“Ascendant Staned,” she replied formally, using the leagueman’s title. She bowed, but not as deeply.
Roth smiled. “You’ve no doubt had news of the fire.”
“And seen it from my window.” She gestured to her right. “Who would benefit from the destruction of such a holy place…”
“You assume it was arson, then.” Roth looked across her High Office at her, betraying no guilt.
“I assume only that there are precious few who gain from its ruin.” She took her seat behind the black marble table she used for a desk, and folded her shaky hands in her lap to avoid the appearance of age or fear.
“The League, you’re thinking.” Roth went to the window and looked out at the smoke, now thinner, whiter.
“What is the tradition of Bastulan?” she said, answering Roth circuitously. “It’s said that hidden somewhere inside—in its crypt or many towers—is the Lens of Samalnae, the Pauper’s Drum, and other relics that appear only in the oldest stories.”
“Which the League would like to see destroyed, you think.” Roth’s voice carried a hint of amusement now.
“The idea of a relic is to place importance on a physical thing to answer some human need. Last I knew, the League preferred personal endeavor to meet the trials of life. Thus, I don’t think relics have a place in your doctrine.” Helaina sighed quietly, already weary of the effort to trade exchanges with His Leadership.
“I don’t suppose any of us will mourn its loss,” Roth conceded. “But that’s not the same as causing its destruction.”
“I wouldn’t want to have the Dannire looking for me,” Helaina replied, a wicked, thin grin on her face.
Roth looked truly surprised. “What? The old story about holy assassins? A few heedless sword-bearers, fighting in the name of dead gods? Those Dannire?” He smiled.
“If I was the arsonist of Bastulan, I would fear even the idea of the Dannire. Let alone the stories that make children believe the gods sanction murder.” Helaina nodded toward the smoke. She was goading him with the very myths he hated. “I’m not sure the arsonist who got that blaze going was thinking too far ahead.” She then changed the subject. “Why have you come?”
“Ah, the patience of old age, I see…” He turned from the window.
So now you’ll seek my office. It was a long time coming, intimations here and there over the last three years. But the timing couldn’t be worse. And yet it made perfect sense that he would choose this time to make his play.
“The regency is an appointment of lifetime tenure. I’m still alive. These facts were obvious to you before you called on me today,” she pointedly reminded him.
“Indeed, Your Grace, but I come with genuine intent. Please forgive my remarks. They’re nothing more than my awkward attempt to seem less … forward. Perhaps neither of us has been a good ally to the other since our service together began.”
Helaina laughed inside. His politics were truly exceptional. Though, she paused long enough to consider that perhaps her cynicism had gotten the better of her. After all, she herself had thought lately that her office rightly belonged to a younger leader. One who doesn’t have to rest from the composition of a simple letter.
“Fair enough,” the regent offered. “Why have you come?” This time, she spoke with her own earnestness.
“It’s not easy for me to say, because I know how it might be perceived, Your Grace … Helaina. We have stood on opposite sides of many issues. Even now, this Convocation that floods our city with ne’er-do-well leaders from distant principalities … I think it’s a mistake. Whether the threat from the Bourne is real or not, I would not have recalled these ineffective kings and queens and warmongers to a Convocation.”
“And why not,” Helaina challenged civilly. “Federating as many of the kingdoms as we can will have benefits beyond military strength and coordination. Think of the good that can be done with the institution of more academies and colleges to advance learning, of the safe trade for goods that might feed the hungry.” She laughed again inside—not because these things weren’t true, but at her own anticipation of Roth’s response to her embracing his political agenda.
“If I may speak plainly, Helaina, I would say it’s shameful that it takes the threat of a myth like the Bourne to prompt you to look after your people’s welfare.” Roth said it with all humility and tact and sincerity. If not for years debating the man, she might have believed he had no ulterior motive.
But if her age made her hands cramp and ache, it also made her twice as shrewd. “A fair criticism, Roth. That is precisely the kind of wisdom I expect and appreciate from a member of my High Council.” She shifted in her chair to face him more directly. “But I can’t change the past. And if present threats bring civic benefits, then those are happy consequences. They’ll become matters of government that I’ll need your help to define and make useful to our people.”
Roth stood near the eastern window, staring at Helaina for several moments. She imagined him calculating how next to criticize her, where he could find chinks in her political armor to illuminate her unfitness to rule, to lead.
It was a dance they’d had with increasing frequency in recent years. But his visit today held a different poignancy. And the prevarication between them began to collapse before the next words were uttered. His face hardened, losing its façade of comportment and concern. Helaina likewise put away her genteel manner, letting the distress of her rheumatic hands and all the other pains of age lend her their acerbic gifts.
“I will ask you in private, this once, to step down. You are not fit to lead.”
“Because of my age?”
“In part, yes,” Roth said. “But not because you sometimes walk with the assistance of a cane. It’s the aging of your mind that compromises the welfare of your people. Yes, we’ve disagreed, vehemently at times. But I’m not here to assert that I should replace you. Only that you need to take a close look at your ability to conduct the matters of state. Ask yourself if you’re still truly in a frame of mind to do so.”
Helaina stood, biting back the pain that shot up her legs at the effort. She kept her hands flat on her desk for support and to keep them from clenching shut, as often happened after their overuse.
“Ascendant Staned, these are valid concerns. And not, you should know, something I trifle with. Officially, my health, while not what it was ten years ago, is fine. And my frame of mind … I have never seen the needs of this nation more clearly than I see them now, nor—”
“What do you see—”
“Nor,” she said more loudly, “what must be done to answer those needs.”
Roth then dropped all pretense. His face showed his dislike, skepticism, and ambition, all at once. “Officially, you say?”
Helaina likewise dropped all pretense. “Unofficially,” she said with a sharp tone, “I am old! My body aches, and I have the experience to worry if my decisions are right enough to direct a nation.”
Roth smiled.
“But these are the virtues of age, civil man.” She uttered those last words—civil man—with extreme disparagement.
“What about all these other nations?” Roth asked. “You called for Convocation. Do you really think they’ll be persuaded by a woman grown slaphappy in her old age?”
Helaina showed him a smile of forbearance born of experience. “You forget that some of these kings are my own age. And many of the younger ones grew up respecting the stories of the First and Second Promise, not to mention the men and women who gave them life. They’ll vote to reestablish the promise of Convocation.”
Roth laughed again, sarcasm clear in a single arching eyebrow. “You’re a product of your own propaganda. This is precisely one of the reasons you should step down. You seek to elevate the stature of your rule by calling the Convocation a third time. It’s political posturing. You know it as well as I do. But it’s an abuse of power.”
“That,” she shouted, “is what you object to, isn’t it, leagueman? You
want my seat so you can be the one to direct Convocation. Our feud was … civil until I sent the call for Convocation. It’s opportunism that brings you here to insist on my resignation. You see the chance to extend your influence by exploiting their fear of the very threats you decry as myth.” She pointed another savage finger at him. “You’re a hypocrite!”
“What about you, Helaina?” Roth shot back. “You stood in the Court of Judicature and upheld the law and sentencing of a leagueman and his rescuers, then turned around and freed them in secret. You are the hypocrite! You abuse your power for your own private interests, whether it’s your political legacy or the petition of a friend. I will publish your crime, and then we’ll see if Convocation will follow a woman who speaks with a double tongue.”
Helaina leveled him a glare with all the power of her office, and spoke in a grave, even tone. “What I have done, I have only done with the hope of avoiding open war with the Quiet, and the loss of another generation of our children. These are the choices of a regent, and you will neither question nor announce them. To do so … is treason.”
Roth came near, his physical form dwarfing her. “You are gone in the mind to think that you can act without consequence, without accountability to the Council and the people they represent. You can’t take action in a closet and be allowed to keep it hidden there. You owe us all a full accounting.”
It was Helaina’s turn to smile. “Beware, Roth. Everyone, even the lowly whoreboys on the street, have secrets they wish to keep. Their brand of civility is not what you would have it be. But take care that you don’t push so far so fast that instead of taking my seat you wind up losing your own … and killing the League in the process.” She spoke the last as an overt threat. It was time to take the offensive.
Then she returned them to where they’d begun, to remind him of common ground. “Roth, I’ve recalled Convocation not just to answer the Quiet threat. We are finally at a place where we may forge a lasting alliance. Unify the kingdoms and nations of the east. This is my political agenda, my highest objective. It will fortify us against … against any enemy.” She paused, considering. “And if you’re right, and no enemy comes at us from the Bourne, then we’ll have established a confederation that will better address our shared goals.” She softened her voice, to strike the right amount of cynicism. “If your goals are truly what you say they are.”
Roth glared a threat back at her. “If you make war on the League, you will regret it.” He seemed to consider. “It’s too late. Remember that you brought this on yourself … on others … for your unwillingness to see the need for change.”
Fear struck Helaina’s heart. It’s too late. Her mind raced to understand what he meant. But she couldn’t show him weakness, and instead gave him an impassive look when she said, “I’ve held your crime in abeyance for too long. But no longer. The League will stand trial for the poisoning of Leagueman Duugael. If convicted, Ascendant Staned, the rights and privileges of the League of Civility will be revoked in the nation of Vohnce. And I will see that published in every court and hall in the known world.”
Roth seemed on the brink of true violence, but remained collected. Helaina held her head up, her body still, until he turned and strode angrily from her High Office.
Helaina collapsed back into her chair, unable to stop her legs from shaking—some bit of fear and of rheumatism besides.
When she thought she could manage it, she pushed herself to her feet and struggled to the window. There, she picked up her pen, dipped it in her vial of ink, and without stopping—despite the great pain—finished the last of the three letters. Then she promptly rolled them into their tiny tubes, and one by one tied them to the falcons’ feet.
With only the briefest hesitation, she spoke the words given her by her falconer to direct the birds, then shooed them into the air. The falcons banked hard right, passing across the vistas of her eastern windows. Soon, their grey feathers were lost in the sky hues of midmorning, as they raced to take her entreaty to the Mor nations. Pray gods the Mors don’t still harbor their old grievances.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Old Friends
We left Estem Salo not to reject our Sheason oath, but because we wanted to focus on scientific knowledge of the sky, and our place in these vaulted heavens.
—Portion of the first correspondence from Pealy Omendal, to Estem Salo astronomet, after its establishment from Aubade Grove
Tahn was falling. Debris swirled about him as though he’d been caught in a violent whirlwind. Stones struck his arms, back, and face. A great rushing noise filled his ears, drowning out his own cries. A moment later he landed heavily on hard soil, where the storm of rocks and small branches continued to pelt his back, the wind pressing him down. He lay helpless, his entire body bearing a great pressure. Then, unexpectedly, the winds died, the debris fell harmless on and around him, and he gasped a dust-filled breath.
He coughed, and fought to take another lungful of air. The smell of a storm lingered in his nose, but more acrid, like alderwood singed by a firebrand. His ears were ringing, an incredibly high pitch in his head. Finally, he opened his eyes to find the world cloaked in the dark of night under a cloudless, starry sky. It appeared he’d fallen onto a long sagebrush plain, giving him an expansive view to the horizon. With some pain, he turned his head to look in the other direction. A few hundred strides away, several towers rose up off the plain like silent sentinels, carving dark silhouettes from the star-filled sky.
Aubade Grove.
The columns were familiar, but his mind was clouded, and the towers offered no comfort from the sharp pain in his body or the ache in his head. He shut his eyes again and focused on his breathing, trying to calm himself. Only after he’d gotten the rhythms of his body under control did he relax enough to think through what had just happened.
He’d passed through the Telling Wendra had sung for him. But pushing through it had been like walking against a stern wind, one which left his skin stinging—even beneath his clothes—as though that wind had been filled with sand.
He tried to get up, and quickly abandoned the effort. Every movement was agony, and he had little strength left, besides. So, he turned his head east again, and became still. He lay where he’d fallen, watching the slow procession of stars rising in the east, and fell asleep waiting for dawn.
* * *
The pain woke him. He’d only been asleep maybe an hour, but his body stiffened, and he could feel the ache of it down where muscle met bone. He lay in a ball on the cold ground, curled up against the chill. When he opened his eyes, he thought of daybreak.
It’s no small miracle to have just one thing you can rely on. It was something they said in the Grove when their hypotheses crumbled beneath them.
Lying there, aching and cold, far now from his companions, he thought of newly tilled fields steaming in the first light of day. He thought of morning dew sweetening the scent of hay. He thought of sunrise through pine boughs, its rays shining between needles and falling in hazy shafts on a forest floor. It was his predawn ritual—imagining the coming sun.
A moment later, he heard the familiar sound of footsteps grinding dirt and pebbles. He remained still, knowing he would be of no use in his own defense, and hoping whoever it was was friendly.
The footfalls grew louder, but didn’t come directly at him. He waited. His heart raced. And then the unseen stranger stopped. He heard a sigh when the first hints of color rose in the eastern sky. With each passing moment, he began to believe something that hardly seemed possible: Whoever this person was … had also come to watch the sunrise. With that thought, his anxiety eased.
For half an hour he lay unmoving, as daylight lit the east, brightening it with hues of fire orange and autumn yellow. And above it all the darkened heavens faded to skylark blue. He breathed easier, just as he always did when the sun peeked over the line of earthsky. But the moment of peace shattered when a voice called out over the sage plain.
“Gnomon? Is t
hat you? By all my integers, it’s not possible!”
Running steps came at him, and Tahn struggled onto his back. His muscles were so tight he worried they might snap. But he reached out against the pain, flailing to find his bow. He did little more than stir a small dirt cloud and send shards of pain through his bruised body. He was at this stranger’s mercy.
Until he remembered his knife. He’d just taken it in hand when the face of a woman came into view.
A wry smile gradually swept the shock from her face.
“Rithy?” he asked tentatively.
Tahn turned to look west, and saw the towers again, now basked in the light of the morning sun. Five towers, like great limbless stone trees, set in a wide pentagon on the western plains of the Kamas Throne. Then he looked back at Rithy.
The young woman screwed up her face and said, “I want to know why you left. And I want to know now.”
He struggled for a moment to recall her real name … Gwen. They’d been close friends in his years here, giving each other nicknames as close friends do: Rithy, because she studied mathematics, and was wickedly brilliant at it, too; she called him Gnomon because—
“Gnomon’s the part of the sundial that casts a shadow,” he said, smiling.
“It also suggests ‘one who discerns’ or ‘that which reveals,’ but enough of that. I’m waiting.” She comically tapped her toe.
Tahn’s smile widened.
“You don’t want to be wearing a mocking grin after disappearing for almost eight years.” Rithy pointed a finger at him. “Now, out with it. Where’d you go?”
Before he could think better of it, he heard himself say, “It wasn’t safe for me to stay. I was sent back to the Scar and then to the Hollows, which was supposed to be protected from the Quiet.…”
Rithy’s eyes seemed to calculate the truth in his words. He couldn’t wait on her assessment; the pain of holding himself up became too great. He eased himself back to the ground with an audible sigh of relief.
“Really, Gnomon? You’re going to stick with that excuse? And probably you’ll say that’s what did this to you.” She gestured at his entire aching body.
Trial of Intentions Page 18
