Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  He grabbed the open scroll that lay upon the granite pulpit and set it across the brazier. In moments it blazed. He then took the brazier and went to one of the great hanging tapestries and set it aflame. Then another. And another. Until the front of the cathedral crackled and seared with fire. He dropped the brazier to the floor, spilling coals and the flaming scroll across lush carpet, which soon began to burn, as well.

  He descended the stair and turned to watch the blaze. I should have done this long ago. This pyre to dead gods was a declaration that would steel his movement.

  Behind him he heard the tattoo of retreating steps—Leona rushing for safety. Maybe she’d go to the regent for protection. More foolishness. Helaina could promise Leona protection, but he would find her if he needed to. Maybe she’d name him the arsonist of Bastulan. He didn’t care. The time had come to begin drawing lines. He nodded to himself and started to exit the cathedral to the sound of flames.

  He didn’t get far. On a pew far to one side, Bastulan still had petitioners: one an old man, the other a young girl. It was custom that invalids were helped to their seats, where they often sat all day, praying, beseeching the deafened gods for healing. Only these two, unable to walk, remained. This man and girl would die in the fire. Their ruined limbs were no use to them. They huddled together in fear.

  As the flames licked higher, Roth went to them, hoisting each over a shoulder, and carried them on his way out of the damned place.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Doubts

  Metaphor is a “meaning hammer.” Sometimes you must cease with subtlety, and hit the reader over the godsdamned head with metaphor.

  —From the pages of humorist Stephen Wright’s glossary on the Author’s Way

  Braethen hadn’t done much more than drag himself to the fire. He’d been lying near it for hours, trying to warm himself. Passing through the Telling had played havoc on his stomach, too. But it wasn’t only the Telling that was bothering him.

  When he caught Vendanj’s eye across the flames, the Sheason nodded. “Something on your mind, Sodalist?”

  Braethen had many questions—about what had happened between them in the Naltus library, about the Sodality itself. But just now, he tapped the Blade of Seasons he wore at his hip.

  “Every time I raise this, I’m caught in darkness.” He struggled to explain without sounding childish. “I understand the blade is more than steel. But I’m not using it well, whatever it is.”

  Vendanj offered a smile. “It’s just doubt, my friend.”

  “Doubt?”

  Vendanj remained sitting on the ground, but rocked forward and raised a finger toward him. “You don’t trust yourself with the blade’s uses.”

  He stared across at the man, more uncertain than ever. “You said the blade was about remembering.”

  Vendanj stared back several long moments, then looked around. Grant and Wendra slept nearby. “There’s a great deal of power in that. In helping us see … even be in another place so that we can remember.”

  Braethen recalled raising the weapon. The darkness taking shape. The feeling of being in two places at once. The image of his father on their front porch.

  Vendanj sat back against his rock. “You’d better resolve whatever questions of self-confidence you have. Until you do, the sword is a danger to you.”

  Braethen looked down at the blade. “That should be easy enough,” he said, smiling some.

  The Sheason returned another rare smile of his own. “Maybe I can recommend a good book to help.”

  Braethen laughed. “You sound like my father. He had a book for every occasion, every malady. Whenever I was sad, Da showed up with an Owan Crabtree tale—some bumble-fool usually winds up marrying the prettiest girl in town. Or when the mockery for wanting to become a sodalist got too much, there was Da with a Luie Sonestev book—tales of bravery on the high seas.” He laughed, shook his head. “And when I was sick, a stack of stories found their way onto my bed table. Tragedies. Things far worse than my fever. Made me feel less pitiable.”

  Vendanj smiled at A’Posian’s good use of story. “Your father was a wise man, and a gifted author. I suspect your doubt comes mostly from your feeling that you disappointed him by not following in his footsteps.”

  The words cut deep. Braethen loved his father, respected him; and yet long before joining Vendanj, he’d rejected the idea of becoming an author himself. Doing so had been like rejecting his da. He hung his head, hoping again that his father hadn’t felt unappreciated or unloved.

  But the Author’s Way wasn’t a light commitment. It meant a lifetime of reading. Of writing. Of studying written art forms. Of telling story to instruct and entertain and edify. It meant being a consoler, a philosopher, a sage ear and voice when men’s blood ran faster than their wits. Much of that Braethen had loved and pursued. But not all of it. And not for a lifetime.

  Ironically, it was in all that reading and study where he’d discovered the Sodality. He’d learned about it. Read stories about it. And it had taken root in him until he could think of little else. Then came the chance to accompany Vendanj when he’d arrived in the Hollows, and to later take the oath.

  “You’re right. My father was a wise man, and a gifted author,” Braethen agreed. “And I did disappoint him.”

  “Did you?” Vendanj asked, somewhat incredulous.

  “All he ever wanted was for me to follow him as an author. He spent years teaching me how to read beyond the words on the page, to find meaning, and then apply the things I’d learned. Every eight days of my life my chores included writing a parable or poem that could be shared at Endnigh supper. He wanted me to benefit from the path he’d forged.”

  Vendanj pointed a finger thoughtfully at him. “And these skills your father taught you, would you say you can apply them with some expertise?”

  Braethen stared back, puzzled by the question. “For the most part, yes.”

  “I see.” Vendanj reached back and retrieved his satchel. After placing it in his lap, he caught Braethen’s eye again. “Did I ever tell you I was one of your father’s faithful readers?”

  Braethen’s jaw gaped open more than a little. “You knew my father?”

  “That’s not what I said. I knew his work.” He then reached inside his satchel and pulled out a book with a well-worn binding. Holding it reverently in both hands, he studied its cover. Without looking up, he said, “There are few things a Sheason prizes more than the work of a good author. The right tale has a way of looking back while looking forward, of inspiring humility while lending confidence. Your father”—he finally looked up at Braethen—“was particularly good at this. I’ve made a habit of acquiring his most recent work. But this”—he tapped the book in his hands—“isn’t so recent. This was written some fifteen years ago.”

  Braethen craned his neck to try to see the title. “Which one is it?”

  “The Seamster’s Needle. Do you remember it?” Vendanj stood and brought it to him.

  Braethen took the book gently from the Sheason’s hands. “I read it, but it’s been a long time.”

  “I think the book will make more sense to you now,” Vendanj suggested, a tired smile on his face. He returned to his blanket on the other side of the fire. “It’s about a tailor who winds up having to choose between sewing garments for nobility with his seamster father, or leaving the comfort of the palace to patch groundcloth for field laborers.”

  Braethen looked up at the Sheason, the story’s meaning becoming rather obvious. Fifteen years ago, it had seemed a silly conceit for a book.

  “Look at the first page,” Vendanj invited.

  He turned back the cover. There, like a personal inscription, was a dedication: To my son. Lend your needle where you find it does the most good. A weight lifted from his shoulders. He drew a deep breath, and his sight blurred with tears. He wanted badly to see his father just now. Tell him how much he loved him.

  “That seamster reads a lot like a boy with the notion of serv
ing the Sodality. In case that wasn’t clear.” Vendanj smiled. “You could say I had a sense of you before we ever met. You have your father to thank for that.”

  Vendanj then held up an inviting hand. “Read it. The tale is short.”

  Braethen carefully turned back the first page, and lost himself to the story. Subtle details of how his father had seen their relationship revealed themselves. In many ways, it was like having his da with him. It gave Braethen a vaguely happy feeling, even though the story left him somewhat unsettled.

  The seamster in the tale had left the sure and safe path of his father’s royal appointment. The son meant to apply his needle to the clothes of fieldworkers and those unable to pay. With time, he’d lost or worn out the simple tools of his trade, thimbles and fabric scissors and the like. The meager pay from his rustic clientele didn’t allow him to replace much—often he took food in trade for his work.

  Eventually, the seamster’s fingers had grown leathery from the prick of countless needles, calluses forming from the constant use of his hands.

  And while the selfless seamster seemed the obvious metaphor for Braethen, the man’s hands bothered him. To Braethen’s mind, the metaphor indicated not just selflessness, but a loss of feeling. In fact, if the seamster’s hands and fingers were the way he experienced and added to the world around him—and Braethen thought they were—then they suggested the seamster himself might be, at least figuratively, dead. Or expendable, anyway.

  When Braethen turned the last page, he shut the book and looked up. Staring at him across the fire was Vendanj, his face uncustomarily serene. It seemed as if the Sheason had been waiting for Braethen to finish, knowing he’d have questions. Braethen did.

  With the crackle of the fire in accompaniment, Braethen asked, “The seamster’s hands, what do you think they represent?”

  Vendanj didn’t immediately answer, taking a deep breath. “I’m not sure what I think matters.”

  Braethen blinked, considered. “Maybe the question should be: What did my father think they represented?”

  Vendanj said nothing, waiting.

  “The seamster’s hardened hands seem to say that giving your life to the service of someone else means you lose the feeling for what you value most.”

  The Sheason’s eyebrows went up. “That’s your interpretation?”

  Braethen thought, and nodded. “It changes you. Maybe not for the worse. But the seamster’s hands were his life, his livelihood … his soul, if you want to go that far. Losing feeling in them…” Braethen had a new epiphany about the story. He shifted his legs and refocused on Vendanj. “If the seamster is me, about me giving my life to the Sodality, then something about the order—at least as my father understood it—requires that I lose or give up what matters most to me.”

  “And what is that?” Vendanj asked.

  Braethen didn’t have to think. “The idealism I hold about the Sodality itself.” He stared across the fire at Vendanj, beginning to understand the reality behind the oath he’d taken.

  Vendanj looked back at him for a long moment, then asked him a troubling question—troubling in its simplicity. “Do you know how the Sodality began?”

  The excitement of imminent academic discovery hit him. For all his searching, a record of the Sodality’s formation was something he’d never been able to find. There were author accounts of it, but they were so different as to make it clear they had no idea.

  Vendanj settled back against his large rock. “You’ve heard the story of the first Sheason, Palamon, wrestling Jo’ha’nel, who followed the dissenting god.” Vendanj did not rush. “To say they wrestled is an author’s way of adding poetry to their fight. It was a struggle of wills. A struggle that took place over many days and many bloody fights. But it was this contest where lines were drawn, this contest where the intentions of those loyal to Quietus were made known. It’s also when the need for the Sodality became clear.”

  “Why is there no record of the formation of the Sodality?” Braethen asked.

  Vendanj held up his hand. “Patience.” He held a long silence, then began to tell a story.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Two Sides of the Same

  Things that matter are born from pain. It’s a special kind of madness.

  —Expression Eight from the Faces of Madness, author unknown though often attributed to Hargrove

  Vendanj grew silent for many long moments, his eyes fixed in thought. Then he began to tell the story of the Sodality’s creation.

  * * *

  Efram closed the bedroom door, leaving his two small ones at the kitchen table, eating their supper. He turned to his wife, Volleia, who lay on their bed. “Jo’ha’nel is returning,” he said.

  Volleia stood up immediately, fear rising on her face. “We must leave. I’ll get what we can carry.” She started past him to the door.

  Efram reached out and put an arm across her chest, gently grasping her shoulder. “It’s too late,” he said softly. “He doesn’t come alone this time.”

  His wife’s face slackened with horror. She stared, unable to speak.

  Efram nodded, feeling helpless to reassure her. “Palamon isn’t sure how many, but they come up from the south and down from the north. We’re surrounded.”

  “We’ll go up the bluff face,” Volleia desperately suggested.

  “With the children?” Efram shook his head. “And there’s no time, anyway.”

  She put her arms around his waist and hugged him close. “What are we going to do?”

  Efram held her for a long time, noting the smooth feel of her arms and the lilac smell of her hair. He would want to remember those things later. Then he drew gently back, taking hold of her hands. “Palamon is alone. A few of the people are trying to flee. Others are hiding in their cellars. Most are still away in the south, looking for warmer, more fertile lands to till.”

  He watched as realization dawned in her eyes, without him needing to say what was in his heart. “Efram, no. What can you possibly do? You don’t render. You’ve got only a hayfork—”

  He squeezed her hands. “I may be little more than a diversion, but if I can give Palamon some time…”

  “You would throw away your life to buy the Sheason a few seconds?” Ire lined her tone.

  “I will be more trouble than that,” he said. It was not idle talk. He didn’t go lightly to the Sheason’s side to stand against Jo’ha’nel. But he also knew there was little hope of returning to this home, this room … to Volleia and his children.

  “And what of us?” Her question came as if she knew his mind.

  His silence was the only answer he felt strong enough to give.

  The sadness and disappointment in her face would surely damn him. “You would choose to stand with him, rather than stay here with your family? We will die, and you will not be here to fight or fall with us,” she said, an awful resignation in her voice.

  Efram tried to think of what to say. There really wasn’t much more to it. But he hoped he could help her understand. “Volleia … the only chance we have is for me to help Palamon. It’s not a hope for those of us caught here, not for you or me … not for Tula or Ridel.” His throat grew tight as he spoke his children’s names. “It’s for those who may come after us.”

  As she always did, she reasoned it through and found the most right way. This time, Efram—after great struggle—had simply realized it first. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I know,” she said.

  “And we may defeat him, Volleia. All may not be lost.” He tried to smile.

  “How soon?” she asked.

  He fought his own grief. “I need to say good-bye to the little ones.”

  The immediacy of his departure brought fresh tears to her eyes. He kissed her, tasting the salt of them on her lips. Then he led her by the hand out of the bedroom to the kitchen table. He walked to Ridel’s chair and hunkered down to his son’s eye level.

  “How’s that turned duck?” he asked.

  “Go
od,” his boy said.

  “I’m going away for a while, son.”

  Ridel nodded, still eating.

  Efram pulled his son around and took him in his arms. “Be helpful to your mother while I’m gone.”

  When Ridel finally looked into his father’s eyes, something registered in the boy’s face. But at three years of age, the lad hadn’t the words to express it. So he wrapped his arms around Efram’s neck and squeezed his hardest—what he always did to say good-bye when Efram went away. But this time he didn’t let go. Efram hugged his son back, fighting the emotion so he wouldn’t worry the boy. “I love you, son.”

  “Love you,” the boy repeated.

  When Ridel released him, Efram turned to Tula, and his tears finally came.

  Without a word, she leapt into his arms and hugged him with all her strength. “Take me with you,” she whispered in his ear.

  “I cannot,” he whispered back, his voice catching with emotion.

  “When will you be back?” she asked.

  In all his life he’d never lied to his little girl. “Not long, Tula. Not long. You be a help to your mother, too.… I love you.”

  Tula’s eyes were still slightly skeptical, but perhaps that was only Efram’s own worry. “I love you, too, Papa.” His little girl reluctantly let him go.

  Efram gave them each a last look, smiling at them, and hoping it didn’t look too fateful. Then he led Volleia to the door and kissed her one last time with the cool night air on their wet cheeks. “I love you, Volleia.”

  “And I you.” She gave him a tortured, earnest look, one few women will—or should—ever know. It was the look of a wife and mother encouraging the man she loves as he goes to die. “Give Palamon your best.”

  Efram’s heart surged with loss and pride and the desire to prove he deserved her love. He brushed the tears from her cheek and started out into the night, allowing himself to wonder if he would return. And if he did, would his family … He couldn’t finish that thought.

  All night he walked, arriving at Palamon’s house in the small hours of morning. He’d hoped others would have gathered to stand with the Sheason. But it was as he’d feared. It was only the two of them. Under a starry sky they walked to the high ground, where they could survey the valley below and stand to defend it against Jo’ha’nel, who marched out of the canyon to the northwest.