“I don’t understand.”
“The Veil is not unchanging,” he explained. “It waxes and wanes like a moon. But unlike a moon, its change isn’t a set pattern. It ebbs and flows with the encumbrances placed on it … from either side.” Her old friend looked at her straight. “The Bourne surges against the Veil, Helaina, and when it does, the Song demands more from us.”
The waste of life lost so young darkened Helaina’s mood.
“The Leiholan gift comes less frequently than it once did. Or is less often recognized.” Belamae shrugged a slow shrug. “Either way, our conservatory suffers from too few students. And as a result, the Song suffers. It’s not hopeless.” He smiled wanly. “But I worry, Helaina. I worry.…”
“What are you telling me, Belamae? Why did you bring me to see a dead Leiholan?”
Against the low hum of Suffering, which now sounded like a prayer, Belamae stared regretfully, seriously. “Time is short. Get on with your Convocation. But unless something changes … we may be unable to keep the Song going every hour. There could be silences. And if there are, deaf gods help us.”
The implications shook her. The Quiet were already pushing through the Veil in small numbers. It was why she had called for a Convocation of Seats in the first place. No single nation or realm, no two or three together, would be enough to stand against the Quiet if they came in force. As with the first and second Convocations ages ago, to succeed, they would need many banners to fly together.
But what Belamae was suggesting was more than war—should it come to that. It was stretches of time without the protection of Suffering. The Quiet could come … all at once. A new kind of worry entered her heart.
Belamae broke her stream of thoughts. “We spoke not long ago about soliciting my people for use of the Mor Nation Refrains. That time has come.”
She knew little about the Refrains. Histories revealed next to nothing. And though Belamae had spoken of them, he’d always done so guardedly. The Mor nations had gathered themselves into a kind of confederacy known as Y’Tilat Mor. The annals suggested they were races that had escaped the Bourne using a collection of refrains. Songs of power. Similar to Suffering, but used in battle. The Mor nations were reclusive, though. Extremely so.
She nodded. “We’ll prepare a formal request.”
“Do you remember the language?” he asked.
“I remember.” It was one of her fondest recollections of their early friendship. “You were the perfect tutor.”
His managed a small smile. “You southern races and your single-cant speech. You miss the beauty and complexity of language to be found in the rhythmic and intonational layers. But you had a good handle on it by the time we were through, as I recall.”
She hadn’t spoken or read the Mor tongue in years. There was work ahead to refresh herself on its many complex levels of meaning. She held another moment of silence for Soluna, then stood. Kings and queens and ambassadors from across the Eastlands had begun to arrive for Convocation, and they expected to find “the fist in the glove”—the appellation she’d become known by. She still had days of preparations for that little affair.
Belamae bent and placed a kiss on Soluna’s cheek. Then he rose and faced Helaina. “I hadn’t planned on rejoining your High Council. I’ve no stomach for politics and its duplicities.” There was now fire in his eyes. “But I will. And be damned those that come against us.”
His voice sounded like a quiet roar, mingling with Suffering in soft dissonance. And while Helaina was glad of his support, their immediate threat came not from beyond Recityv walls, but from within.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Some Must Lead
They fight us. I wonder if they know that we don’t seek to convince the gods of anything, but only to reconcile ourselves.
—From The Irony of Hate, an unpublished letter penned by Marta Solemy, Reconciliation prioress, in response to the beheadings of several members of her faith
Roth Staned, leader and Ascendant of the League of Civility, strode confidently up the center aisle of Bastulan Cathedral. When Recityv was still young, Bastulan had rivaled Descant for consideration as the grand jewel of the city. Its magnificent columns and intricate vaults rose so high that the ceiling hung in a haze of sunlight admitted by dormers a hundred strides above. Underfoot, alternating squares of polished granite and obsidian made a checkered mirror of the floor. The hallowed place had been consecrated to worship by the Church of Reconciliation. Its very name—reconciliation—made Roth smile. Adherents to this archaic doctrine still believed in the plausibility not just of the Framers, but that through devotion the abandonment of the gods might be brought to an end. Fools.
Long green and violet banners hung from the rafters against the walls. Statuary stood in alcoves here and there. Incense burned at altars before tracts carved directly into the rock. Braziers glowed with embers in the shadowed halls receding from the main axis. No less than a dozen smaller chapels lined the great interior—each wrought in the wood of its patron’s homeland. It reminded Roth just how wide the nation of Vohnce itself actually was. And how old and burdened with myth.
The cathedral was mostly empty today, as he’d expected. His appointment was here. And over on the right, several pews up, a few cripples prayed for healing.
At the far end of Bastulan, long steps rose off the main floor, climbing to a grand pulpit, atop which a scroll lay open. Behind it, facing the pews in exquisite relief, the immense granite wall had been carved to depict the Tabernacle of the Sky, where more myth told of gods making the world.
Roth smiled again.
He found the belief to be little more than a balm for simple minds. And to be perfectly honest, it had less to do with the gods themselves, and more to do with the idea of reconciliation. It seemed a desperate notion—too little within one’s own control or influence. As he made his way forward to the pew where his appointment waited, he felt a pang of sympathy, though, as well. Because those who came here seeking hope were sure to be disappointed, where he could show them a better way to take comfort from their woes. Remake themselves, even. And the encouraging part was that it was simple. Not easy, but straightforward. As plain as staring at one’s reflection in a still pond.
He would offer as much to this one, his appointment, if he could first convince her to see things a bit more clearly.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Roth said, coming around to look down into the woman’s haunted eyes. She was beautiful; he had always thought so. “May I sit?”
She motioned to the pew beside her. As he took a seat, he could feel her anxiety. He needed to first put her at ease if he meant to convince her of what he’d come to ask.
“Leona, I’m sorry about what happened to your husband. I would never put you or your family in harm’s path. It must have been one of our more zealous leaguemen.” He smiled reassuringly. “I hope you know me better than that.”
Leona’s little girl had been poisoned as a way of testing her father, a leagueman, to see if he would resort to calling on the craft of a Sheason to heal her. Roth had known the man would do so; the fellow wasn’t a particularly stalwart member of the League. And once he’d violated the law, he was sentenced to hang. He’d been saved by a stranger—an archer named Tahn—who’d cut him down from the gallows before the rope snapped his neck.
What he couldn’t tell Leona was that he’d ordered the ruse. And that his men had had the poison’s antidote, and would have rescued the child before she went to her earth. It was only a test of allegiance, after all. One that should have cleared the way for Roth and Leona.
She looked at him and tried a smile that trembled on her lips. “We just want out, Roth. Please.”
“This isn’t a time for families if they don’t have proper affiliation. You must think of your daughters. What are you teaching them if you turn your back on those who’ve supported you for so long?” He put a hand on her cheek. “It’s a frightening time. And you’ve been through some frighteni
ng moments. But if you’ll let me, I can protect you from these things.”
She looked down into her lap, where her hands worried a kerchief she now used to dab her eyes. “What did you want to see me about?”
Roth nodded. “I’ve always admired your directness. But some forbearance, just a moment’s worth. Your husband, is he well?”
Her haunted eyes rose to meet his own. “Released by the regent with assurances of protection from … League retribution.”
Roth held his smile. It was true, then. His League of Civility shamed not only by the release of her husband, Duugael—whom they had accused of conspiring with Sheason—but by the regent’s extension of protection—a gesture that cast aspersions on the character of the League.
“We asked for neither,” Leona continued. “Of course we wanted Duugael home. But it was a stranger who managed it with the regent.”
Roth found fresh interest. “And who was this? I owe them a debt of gratitude, and I’d like to offer it in person. Since they did for you what I could not.”
Leona’s eyes showed suspicion, but not defiance. “I don’t know her. Young. Pretty. Dressed like a guardian—two swords. She sat with those that brought the Dissent in the Court of Judicature to free Duugael’s rescuer.”
Roth pictured her. The quick young woman that had come with the Sheason, Vendanj. She was Far. Strangers meddling in affairs they should have left alone. But it didn’t surprise him that someone accompanying a renderer would defy the League. Their arcane arts had ways of manipulating the wills of the weak-minded.
“Where is your husband now? Resting, I hope.” Roth patted Leona’s hands.
She shook her head, beginning silently to weep. “Please, Roth. He’s a good man. We only want to live a simple life and be happy. Can you just let us be? We won’t make trouble … for anyone.”
“Shhhh,” he consoled, drawing her head to his chest. “If it upsets you, I won’t call on your husband to pay my respects.”
He rocked slowly for several moments—as a parent might to comfort an ailing child—until her sniffling came to an end. It rankled him that when he’d requested to see her, she’d asked that it be here. It smacked of distrust. But he’d quickly seen the fortune in this location. That would come later.
“Leona,” he started again, adopting a softer tone, “what is it about this place? Why do you come here?”
She sat up, removing her blessedly warm cheek from his chest. “Peace.” After a few moments of looking about the cathedral, she brought her gaze round to his. “I know you think Reconciliation and other faiths are at odds with the purpose of the League. But we’ve felt a sense of comfort inside these walls.”
“And do you think the gods hear your prayers?” He made sure to sound the earnest inquirer.
She paused before answering this time. “I don’t think that matters. The value is in offering the prayer to begin with. I’ll tell you something else”—she paused a moment—“I prayed for Duugael to come home to us.”
Roth nodded, maintaining a thoughtful expression. Inside, his resentment and anger roiled. The regent and her cronies were promoting superstition by allowing places like Bastulan to continue unchecked. The result: outmoded and destructive beliefs. It had to stop. Even if Leona wouldn’t acquiesce to his entreaties. Even if he didn’t win the right to look daily at her beautiful face.
He’d seen her for the first time many years ago. She’d come to the door of his boyhood home—a shanty in the portside city of Wanship—peddling herself. A “waif of the wharf,” as they were called. She’d been maybe thirteen. The sun had caught her bright blond hair as she searched his father’s eyes, hoping he would pay her a thin plug for a turn in bed. So far away, in time, in place, in circumstance.
Here and now, her cheeks were drawn earthward with care and worry of a different kind. Her beautiful green eyes stood ringed with dark circles. He ached in his chest to hold her, comfort her, as only a husband could. It’d been a happy coincidence, after the long journey from childhood, to find her a few years ago in Recityv. And since their fortuitous reunion, the many meetings, always at his request, had taught him much about the woman she’d become. The patient strength inside her. She possessed a healing heart: compassion, forgiveness, perseverance, and obvious hope—remarkable qualities for a woman with her past.
But he had no more time for false pretenses. No doubt she cared for her husband. But he thought her feelings for him had grown over the last many visits they’d shared. And Roth loved her. He’d known it for a long time.
“Leona, do you care for me?” His words echoed softly in the near-empty cathedral.
Without surprise she looked at him. “Yes, Roth. You are uncompromising, but you believe your work will help people. That’s why my husband and I serve the League.” Then her lips began to tremble again. “But if you’re asking more of me than that … mine is not a marriage of convenience. I love Duugael.”
“Of course you do.” Roth nodded once. “But let me ask you, could you do more good in this world if you stood beside a man with the authority to change things? If your encouragement could help a city or nation or all the Eastlands? You must know of the Convocation that starts soon. I will make my appeals there. You could be part of that. You could help me with it.” He paused, ready to ask. “If your feelings for me are genuine, maybe you have a choice to make.”
Leona began to worry her kerchief again, clenching and unclenching, staring into her lap. She didn’t look up when she said, “You misunderstand me. I care for you … but it’s not love.”
Roth shared a gentle, understanding laugh, the sound carrying through the shafts of light high in the vaults above. The intrusion of his amusement echoed about Bastulan with subtle irreverence.
He looked back at Leona with softer eyes. “My lady, I wouldn’t expect your love immediately. Love would grow, as you worked with me to reform the vulgar ways of men and those who lead them. We will restructure government. We will create schools accessible to every child. The carpenter’s wage will seem fair beside the jurist’s. We can do this, Leona. It’s a glorious future we could build. A lot of work, to be sure, but worth the effort. And achievable with you at my side.”
She sat silent. And so Roth added, “Your daughters would be welcome, too.”
Her expression reset into something more decided. “Is this why you asked to see me?” Her eyes widened as if in new realization. “Is this why my daughter was poisoned? Why Duugael was arrested? Roth,” her glare spoke volumes, “did you do all this to make me available to you?”
So much would hang on what he said next. He might deny these allegations, repair her trust, continue the secretive meetings taken under pretense. Or perhaps it was already over, and he simply hadn’t the heart to accept it yet. He sat, undecided, reveling in her beauty, reveling even in her anger.
He would have liked if their relationship had come more honestly. He would have liked if together they could have given others a way out of the shanty lives they were living. He’d thought that idea would rise above all the obstacles between them.
But looking at her, he knew it was already over. He sat several moments, mourning the idea he’d held for so long. Mourning her. Then, after a time, his indignation warmed, and he slowly stood.
“You’ve few flaws, but lack of vision is one of them.” He stepped into the aisle and faced the cathedral altar. “Your childish affiliation with this institution is another.”
He looked up into the vaults above and whispered, “No more.”
Then, he turned and stared down at her. “You disappoint me. Not only because you reject the life I offer you, but because the alternative you choose is this.” He raised his arms, his palms up, indicating the whole preposterous concept of Reconciliation. “Tell me you hate me. Tell me you hate the League. These things I can respect, if not understand. But this, Leona? These walls were built on false hope, in honor of myths that make men foolish and unable to embrace their own potential.”
She trembled before him like a trapped animal. But when his words had rung their last, she said softly, “There are many paths to greatness.”
“What?”
She flinched, but continued. “What happened to you, Roth? Why can’t you let others find their own path to distinction? Why must hope be found only in the brand of civility you offer?”
A bitter smile turned up his lips. This was the boldness—soft and sure, present even now—that he’d sought to have at his side. He would miss it.
“Leadership is what I offer, Leona,” he explained. “Structure and advocacy for those who have no voice or wit to do it for themselves. Defense against charlatans with tricks and hollow promises. There’s hope in a commonwealth that directs itself. Earnest change and growth. Not the backward stagnation of this place.” He swept one arm high, pointing into the vaults above.
“Your civility mocks what others hold dear.” She trembled still, but finished. “Which is why we want out, Roth.”
She was scared. And for a moment, he saw her the way he had that day she’d come to his father’s door. He’d fallen in love then. Not with her beauty, but with her strength. With her willingness to do what was necessary to survive. He’d not been able to do anything for her then. But he could now. For all those who today were as she had been, he could. He’d wanted badly for her to see that, and to help him. It seemed right. He still loved her. But he knew now, finally, that she would never love him in return.
He gave her a regretful smile. “Some must lead.”
He left her there and strode to the front of Bastulan. There he mounted the altar, took up one of the braziers of coals, and turned to look down the grand hall. She looked small and insignificant from here. He missed her already.
He understood the idealism of his plans. But he would not flinch. To keep his focus, he had only to recall the wharfside shanty where he and his father had struggled from meal to meal.
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