by Brandon Mull
Jason raised his eyebrows. “You must have had a serious case of boredom.”
“It may sound ridiculous, but I truly felt that way.” She sighed. “After all the loneliness followed by the danger, these vales feel even more heavenly.”
“I’ll agree with that.” Jason stared at the water, groping for something winning to say. “You did well. I was impressed you could keep up.”
“Why?” She seemed mildly offended.
“Because I was worn out, and I can’t imagine you’ve had much exercise in a long time.”
“More than you might think. The exercises father prescribed for me were quite rigorous, and I performed them every day.”
“With your sword?”
“Mainly. Jumping, lunging, rolling, footwork patterns. You’d weep for me if you knew how much I’ve swung my sword at nothing. I am quite the specialist at dispatching imaginary villains.”
“I bet. Show me your routine.”
Her cheeks flushed as she looked over her shoulder at where the others were eating. “Not here in front of everyone.”
“Why not?”
“Would you want to?”
“Good point.”
“Ask me later, when I won’t make such a spectacle.”
“Ferrin sometimes trains me in swordplay. He’s really good. You should join us.”
“I’d like that.”
Jason swallowed his last bite of pumpkin bread, pleased to have made a connection with Corinne. He found a flat rock and winged it sidearm out onto the water, where it took three good skips and a few small ones. Corinne grabbed a rock and imitated his throw. The stone skipped twice before plopping out of view.
Rachel came up behind them. “I vote we stay in the Seven Vales. I have a feeling I could get used to it here.”
“I agree,” Corinne said wistfully. “Maybe we can convince father to argue for us all to be made honorary seed people.”
Jason pondered the possibility of remaining in the Seven Vales. He considered the lake, the mountains, the farmland. This was the nicest place he’d visited in Lyrian. If Galloran successfully convinced the Amar Kabal to resist Maldor, what would Jason really have to contribute? He was no general, no warrior, not even a wannabe wizard like Rachel. His role in the rebellion might be ending. If the talks went well, he, Rachel, and Corinne really could win the opportunity to wait out the war here in paradise.
“Let’s hope your dad makes a good case,” Jason said. “Otherwise we might get kicked out of heaven and sent straight to the alternative.”
CHAPTER 19
THE CONCLAVE
The home of Farfalee and Lodan consisted of three squat, round buildings connected by a pair of arched hallways. Bright flowers adorned the conical roofs, and grapevines thrived atop the halls.
When they had arrived the night before, Jason had missed most of the details in the darkness. He had noticed that part of the reason the buildings looked squat was because they were half underground. After following Lodan to a sleeping mat made from a corklike substance, Jason had stretched out and promptly fallen asleep.
Today, with the sun rising, Jason waited beside an irrigation trench to one side of the house. Freestanding trellises laced with leafy limbs stood around the yard in unusual formations, some cylindrical, others boxy, a few shaped like thick crosses, and a couple curving into spheres. They all bore fruit of varying shapes and sizes.
Lodan had roused him early, asking if he wanted to train. Secretly Jason had wanted more sleep, and was worried that Lodan would easily outclass him sparring with swords, but pride had prevented him from expressing either of those concerns. So here he stood.
Lodan came into view pulling a handcart. Ferrin and Corinne trailed behind him. The foursome gathered in a recently cleared field, and Lodan produced four wooden practice swords, balanced to perfection. They all put on padded tunics, thick gloves, and leather helmets affixed to wire masks. Jason felt both excited and intimidated to try mock combat with the elaborate practice gear.
“Jason tells me you have been performing exercises with your sword for years,” Ferrin said to Corinne. “Show us an example.”
Corinne shot Jason a vengeful glance. She assumed a stance on the balls of her feet, holding the wooden sword poised, then began an elaborate routine, springing forward, shuffling back, wielding the weapon defensively and offensively, darting laterally, and occasionally rolling only to spring back into a balanced stance. Jason was impressed, especially considering she was wearing a lot of unfamiliar gear that should have disrupted her equilibrium.
She finished with a lunging thrust. “That should give you a general idea,” she said. “I always vary the combinations and improvise moves of my own.”
“I’m impressed,” Ferrin said. “You have solid fundamentals. I saw evidence of practiced footwork and graceful balance. You demonstrated a fluid command of your weapon. Your next step is to employ those skills against another combatant.”
“I have often wondered how that would feel,” she said.
“Let’s find out,” Ferrin replied. “Come at me. Focus on offense.”
She nodded and charged forward, mounting a spirited assault that kept Ferrin moving backward. Slowly retreating, he blocked her blows, and occasionally tapped her tunic with his sword to show where she was leaving herself open.
“Enough,” he finally said. “You have never faced an opponent?”
“Only in my imagination.”
“You either have a superlative imagination or else swordsmanship is inheritable. I’m curious. Prepare to defend yourself.”
Ferrin launched a vigorous attack, and the wooden swords clacked fiercely. Corinne held her ground at first, then faded back. After some time, Ferrin managed to touch the tip of his sword to her chest a couple times. He patted her on the thigh. Suddenly he lunged, and Corinne spun, deflecting his thrust, and whacked him on the side.
Ferrin stepped back, lifting off his helmet. “That was a trap!”
“You were falling into a pattern,” she said.
“You shouldn’t be this proficient.”
Corinne took off her helmet, grinning, her hair matted. “Truly?”
“I have never seen such natural talent,” Ferrin said, shaking his head.
“I may not have had opponents,” she said, “but my sword has provided my only recreation for years.”
Ferrin turned to Lodan. “What did you think?”
“I think she could give me trouble,” he replied.
“Work with her while I spar with Jason. You noticed when she was overswinging?”
“Yes.”
“And when she was sneaking in too close?”
“And when she was leaving her left side exposed.”
“Good eye. Make the corrections, and then have some fun.”
Corinne and Lodan moved away.
Ferrin and Jason sparred as the sun rose higher in the sky. The first hour was straight combat. During the second hour, Ferrin showed Jason some dirty tricks desperate opponents might attempt. Ferrin prepared him for foes who might toss sand, throw a knife, sneak in a kick, or use a number of simple but slippery feints.
By the time Jason finished, his lungs were burning and his clothes were drenched. But he felt more confident about his swordsmanship. The protective gear allowed for a much more authentic combat simulation, and he was beginning to grasp the practical application of many of the drills Ferrin had insisted he endlessly perform.
Lodan appeared with the handcart to collect the gear.
“How’d it go with Corinne?” Jason asked.
“She performed remarkably,” Lodan said. “Until Mother saw us. She insisted we quit so Corinne could start getting ready for the Conclave. Between the two of us, I think Mother was more concerned about me bruising a foreign princess with a wooden sword.”
“Everybody should get to clobber a princess at least once,” Jason said. “What now?”
“Time to wash up.”
Rachel sat
alone, her back against an earthen storage bunker across the yard from Farfalee’s house. From three sides the bunker looked like a grassy hillock, but the side facing away from the house contained a heavy wooden door.
Speaking Edomic, Rachel lifted a stone the size of her head into the air. She held it there for some time, her will and focus constant, occasionally muttering phrases to raise it higher or lower. It was a strengthening exercise Chandra had taught her. This stone was one of the heavier objects she had tried to hold steady, but it felt within her limits.
She was already dressed for the Conclave, her formal robes loose in the arms and legs, but more fitted in the shoulders and waist. Artfully embroidered, the outfit looked fancy while remaining very comfortable. The soft moccasins on her feet were the comfiest footwear she had ever worn.
A phrase made the heavy rock rotate briskly. Another phrase made it stop. A third phrase turned it to glass. A final phrase, accompanied by a fierce jolt of willpower, shattered the vitrified rock, scattering angular shards in a cone-shaped spray. The power she had focused and released left her momentarily breathless.
As the pleasurable rush subsided, Rachel felt quiet contentment at the successful series of commands. She was improving daily—gaining strength, deepening her concentration, and discovering new ways to combine phrases.
The words Orruck had taught her for the summoning of lightning flickered through her mind. She had not yet tried to carry out the command, but she had often repeated the words internally, examining them. The language called for massive opposing charges, which would then become linked by a bolt of lightning. To cast the spell, she would have to pick two objects to charge. She wished she could figure out how to describe minor opposing charges, so she could attempt the spell on a smaller scale.
None of the other phrases she knew described the scope of the desired effect. The fire phrase, for example, just called to heat. It never specified how much heat. The quantity of heat summoned only varied based on what she was trying to accomplish and how much will she put into the effort. She could not figure out how to extract the Edomic equivalent of “massive” from the lightning phrase. For that matter, she couldn’t figure out how to add “massive” to the heat-summoning phrase. In Edomic, the words wove together in such a way that they often became difficult to untangle or rephrase. Combining commands was not too hard. Changing the phrasing got very slippery.
“Rachel!” Jason called, interrupting her reverie.
“I’m here!” she answered, standing and walking around the storage bunker. He stood beside an arching trellis of purple fruit, looking handsome in his robes. Apparently he had bathed after banging swords with Ferrin all morning. She crossed toward him.
“What’s behind the mound?” Jason asked.
“It’s a storage room.”
He lowered his voice. “Steal anything good?”
She reached him just in time to punch him on the arm. “Right, I was stealing stuff from our hosts.”
“Then what were you doing back there? They have an outhouse, you know.”
“Ew, sicko. I was practicing Edomic.”
“Sure you were,” Jason said. “You’re just too embarrassed to admit you were playing hide-and-seek all alone. Rachel hiding, nobody seeking.”
“You got me,” she said. “It’s a homeschool thing. We make our own fun.”
“They said the meeting starts at noon, and we’re riding there in a wagon.”
“You mean the conclave?”
“I thought the Conclave was the group.”
“The group is called the Conclave, and when they preside over a meeting, it’s also called a conclave. I asked Farfalee.”
“Lazy,” Jason complained. He spoke in a mocking voice. “The Conclave is having a conclave. It should be really conclave.” He shook his head. “They should call the meeting something else.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged. “A jamboree.”
“Slip that one into the suggestion box.”
Rachel and Jason found the others waiting in a large, open wagon on the far side of the house. It was the sort of vehicle people back home might have used for hayrides. Rachel felt a little awkward once she saw that the others were ready and waiting. She must have really lost track of time.
“Sorry,” Rachel said, climbing into the bed of the wagon.
“No apologies required,” Galloran said. “I felt you issuing some potent commands. Such dedication to your talent is commendable. I waited until the last moment to send Jason to fetch you.”
Lodan and Farfalee sat up front. Lodan snapped the reins and the team tugged the wagon forward.
They all wore dressy robes. Rachel wondered how they had scrounged enough for everyone. Corinne looked especially gorgeous, her hair woven into elaborate braids. If that girl ever made it to America, she was a supermodel waiting to happen. No surprise that Jason found her so interesting.
“Everyone looks really official,” Rachel commented over the clatter of the wagon.
“It was tricky to outfit Aram,” Ferrin said. “Fortunately, Farfalee had kept some apparel from Lodan’s infancy.”
“Keep it up,” Aram dared him.
Ferrin grinned. “Or perhaps she borrowed the robes from a doll.”
“Do us all a favor and toss your mouth overboard,” Aram replied.
“Not bad,” Ferrin said. “You just earned a truce.”
“Only until the sun goes down,” Aram grumbled.
Rachel sat silently, enjoying the cool breeze, the bright sun, and the pleasant countryside. She wondered idly why they didn’t see more people on the road. Aside from their wagon, the day seemed very still.
She got her answer when they arrived at their destination. The Conclave met in a large amphitheater between five hills. The oval depression descended one concentric ring at a time, forming a bowl large enough to seat thousands. Not only was the sunken amphitheater crammed with seedfolk, but the surrounding hillsides were thronged as well. Nobody had been on the road, because they were already at the conclave!
“I hope we have reserved seats,” Jason said, voicing her thoughts.
“We’ll sit up close,” Galloran said. “How glad we are to be there will depend on how the Conclave rules.”
Lodan remained with the wagon while the others disembarked. Farfalee led them down a long stairway to the bottom of the amphitheater. Galloran kept one hand on Dorsio’s shoulder. Rachel watched the crowd, men and women clad in robes, not many of them beyond middle age. She only spotted one possible teenager, a girl with light brown hair. Nobody looked younger.
As members of the crowd took notice of the procession marching down the stairs, they became quiet. Rachel felt the weight of thousands of eyes staring her way.
At the bottom of the huge bowl, three men and one young girl sat at a bulky stone table surrounded by a flat, open area. There was clearly room at the table for a fifth person.
“Who’s the little girl?” Jason asked.
“Ilestra, the eldest surviving seedwoman,” Farfalee said. “Her First Death happened by accident at age seven. Her latest rebirth occurred only a year ago.”
After the stairs ended, Farfalee gestured toward an empty bench situated front and center. Rachel filed over with the others as Farfalee claimed her seat with the Conclave.
A strapping man with his hair twined in a pair of long braids arose off a bench and strode to a position to one side of the stone table. He was meatier than the typical seedman, and spoke in a strident voice.
“By order of the Conclave, five speaking as one, this emergency conclave is now in session. Galloran, son of Dromidus, will be the sole petitioner. Naman of the Conclave has elected to personally serve as rebutter.”
A murmur rippled through the onlookers.
The heavyset seedman glanced over his shoulder. The man seated at the center of the table dipped his head. The speaker turned and announced. “The Conclave recognizes Galloran.” He withdrew and sat down.
> Dorsio guided Galloran to the position vacated by the speaker, then stepped back a few paces. “Forgive my voice,” Galloran said, raising it as best he could. “I inhaled an acidic concoction some years back, and it has never been the same.”
He sounded plenty loud to Rachel. The audience was silent, and the space seemed to have good acoustics, which helped. Craning her neck to look upward, she figured the crowds on the neighboring hillsides were out of luck.
“I am honored to be back among the Amar Kabal and to stand before this illustrious Conclave,” Galloran began.
“We are delighted to see you again,” said the seedman in the center, a handsome man with dark-gray eyes and a slightly crooked nose. “Diverse rumors have circulated concerning your fate. We feared you had met your end in the dungeons of Felrook.”
“My mind and body were maimed in those dungeons,” Galloran said. “But I was eventually released. It has required some time and effort to become functional again.”
“What brings you before the Conclave?” the seedman asked.
“I wish for the Amar Kabal to reconsider their current relationship with Maldor. I want to urge your people to support a rebellion.”
Murmured reactions percolated through the assemblage. The seedman at the left end of the table stood. Tall and trim with rather wide shoulders, he wore his black hair in a topknot. He had a high forehead, sunken cheeks, and a broad mouth. “We expected this request.” He strode around the table to stand opposite Galloran, separated by several paces. “This debate has been settled for some time, unless you have new information to contribute.”
“I have a proposal you may not have considered,” Galloran said. “And yes, Naman, I also bring new information that could impact your current stance. Pallas, you may recall discussing a particular word with me some years ago.”
The seedman seated at the center of the table nodded. “Those specifics may need to remain private.”
