, I've wished it was not. And I take no pride in what's about to take place.”

A few mutters could be heard from the second balcony. Thaelon ignored them.

“Trials of Intention are rare,” he admitted. “In fact, only twice, to my knowledge, have there been formal proceedings among us. Once, when the Second Promise nearly failed. And before that, in the time after the Whiting of Quietus, when what we're about to do had no name.”

He stopped, remembering from the gallery wall images of Sheason lying dead after makeshift trials of intent.

“There are consequences for the wrong intent,” he said, scanning the assembly. “Consequences that in previous seasons meant death. But that won't be the way this time.”

“Then what?” Toyl asked from his lectern to Thaelon's right. “Banishment? Ostracism?”

Thaelon didn't look at the man. He remained fixed on those before him. “Divestiture,” he answered.

The crowd erupted in murmurs. A few loud cries pierced the humlike din. Among them he heard: “It's a tactic meant to frighten us.”

He raised a hand for silence. “Divestiture has long been a myth. One we happily had no need to try and prove.” He paused. “Until now. I've been to the depths of the Tabernacle. I found the old glyphs. And I've discovered the way to remove a Sheason's authority to render the Will.”

The outbreak was louder this time, with a few calling for death as preferable to divestiture.

Thaelon simply waited until they could see he wouldn't continue before it was quiet again. Eventually the hall settled down.

“It's the right consequence,” he stated firmly. “The purpose of the trials is to determine if a Sheason's use of the Will is in harmony with our first Charter. Because if it is not, then he is not Sheason. And if he is not Sheason, then he has no claim to a Sheason's authority.”

Again Toyl interrupted. “And you'll school us on this Charter, will you, Thaelon? Because as far as I know, there's no document to which we may refer to know what it says.”

Thaelon said simply, still addressing the theater, “I will.”

“That'll be a good trick,” Toyl quipped, drawing a few soft laughs from the hall.

Thaelon finally turned to face the man. “You will remember I am your Randeur. Or is disrespect also a quality of those who follow Vendanj?” Staring coldly at Toyl, he announced in a loud voice, “Every Sheason will have a Trial of Intention, to declare themselves. And I'm glad our first trial has a sharp wit to defend the dissent against us.”

“I'm not sure who you mean when you say ‘us,' my Randeur,” Toyl said with heavy sarcasm. “But I'll be glad to help you examine the ethics of this entire proceeding.”

A long hush fell over the hall, broken only by a stirring of wind beyond the rear of the stage, where aspen leaves rustled against one another.

Thaelon decided to use a simple question to demonstrate the crux of these proceedings. “Toyl, is there nothing that guides a Sheason's use of the Will?”

“Don't you mean to ask whether or not I agree with or follow Vendanj?” Toyl shifted his weight behind his defense lectern.

Slowly, Thaelon approached him, leaned in, and said, “I thought that's what I asked.”

There came many muffled laughs to that.

Toyl smiled and nodded. “Clever, yes. The thing that guides—or should guide—the use of the Will is a renderer's own ethical center.”

“I see.” Thaelon turned to watch the assembly's reaction to his next question. “And the Velle—who also render—their use of the Will is right, then, since they follow their own ethical center?”

Toyl frowned, then raised a finger as one does to challenge or clarify. “They are not Sheason.”

“You realize,” Thaelon pressed, “that they began as Sheason. We were all once one order. In fact, the first Trials of Intention are what removed them from our company.”

Perhaps we could be one again.

“These are an arguer's tricks,” Toyl said, visibly relaxing. “The Velle are fundamentally different because they adhere to no ethic. You know this.”

Thaelon turned and pointed at the man. “And how do you know?”

Toyl opened his mouth to answer, but found no words. A few moments later, he seemed to latch on to some prepared remarks. “Let's talk about some references we can all agree on, shall we? For instance, the aftermath of the Second Promise.”

Thaelon saw where Toyl would take this, and knew it would be hard to defend.

“Sheason, angered when the Second Convocation of Seats betrayed the Sedagin and let them die fighting alone, went into the courts of men and killed. Murder, Thaelon. To coerce action.” Toyl pointed back dramatically. “Was this in line with the Charter you claim as guide?”

Thaelon's mind raced, seeking a rebuttal.

Toyl gave him no time. “And what of our own season? What of the Civilization Order? How are you dealing with that? To my knowledge, you're letting our own die. So, if you're asking me if I follow Vendanj, who stands against the Quiet, against the League, and doesn't worry if he can reconcile defending people with some vague notion of a Charter … then yes, I follow him.”

Thaelon found his voice. “An envoy, led by my own daughter, has gone to Recityv to negotiate an end to the Civilization Order. And the murder you speak of—at the end of the Second Promise—did result in a Trial of Intentions.”

Toyl showed a look of satisfaction. “Which resulted in almost no Sheason being found to have violated the Charter. Is my history accurate?”

From behind his judge's table, Warrin nodded.

It was a smart argument, Thaelon had to admit. He walked to the edge of the stage and stared long into the faces of many. He held up a finger, leaving it there for several moments before beginning in a clear, soft tone. He needed them all to hear him. Really hear him.

“The Charter is felt, as much as it is understood. Any one of you would rush to protect a child in danger. You don't need a document to tell you what to do. And you know your actions are right, even if they cause you harm.” He stopped and looked into the brightly lit ceiling high above. More murals there: stars and cloudy bands that crossed the firmament. He took some strength from them.

He looked back at his fellows. “We've been given a gift in the authority to render. It's a shade of the authority the First Ones used to frame this world. But we are
not
gods. And when we use this authority in a manner that suits our whim, or without regard to who it may hurt, it smacks of our own arrogance. As though we
are
gods among men. Giving and taking life simply by right of our power to do so … it forfeits our right to hold that authority. Or should.”

He turned on Toyl. “That is what the Trial of Intentions is meant to determine. We will always stand against invasion or expansionists. But in the right way.”

Toyl, teacher of ethics, shook his head slowly. Like Thaelon, he used an effectively soft voice when he said, “The thing that matters is preserving our lands, our people. It doesn't matter how principled we are if we lose these. War is not a social experiment, Thaelon. It is not everyday life. It's everything, anything, you can do to keep the life you have.” He looked out at the assembly. “I'm with Vendanj.”

Your ethics sound situational, my ethics friend.

There were cheers from the crowd for Toyl's words. Not unanimous. But many. It saddened Thaelon to hear them. As the theater quieted again, he recalled his parchment war with Ketrine. It helped him focus on what he should say.

“We teach
realignment
here. But we teach it mostly to instruct you in what you should
not
do. It's a rendering technique aimed at getting what you want by manipulating the choice of another.” Thaelon's passion on this point bubbled up hot. His voice rose. “It is not for us to create or control life to fight for us. If there's a war worth fighting, then we should bear the cost of it ourselves.” He thought of the boy Tahn that Vendanj was using. He thought of the very existence of that boy, a revived stillborn child. “To do anything else is the Quiet way. You don't need me to tell you this for you to know its truth.”

Heads were nodding.

He stepped forward, declaring in a loud, firm voice, “We are not gods, but we can be god
like
. And to do it we must ask ourselves: To what lengths will we go and at what cost do we render before we are no different than the Quiet we fight against? We are better than that! We must
be
better than that!”