Trial of Intentions (8 page)

That was the secret of his heart. The heresy, some might say. Back home in the Scar, that small hope had started him writing during the evening hours. Writing—or maybe
rewriting
was more accurate—the Charter. The original Charter may never have actually been a document. But it was said that the Framers had established the purpose and values for this world during the Age of Creation. If followed, those values would lead to fairness, refinement, peace. But the gods left. People lost sight of the Charter. And disregarding its purpose seemed to bring no consequence.

So, he'd begun writing the Charter down. What he understood of it. But adding to it, too. A new tract, for how things ought to be. Principles to guide actions and choices.
Ethics, by every absent god!
And real consequences. Consequences one could see and feel personally, without reliance on laws or soldiers … or even vengeance. But to give it weight, make it real, he knew he'd need to find the authority to breathe life into his ideas. Something like the Covenant Tongue. To make his ideas binding. To change the fabric of things. Change the way people thought. Change the way they regarded one another.

It was a preposterously large idea.

It was the secret of his heart.

And his little document had become like a primrose in his Scar desert, reminding him in the smallest, most delicate way … of something beautiful.

My primrose …

It was an ideal. He knew that. But he hadn't been able to give it up.

Inside the library, small pedestals lined the walls. Atop each, a wide basin filled with oil fueled a lit wick. In the stillness, their flames didn't flutter or wave. Their soft light caught the edges of a single, unending line of text chiseled into the shale walls at eye level. He assumed the foreign letters to be the Covenant Tongue.

The candles also illuminated a few shelves of books set against the walls. Beside each of these sat a padded chair, as though a place to read those same volumes. At the center of the room, another pedestal stood, ringed by more oil-basin candles. On it, a single book.

He'd imagined a great archive, endless shelves, stacks of parchment and bins of scrolls. He'd envisioned layers of maps and paintings and tomes of math and equations and philosophy. He'd been sure he'd see star charts, and histories written in hundreds of derivations, all in different tongues. There'd be countless copy desks, where inkwells served scriveners rerecording the thoughts and translations of generations, sometimes expounding on the work, interpreting, distilling, illuminating …

None of this.

Beyond the modest number of books and the attendant chairs in which to peruse them, there was only the one book. And no great tome was this. Rather, on the pedestal rested a small, thin volume with a dark leather binding. Several small candles placed around the lip of the pedestal washed the book in warm light.

There could be no more than five pages in it. How could such a volume contain the whole of the Covenant Tongue? And yet, after regarding the book a moment, he became convinced. Great power didn't draw attention to itself. Real strength came in simple forms, subtle movements. New confidence filled him, until a figure stood up in the shadows beyond the pedestal, reached down, and picked up the small book.
Velle!

“Put it back,” Grant commanded evenly, though his heart thrummed.

The Velle caressed the leather binding and casually thumbed through a few pages before looking up at him. “You're too late.”

Keeping his eyes trained on the Quiet, Grant told Mira to close the door. “You have no way out.”

Its laugh was soft, unconcerned. “I will leave the way I came.” Then it turned to look at Mira. “You, at least, should find some peace in this.
All
Far have now failed their oath.”

Mira didn't reply, and moved into the light of one of the oil basins.

“The book won't do you any good.” Braethen stepped to Grant's left, his sword in hand. “You've no codex to decipher it.”

“And how do you know this?” the Velle asked with patient amusement.

“Because you watched the library at Qum'rahm'se burn. If you had a way to translate that book,” Braethen pointed at the volume in its hands, “you wouldn't have gone there in the first place. The scriveners at Qum'rahm'se had been trying to assemble a way to decode the Language for centuries. They burned their work rather than see it fall into your hands.”

The Velle's face slackened, its amusement gone. “We are not idle in the Bourne, Sodalist. You'll want to remember that when we return to the Eastlands.” It raised a hand toward them.

In the stillness came the sound of bow wood flexing. The Velle's eyes widened in surprise, its gesture frozen as Tahn stepped in front of them all.

“Put the book down,” Grant's son said.

The Velle stared back with an appraising look. “You know by now that you're not like them.”

Tahn deepened his draw.

Grant moved left, trying to get behind the Velle. “We can make it quick for you. Just put the book back.”

The Velle paid Grant no mind, focusing on Tahn. “Your little sticks are meaningless, Quillescent.”

Tahn seemed to consider this a moment, reluctance touching his features. Then he dropped the arrow nocked in his bow. It fell harmlessly and clattered on the floor. Next he let go the string. But the bow didn't relax. He curled his fingers in the empty air, as though drawing again.

This is what he did at Tillinghast.

Concern passed across the Velle's face. It made a quick circular motion with its fingers and thrust its free hand at Grant, who'd gotten within a few strides. Grant flew backward as though struck hard in the chest. A sudden sound like shattering glass filled the library. His sword, his knives, Mira's blade, they all broke into a hundred pieces like ice cast against stone. Only Braethen's blade and Tahn's bow seemed unaffected.

Tahn pulled deeper still. A brief look of uncertainty crossed his face, as if he wasn't sure he could control what he was about to do. Then his expression hardened, and he let go his draw. Candles guttered. Pages in open books flapped. A wave of distorted light shot across the library, as though the light was bending around something Grant couldn't see. It struck the Velle, sank into it, and dropped it to the floor. Tahn collapsed near Vendanj.

No one moved. Not even the Velle. Moments stretched. Was it over so fast? Breaking the silence, the Quiet muttered something from where it lay on the other side of the library. Then it began rising toward the ceiling.

“It's trying to escape!” Vendanj called out.

Mira swept up a document lying atop a nearby reading table, crumpled it lengthwise, and set it alight with the flame of a candle. She then scooped up an oil basin and rushed the Quiet. Half a moment later, she splashed the rising Velle with oil and leapt, catching hold of its feet before it reached the ceiling. She lit its oil-soaked robe, then dropped, landing hard and ripping off her own burning tunic before she was engulfed in flames.

The oil flared and in the space of a few breaths the Velle looked like a living torch. Its flesh seared, its hair sizzled. Yawps of pain puffed the flames licking over its mouth.

The fire spread up its arms toward the book it held aloft.

The Velle writhed in the air as it neared the ceiling. Grant stood up as the creature cried out a final time and fell to the floor, engulfed in flames.

My primrose!

He rushed past the pedestal, toward the Velle, hoping to save the book before fire consumed it.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Imparting

It is thought that memories leave a residue that alters the corporeal and incorporeal self. If true, then memories have an energy of their own.

—From “Behaviorial Postulates,” a Sheason reader on the topic of consequence

A
s Grant rushed toward the burning Velle, Braethen turned and dropped to his knees beside Vendanj. The Sheason's breath rasped in his throat, his face gaunt and wet and red, as with winter fever. Braethen placed his ear on Vendanj's chest and heard a weak, irregular beat.

This needs more than a sprig of herb.
He closed his eyes and concentrated, recalling a particular tale from an old volume. A passage about a healing ritual. Something a
practiced
sodalist could do. It involved more than applying a salve or drinking a nostrum remedy.
Damn me, he needs a
blackcoat,
someone acquainted with prayer.

He'd never even seen this old rite done. For pity's sake, he could count the number of days he'd actually been a sodalist.

And what if I do it wrong?

Mira startled him. “Sodalist! Do something!”

He placed one trembling hand on Vendanj's forehead and the other on his own chest. He then closed his eyes … breathed. In, out. In, out. He pushed everything else out of his mind, finding a place of inner calm where only he and the Sheason seemed to exist. Then, as best he could remember them, he spoke the words to this old sodalist custom:

“
Isala, els uretae.
As I have, so may you.”

He repeated it. Again and again. And filled his mind with images of himself, images of the Sheason, back and forth. He had no idea how long he'd been concentrating on the simple phrase, when his hands began to feel warm on Vendanj's skin. And moments later, his entire body began to sweat as Vendanj's did. Weakness flooded him.

He
was feeling the effects of passing through the shale ceiling. Vendanj had aligned the matter of his body with that of the stone so that he could slip through. It had been an immense act of rendering. It felt like water passing through scouring sand, abrasive to every part of him.

Then vague forms and shadows danced past, too quick to be seen or understood. With them came smell and color and sound, all whisked away like a breath on the wind before he could name them. Suddenly, he found himself looking out on a small town. It was well after dark hour.
One of Vendanj's memories.

*   *   *

Far away, lantern light flickered in windows like light-flies against the dusk. A few open fires burned here and there, touching the nearest surfaces with light and giving shape to the outbuildings of Maelar. The river town nestled beside the banks of the Tolin River some fifty leagues north of the fork where the Tolin and Cantle Rivers converged.

Vendanj had come into the far north of Alon'Itol to see for himself, to confirm the infestation. He'd not even had to enter Maelar to know: The Quiet had taken root here. He felt it as surely as the wind on his skin.

Beside him, waiting patiently in the dark, stood his wife, Illenia. “What do you see?”

“Quietgiven,” he said. “More than I can count. And the people there are helping them.” He paused, staring across at the unassuming river town. “It's not a launch point for invasion, though. It serves a different purpose.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

He shook his head, not wanting to say it out loud.

Illenia's next words anticipated his purpose. “Surely there are some here who don't serve the Quiet's cause.”

He didn't answer this either. Instead, he turned and watched as the shadows thrown by firelight grew weaker against the river's dark edge.

With gentle insistence, Illenia repeated her question.

He took her hand. “Maybe. And if there are, they unknowingly provide cover and protection for Quiet plans.”

“We'll get them out.” She began walking toward Maelar.

Vendanj pulled her back. “Even if some are untouched, trying to warn them will cause panic. And panic will alert the Quiet.”

“Then we'll drive them out of Maelar. Send them back across the Pall.” She looked into his eyes with a quizzical expression. She clearly wanted to understand his hesitation.

“Chasing them out doesn't solve the problem. They would find another place to do their work. We need to put an end to them here, tonight.” He hated his own implication.

Illenia stared him in the eye. “Then tell me, what is their work?”

With little more than a look, she was offering to help shoulder his burden. So, he told her, explaining that this port town so near the Pall was trafficking men, women, and children into the Bourne. The river provided easy movement, and along its edge were towns with willing conspirators.

“Why?” she asked in her unique way. Illenia believed that with enough information, every problem had a solution.

Vendanj shook his head again. He didn't truly know. He had his suspicions, but no proof. And it wasn't something he would speculate about. He only repeated, “We must put an end to them here, tonight.”

Understanding slowly spread on her beautiful face. Then came horror and disbelief. “No, Vendanj, you mustn't. Say you won't.”

He showed his beloved sympathetic but unyielding eyes.

“You can't,” she persisted. “They don't know. They deserve a chance to—”

Vendanj put his palm against her cheek to gently silence her. “I'm sorry, Illenia. If you must hate me for it…” Then, softer, he added, “There is no other way.”

He turned, and in those small hours of early evening, faced the town at the river's edge.
Forgive me.
He hunkered down and traced an emblem in the dirt at his feet. The same emblem that he had, over the last few days, traced on every shutter, every door, every gate in the town of Maelar. He spoke a few words, drawing the Will within him. Then he settled his hands on the inscribed soil. The air shimmered in the shadows, undulating like the surface of a lake rippled by wind. The force of Will raced through the night, catching in the symbols far away in the town, setting them alight. The flames leapt instantly, uncontrollable and raging.