Trial of Intentions (68 page)

Roth tapped the parchment in the sodalist's hands. “Some who are willing to sign this are yet unwilling to side against Helaina. Most of her friendships go back a lot of years. And I've a feeling that the expanded order will be disruptive enough to Convocation to help them see my point. At the very least, I'll have two more votes for dissolution: yours and the absence of Artixan's. I'll deal with the rest during the adjournment of Convocation that will surely come once this is signed into law … which happens tonight.”

Palon looked pleadingly at Roth. “If I do this, Estem Salo will forsake us. The Randeur. The Sodality leadership—”

“Then you become your own Sodality,” said Roth, pointing at Palon's chest. “Better to decide your own damn fate, anyway, isn't it!”

Palon's eyes were distant. “I can't decide this alone. It takes the support of the Second and Third Sodalists—”

“Who I've already met with,” Roth interjected, “and secured their support.”

Then all fell quiet. Palon, who'd been the First Sodalist of Recityv and Vohnce for all of a few minutes, stewed in the cauldron Roth had placed him in.

“How would you do it?” Palon asked sometime later.

Roth had considered it carefully. He couldn't announce the change broadly and proceed with incarcerations and scheduled executions in due course. It would have to be a hammer stroke. Quick and sudden. The whole thing might fail if he left time for due process, debate, or for the Sheason to mobilize and fight back. He'd long ago conceived a cleansing sweep of Recityv. The methodical plans for that were laid out and waiting. He'd even selected the time and place to alert Helaina. There might be complications with so many visiting dignitaries in the city, but success was just a matter of timing.

“Leave that to me.”

Many, many long moments later, the man's head bent forward. There was the barest of nods. Roth coaxed a pen into Palon's hand. The word “Sodality” was stricken from the document, and a loose scrawl added to the last page.

It had gone as he'd hoped. But he didn't rush to leave. He stayed sitting by Palon after he'd won the signature. It was the strangest thing; the home seemed smaller. Tighter. It reminded him of his own boyhood home that morning when he'd been dragged away from his father in exchange for a debt. It was a wounded feeling. A defeated one. That deep, deep ache. He hated the feel of it. But didn't abandon Palon to it. The young man had made a very hard decision. A right one. But it had cost him much. And would cost him more, when others learned of it. But for the time being, Roth spoke in hushed tones, sharing examples of how the young man's choice was a good one.

 

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

A Widening Schism

The question I ask myself is whether this is yet another branch in the Sheason Order, or whether it's the same division as occurred with the first Trial of Intentions.

—From the journal of Randeur Thaelon Solas

V
endanj woke to the feel of a cool wet cloth dabbing his forehead. Through the gloom, he looked up into a gaunt face he thought he knew, but didn't immediately recognize. After a few moments, he realized he'd been moved during one of his deep sleeps—which often came after prolonged use of the Will—and placed in a cell with Rolen after all.

“Artixan had me moved here?” It wasn't really a question.

“Came with the turnkey himself,” Rolen said, wiping his brow again with the wet cloth.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Several hours,” Rolen answered. “I'm guessing the cumulative effects of rendering and endless parading around the countryside have gotten you into this condition. You should rest.”

Vendanj made no effort to sit up. Instead, he lay still, allowing Rolen to dab more water over his skin. “You don't look well, yourself. You'll die of disease if they don't execute you first.”

“I always could count on you for a cheery thought,” Rolen said, his hollow cheeks pulling into a grim semblance of a smile.

Vendanj offered a weak but genuine smile in return. They might have fundamental differences—Rolen was of Thaelon's mind—but they were also good friends.

“Why
haven't
they executed you yet?” Vendanj asked. But before Rolen could speak, he added his own answer: “They use your ability for their own needs.”

Rolen nodded, his head a bobbing silhouette. “An execution day has been delayed several times. Leaguemen find their way into my cell late at night with injuries and ailments. A few come raving, as though fractured in the mind. I mend them all. It seems I've become a pet.”

Vendanj frowned. “We'll share this with Helaina. She'll use it to strike the Civilization Order from the Library of Common Understanding.” He finally sat up.

Another faint smile shone from his old friend's face. “They'll deny it, and I have no proof. Besides, I'd offer the help even if I were sitting in my own home.”

“That's not the point, and you know it,” Vendanj argued. “If it suits their needs, the League is glad to exploit even those things it condemns. We need to expose their hypocrisy. Otherwise,” he sighed, “otherwise the Civilization Order will destroy the fraternity we both swore to preserve.”

Rolen fixed him with a grave expression. “The Sheason Order is already dead, my friend. At least as it existed when you and I took our oaths. What it becomes … we'll have to wait and see.”

“You won't live to
see
any of it,” Vendanj observed, without malice. “You deplete your own Forda to heal these dogs. Without sleep and food, you can't properly replenish what you expend. They're killing you, sure enough. They're just doing it slowly.”

“If I'm going to die,” Rolen offered another of his smiles, “I'd rather do so returning health and peace of mind—”

“To your accusers and jailors?”

“Yes.”

“Even though you know their intention is the end of
all
Sheason?” Vendanj stared through the dimness, feeling his anger turning toward his friend.

“If I follow the dictates of my conscience only when it's convenient, then my oath means nothing.” Rolen shook his head. “I think we've said all this before.”

“I'd hoped mealy bread and daily beatings might make you sensible.” Vendanj smiled through the darkness.

“Is that a joke?” Rolen said back, delighted surprise and humor in his voice. “Maybe there's hope for you, after all. What have those Hollows boys taught you that I couldn't?”

Vendanj struggled to his feet. “You know I won't stay here. You'll be left to your slow death unless you come with me.”

“Again, I think this is ground we've covered before,” Rolen said, smiling weakly. “What of the Randeur? I've not heard where his heart lies on the matter.”

Vendanj rubbed the back of his head, feeling the bruises there. “I don't know if he'd join you in this prison cell, but I'm not sure he'll see my logic, either.”

Rolen nodded, seeming neither pleased nor grieved. “You know what that means.”

He did. If the Randeur decided he and Vendanj weren't aligned on the Sheason path, it would leave Vendanj at the head of a Sheason faction that must part ways with the order.

“I'm not alone,” Vendanj replied. “There are many who believe we should give men what they need, not what they
think
they need.”

Without condescension, Rolen replied, “The danger, my friend, is you thinking you know what they need most.”

Vendanj held his silence for a long time. It was too late for rethinking any of this. He wasn't wrong. He lived in a confusing time, in an age of rumor. Even good men, guided by conscience, had fallen into a way of thinking that threatened them all. Like Rolen. How could he make his friend see?

Ultimately, he left it alone. Rolen was as stubburn as Vendanj himself, if in a quieter way. He only hoped that before it was all done, Rolen hadn't gone too soon to his earth.

He smiled as he considered that his friend would be thinking the same of him.

“Perhaps you're right,” he said. “But think of the Castigation during the Second Promise. Think of Siwel Trebor, when he defied the Randeur, and nearly brought destruction on the Tabernacle of the Sky. Think of the Commiseration of Soljan, when he took a dangerous view of the Whited One. Think of Jo'ha'nel himself. Be careful of complacency in your service. It's worse than daring to challenge, even if you're wrong.”

Rolen seemed hesitant to ask some question. Finally, with a cautious tone, he said, “You say there are many, but are you organized?”

“I've no Sheason army.” He gave a low laugh that sounded darker than he'd intended. “But that's not what you want to ask.”

“No, it's not.” There was a moment when it seemed Rolen wouldn't ask after all. He heard his friend swallow hard. “Do you, or any of those who follow you … seek Solemnity?” Rolen kept a hard, fixed gaze on Vendanj.

Vendanj had considered it. A practice whispered about long after fires died to ash and the whisperers could be sure no one overheard. It was one of few Sheason abilities that could
not
be taught, and among a handful that were considered profane. The power itself was an acknowledgment that in the heart of every servant lived something coarse and bitter. Some said it was one side of a balance scale, a necessary side.

It was a secret within a secret. Its pursuit was tantamount to heresy, to being Quiet oneself. Just the thought of it chilled him.

He stared back through the gloom. “I hope none of us ever goes so far.… But don't mistake me. There's only one response to the Quiet. And I'll use any means.…”

It was his friend's turn to draw out the silence between them. “That's where you and I differ, I suppose.”

Unreconciled, they began to laugh.

Vendanj would soon leave his friend to his suffering. But he wasn't ready to go yet, fearing that he might never see him again.

They spoke of simple things for a while, old memories, the missteps of their youth, time spent together in Estem Salo. Sometime later, Rolen asked, “So what precisely did you do to get thrown in the pit?”

Vendanj explained. Rolen nodded, and shared that he'd been Tahn's First Steward at his Standing, which had taken place in this very cell.

“Glad it was you to guide him into his years of accountability,” Vendanj said.

A long stretch of silence fell between them again. They each seemed to be deep in their own thoughts. Vendanj spoke first.

“The schism may be too wide to bridge.” His own voice hinted that he hoped Rolen would argue with him.

Instead, Rolen nodded and smiled sadly. “The divide is our intentions. I'm sure you know that.”

“You don't think I can convince Thaelon to help me.”

Rolen sighed, and shook his head as a parent does when talking to a defiant child. “I've touched the boy's soul. I know about his birth. I know it flies against the principles of the Charter Thaelon holds in his heart.” Subtle judgment came with his friend's next words. “And I know how you would use Tahn. The difference between you and Thaelon is your regard for the boy.”

“Then the gap is too wide.” He clenched a fist. “But I will still try to bridge it. Someone must speak sense to Sheason who wallow in thought and won't choose the right fight.”

“You realize,” Rolen said, tapping his temple to emphasize that he was going to share a
thought,
“you've offered Roth the best possible argument for broadly fulfilling the legal allowances of the Civilization Order. Maybe you're overdue for a good wallow.”

Just then, the door at the top of the cell steps opened. Passing into the harsh glare came three silhouetted forms, quickly descending the stairs. When Vendanj's eyes had adjusted to the intrusion of light, he saw that one of the men carried a heavy black bag—the type placed over the head of one being executed.

“It would seem you're right,” he said to Rolen, “about the Civilization Order. Not the wallow.” He smiled, keeping his eyes trained on the leaguemen who circled around him. “Good-bye, my friend.”

The men rushed in, seizing him. He concentrated, calling a minimal amount of Will to swell each of the men's throats, closing off their air. They all stumbled back, clutching at their necks, struggling to breathe. Gasping sounds resounded against the high ceiling of the cell as Vendanj unfettered himself from his chains and hastened from the pits of Solath Mahnus.

 

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Bargains

To succeed with a buyer, establish if he's caught in a condition of fear, whether personal or societal. The fearful man is a practical buyer. Men with no fear are impractical.

—
Merchant Fundamentals,
a guide for stock and trade, published by House Callister of Ebon South

B
eyond the walls of Recityv, Helaina wandered slowly from cart to cart along the market road. The bright of day had yet to fill the sky, leaving the world in a palette of chill blues. The barkers and beggars hadn't awoken or arrived yet. Only the industrious small-shop owners moved through the early morning, silently preparing their wares and foods for sale.

Wearing her hood up, she liked to come before the crowds arrived. She'd casually shop for small items that most would find unbefitting her office. It was a good way to limber herself for the day ahead, too. Always, Artixan walked at her side, more friend than protection. And he kept the silence, seeming to take pleasure in the speechless industry of early-morning preparations.

Many here knew her. A few for her true self. But mostly as a customer who came often and paid generously. They were vagrant merchants who capitalized on the traffic of the road. And lately, traffic had been brisk.