Trial of Intentions (61 page)

“Is this why you've armed a fifth branch of your Jurshah?” Grant asked.

Eyebrows rose at that bit of logic.

“Now that's a sound argument,” Roth said, seeming genuinely pleased. “The League is arming to keep the peace. And as I've said, if hostility comes, we'll then be ready. But as a last need. Not our first response.”

He stopped pacing finally, took his seat again, and spoke with the humblest voice Grant had heard him use. “What have we seen to convince us of this Convocation's purpose: parlor tricks, a dead foreigner, false accusations about me and the League, an appeal to us to do things today the way they were done ages ago.” He gave a tired sigh.

“There may have been a time when Convocation for the purpose of war was right. In fact, I'm sure that's true. But now is not the time for it. We are better than this. We need to be. Let us dissolve this Convocation, and re-form it with a new purpose. I will personally ride to these people”—he nodded toward the dead Bar'dyn—“and broker peace. But please, let's not send our men and women to war again. It's a waste. And it is not the way to resolve differences. Not anymore. What say you?”

An overwhelming number of hands began to rise to the vote of dissolution. Grant shook his head, and came around to place a thankful hand on Elan's shoulder. While arms hung aloft, he spoke quietly, his voice carrying in the great hall.

“Days ago, when Elan's First Legion met the Quiet out on the shale, they found these
foreigners
had come with more than swords.” Grant paused, staring across at Roth in the silence. “Like the Battle of the Round, which created the Scar I now call home, they came with renderers of the Will. Velle. Quietgiven with skills like the Sheason that Roth and his League are trying to abolish.”

Upraised hands were returned to laps. Seat holders shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, waiting on Grant's next words.

“Do you know the difference between a Sheason and a Velle?” He didn't expect an answer, and he got none. But he let the moment draw out a good long time before going on. “A Sheason draws on his own life to do the things he does. Velle do not. They pluck the life from anything at hand to fuel their craft.”

“Are you going to tell us more stories?” Roth said. This time, no one laughed.

He can't see beyond his own view of civility.
Grant almost pitied the man. Almost.

“The Velle who came to Naltus knew the shale there holds little energy for rendering. So, they brought vessels.”

Queen Ela Valstone of Reyal'Te asked, “What do you mean, ‘vessels'?”

Grant turned saddened, weary eyes on her. “People. Children.”

There was a new silence. A heavy kind. In it, Grant thought he heard some culpability.

“Every one of you seated here knows that highwaymen walk your roads. There's a human trade being done in the remote places of your realms. For some buyers,” he said, “it's a slave to drive a plow or mop a floor or row a trawler when the wind flags. But the best coin is paid by
foreigners
who seek strong, mobile vessels that can be used to give their renderings life wherever they go.”

Grant walked around near the dead Bar'dyn and looked down at the decaying body. “I would be moved by the Ascendant's words myself, if in my life I hadn't seen what they do to a captive when they use his spirit to render the Will. I've watched it happen to young men and women in my care. No one should ever know that pain. Or have to witness it.”

He turned a slow circle, speaking mostly to the outer gallery. “They're not simply preparing for war. They're preparing for annihilation. They don't want to rule us. They want us dead. They're carefully trying to remove every defense or weapon we could use against them. And the strongest weapons on their side of it … are fueled by the lives of people they've bought or taken from among us. Thousands. More.” He shook his head again, in rejection of Roth's diplomatic charade. “No, there's no peace to be had with them. I would rather not go to war. But the Quiet are coming. And they come with intractable intentions. If you let this Convocation fail, trust me, it will be the last thing you think about when the Quiet sweep through your homelands and thresh them like spoiled wheat.”

Helaina let Grant's words linger a moment, then spoke quietly but firmly. “Who will answer this Convocation's call?”

Hands began to go up. And the clear indication was that there'd be no further need to deliberate. But before a count could be taken, Roth spoke again.

“My regent, I have one last argument to make. And then, I give my word, I'll be led by the crowd.”

Helaina looked warily at him. “And what is that, Ascendant?”

“I can't present it today, I'm afraid.” He smiled apologetically. “May I beg a day's indulgence? I'll be ready for tomorrow's session.”

“She doesn't have to wait,” Grant reminded them all.

“No, she doesn't,” Roth agreed, and turned his appeal to the many leaders around the inner table. “But if I can show you that this isn't necessary, wouldn't you at least want to hear me out?”

Several turned to Helaina, nodding approval for a day's delay.

“It's a trick,” Grant whispered to Helaina.

But Helaina was bound to honor the Convocation's general wish, and they adjourned.

As the hall cleared, Helaina stood and took Grant's hand warmly. “We can make it through one night. We have the votes. It would have appeared uncompromising to deny him. And I've a feeling a few of these seats are being pinched.” She smiled at that. “My indulgence of Roth on this point will help us eventually.”

Grant had a restless, uneasy feeling about it, but let it go for now, escorting Helaina from the Convocation hall, where it appeared his own brand of convincing might have helped them earn the day. Helaina's tight lock on his arm seemed to say as much, and proved a welcome reward for the effort.

 

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

The Bourne: Elegy

The problem of most messiahs is that the very compassion which stirs them to save a people also makes them faint of heart when there's killing to be done.

—From Sedgel writings,
In Search of Shelah

T
hey marched into the town of Jopal in the broad light of day. Kett Valan's shoulders and chest still burned with the ritual branding he'd received after giving himself to Quietus. His skin now bore the same marks as worn by the six Bar'dyn he led, as well as the Sedgel leadership emblem. The painful scars raised by the meticulous application of hot irons wove in alternating swoops and jags across his skin. He chewed root after root of balsa plant to dull the pain.

His old friend Lliothan was with them. He commanded the squad, and took orders from Kett. But there wasn't much to say. Their assignment was simple. Kett suspected Lliothan had been assigned to him more to keep his eye on Kett than help him.

It was midday, a time when field workers were home to take meals before returning to dredge the rows of brickle grass after the morning's irrigation. There needed to be a lot of witnesses.

He didn't rush. News of their entrance to the Inveterae town needed to spread. And he was still trying to think of a way out of this. Before long, crowds did begin to gather along the dirt roads. Hundreds of Gotun, his own kind, looked on. He could see expressions of surprise, disgust, and worry at the sight of the branding that marred his skin. The size of the crowd made him grateful that Inveterae weren't allowed to have weapons. An armed mob of this size would slaughter him and his small Bar'dyn detachment in moments. But untrained, and against the vicious steel of the Quietgiven, they would not attack. Or so he hoped.

He stopped in the middle of the street and halted his new companions. He turned a slow circle, surveying the mix of buildings, some raised of ailantus and cercis wood bleached by rain and wind, others built of dark grey stone mortared with black clay. Everything appeared somewhat muted through watery light under a ceiling of low clouds. The air hung damp today, promising rain later. The same rains that gave rise to the grasses and ironwood trees and dark green brambles that suggested edible crops might be easier to raise here.

Around him, all had stopped to watch what he and his Bar'dyn contingent would do. The shuffle of heavy feet and the taking of midday meals had ceased. It placed him on an eerie stage, and yet this was precisely what the Jinaal sought—his own people's complete attention to Kett's commission.

A mild wind swept up the street, cooling his seared skin. He nodded, mostly to himself, and turned to the building on his right, the home of Reelan Sotal … a friend.

Reelan had been Kett's first confidant. They had met as guards, both having been placed on assignment over one of the human birthing camps. Light duty—when men and women from south of the Pall came into the Bourne, they quickly lost their sense of hope. Inveterae had to do little more than be sure they were fed and that they worked at whatever menial task the camps had for them—cultivation of crops, quarry shifts, some iron work. That, and the captives needed to remain healthy enough to have babies.

It had been his time at that post with Reelan when he'd first realized he had to do something about his ideas of escaping the Bourne. It had taken seeing a certain light go out of human eyes—as their expressions came to resemble those of Inveterae—to realize what his own kind had lost. Human women and children held on to some hope of escape for a few days, maybe weeks, before it slipped away. Usually it occurred naturally, without any assistance or punishment by the camp guards; the Bourne had a way about it.

He'd seen that
human
look before, though. Saw it in Inveterae children, who knew no other way, no other place. They lost it too, in their late childhood, when they became aware of their world. Inveterae called that look, that feeling,
the music
.

He and Reelan had begun to talk about when they'd stopped hearing the music. And when they were far enough from others not to be heard, they had whispered heretical things: revolt … escape.

Looking now at the door of his oldest friend's house, he hesitated. But only for a moment; any more and his Bar'dyn detachment would question. Or worse, go to it themselves. He crossed to Reelan's door and knocked. He could feel the collective weight of stares at his back. That's what the Jinaal wanted: witnesses, to quell the thoughts of separation, and to destroy any loyalty the Inveterae might show Kett.

The door opened, and Kett looked down at Salah, a young Gotun girl maybe four years old. She still held in her youthful eyes the light of one who had not yet fully realized who or where she was.
The music
. Reelan's daughter immediately recognized him and hugged his legs.

“Salah,” Kett said evenly, “please go get your father.”

“Don't you want to come in?” she asked. “We have fresh roots. There's stew.”

The meaty smell of their midday meal met his nose, and Kett fought back the memory of many such meals taken in this very home.

Kett edged his tone. “Not today, Salah. Go get your father.”

Salah looked up into his eyes, confused and a little hurt. But she went, leaving the door ajar. He listened in the stillness. All movement of the crowd on the road behind him had stopped. The scurry of feet inside his friend's home receded. Then heavier steps approached, and Reelan pulled the door open wide.

His friend's face showed a pleased look at the sight of Kett, and quickly fell when his eyes moved past him to the Bar'dyn and the waiting crowd of onlookers.

Then, Reelan's eyes found the branding across Kett's shoulders and chest. In a soft voice, he said, “You're given. It's as you planned.”

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. Reelan knew of Kett's tribunal, of his ploy to get close to the Quiet as a means to gain their confidence and the information that might help them escape the Bourne. But his friend didn't know why he came to his home this day.

“Close the door,” he said. “Leave your family inside.”

Reelan gave him a puzzled look, but did as he was asked. “Why have you brought Bar'dyn here?”

Kett wished he had time to explain it all. Together they might even have thought of a way out of this. But it had all happened so fast, and he hadn't had time or opportunity to communicate with any of his fellows.

He looked back at his friend, trying to convey as much with his expression as he could, but found his face incapable of saying so much. And further hesitation in administering his newfound duty would be reported back to the Jinaal. He must do this now, or not at all.

May the Fathers forgive me.

He spoke loudly, so all could hear. “Reelan Sotal, you are a known separatist and are charged with sedition against the Quietgiven who protect and sustain you.”

Another confused look touched Reelan's face. “What are you doing?”

“There will be no tribunal, Reelan Sotal,” he continued. “I know about your conspiracy, because I was part of it. But that was before I found a better way. The right way.”

Reelan shook his head, and spoke low, so only Kett could hear him. “Is there no other way?”

Kett nearly faltered. He nearly gave up his ruse. His friend had a family. Just as Kett did. It was the reason he was trying to get them out of the Bourne to begin with. He had to hold to that. And he was closer now. He knew the Jinaal were seeking a labraetates, a singer with the same power of song the Mors had before they'd used that song to escape the Bourne. But he needed more information, and in the meantime he'd been given this task. To kill his colleagues with whom he'd plotted separation. To kill his friends.

But he could give them hope for their families before he did so. He would take that much of a chance for them.