Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  As the first inklings of light lit the eastern sky, the other emerged, four hulking figures at his back. And the battle began.

  Efram proved more than a distraction, keeping these Bar’dyn from getting to Palamon, while the Sheason fought the nightmare out of the Bourne.

  The sun had not yet touched the sky when screams from the valley began to echo up to them. Tears flowed from Efram’s eyes as he fought. He wondered if each new agonized cry rising up on the morning sky came from one of his family found by the Quiet.

  Until one particular scream.

  After that he fought with abandon, his wrath and anguish fueling a furious attack. And still, they were losing. The Quietgiven that swept in from behind them were drawing nearer. Efram glanced over at Palamon, who looked like he might drop at any moment from exhaustion.

  In a blinding moment of realization, he screamed to the Sheason, “Use me!” and bolted at a dead run toward Palamon.

  Efram saw a look of dread acknowledgment in the renderer’s face as he neared. But it softened fast to acceptance and gratitude. Then hardened as new determination lit Palamon’s eyes. A moment later, Efram stepped into the iron grip of the Sheason, and a warmth spread immediately throughout his body.

  He had time to utter, “I’m coming,” and think of lilacs before his spirit entered Palamon and gave life to a thought so devastating that he had no word for it. Then his spirit rushed outward, dispersing with awful power and disregard, like a firewind.

  He passed through the bodies of the Bar’dyn that still stood as well as those climbing to the high ground, and through the bitter form of the Draethmorte, too. His consciousness faded as all those he touched fell dead, leaving Palamon alone in the desolation when the sun came fully into the sky.

  * * *

  When Vendanj finished the story, he found an unsettled expression on Braethen’s face. “In the season that followed,” he added, “Palamon realized that if he meant to build an order of Sheason to stand against the Quiet, he would need help. Perhaps not always the same kind of sacrifice as Efram’s, but more than a Sheason could do alone. Efram had shown him the way.”

  Vendanj stopped, the story lingering heavily in the air around them.

  Braethen stared across the fire at him.

  “The use of another to render wouldn’t happen again for a long time,” Vendanj said. “Even the name ‘Sodality’ came much later. But that’s where it started.”

  Braethen shook his head in disbelief. “I thought only the Velle used others to fuel rendering.”

  He feels betrayed. Vendanj couldn’t begrudge Braethen the feeling. “You want to know if you’ll be required to do the same as Efram.”

  Braethen said nothing.

  Vendanj offered a tired, reassuring smile. “I won’t ask it of you. No Sheason ever does. It must be offered.”

  “Like when I helped you in the Naltus library,” Braethen said with calm certainty.

  Vendanj nodded. “You revived me. Lent me a portion of yourself. You did it naturally, never having done so before. That told me you were ready to learn what it could mean to give more. Which brings me to an important question.” Vendanj sat forward, so that his face could be clearly seen.

  The sodalist did likewise.

  “If you wish,” Vendanj said evenly, “I’ll relieve you of your oath. There’s no shame in leaving it behind. Whatever you decide, you have my respect and thanks for all you’ve done.” He paused a moment. “You’re one hell of a seamster.”

  Braethen showed him a blank look of surprise. But Vendanj meant every word. He hoped Braethen would embrace the fullness of the Sodalist call. But the young man had doubts. And it would tear him apart in more ways than one if he didn’t give all of himself. It was that, or quit. Vendanj owed him the choice.

  “Don’t answer now.” He stood, rubbing his fire-warmed knees. “You should ponder what I’ve shared with you, consider your feelings carefully. And not while I watch and wait for your answer. We’ll stay together until we go in to Recityv. Then, if we part ways, at least you’ll be in a safe place to decide what’s next for you.”

  Before Braethen could respond or ask another question, Vendanj turned and strode out into the cool evening air. He needed some time of his own to think. About his friends. About his own doubts.

  As he walked in the shades of evening, he looked up at the stars and thought of his wife, Illenia, and their unborn child. He thought of the Quiet attack she’d defended without him. He thought of the League blackcoat who’d forced him out of the room while she died trying to give their child life.

  “I miss you,” he whispered.

  After several moments, he dropped his gaze to Recityv, which stood proud against the horizon. And his mind turned to Convocation.

  Most of his companions were too weak to go into the city. It had taken some rendering to restore his own strength. But earlier he’d seen a Wynstout Dominion wagon parade moving south toward Recityv. He’d gone to meet it and learned that Convocation wasn’t set to convene for a few days yet.

  He finally stopped walking, far enough now from their campfire that he could hardly see it. He hunkered down and dragged his fingers across the hardened earth, if only to remind himself that some things had a sense of permanence about them. It was an important thing to remember.

  Vendanj clenched a fistful of soil. All the insecurities of those around him, piled on top of his own losses, led to a manic grin that felt strangely good on his face. It should have been the Sheason who did this, who stood in the gap. But somewhere along the way, they’d begun to interpret service as servility. The League had used this to its advantage, twisting the use of the Will into a crime, imprisoning Sheason like Rolen for doing nothing more than healing a sick child.

  The way of things was backward. And it led to his dissent with his own order, a schism that made him an enemy to his own kind. His smile tightened, and he slowly let go the earth from his clenched fist. He would make them see. Those at Convocation. And those in Estem Salo. By the name of every last absent god, he would make them see. Or die in the attempt.

  Vendanj looked one last time into the starry night, then stood and strode back to camp, wrapping his determination about him like a suit of iron.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Given or Taken

  What can be given, can be taken away.

  —The Parity Principle, considered part of the Charter, and one of many ethics rumored to be expounded upon in the very stone deep inside the Tabernacle of the Sky

  In the light of morning, Thaelon paced the gardens south of the Tabernacle of the Sky. He’d gotten there early, before his trusted friends arrived, to ponder the gathering he’d called. Behind him, the Tabernacle rose in failing majesty. Time had worn at her, dulling the stone, crumbling its ceilings, the forest creeping in. And still, the pillars cut deep into the sky, appearing to support the firmament above and connect it to the earth below.

  A gentle feeling of safety resided here. Perhaps something of the authority of the Tabernacle yet remained, from when gods had trod this place, framing the world. Ages ago. He had never entered the ruins to investigate. By unspoken assent, no one did.

  His friends began to arrive, emerging from between towering hemlock and aspen. Each nodded a silent greeting, keeping the reverence of the morning and tabernacle for now. Thaelon sat on some lower steps that were cracked and overgrown by ivy. He settled himself, breathing the fresh scent of dew nestled over the holly scrub brush.

  The others sat or stood in a rough semicircle in front of him, waiting. These were men and women of powerful understanding and ability. They led entire disciplines of study for the Sheason Order. They were his closest friends. Part of his full council. And they didn’t hide their concern as they waited for him to explain this meeting leagues from Estem Salo, at the foot of the Tabernacle.

  He didn’t waste words. “I’m calling for a Trial of Intentions.”

  The four looked around at one another without speaking
, then back at him.

  “Because of Vendanj,” Jak finally said, matter-of-factly. Jak Obsen was Exemplar of Discernment. His brow was perpetually smooth, as though discernment earned him continual peace.

  “Not only him.” Thaelon clasped his hands between his knees. “There’s dissent in the order. I can’t ignore it any longer. Thought differs on the right way to serve and how we should use the Will.”

  “You might want to be slightly more accurate,” Warrin suggested. Warrin Cochellas was Exemplar of Argument, and his brow was the opposite of Jak’s, always in a pinch—concentration and objection ever present. “Isn’t it whether or not to use the Will that is dividing us? And the League is responsible there.”

  Odea Ren, Exemplar of Battle, cut in sharply. “We can remedy that. The surest way to solidarity is to define a common enemy.”

  Odea let her comment linger a moment before adding the wry grin that always followed her invocation of combat strategy to solve any problem. The rest of them laughed softly in the weak morning light. Still, her eyes had a unique glimmer whenever she suggested it.

  “You actually have two dilemmas, don’t you,” Jak offered, again with his calm certainty.

  Thaelon nodded at his discerning friend. “I do. And maybe three, depending on how you look at it. First, there’s the League. Their Civilization Order tightens.” He sighed. “I have reports of the sick and weak, who go uncared for because it’s unlawful to call the Will.”

  “Like Rolen,” Lorra pointed out—Lorra Fonn was Exemplar of Imparting. “Rolen is one of the Sheason appointed to Recityv. Imprisoned for rendering to help a sick child.”

  “What to do about the League is one thing. Second,” Thaelon said, “some Sheason are finding hope in a man like Vendanj, who counts costs later.”

  “It’s the thinking of an outlaw,” Warren commented. “I respect Vendanj. But I don’t think he’s been the same since Illenia died. He blames the League for that.”

  “That may all be true,” Thaelon conceded. “But it doesn’t change the mounting support Vendanj is finding within the order. Many believe in his fearless use of his gifts to do what he thinks best.”

  Warren stared back at him, his brow deeply pinched. “To my mind, Vendanj has crossed into aggrandizement.”

  “And yet he takes the fight to the Quiet. Who among us has been so bold?” Odea didn’t follow with her wry grin this time.

  Thaelon nodded again. “That’s the third question that I’ve asked you here to help me work through. Regardless of what the League does or believes, we know the Quiet press at their bonds. Whether or not we agree with how Vendanj chooses to meet this threat, the threat is real. The nations of the east are unprepared. And their warcraft is insufficient, in any case. We must decide how to stand against the Bourne.”

  Odea picked up a stone and tossed it away with some irritation. “The Sheason aren’t ready for war, either.”

  “I know,” Thaelon agreed. “Though I suspect you could fix that.”

  Odea found her grin again.

  “What do you plan to do with a Sheason who declares sympathy or support for Vendanj?” It was Jak, cutting to the heart of the matter, as he always did.

  Lorra, who had been mostly quiet, looked up into the heights of the Tabernacle. “Thaelon, you could have held a private meeting anywhere. You chose this place to remind us of who we are.” She lowered her gaze to him. “On the first question, about the League, ours is the authority to render. No law will change that. And it’s foolishness for the League to preach that our gifts threaten the self-determination of men. The time has come to meet the Ascendant and make him see this for himself.”

  “I’ll go,” Odea offered. Her grin this time showed eagerness.

  Thaelon smiled briefly. An envoy, then. To try and reverse this damned Civilization Order. “Someone will go, but not you.”

  Jak laughed out loud. “As I see it, your real dilemma is what to do about the Bourne, since we all know that any answer there will require Sheason to fight. The question then becomes: Will it be your way, or Vendanj’s?”

  Warrin nodded to himself as though he’d found his own clarity of thought. “On your second question, about Vendanj and the right use of the Will: You should still conduct your Trial of Intentions.”

  Both Odea and Lorra turned scrutinizing eyes on their Exemplar of Argument. He seemed not to notice.

  “We can all agree not to submit to immoral League laws any longer.” Warrin pointed at each of them one by one. “But we should also agree that Vendanj’s use of the Will is a perversion of our oath. Yes, he’s trying to meet the threat of the Bourne. But he does so in rogue fashion, and his methods are irresponsible—”

  Thaelon held up his hands to stop Warrin. He’d deal with the third question, the Quiet question, later. “Thank you, my friends.” He looked at Odea. “Escalate battle training. Double the practice time on defense and attack strategies, as well as personal fighting techniques.”

  Thaelon didn’t like having to give the next directive, but he’d found no alternative. Looking both Warrin and Jak in the eyes, he commanded, “Proceed with the Trial of Intentions.”

  They each nodded, and Jak repeated the question he’d begun with. “What do you plan to do with a Sheason who declares sympathy or support for Vendanj?”

  Thaelon turned then to face the Tabernacle. “You were right, Lorra. I chose this place because it’s a reminder of who we are. But much of what we are is given to us.” He paused, being certain he wanted to relate what was in his heart. Moments later, with the certainty he’d come here to find, he added, “And what is given can be taken away.”

  Morning birdsong at the foot of the Tabernacle of the Sky became loud in the silence that followed. The scent of dew on ivy and old stone warming in the sun usually gave Thaelon some peace. Not today. Their discussion had seeded in his mind dangerous thoughts about the oldest of schisms. About the Quiet. But that was for later.

  He watched his friends begin their descent back to Estem Salo. Once they were out of sight, Raalena emerged from a copse of aspen seedlings. Together, they mounted the southern steps to the Tabernacle. Deep within its vaults, he hoped to find, graven in the stone, inscriptions that held the answer to the one thing not recorded in the Vaults at Estem Salo: how to divest a Sheason of the authority to render the Will.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Poison of Politics

  When the Mors escaped the Bourne and came into the Eastlands, they were welcomed with steel. Even the chroniclers died in what is referred to as the Retribution of the Mors. We can be glad they now keep to themselves.

  —Drawn from chapter “The Mor Nation Refrains,” belonging to The Unmusical Historian, a consideration of song in history

  Helaina looked east over Recityv from the aerie of her High Office atop Solath Mahnus. Tendrils of smoke still worked their way into the sky from the recent burning of Bastulan Cathedral. Roth was on his way to see her. Word had been passed ahead of his approach. She’d been having him followed for several cycles now. Not perfectly. Sometimes he slipped her spies, which made her only more sure he had something to do with Bastulan.

  Through the crisp autumn air, Helaina gazed northeast. Far distant, the plains disappeared from sight. Beyond them lay the dry, lifeless span of the Scar, home to Grant’s wards. Her own son had gone there days after she’d pushed him from her womb. She’d had reports of him, of his training and education. But they were vague at best. She knew him no better than prisoners she sent to her pits. But she did remember his birth. That night pulsed in her memory more than any other—the night Tahn came into the world, ending many sad years of barrenness.

  She’d seen him only once since he’d gone away, when he’d returned to Recityv with the Sheason Vendanj and others. Tahn had freed a convicted Leagueman and gotten thrown into the pits. A Dissent brought by his friends to release him had failed. But he and the others had escaped the city. In the time since, she’d had the ruling against him
reversed, hoping he’d find his way back. From Tillinghast. From the long years away from her.

  “This is what aching bones do to the aged,” she complained mildly to herself, “force us to remember.” Helaina rubbed her hands together, massaging the ache and stiffness that had beset her joints in her elder years.

  Lately, she could scarcely hold her pen to write more than a few words before needing to relax her hand. The message she’d been composing this morning had required ten long pauses to rest—and that was just her portion. Belamae had begun the letter, leaving the rest for her to finish. It had taken her a long time to decide how to conclude it.

  But this morning, watching the smoke from her east window, it had come to her. She’d been standing here ever since, slowly committing her thoughts—and plea—to paper for the third time. To her right sat the cage of three falcons. It was a precautionary redundancy to send three. And for this particular letter, she’d called her falconer—this time, the shrikes would not do. Three grey falcons taken from the cliffs of Masson Dimn perched hooded, waiting.

  As she prepared to finish the last of the three copies, a light rap came at her High Office door. “Come,” she said. She turned and straightened herself, so as not to show her caller the least weakness.

  Roth Staned, Ascendant of the League of Civility, strode with his particular self-assured gait into her chamber. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist, though he never dropped his gaze from her own. Using the appellation, bowing—he’s already setting the tone for our exchange.

  A tall man, Roth carried himself as one ready at any moment to lend a hand. His expressions and mannerisms were those of a pleaser. And because everything about him seemed so considered, she found him particularly unsettling.