Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  Vendanj nodded appreciation at this imagining.

  “The tall girl was his sister,” Tahn went on. “The strongest among them. A peacemaker. She would have been a trusted counselor. One day the king of Nallan would have been planning to raise taxes so high that families would starve. And she would have convinced him to walk with her in the slums, where soup is brewed from rotten potatoes. She would have showed him what comes after he collected his taxes. And the king would have become known as ‘the feeding king,’ because during his time, not one of his people would have known hunger.”

  The two of them sat for a good while giving life to those small ones, honoring them in this way. He’d never forget their faces, and somehow now believed more deeply that he’d rescued them from something worse than death.

  A companionable silence fell across the room when their imaginings for the six children came to an end. Tahn, though, went on in his head, doing the same for friends he’d known in the Scar. And a little for himself. But it was their memory—those thirty-seven—that helped him finally tell Vendanj. “When I saved them from the Velle … I didn’t use the words.”

  I draw with the strength of my arms, but release as the Will allows.

  He could barely stand to think them anymore.

  Out of the darkness came the Sheason’s tired voice, edged with a note of despair: “Oh, Tahn, you’ve let it go. My dying gods…”

  The words were chilling to hear, filled with a serious sound. Vendanj slowly sat forward, his face catching a hint of moonlight from the window. Tahn was grateful for the darkness that softened the look of disappointment he saw in the man’s face. The Sheason stared at him through the dark for a long time, his shoulders sagging.

  Vendanj finally hung his head down, making it hard to understand the words he muttered. “It wasn’t just their focus on the library. The Quiet didn’t follow the effigy because they’ve lost regard for you. They knew you had let it go. In the Saeculorum, you ignored the guidance of the Will. Now … you reject it.”

  Tahn didn’t want to talk about that, and turned to his other question before sharing his plans. “Tell me what ‘Quillescent’ means.”

  Vendanj lit the bed table lamp and turned up the wick, lending the room a warm light. The flame revealed the depth of loss in the Sheason’s expression. It was the look of discouragement and wasted years. The man appeared unnaturally older.

  He’d been lying, fully clothed, atop a made bed. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and rubbed at his face for a moment. Tahn thought Vendanj was preparing to scold him, that he’d try and persuade him to embrace those words again. But after a good while, and to his credit, he simply looked up, showed Tahn a sad smile, and asked, “Say it again?”

  “Quillescent,” Tahn repeated.

  Vendanj looked back at him with reddened eyes rimmed by dark circles. “You’ve asked about this before. I don’t know the word. I’d thought I could find it here, in the Naltus library.”

  Tahn regarded him with suspicion. “You don’t even have an idea?”

  “Lots of ideas.” Vendanj’s eyes glazed a bit. “It’s likely a curse. Maybe a name they use for someone they seek.”

  Tahn shook his head again. “I think it’s more specific than that, specific to me.”

  The Sheason stared at him, unspeaking.

  “That give you any more ideas?” he asked earnestly.

  It was Vendanj’s turn to shake his head. His eyes still seemed to weigh earlier revelations.

  Tahn began to wonder if his two questions could be related, if being called Quillescent had anything to do with the Grove. “Why did you send me to Aubade Grove in the first place?”

  Vendanj scrubbed his face again, looking like a man trying to freshen his wits. As he did, Tahn focused his own thoughts on the Grove. It was a place of science, a place to learn, too, but that wasn’t the main thing—it wasn’t a school. His memories were more of debate and inquiry, research and hypothesis. No classrooms or exams. And it all revolved around several disciplines that focused their efforts on the vault of heaven.

  Vendanj succeeded in regaining some vigor. “One of the great towers there is devoted to astronomy. Do you remember it?”

  “One of five towers, actually,” Tahn added. “Each with a different scientific focus.”

  Vendanj nodded. “We weren’t sure we’d ever ask you to go to Tillinghast. There were others before you, and more we could have asked.” The Sheason seemed to look into the past then. “The sky, though. You were drawn there from the beginning. Seemed right to cultivate that interest. And to your question, I suppose we thought sending you to the Grove might help if we ever did ask you to go to Tillinghast. Knowledge of the sky is a good way to keep a man grounded.”

  Tahn suddenly yearned to be holding an astrolabe and quadrant map and looking up through a skyglass.

  Vendanj might have seen the yearning in Tahn’s eyes. “You learn more about yourself watching the long turn of a night star than you ever will in the company of philosophers and priests.” He pointed at Tahn. “That’s a kind of wisdom you seemed to have right from the start. Made the Grove a good place for you. At least for a while.”

  Tahn sat there, staring into his own past, where years of his life had emerged, fully clothed and ready to dance. Sometime later, his eyes focused again. The notion he’d had out on the shale became a conviction. “I’m going to Aubade Grove.”

  “Tahn—”

  “I can do more good there than anywhere else.” It seemed so clear and obvious to him now. “You’ll want to send Wendra to Recityv to sing Suffering, but there may be other ways to keep the Quiet at bay. I think I know one. But I’ll know for sure if I go to Aubade Grove.” He gave Vendanj a long look. “You’re preparing to fight a war, when you should be trying to prevent a war.”

  “Tahn,” Vendanj’s voice held an awful tone of certainty, “the war has already begun. And it’s not only a Quiet war.” The Sheason breathed a heavy sigh. “Oh, the Quiet will come. But while they do, we bicker with the League of Civility over immoral laws … and we try to reconcile a brotherhood that has become divided.”

  “The Sheason,” Tahn said.

  Vendanj nodded again. “Many believe as I do, that the threat of the Bourne is real, and that we can’t afford half measures. But others … they believe my personal losses have driven me mad.” He gave a wan smile. “The order is at odds with itself. And I’m hoping that you can help me make them see more clearly.”

  “See what?” Tahn asked.

  The Sheason took a long breath, giving Tahn the feeling that he’d come to the crux of it. “Do you remember the story young Penit told us around the fire? About Grant trying to stop the Sheason Artixan from reviving the regent’s child who came still?”

  Tahn remembered. Chill bumps had risen on his skin. The story had rung with hard truths.

  “Grant and I disagree about this,” Vendanj explained. “Just as Thaelon and I disagree. Thaelon is the Randeur of the Sheason; he leads our order. And he believes there are bounds on how we should use the Will. He would have helped Grant try to stop Artixan from reviving Helaina’s stillborn child. He would have told me that trying to give life back to the babe was arrogating to godhood. Not our place, as men, he’d say.”

  Weakly, Vendanj tapped his own chest. “I, on the other hand, will die believing that the Will should be used in any way necessary to alleviate suffering. Any way necessary to stop the Quiet.” He smiled, seeming to want to lighten the mood. “The abandoning gods didn’t leave us much. Let’s make the most of what we do have.”

  Tahn began to understand the weight Vendanj carried. Sympathy got inside him for the man. With slight humor, he asked, “And you think I can change his mind?”

  “You’ve seen the Quiet, spoken to them.” Vendanj looked out the window at the night. “You’ve heard the stories of the League poisoning its own. Your time in the Scar, and even in Aubade Grove, gives you insight Thaelon will respect. You stood at Tilli
nghast, Tahn … and lived.” He took a long, slow breath. “If we don’t unite the order, the next Suffering will be our own.”

  Vendanj looked back and patted the side of Tahn’s leg with warm familiarity. “The time for politics is over. And the only way through this mess is together, and unified. I think you could help the Randeur see this. And I’ll tell you something else, even if Convocation is successful and Helaina unites the Eastlands … I don’t believe we can survive the Quiet if the Sheason remain divided. We need Thaelon to understand. We need the Sheason Order to be whole again.”

  Everything Vendanj had said convinced Tahn even more that the best thing he could do was find a way to stop the war before it started.

  “I’ll get to Estem Salo. And I’ll do everything I can to convince your Randeur,” Tahn promised. “But by every hell, I’m going to the Grove first. To try to stop this war before it comes.”

  “Tahn—”

  “Look what happened out there today. How did so many Quiet cross the Pall?” A lunar eclipse. Pliny Soray slipping her orbit. “There’s something wrong with the Veil. We’re running out of time.”

  There’s a better way.

  And he thought he could find it in Aubade Grove. He could build on what had happened in those last few cycles before he’d had to leave there.

  “What is it in the Grove that you think can help us?” Vendanj’s eyebrows rose with interest.

  “A hypothesis,” Tahn answered. He now looked out Vendanj’s window, gathering a look at the stars. He could see Reliquas, the third planet, and thought suddenly about orbital resonance. “If we knew how the Veil works, the principles that underlie it, we might be able to strengthen it. Keep the Quiet where they are.”

  “More than the resonance of the Song of Suffering, you’re saying.” Vendanj seemed intrigued.

  “It’s about the connection between things. Even across great distances. Even when you can’t see the connection.” He looked back at Vendanj, and began talking faster and faster, his excitement mounting. “It’s just a hypothesis. And a complex one, at that.” He smiled, unable to hold back anymore. “But yes. A good godsdamn yes!”

  “Not a new hypothesis, though, is it?” The Sheason offered Tahn a knowing look.

  “No, and not easily proved. But I think I have a new approach.” He smiled wide, thinking about Suffering, and the Sheason power over Will, and his own ability to fire a part of himself. They’ve got to be related.

  “Actually, what you’re saying is sensible.” Vendanj nodded and rubbed at his eyes again. “I didn’t want to take you away from Aubade Grove. But things didn’t go well the last time you were part of trying to prove this hypothesis.” Vendanj showed him concerned eyes.

  “Last time it wasn’t my argument to make,” Tahn countered. “This time … it is.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Call for Intent

  I’ve no fear of a man’s beliefs. But I may fear his intentions in their regard.

  —From the journal of Palamon on the eve of the first Trial of Intentions

  It was night, deep in the small hours. A light rain fell on the rooftops and cobblestone streets of Estem Salo, the Sheason city high in the Divide. The storm came without wind or anger, the slow, straight fall of drops engulfing the sleeping city in a greater silence. Thaelon Solas, Randeur of the Sheason, stood in his study, watching the rain.

  The private chamber was situated at the rear of the Vault halls. Its view from the first story looked out at a tall grove of aspen, interwoven with high mountain spruce, though none of their color or cheer was evident in the darkness. In recent days, he’d found himself here often, well after dark hour, keeping his own company.

  The rear wall had been bisected and framed on stone rollers that were set in channeled grooves in the floor and ceiling. From inside, and with little effort, one could unfasten three iron latches and roll aside the two halves of the wall. It gave his study the feeling of being set among the trees, and he was glad of it.

  Behind him, littering his desk, were letters. Some bore the seals of kings or councils. In looping formal script, these rulers and nations were informing him of the changing social and political landscape in their countries. The Sheason weren’t yet being asked to leave, but the spread of the League of Civility’s creed was reshaping the perceptions about Thaelon’s kind. The League’s Civilization Order, which made rendering a crime, was spreading. Sheason caught violating the law were being put to death.

  Ignorant politicians.

  He bridled his anger before it got away from him. “Emotion is no bedfellow to reason,” his father had taught him. It helped to consider the other letters on his desk, the ones that came scrawled in the unpracticed hands of those who might make better use of a hammer than a pen. They were the pleas of parents whose children had fallen ill to unknown disease or carried a blade to some vague purpose. Armies were swelling. The League grew more militant.

  In different ways, all the letters asked the same question: How should the Sheason serve?

  Vendanj. The hard, outspoken Sheason didn’t give a damn for anything but his own purpose and philosophy. That was the difference between them, and likely what lay at the heart of the League’s condemnation of Thaelon’s kind. Rendering the Will as a means to an end was wrong, and a short step from becoming Velle. Some renderings should never be made. Some uses went too far.

  Vendanj’s intentions weren’t heartless. Just reckless. He was a problem.

  Thaelon breathed deep the calming scent of rain, trying to focus on finding an answer. A moment later the quiet sound of footsteps through sodden soil rose in the night. Out of the dark and rain emerged Raalena Solem, his closest friend, and leader of the Sodality. Her hair lay flat against her head, drenched. She refused to wear her hood up. Too much mystery, she was fond of saying. Thaelon knew there was another reason tonight: She wore it down because she liked the feel of rain on her skin.

  A pleasant musk arrived with her, a mix of wet wool and sweat—Raalena had been on the road for weeks. A small smile of appreciation touched his lips that she’d known where to find him.

  She returned the smile. “You look like living rot. When was the last time you shaved your head?”

  He ran a hand over his scalp. Several days of stubble. For good measure, he felt his cheeks and found the same. Deafened gods, he was tired.

  She moved past him and dropped a waterproof satchel atop the letters. “One guess what’s inside.” She fingered a raindrop off the end of her nose.

  More letters. Thaelon said nothing.

  “It’s accelerating. Regard for us wanes fast.” She came up beside him, and together they watched the rain. “Some say we’re too secret. The pragmatists simply feel we’ve outlived our usefulness.”

  He drew a heavy breath. “What of the sick and fearful? What protection is sought against the Bourne?”

  She offered a sad laugh. “Many suggest the Bourne is an author’s fiction, meant to urge children back to their chores.” Her tone grew quickly serious. “Those who know there’s life beyond the Pall see those races as distant neighbors. Perhaps neighbors with expansionist ambitions, but not the malefactors of a child’s rhyme.”

  “But you still believe, eh?” he said, smiling.

  “I don’t get involved in politics. I prefer my wine have dregs.” One of her standard replies; Raalena didn’t suffer fools, who she readily identified by their taste in wine.

  They fell silent for a time, observing the rain in its unhurried fall. “But there is something that you need to be watchful of,” she finally said. “Vendanj has gathered dissenters around him.”

  At the news, he nodded. “That was inevitable, I suppose. But don’t judge him too harshly, yet. He’s rash, but we’re not sure of his intentions.”

  “I don’t give an tinker’s damn for his intentions,” Raalena shot back. “Others will throw in with that one on reputation alone.” She then gave him a thoughtful look. “I have news of those who travel with him
.”

  “It must be gnawing at you to share it, too.” He laughed tiredly.

  “Don’t play as though you aren’t itching to know. It’s half the reason you sent me, when a hundred others could have gathered up these cowardly documents.” She waved dismissively with her free hand at the satchel she’d set on his desk.

  He grinned at her ability to clearly read a man, and inability to sometimes keep those insights to herself. Men, as a rule, needed some thoughts to remain private. Raalena hadn’t yet mastered the related skill of not sharing everything she observed.

  “Where to start.” She tapped her lip, playfully drawing out her revelations.

  Then she described each of Vendanj’s traveling companions, after which a silence fell between them. She seemed unwilling to share any more. Perhaps she’d learned something, after all, about how much truth a man can—

  “Vendanj is leading a boy to Tillinghast,” she said. “Hells, they’re probably back by now. I suspect he’ll also try to make it to Convocation, spread his unique brand of goodwill there, too.”

  Thaelon smiled patiently. “I’ve already asked Artixan and E’Sau to sit proxy for us at Convocation. Had a feeling we’d be needed here.”

  She pointed back again toward his desk, her satchel, and the official declarations of kings. “While the rest of the world goes one way, Vendanj goes another and damns the costs.” She gently put an arm on his shoulder. “You must choose a side.”

  “Is this the insight I sent you to find?” It came out a bit more tersely than he’d intended. She’d only brought him the news, not created it. Less sharply, he added, “I knew this before you left.”

  “And it’s just half the story.” She showed him no wicked grin, as she usually did when doling out information in her successively shocking way.

  “Oh?” And where a moment ago he might have braced again for the worst of the news, he found—or perhaps reclaimed—his ire. It wasn’t an anger of retribution. It was the fire of his own decisiveness—the mantle of being Randeur.