Trial of Intentions (79 page)

“You thought I'd come back to kill you? You know me better than that.”

She shrugged. “A smart woman learns to ignore her instincts where men are concerned. Anyway, there's rarely harm in preparation.”

“And you put this preparation into play when Roth went madhouse with the Civilization Order,” Grant surmised. “What's next?” He honestly couldn't wait to hear it. He remembered again that more than her physical beauty—which was nothing to blink at, even now—he reveled in the beauty of her mind. She could outmaneuver a seer.

She looked at Artixan. “How did you convince Roth I was dead?”

The elder Sheason smiled with a gleam of mischievousness. “I dropped you into a kind of sleep. Let even your heart rest for a few moments. It's tricky work, but I'm no new pony.”

Helaina chuckled warmly. “That was a gap in my plan. I should have considered that Roth would want to know for himself.” She then spoke to both of them. “My ‘death' gives us an opportunity.” She shifted her position, sitting up. “Alive, I would have had to direct Van Steward to mount civil action against the League.”

“You mean civil war,” Grant clarified, not wanting anyone deceived about what was happening in the streets of Recityv.

“Which by itself would be challenging,” she affirmed. “Van Steward is loyal to me, but by law he serves the High Council, which Roth now controls. Or will.”

“Well, we'll see,” Grant said. “But go on.”

“Van Steward would fight the tide of civil unrest that the League has fostered. And the High Council would be split, likely disbanded, and the rule of law in Recityv destroyed. All of which would lead to more death, and at a time when we have other concerns.”

“But if you were thought to be dead,” Grant offered, picking up the logic, “Recityv could remain whole, even if under the rule of the Ascendant and his League.”

She nodded. “If I'm gone, the Council can continue. Van Steward will still have his army to protect the people. And more importantly, he'll remain close to Roth, which will be critical to us later on. We'll also have public sympathy on our side. My death and all.” She smiled demurely at her own deception. “That sentiment will temper Recityv's optimism about the Ascendant's regency.”

“Your martyrdom becomes our best ally. Clever.” He showed a thin smile.

“‘Martyrdom' is a bit strong, but yes, while we see to other things,” she conceded.

“What other things?” he asked.

“The Mor Nation Refrains. I'll go and petition for their use.” She paused, nodding as if to convince herself it was possible. “Now's the time. I sent a letter, but there's been no response. And we obviously can't wait here any longer. I believe I need to go there, personally. And if I'm successful, I'll renew a very old alliance.” She nodded at her own plan. “One that should make reclaiming my regent seat rather academic.”

“
If
the Council remains intact,” Grant argued. “And you're right when you say that it must. Which is why I've invited A'Garlen here.”

“Thinking ahead.” She gave him one of her trusting looks. “We make a good team when we share the same goal.”

Another surge of old emotion filled him. He remembered what it had been like—even before they'd shared the pleasure of each other's bodies—when they'd gotten into this kind of rhythm. Having her trust gave him courage. He guessed it was the same for most men with women they loved.

“Tell me,” she asked, “why are we sharing my death with A'Garlen?”

Grant gave her a look as though it should be obvious. “The man's a walking disruption. If he attends the Council while you're gone—”

“Walking disruption,” came a growly voice from behind them, “can I use that?”

They turned to see Vendanj and Braethen leading the old author into the secret bedchamber. A'Garlen puttered forward, looking generally put out to be asked to do anything.

Grant smiled. “The rest of the Council, in their ignorance, will continue doing what they've been doing. That'll suit Roth. A few members will vote against him, but they know he controls the majority, so no one's in any real danger. Roth will likely use the fact that there's disagreement as evidence of healthy governance.”

Helaina jumped ahead of him. “But Author Garlen tips the scales in Council votes. And he'd vote against Roth just to cause the man distress.” She shifted to watch the old author amble close. “Better he not occupy his Council seat. Otherwise, Roth might just dispense with the Council altogether. Or do something to Garlen. And we're going to need both the Council and Garlen after our visit to the Mor nations. That the size of it?”

“That's the size of it,” Grant confirmed, giving Helaina a wide grin.

“Do I get one of those leathery smiles?” A'Garlen asked Grant, coming near Helaina on the other side of the bed.

“Not if I have to read one of your damned stories in exchange,” Grant replied, keeping his smile on. It was good to see the old storyteller.

The author shot back a wicked grin. “You don't have to repeat your little speech,” he said, waving dismissive fingers at Grant. “I'll avoid the High Council parties. But I'm afraid the Ascendant may not leave me be, even so.”

Grant gave the author a close look. “Why is that?”

“Roth came to see me recently,” said Garlen, making it sound storylike. “Looking for new friends, he was. Wanted my vote. But there's nothing to leverage against me, really, so I sent him away feeling sorry for himself.”

“Sorry?” Grant asked.

“Well, that's the thing, see. When he came knocking, he made me mad, and I accidentally showed him a bit of why he'd better stop trying to coerce me.” The old man's wiry eye brows rose, lifting his forehead into a series of deep grooves. He seemed to be waiting for Grant to deduce …

“You wrote the glyphs,” Grant said, knowing there could be no other answer.

“That I did, my boy. Just happened.” He mimed doing so again here, weaving his hand through the air. “Then I warned him not to awaken that old power or this old codger against him. But, if I know the Ascendant, he'll be looking for a way to put it to his advantage.” A'Garlen took Helaina's hand in his knobby fingers. “But don't you fear that, Anais. It can't be coerced, nor am I aware of any author who possesses the ability who would use it to help the League.”

“That's a broad assumption, my friend.” Grant looked over at Vendanj to get his sense of this news. The Sheason's brow was drawn tight, as though he was thinking through the consequences of this new revelation.

Braethen stepped closer, getting the author's attention. “I don't know if they're true or not, but I've read accounts of authors who practice the Seriphic craft, and who might actually be sympathetic to Roth. They're a loosely aligned set of authors, whose stories are grim tales with only one kind of audience. After starving for a reception of their words that never comes, these authors fall to other uses of their gifts.” He paused, an almost comic expression of realization on his face. “It's the same sect of authors willing to do forgery … like E'Sau's diary.”

A'Garlen studied the sodalist. “By the rotten gods, boy, do you have an answer for everything?” He glared a bit at Braethen, then turned back to Helaina. “Yes, there are rumors of these story hobbyists. But they are
not
authors. Their craft has taken them down another road. Don't lump me in with those bastards.”

The old growler wasn't seeing Grant's point. “But you've shown Roth it's possible,” Grant said, irritated. “Now he'll be searching for anyone willing to use it in his service. Old man, your anger makes you a damn fool.”

“That's how anger works. Besides, didn't you hear our resident know-everything? Roth likely has them in his employ, and just doesn't know it yet.” Garlen tapped his lip, nodding in concession. “But perhaps I was a bit rash at that. Still, what's done is done. About your strategy, though. I'll tell the Ascendant that the authors won't sit on his Council. That we object to his whole damn League. I don't have to affect
that
emotion. Our absence means he doesn't have to worry about my vote canceling out the vote of one of his cronies. That ought to suit him just fine. Then, you let me know when you're ready for me, and I'll drag myself back to Solath Mahnus again to see what I can do to help. Good enough?”

“No, Garlen, not good enough,” Vendanj said. He went around the bed to stand near the old author, towering over him. “The Seriphic craft, dimensional inscriptions on the air. It's a rare use of glyphs, and one we may need before this is all over.”

“Ah, damn,” A'Garlen groaned. “Means you need some words for free, doesn't it?” This time, though, the old author grinned. “Vendanj, you, and maybe leathery over there, are probably the only two men I know who are as prickly as I am. That'll buy you a few.”

Vendanj began to smile in return. “Not just yours,” he added. “We'll need an army of scribblers with Seriphic talents.”

“It'll be an army of a handful, my boy. It's about as rare as those who sing Suffering. But I'll go to work finding them. I suppose it'll get me down from my writing perch and out on the roads again. I don't think I'll mind that, actually.”

Vendanj's smile sweetened into appreciation. “Thank you, Garlen.”

“That leaves Convocation,” Helaina said, sounding suddenly more magisterial. “I heard you give some direction on that.” She looked at Grant, waiting.

“The Convocation is lost,” Grant said bluntly. “In terms of what you'd hoped for, anyway. If it continues in full, Roth will use it to more deeply secure his hold on those nations who've come.”

“But there were many who pledged support—”

“They're being contacted. I'll meet them tonight, and have their oaths to stand ready for when they're needed.”

Helaina seemed satisfied. “Then we should begin preparations to leave.”

Grant heard the “we” in her statement. “I'll need to stay with Vendanj. We leave soon for Estem Salo to meet Tahn and the others.”

“You will take me to the Mors,” Helaina stated matter-of-factly. “I'll need the strongest, most able guides. Plus, I'll want men I can trust. We don't know how the Mor nations will respond to my arrival. There may be old resentments.”

“Helaina—” Grant started to say.

“It's decided,” the regent snapped. “I see nothing in my request that violates your precious
Charter
. So unless you're also lawless, there's nothing more to discuss.”

Vendanj was looking intently at Grant. “We must have the Refrains. And Helaina may be the only one who can convince the Mors that's true. It's critical she arrive there safely. We'll be fine getting to Estem Salo. And you know I'll watch after Tahn.”

Grant saw the wisdom in it. “Fair enough. We should leave today.”

“I have one other that I'll want to accompany us,” Helaina said.

Before Grant could ask who it was she wished to take, Vendanj was dashing toward the door.

“What is it?” Grant asked, drawing his sword.

The Sheason reached the door, yanked it open, and turned back, impatient. “Your plan's a good one. But it also means Roth will continue to execute the expanded Civilization Order.” Vendanj disappeared through the door, pulling it shut behind him more loudly than Grant would have liked.

But the Sheason hadn't needed to explain further. Like sheep awaiting slaughter, some Sheason were being held in the depths below Solath Mahnus.
Rolen
.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

Mending

Having the power to heal, or save, doesn't mean you should. That kind of singing has particular consequences. But so does keeping quiet.

—“The Sound of Silence,” a discourse on Resonance taught during the study of absolute sound

T
he quiet light of morning bathed the luthier workshop. The lutherie occupied a place on the eastern side of Descant, high up on the cathedral's seventh story. Windows five times Wendra's height dominated the eastern wall. The slow drifting of motes in the slanted sunlight lent a kind of peaceful feeling to the quiet. The smell of milled wood and hand tools hung in the air.

She eased into the workshop, noting tables and racks laden with broken instruments. They appeared to be lined up awaiting the expert hand of a craftsman to repair them—violins with broken necks, lutes with cracked facings, drums with split heads, horns with crimped or missing valves.

As she moved deeper into the domain of Descant's master luthier, she heard the sound of something softly scraping. A moment later she came to find Belamae seated at a workbench, bathed in the warm light from the windows, and bent over a broken violin. She had rarely seen the Maesteri so relaxed. It puzzled her, given what she'd heard was happening not far away in the city.

“Come have a seat,” he said, continuing to work at the instrument.

Wendra took a seat beside him, facing the great windows. Up close, and maybe because of the light, he looked weaker than she'd ever seen him. His kerchief was on the other side from her, sitting atop the workbench. She could see blood on it.

For now, though, he breathed easy. And she had questions. She started to inquire twice before realizing there was no delicate way to ask why he sat here while others might be dying. “Have you heard there's fighting on the plaza?”

He slid a handwritten note across the workbench and left it for her to read. It was a letter from the regent, asking Belamae not to be distracted by political upheavals or even open conflict. Helaina wrote of the importance of the Song of Suffering and Belamae's focus on training Leiholan and keeping them safe. She wrote that the Song was more important than politics. That it must endure. That he should stay put. Him and all those at Descant.