Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  Belamae must have sensed her resentment. “This isn’t a place for harsh or angry thoughts, Wendra. Guard yourself against them here. This may only be a replica of the Chamber of Anthems, but part of your training is to do here what you’ll do in the actual chamber. Start now.” Mild reproof edged his tone.

  “You’re telling me that my songs are the wrong ones. That I’m reckless.” She thought about Vendanj as she said it.

  Belamae surprised her when he said, “Not entirely.” He smiled again. “Oh, you’re reckless. You know this well enough. But I believe you’d like to stop being reckless, even as I know you’d like to keep the dark songs that live inside you.”

  Wendra narrowed a puzzled look at the old man. “Then what do you mean, not entirely?”

  He took a few moments to consider her question, his eyes lifting past her again to the rows of chairs set at the chamber’s center. More Descant students had taken seats there. The low hum of conversation buzzed now in the hall.

  “Songs of mourning and anger and dread and frustration aren’t wrong, Wendra. These are powerful emotions, and they have a place in how we sing about life, in how we create melodies with the intent to answer some need.”

  She again had the distinct feeling Belamae was referencing something in particular, some event from his own recent past. He turned the focus on her.

  “Your songs of destruction and malice, are they intended to harm those who threaten you or someone you love? Or … does your despair make you sing to gratify a need for retribution, to purge your heart of some regret?”

  He went on, not seeming to expect an answer. “Wendra, there are subtleties to the power you’ve been given. Leiholan spend a lifetime examining the nuances of melodies and the relationship those melodies have to their own feelings.” He laughed softly then. “It gets easier. But you’re at an important crossroads. How you come to understand and use this gift will set a course.”

  “So you want me to stay. Study here,” she said.

  “You make it sound like a sentence.” He smiled warmly. Then his face became more serious. “Deciding to stay and study and understand won’t be easy. You’ll have to leave behind the vengeance you harbor in here.” He tapped his chest.

  She shook her head. “You tell me my feelings aren’t wrong, then you tell me to let them go. You’re as hard to understand as the Sheason.”

  He showed her a patient look. “You need to listen closely, Wendra. I said to leave behind the vengeance, not the pain or memory that stirs that vengeance.” Once again he glanced at the dais and lectern. The rows of chairs were now nearly full. “And I asked you to let go only part of the song that grows inside you. I can hear that part even now. It’s a powerful song. But it’s blind, Wendra. It makes you blind. It’s born of fury, and will become harder to control each time you use it.” He hunched forward and fixed her with a flinty stare. “If you ignore everything else I say, heed me on this one thing.”

  Chills ran down her arms. And she recalled what had happened in Naltus when she’d sung on the shale. She looked away from him, his scrutiny making her uncomfortable.

  Then his demeanor softened. “Besides, haven’t you ever paused and just … marveled that you can do things with song that others can’t?”

  She fell quiet for a long moment. Then nodded with a small but genuine smile. “Sometimes it doesn’t seem real.” She looked at him more seriously. “How long would it take me to be ready?”

  The Maesteri raised his head, looking down as a man does who intends to make an appraisal. “Hard to know. Now, some of the training is learning to read the language of music; that’s easy enough. Another part is understanding the elements of music: melody, rhythm, dynamics, meter, pitch … there’s more to it than simply making sound. Then you must marry this knowledge to the gift you possess. That’s when you will transform music into something that can change the nature of things. To do that,” he said, pausing so that she would focus on his next words, “there are two essential parts. There is the power of it. Finding within yourself the source that gives your voice its Leiholan quality. On that score, I sense you’re already rather adept.” He raised a finger of warning between them. “However, its use, how you render that power … its intention … that, Wendra, is something over which you’ve not learned control. And if you don’t, the untrained use of the first part of your Leiholan gift will consume you. It will lead you down paths.…”

  Belamae’s words trailed off between them. After a few moments, his gentle smile returned. “Don’t dismay, though, my child. At the risk of some conceit, the one thing I’m rather good at is teaching Leiholan. And you have such great potential.”

  Just then, one of the Descant students came up to them. “Maesteri,” the young man addressed Belamae in reverential tones, “we’re almost ready. We’re just waiting on Telaya, then we can begin.”

  Belamae nodded. “Thank you, Alder. I’ll watch for her arrival.”

  The young man bowed slightly and returned to the crowd seated facing the lectern.

  They began to stroll again. “What’s happening here today? A recital?” she asked.

  “A memorial.” He left it at that for the moment. Then, with a topic-changing tone, he asked, “In your time with Vendanj and Grant, how much have you learned about your family?”

  Unease filled her belly.

  “My child, here.” He motioned to a pair of chairs set against the chamber wall. They sat together, Belamae settling himself before turning to gather her attention again. “Wendra, your parents didn’t always live in the Hollows. For most of your childhood, they lived here, in Recityv.”

  The revelation struck her deep inside, like the first time one truly acknowledges mortality. But she showed none of it to him. Later, she knew, she’d mourn in some way. For now, she wanted to hear it all.

  The crowd waiting at the chamber’s center grew expectantly louder. Their collective hum buzzing in the hall.

  “I knew your parents when they lived here, your mother especially.” He eyed her closely, as if waiting.…

  The realization hit her. “My mother was Leiholan.”

  “Indeed she was,” he confirmed. “One of the most gifted I ever taught. It was a tearful day when she told me she was leaving Descant for a life in the Hollows. I won’t tell you I didn’t try to convince her to stay. Part of that was selfish—she and I were good friends—but most of it was the Song of Suffering. Even then the number of Leiholan was not many. Her departure placed more burden on the rest of us.”

  “Then why did she go?”

  “She and your father were asked by Denolan SeFeery to take his son, Tahn, to a safe place and raise him as their own.” He paused, letting the revelation sink in.

  A kind of relief that she had not expected filled her heart. “Tahn isn’t my brother.”

  “Not by birth,” he clarified. “But she agreed to help hide him. She wouldn’t have let your father go alone, anyway, if only to keep your family together.”

  Wendra concentrated, trying to remember any part of what he was saying. She sensed it was true, but could recall none of it.

  Again he must have divined something of her thoughts. “Don’t fret your lack of memory. You were helped to forget, to make the transition to the Hollows easier for everyone. What’s important is that you learn more about your mother. She was some woman.”

  Reluctantly, she let pass a stream of questions, and focused on his invitation. “Tell me.”

  He looked in the direction of the memorial. “Telaya hasn’t come yet. She’s usually quite punctual.” Apparently deciding he had time to share, he turned back to Wendra, his best smile returning. “You look just like her,” he began. “I guess you know that already, but for me it’s like looking into the past. I walked this very chamber with her. She was willful, too.” He gave a soft, warm laugh.

  “Before you and I became acquainted, I’d never met anyone whose gift of song matched Vocencia’s. Such beauty and power. I watched halls like this
, overflowing with people, weep, then laugh, then fill with rapture while listening to her songs. Never a better student, either. To her natural ability she added expert understanding. It speaks deeply of her love for you that she left Descant behind.”

  She loved hearing him talk about her mother. The few things she could remember of Vocencia were Wendra’s fondest memories.

  Then something occurred to her. “You said there were only a few who could sing Suffering. So wasn’t it irresponsible for her to leave?”

  Belamae’s expression was unreadable. “Perhaps,” he said. “But she made the right choice. I wasn’t supposed to know about Tahn. Your mother confided in me because it mattered to her that I understand the reason she chose to leave. I’ve not spoken of that conversation or her reason for leaving until just now. But I think the time is right to share it.”

  Wendra thought a moment. “And my song, did she know?”

  He shook his head. “No, the Leiholan quality is not passed down from parent to child. Otherwise, we would surely have more singers here. You’re either a miracle of improbability, or something about the magnitude of your mother’s talent made your inheritance of her gift more likely. Either way, you are Leiholan and the daughter of one of my very best friends. Both good things. I look forward to getting to know you and helping you cultivate your song.”

  Wendra stared back, feeling tentative again. “What if I choose not to stay? Or to sing the Song of Suffering?”

  A look of shock and worry rose on the old man’s face. Belamae gathered himself and fixed her with a serious look. “Wendra, you need to understand a few things before you ask such selfish questions. First, the Veil weakens. There aren’t enough of us to sing Suffering to maintain its strength as it should be maintained. The effort is taking its toll on those Leiholan who offer the Song.”

  The Maesteri gave a long look at those seated in the hall. “This memorial is for a young woman, Soluna … a Leiholan. She died singing the Song of Suffering.”

  Wendra stared back at him in shock. “Died while singing?”

  “The song is exacting at the best of times,” he explained. “But when the Bourne pushes at its chains, the Song requires more. Suffering is no tavern song. It’s not even a well-intentioned history cycle. Your whole self is required each time you sing it. You need to understand this before we start teaching it to you.”

  Wendra looked over at the large crowd waiting to honor a Leiholan who’d died singing Suffering. The weight of future needs pressed down on her, narrowing her options, as if she must replace vacancies—the vacancy left by her mother, the vacancy left by this young woman who’d just died.

  Belamae softly cleared his throat. When she turned back to him, he gently cupped her chin, the way a father does when he wishes to convey both affection and the need to be understood. “And my child, I am dying.”

  Her chest tightened. “Belamae?”

  A regretful smile spread on his face. “Oh, not today, or tomorrow. But soon. I can feel it. My time to offer you what wisdom and training I can … well, it’s not without its limits. And a good singer knows when to leave the stage.”

  Belamae’s revelation hit her harder than she might have expected. He’d only ever treated her with kindness. He’d never given her bad guidance. And now he was dying.

  And yet, beneath it all, Wendra remembered Penit, who Sutter believed was still alive. She also thought of the countless others who’d been herded and sold into the Bourne as slaves. Just as the highwayman Jastail had tried to do to her. How many others had been taken over the years? How many were there now? She wanted to stay and learn, cultivate her love of song. But she also wondered what became of someone traded into Quiet hands. Wondered if she could help them. Wondered if she could do so with Suffering.

  A door opened, echoing through the chamber. Wendra followed Belamae’s gaze to see a lean woman, with a beautiful intensity about her, stride to the front row of the assembly and take a seat.

  “We can begin,” Belamae said, and led Wendra to the middle of the rehearsal chamber. “Wendra, this is Telaya.” He gestured back and forth between them. “She’s one of our finest Lyren here at Descant, and in many regards my right hand.” He guided Wendra to a seat beside the woman, who gave her a terse nod.

  Seeing the puzzlement in Wendra’s face, Telaya explained, “Lyren are music students who have no latent Leiholan ability.”

  Wendra heard a hint of resentment in her voice.

  Belamae then ascended the dais and came to stand behind the lectern. He waited a long while. Not for voices to quiet—the chamber had fallen silent in expectation. He seemed to wait for inspiration. His eyes might have met those of every mourner who’d come to pay respects. But rather than words, when the Maesteri opened his mouth, he sang. And what he sang was a long, drawn-out, monotone rendering of the fallen Leiholan’s name: Soluna.

  Wendra’s heart beat fast just hearing it. The slow, low sound rang tortured and reverent and powerful. It filled up the Chamber of Anthems like nothing she could have imagined. And when he was done intoning her name, he paused, allowing the resonances of the room to carry the name to silence. After many more moments, he started again to sing. His words weren’t scripted—this was no rote burial dirge. And he made no effort at rhyme. But neither did he search or falter in finding words to sing. They flowed as easily as his notes did. Slow. Processional. Sometimes heartfelt and heavy. Sometimes light and mirthful. Remembrances.

  “So, a new Leiholan.” It was Telaya beside her, speaking just loud enough to be heard.

  Wendra looked over. “I have no training.”

  The woman shared a dismissive expression, one that said Wendra’s admission was false modesty. “You’re Souden, then—one training her Leiholan tendency. Nice that Belamae has a quick replacement for Soluna.”

  “I’m not a replacement.”

  Telaya’s brows went up in an appreciative look that fell just as fast—more dismissiveness. She clearly didn’t believe Wendra. “Learn your Suffering well, or we’ll be here memorializing you next.”

  Wendra began to get a clearer picture of the woman, and decided to set the right tone early. “And why were you late to this memorial? Is it all Leiholan you dislike? Or just Soluna?”

  Rather than appearing affronted at the accusation, Telaya smiled, but only enough that she didn’t appear to breach any memorial decorum. “I was late because a Leiholan needed a music lesson—clarity on the Shehalis scale, just before she walked into the real Chamber of Anthems to sing Suffering. We can hope she gets it right, so we don’t have a double funeral today.”

  “I see,” Wendra said, giving back with equal iciness, “then it’s just the fact that you, yourself, can’t sing with any real power.”

  The woman’s face returned a flat stare. “I don’t dislike people. I dislike some of their ideas. Like the idea that being Leiholan is some kind of birthright.” Telaya then turned her attention to the lament Belamae was now singing. Real loss and regret touched her features. “Or will you embrace this as your fate, too?”

  Wendra sat listening for a moment to the Maesteri’s song. As it filled the great chamber, a thought struck her almost painfully. This Leiholan had recently died singing Suffering, to fortify the Veil against the Quiet. And only a few days ago Wendra had stood against an army out of the Bourne, who’d come through that Veil. She’d later check the specific timing of both, but she knew they’d fall in line with each other. This Leiholan, Soluna, was a casualty of the same battle Wendra had just witnessed and fought on the Soliel plain.

  Had the Quiet army passed through the Veil because there’d been a lapse in its protection when Soluna died? Or had that army pressed at the boundary, and the pressure of it taken a mortal toll on her? Or was it some other external factor that had contributed to the weakening of the Veil? Of Soluna?

  Whatever the truth, the risks of Suffering became clearer in those moments. More reaching.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A Fifth M
an

  You never want to face a Mal. They live for pain.

  —Colloquialism captured in Cruciations, The Use of Torture to Prepare for a Life of Service and War

  Four leagues east of Recityv stood the ruins of Calaphel. Hazy light fell in slanting patterns from a midmorning sun, warming crumbled stone and dusty surfaces. Motes lazed in those shafts of light, kicked up by Roth’s thoughtful pacing. He made slow turns in a roofless room, passing before large windows where he watched the horizon for the others to arrive.

  Generations ago, Calaphel had been a small but important lookout post, guarding against invasion from the Wynstout Dominion. “Invasion” was a generous term for it, though. Those attacks had rarely been more than raids, organized to strike hard and fast and seize things the Dominion believed itself entitled to. Calaphel had fallen to disuse when Recityv signed a trade agreement with the Dominion. Since then, the handful of feldspar buildings had been toppled by vandals, much of the stone harvested by range herders to build cattle pens near the oak forests up northeast of here.

  Roth stopped in front of a gaping hole in the northern wall and stared out on the long, unobstructed view. Industrious folks, those herders, he thought. They’d hauled the pilfered stone another ten leagues before setting it down. He liked that. Reminded him of his father—a man not afraid to push a mop on a fish-stinking trawler deck to put mash on his family’s supper table.

  He nodded to the memory, and to the wisdom of choosing this site as a lookout post. In the light of day, it would be impossible to approach over the long, flat plain without being seen. It was a good place to meet in secret with his Jurshah leaders.

  He looked up into the deep blue sky, and found himself grinning. This decrepit outpost. The trade agreement that put an end to its usefulness had come by recommendation of the commerce and finance wing of the League. From war preparedness to cattle pens. He liked that flow of events. It also made Calaphel the right place for today’s discussion.