Trial of Intentions (80 page)

Wendra finished reading the letter and looked up at him. “But how can we sit here when there are people who could use our help? Some of them may be my friends.”

She thought she understood enough about her song now that she could focus it, not harm anyone she didn't mean to harm.

“Helaina's my friend,” he replied, still working at the broken violin. “I'll respect her wishes. In part because she's my regent. But mostly, because she's right. If we lost one Leiholan trying to defend Helaina's office, the Song would be harder to maintain. We can't have that. A great many more than those here in Recityv depend on us to sing Suffering.”

In his own way, he was telling her she shouldn't go, that she wasn't ready. If she went, her song might harm those she meant to help, despite all she'd learned. For the moment, she let the idea go.

She took a long breath, taking in the calm of Belamae's warmly lit lutherie. She guessed he'd chosen to be in this place for that feeling of peace, given what was happening in the city.

“I remember you like to repair instruments,” she asked, hoping for a bit of that peace herself.

“And I'm a fair hand at it,” he replied. “But the real gift belonged to Divad,
my
Maesteri. He could coax an artistry from wood like no other.”

She looked around, and couldn't see any instruments that appeared to be being built new. “Did he only do repair work?”

“No, of course not. But older instruments have known the touch of musicians, have played their share of music. The wood is tempered by practice and song. They've served us well. And so Divad took special pride in their restoration.” Belamae smiled. “I'm glad he did. And I honor that a little by doing the same.”

Wendra sensed a personal story in Belamae's words, but let it lie.

“I suppose I'm responsible for some of these here,” she said, looking around.

Belamae continued to work at the violin. “No matter. You're not the first Souden to break an instrument.” He stopped then, staring down into the maple shavings on the table before him. “I come here to remind myself that song can be restored. That few things are ever broken beyond repair. An encouraging thought, don't you think?”

She breathed deep, taking in the smell of the workshop. “It reminds me of my father. The man never gave up on a tool. He'd spend more time repairing a spade than it would take to make a new one.”

“Just so,” Belamae said with a pleased tone.

“Is that the lesson for today? Patience? Repairing what's broken?”

“
Impatient
to begin, are we?” He grinned at her.

She smiled wryly back at him.

“In part, yes,” he finally admitted. “This Leiholan gift, Wendra, is often misconstrued as one that only
creates
. And please understand that it does. But a song is usually needed to amend something that has gone wrong. Or it bolsters something that needs bolstering.”

“Like Suffering,” she said.

“Just so. A musician might create for himself something from whole cloth, for the sake of the sound. It pleases him to do it. And that song may even serve a need.” Belamae began to inspect the finished back piece of the violin. “But more often, a song is asked for because there's a loss or deficit that needs to be repaid. Or someone needs added strength or understanding. A song will fill the hole inside a man better than anything else ever will. Better than food. Better than prestige. And certainly better than coin. The thing that best stands him up when he'd rather remain down is a song.”

“You sound like a bit like Balatin about it.” She put a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, Anais. I'm old enough to understand how fanciful and sentimental all this sounds. But I'm also old enough to know it's true.” He shrugged. “I've seen it too often to lie about. You know it, too. First time we met, you were in need of a song to make you well, remember?”

Wendra thought back, feeling like her fever in the cave beneath the High Plains was a lifetime ago. “I remember.”

The smell of freshly shaved maple lingered around them as Belamae worked for a few more moments at the violin. Sitting there, watching him, easy contentment distilled inside her—something she hadn't known for a very long time. No thought intruded beyond the present—nothing of what she'd done, hadn't done, or should do. Nothing of the conflicts beyond Descant walls. Aware of this small, rare peace, she remained silent, simply observing, until Belamae spoke.

“But of course there's more to learn. Always more.” He put the small wood chisel aside, and picked up a length of gut. As he began stringing the violin, he explained, “There are two types of song, Wendra. Or maybe it is more helpful to say there are two ways your song can have effect. Have you discovered these yet?”

She had a sense of them. Her own song had always been aimed at someone. But she'd thought often about the Song of Suffering, which was meant to influence something far away, on the other side of the Eastlands. The Veil.

He wound the gut string on its peg, and started to thread the second. “The first we call audala, audible song. It's a song that can persuade its listener, move him, even destroy him. But it must be heard.”

“Song sung by Lacunae singers,” Wendra said, matching the song type to the vocalist type.

“Just so,” Belamae replied, smiling. “Leiholan can sing it, too, of course. Its resonance is the sound as it's interpreted by the one who hears it. That sound can touch deep inside. And yet, this type of song is lost on inanimate things, or those who cannot hear it.”

“Including one who is deaf,” she guessed.

“That's right. And we'll talk about shoarden, who sacrifice their hearing to protect Lacunae. But for today, let's speak about a second type of song, one that doesn't need to be heard to have effect. We call it ‘absolute sound,' or ‘absolute song,' if you'd prefer. This song needs no listener, no interpreter. This is the music that can touch the sound or vibration that exists in all things, even at a great distance. It takes immense skill, but the resonance isn't bound by place.”

“That's how Suffering strengthens the Veil, then.”

He nodded and strung the third length of gut. “As a singer, you learn how to manipulate your voice and mouth and body to create harmonics and resonance. But knowing how the one who
hears
your song will receive it, how to produce resonance in
him
? This is the path to attunement, and becoming Leiholan.”

“But we saw Telaya stir the crowd at Rafters. And she's not Leiholan.” Wendra picked up the next length of gut string and handed it to Belamae.

He paused in his stringing of the violin to look at her. “Those weren't trivial feelings she caused in the tavern crowd, but they weren't brought about by true knowledge. A Leiholan possesses the capacity to
deliberately feel
and understand the resonant places inside another. And once she understands these, the song she offers is an
intentional
resonance. What you did last night, Wendra, was find such a place inside each of those who heard you. It was possible because some things resonate with us all.”

“Like Suffering,” she said again.

Belamae nodded, and went on stringing the violin for a moment. He then abruptly set the violin aside, and reached to his left, where a plate scattered with sand sat on the workbench. He placed it at the edge of the table between them, and promptly produced a violin bow. He began drawing the bow up and down on the side of the plate. It made no musical sound. But the sand atop it jounced and formed itself into distinct patterns.

“Sound vibration can rearrange physical things,” the Maesteri explained. “Like this plate, which has signatures of its own. When touched by external resonances, it causes change. Here we see it in the patterns formed by the sand.” He leveled a professorial gaze at her. “What else does this little demonstration teach us?”

Wendra leaned in conspiratorially. “The bow made no sound, but had effect anyway. So, I'm guessing you have a point about absolute sound.”

Belamae grinned, and tapped her chin with the violin bow. “Just so. And it also suggests an entire course of study on inaudible sound. But that's another topic that will come much later in your training.”

“I could be here a while,” she said, smiling back.

“I hope so, my girl.” He studied her, as one deciding if he should share something. “Late last night, Ian was silenced in the Chamber of Anthems.”

She'd only met Ian once. He had a wry sense of humor for a Leiholan. “Silenced?”

“Not dead,” Belamae added. “But Suffering echoed back at him in some way I can't explain. He still breathes, but he stares ahead vacantly as if he would like to
stop
breathing. He doesn't hear anyone or anything. His voice is gone. I don't know if I can restore it.”

“But how?”

“Something is happening. Getting closer.” He shook his head. “So
many
things are happening and getting closer.”

He put the bow aside, and strung the last line of gut on the violin, tightening and tuning the full set. He hummed several notes, tuning to his own pitches until he had the instrument sounding the way he liked. Then he strummed it. Wendra watched a gratified expression touch his face.

Then, beyond him, lying on the workbench, she noticed another broken instrument. From the look of pieces and splinters, she guessed it had been a mandola. “Is it too broken to fix?”

Belamae didn't bother to follow her gaze. “With the right touch, anything—or very close to it—can be repaired, Wendra. It's just that … sometimes it's better that we choose not to.”

She turned her stare on him. “Do you speak of the instrument or the musician?”

He took an audible breath in the silence of the lutherie. “Why do you think they're not the same?”

He handed her the violin. “What you did in the performance tavern. It was the sound of spirit striking the air and declaring a person's whole wish. And the wishes of all those present. A luthier's touch will mend a broken violin. A musician's hand will play it. Like both, a Leiholan will mend and play the souls of those she sings to … as you did in a drinking house in Recityv's slum last night. Never forget that. It's a finer resonance you sang there, Wendra, than I've ever heard you sing.” He gave a slight grin before adding, “Dark as it was.

“And to bring our conversation full circle, this is the power of song I'm training in you. You're making fine progress, but you've still much to learn.” He showed her a patient smile. “If you'd gone to the square today, joined the fight, I don't think you'd have been able to keep control of your song. Not yet. Not in open conflict. And you might well have harmed those you meant to defend. Your song is yet more Lacunae than Leiholan. Though you're on the path, my girl.”

She wanted to argue with Belamae, but she knew he was right.

He looked almost frail in that moment. But he put his hand over hers with fatherly warmth. “And here's the last of today's lesson. I'm suffering. Oh yes, my body is failing. I'll go to my earth soon. But that's not what I mean.” He tapped the regent's note, which still lay on the bench before them. “While I respect Helaina's wishes, I've had word … she has fallen…”

The news hit Wendra like a forge hammer in the chest. “What? When?”

Belamae shook his head in a slow, disbelieving motion, his face drawn in grief. “My girl, would you sing something to me? Something inside?”

His gaze was far away, as if he'd left her here, and could add nothing to explain his need. But she understood it well enough. And began to hum something in a sweet, low tone.
Something inside.

She sought her own grief over things lost—that hollow feeling left when someone you care for is taken away. She gave that feeling voice, not rushing, adding her every tenderness and empathy. She shared his suffering, gilding it with the assurance of better days that the grieving find hard to see.

She sang a full hour, filling the warm, sunlit lutherie with gentle sound. She stopped only when Belamae's hand tightened on her own.

“Thank you,” he said, and smiled sadly. “It's not a lesson I'd planned, but it may be the most important one you'll learn … for that day when you sing the Song.”

She narrowed her eyes in question.

“The Song of Suffering, my girl, is to a large extent about remembering the pain and injustice of those who were sent into the Bourne.” He took a long breath. “The Song is sung every minute of every day, and those who sing it witness the very real suffering of those who went to that place. Don't misunderstand me,” he said, raising a finger again. “It's a vital protection to maintain the Veil. But it doesn't make watching suffering any easier. The Leiholan draws on her own pains, and resonates with a thousand more. It's not easy. And it will change you.” His smile brightened a shade. “For the better,” he added.

She returned his smile, her thoughts beginning to pound an urgent rhythm.

My own pains? My lost child. Penit. And a thousand others lost to the godsdamned Bourne—taken there by traders.

And Suffering is changing.

Those who sing it are dying.

What Quiet pain is causing all this?

She could already feel a choice coming. Sometime soon. Belamae had said it would be selfish to consider leaving. He'd said she was needed here, to sing Suffering. She believed that was true. But if she stayed, and if she made the Veil stronger, wasn't she also making it harder to escape for those who'd been captured and taken into the Bourne? For anyone to try to rescue them? And on the other hand, wasn't it possible that if she went there, she might be able to use her song to help those same slaves? Get them out?