Trial of Intentions (89 page)

Her father glanced up at her over the top of his spectacles and set to his ledger again. His jaw tensed. She could tell he wanted to keep the more familial exchange they'd had this night, and let that be their parting memory. He was struggling to keep his temper.

She hated that she couldn't let him have that much.

“Your transaction ledger shows the League as your main buyer.” She stepped closer. “I'm sure Mendel's involvement with them is wound up in that somewhere.” She wished she hadn't said it that way.

Her father stopped writing, but didn't yet look up.

“What I mean is, it would seem that Storalaith resources are gathering and producing information for the League. Current, available information here in Recityv, and from all the places where you have informants. But not just that, Da. By the look of it, you're testing, researching … uncovering new knowledge. And on the League's behalf, it seems.”

Then it hit her, and a chill rushed over her skin. The League wasn't just buying information. They were looking for something. And her father was helping them.

Now she was making an accusation, not one with any legal bite, but one with ethical teeth that would tear at her father's sense of principle. “You realize it was the League that tried to kill me. The League that slaughtered hundreds of innocent people today.”

With her father, she'd never been a good politician. She'd never learned to work hard at crafting the words just so. It was plainly spoken, and it was out there now. But it was also accurate.

Gemen Storalaith put down his graphite and rule and took off his spectacles. He worked his jaw back and forth a few times, as one might who needs to relieve some tension first. Then, he began, slowly. “I think what you mean to say is thank you. Thank you for providing sound information to a man who wants everyone to have the same access to information that my daughter once sought with her libraries.”

“Roth—”

He held up a hand to silence her. “And thank yourself, while you're at it, for leaving me with nothing to do but re-scope my trade and find the only willing buyers available.”

As he spoke, his voice began to quaver the way a griever's will when sobs threaten to steal his voice. Helaina watched with a grief of her own, realizing she was losing him again, seeing in his eyes that he knew he was losing her, as well. But neither of them seemed able to relent.

She wished they could just sit together and calculate numbers and talk trade strategy and drink cold milk. She wanted to be a daughter again.

“How can you do this?” she asked.

He smiled sadly. “I've often wanted to ask you the same question.”

She guessed at his meaning:
The Knowledge Law.
Though something told her there were multiple meanings in his words. Finally, she had only one thing to say. “Will you please keep secret about me?”

Her da finally gave in to a deep sob, and nodded. They stood, a stride apart, appraising each other with thoughtful expressions, but never embracing.

In a hoarse whisper, she managed, “Thank you, Da.”

Before she turned to leave, he held out a small envelope.

“What's this?” she asked.

“Mixture of tea and turmeric.” He offered a weak smile. “Like your mother said, it'll help with those hands of yours.”

She took the envelope, and stole a brief caress of her father's age-spotted hands. Then she turned and got herself out into the cool night air, which made the warm tears that followed all the warmer.

Be the fist in the glove.

With no small amount of determination, she turned her thoughts forward. She and her friends would all leave Recityv soon. But they had one stop to make on their departure from Recityv: Descant.

There was a young Leiholan woman there that Belamae had indicated might join them.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTY

Scores

All things have a resonant signature. And so all things have a song.

—Fundamental compositional canon, first articulated by Maesteri Elyk Divad

W
endra stepped quietly into the music archive. She'd found it, with some difficulty, near the southernmost portion of Descant's sprawling series of halls and vaulted cupolas. It occupied a smaller dome. But there seemed nothing small about it from where she stood.

High above her, starlight passed through a round of windows. The rectangles of night made the rest of the dome seem all the darker, except for the single lamp burning several floors above her.

As she watched, a figure stepped up to one of several podiums overlooking the open center of the domed chamber. The rustling of sheet music fell down from above. And then the figure started to sing. A sweet, foreign sound. Wendra listened, captivated by the music, and instantly knew the voice. She'd been directed correctly. It was Telaya.

Wendra didn't reveal herself right away, though. Instead, she remained quiet, listening, while the expert musician worked her way through several songs. Between each rendering, many of which came as snippets or phrases of much larger works, Telaya paused and scratched down some notes. The sound of the pen scribbling on rough paper reverberated as easily as did the songs.

It became clear there'd be no good way to interrupt the woman. So, after she'd finished one of her melodies, Wendra called upward toward the lamplight: “You're the finest singer I've ever heard.”

In the silence that followed, Telaya spoke evenly. “So, my dissonant friend, you're both one of Belamae's puppets
and
an informer. Or are you simply guilty of the good manners of eavesdropping?”

The woman's words echoed out across the domed archive.

Wendra stood. “I only came to talk. I'm sorry if listening to your songs offended you.” She paused, then added, “They really were quite beautiful.”

Telaya did nothing for a long time. She simply stood there high in the archive at her podium. “Your music is strong,” the woman finally said, the sound of it like a reluctant confession.

Wendra took it as an invitation, and made her way through the darkness to a long, winding ramp that spiraled up along the circular wall of the archive. She lit a lamp of her own, and started up.

“Why ‘dissonant friend'?” she asked as she climbed.

“Your voice creates half-step overtones. Not always, but sometimes. I've never heard a singer do it before.” Telaya spoke with certainty but caution, her voice still echoing out over the expansive dome. “Why are you here?”

Wendra reached the second level, continuing up. “Belamae said it was worse than he thought when he heard your song at Rafters. What does he mean?”

A caustic laugh reverberated suddenly around the dome. “So you
are
an informant. Or, have you come to join me in my sedition?”

“I haven't decided to join
anyone,
” Wendra said, making her meaning clear.

More laughter. This time with genuine delight. “Wonderful. Does Belamae know this?”

“Why does his failure make you happy?” Wendra passed the third floor.

“This has little or nothing to do with Belamae. I'm sure he's convinced what he does is right.” The mirth left Telaya's voice. “But he works from very old ideas. His concept of Leiholan is destroying Descant.” A softness entered the woman's tone. “I can't let that happen.”

“But you nearly incited a mob at the performance tavern. They were chanting ‘Burn Descant.' I think you're as much a danger to this place as you accuse him of being.”

The bitterness returned to Telaya's words. “Don't fool yourself. And you didn't hear the end of my song. I would have steered them into a different course. I was … interrupted. My feelings about Belamae and Descant aren't a secret. But I would never let my dislike for one destroy my love for the other.”

Wendra reached the fourth level, over halfway to where Telaya stood. Hearing the woman talk Wendra found her reason for coming here growing firmer in her mind. A decision lay ahead. She would have to either remain here, under Belamae's tutelage, or follow her heart. And despite her fondness for him, and the thrill of learning, and even the possibility of singing Suffering, her thoughts often returned to the blocks, those platforms where people were sold into Quiet hands.

“Tell me why you think Belamae's ideas of Leiholan are destroying Descant,” Wendra said.

“Think of it this way,” Telaya began with undisguised condescension. “If the gift of a Leiholan is a real thing, if she can render song to give Suffering a power that any silly tavern performer cannot, why aren't Leiholan also singing in orphanages and sick houses and the homes of widows? Or…” Telaya paused, as if for dramatic effect, “if the
gift
of Leiholan is no mythical or transcendent thing, but just expert musicianship, why would those who desire to sing Suffering be denied the opportunity?”

Wendra climbed through an entire floor in silence, considering the contradictions Telaya had shared. By the time she'd reached the level where the woman stood, she'd found an answer. She stepped toward Telaya, who turned from her podium to face Wendra.

“You know the gift is more than expert music craft. You knew it long before we stood together on that stage. But if you had any doubt, you surely knew it after I knocked you on your ass.” Wendra smiled without any malice.

A grimace of distaste rose on the woman's lips. “I hear the dissonance in your voice again. Are you going to start shrieking at me?” Telaya stared at Wendra with chilly judgment.

It was Wendra's turn to give a laugh. “Careful. I don't have the same restraint toward you that others at Descant must have.”

Telaya's face slackened with worry, but it passed quickly. “And still you come to me for answers. I find some poetry in that, don't you?”

Wendra disregarded the woman's posturing. “I can't tell you why Descant Leiholan don't go into the streets with their gifts. But I know there aren't many of us. And the Song takes a heavy toll. Even
training
to become Leiholan has its dangers. Perhaps the best help Leiholan can be to anyone is to remain healthy for Suffering.”

Telaya was silent a long moment. “I would gladly take the risk of becoming Leiholan if it meant singing Suffering.”

Wendra nodded, unable to deny how much she, herself, wanted to sing the Song.

“Looks like you're convincing yourself to stay,” Telaya said, smiling. “How nice that Belamae will add a puppet to his play.”

“I don't think you're here just for orphans and widows,” Wendra said. “I hear a woman who is bitter because she isn't Leiholan herself. Is that why you come here late to study? Are you hoping to find something hidden in old sheets of music that will reveal the secret to you?”

Telaya stared back, anger in her eyes. “There, you're wrong. I come here to perfect my craft … because I care about the
music
. Yes, I hope to find some clue to what makes a Leiholan unique. But it's not the
reason
.” She tapped the sheets of music atop the podium on her right. “I find a different kind of strength here, Wendra.”

It was the first time Wendra could recall the woman using her name. It disarmed her a bit. Or perhaps it was the genuine tone of Telaya's voice.

“For instance,” Telaya said, “I study the musical epochs catalogued on every floor of this archive.” She looked around at the many floors obscured in shadow. “I learn about entirely different musical scales that have been used to compose music I've never heard. I find modes within those music systems unlike anything I've ever studied before. Hundreds of them. They're hard to decipher, but I can usually piece them together.” Telaya's passion for music softened and brightened everything about her. “And when you hear the melodies and harmonies possible from these variants…”

Telaya seemed to drift into her mind, hearing some song Wendra couldn't share.

“And on these shelves,” she gestured around her, “are the songs of things. The very music that describes and defines a tree, a cloud, the feeling of morning sun on cobblestone.” Her voice grew softer. “More than this, if you look, you'll find the songs of people. The notes that make up their lives. Performing one of them is knowing who they were, and how they felt, and what they hoped for. The song of them. Some are songs of people you don't know. Others, you would. It's a resonant art to write the song of someone. Rare. And not often done anymore. But when you see it … when you sing it…”

Then the woman gave her an appreciative look. “Your song the other night at Rafters. Pure shotal. And offered in the Phrygian mode of the Elyk Divad system used thirteen generations ago. I don't suspect you knew that. But it was stunningly beautiful nonetheless.”

“Thank you,” Wendra said, feeling rather outclassed.

“It's also what makes me worry,” Telaya added. “I have no idea what your real intention is. The shotal of
your
song. Its meaning.” She gave Wendra a searching look. “You find resonant notes well enough. But I don't think you've decided why you do it. Or maybe it's that you haven't found
where
you should do it.”

Wendra felt a mounting desire to understand these things the way Telaya did. She wanted to explore new scales, and the modes inside them that this singer seemed already to have mastered. But she caught herself, remembering that her reason for coming to this dissident Lyren was to try and find some clarity of purpose. She wanted to speak to someone who understood the cathedral's function, the role of Leiholan, but who saw it all with different eyes.

Then she stopped deceiving herself. What she actually wanted was a way to justify leaving. She'd hoped Telaya could give her that.

The woman had been watching her closely. “You really
haven't
decided to stay, have you?”