Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  Her hands began to tremble. She’d gathered her High Council to prepare for Convocation and now she faced expulsion from the office that could make it a success. All hells, I’m tired. Too damn old for this. Artixan grasped her hand to help calm her. Van Steward did likewise on her left side. Her general gripped hard, as if he readied to do something rash. Before anyone could speak, the outer door to the council chamber slammed open. A few slapping steps sounded in the short hall between the two doors. Then the inner door was unceremoniously pushed, knocking back into the carpeted wall.

  In the doorway stood A’Garlen, an annoyed expression on his face. “Your stewards are absolutely useless. I had to ferret this place out on my own.”

  The author surveyed the room, and seemed to divine what was happening, as he then visibly counted the hands in the air with little nods of his head.

  “I suppose,” said Garlen, “since I’ll be voting with the lady, that your proposal is dead, Exigent.”

  “We are no longer called the Exigency,” Roth said calmly, but with obvious displeasure, “and haven’t been for a very long time.”

  “Oh, well. I’m too old to change such habits. I’ll beg your forbearance.” The author smiled over his use of the old name, then padded along to his seat. “Will there be food?” he asked, and winked at Helaina.

  He’d shown. Relief washed through her like a floodwater.

  Artixan laughed out loud. Van Steward beat an open palm on the table three times in approval. Scrivener Cheyin, E’Sau, Krystana, and the others on her side of things all smiled openly.

  Roth’s face only dipped a moment into anger. Something one might not have seen if they weren’t watching closely. “You and I disagree,” he said, his voice conciliatory, “but if this Council believes in you, then the full allegiance of the League is yours. My lady.” And he made a show of an elaborate nod.

  Helaina wanted to slap the man into honesty, but graciously received his pledge.

  Meanwhile, A’Garlen had taken his seat and begun complaining about the lack of food. The old storyteller had a bit of theater in him. He’d made his appearance at precisely the right moment. She was sure that hadn’t been an accident.

  She’d gotten word from her Emerit that Roth had begun paying visits to Council members, applying pressure … securing support. Roth wasn’t one to leave a vote to chance. She’d determined to do her own rounds. A few of her supporters would never turn. A few had soft places that could be pressed for effect. Roth would know the same pressure points. But the real game would be for those who no longer attended Council, those who had effectively relinquished their seats.

  The Maesteri was one of these. Her good fortune was that her friend Belamae led the Maesteri at Descant Cathedral. That left the author’s seat. And in the fraternity of authors, the unquestioned voice belonged to Garlen. Mostly because no one dared cross him.

  She’d paid Garlen a visit, laying out her plan, convincing the codger to place his pen on her side of things just minutes before Roth had arrived at Garlen’s home. She’d stood in a rear closet, listening to the two men bandy words. She’d seen the faint glow under the bottom of the door when the author had written his glyph on the air.

  Maybe Roth couldn’t have earned Garlen’s support. But then again, maybe he could have. Short of that, the author might have decided to leave the whole affair alone. Leave his seat unclaimed. But she’d outmaneuvered Roth. Gotten there first. Made a convincing case to a hard man to convince. But until Garlen had walked through that door, she hadn’t been sure.

  I’ve still got some political salt.

  Now, there was the Convocation of Seats. It had been ages since the Second Convocation. As difficult as it had been to try to put her own Council in order, it was a trifle next to what lay ahead. To succeed, she would need every whit of shrewdness and determination she’d ever possessed. She’d need more than political salt. She’d have to be every bit the iron hand she’d once been known as.

  And Roth was surely not done with his plots.

  * * *

  Vendanj led Braethen and Grant through the crowds. Streets were clogged with Recityv citizens, pilgrims, and banner-holders for major and minor houses from nearly every realm and country across the Eastlands. There was excited talk and anthem singing and roadside carts with spiced meats and roasted nuts. Men dispensed sharp ales from barrels by way of liberal spigots. If one didn’t know Convocation was taking place, one might think Recityv was holding an enormous festival.

  And more than a few men had cobbled together armor from disparate suits and woven a homespun banner to pretend at valiance, likely seeking a squireship. These worried Vendanj the most. Clearly there was a rising class that anticipated—even looked forward to—war. Because war gave men an opportunity to rise in social station. And there were many who needed an opportunity.

  It was unlike anything he’d ever seen—an effervescent atmosphere sitting atop a grim purpose. And its celebrants had widely different ideas on the value and meaning of the gathering. He was thankful for their general ignorance. Masses turned to mobs with very little suggestion.

  Vendanj wove through the crowds, and got to the Wall of Remembrance. He had to raise his voice to be heard by the Solath Mahnus guard, but he and his friends were quickly let through. A courtyard, staircase, and inner vestibule later, and they entered the long corridor that connected Solath Mahnus with the Hall of Convocation.

  The passage rose ten strides high and as many wide; a column of soldiers could march it without having to jostle elbows. They moved briskly, boot heels clapping the white marble floor of the wide concourse.

  Statues of kings and queens and regents lined the corridor, rulers who’d shown courage during the First and Second Promise.

  Seats had been taken at sunrise, just minutes ago. Vendanj had deliberately arrived late, and without announcement. He wanted those who would oppose him to have no time to prepare counterarguments. The Convocation would likely last several days, but Vendanj needed to frame the discussion from the beginning.

  At the end of the corridor, great oaken doors rose five strides high. Emerit guards took note of the three-ring emblem around Vendanj’s neck, and pulled the right door open enough for him and his companions to slip through.

  The feeling of the place was like that of a great altar. Immense windows set high against the walls admitted wide shafts of morning sun. And at the hall’s center stood a large circular table, set with high-back chairs. The scent of dusty stone and dry wood and newly dyed wools filled the air. Voices came in whispers.

  He’d been in the chamber once. Alone and at night. Just to think. Seeing it here, now, filled with kings and queens called to answer the room’s purpose, chilled him. The number of lives represented here … He remembered Illenia, and went in.

  They made their way around the outer part of the room, as those seated at the central table were announcing themselves after a call for names and office. He knew many by sight. Some only by reputation. And most of the governmental seats were occupied. As were those for significant fraternities who also had a place at Convocation: Sheason Artixan, who stood in for Randeur Thaelon; First Sodalist Rochard E’Sau, here on behalf of sodalist leader Raalena Solem; and Ascendant Roth Staned.

  But some seats were vacant. Absent was the smith king, Jaales Relothian of Alon’Itol; Elan of the Far; the Mor nations—they wouldn’t have been expected—and the Sedagin, the Right Arm of the Promise. The Sedagin would never answer the regent’s call; not after the betrayal they’d suffered during the War of the Second Promise.

  The war kings of the Mal nations were also absent. Their seats were token, anyway. The Mal didn’t consider themselves part of the Eastlands. Old rumors suggested that Quiet and Inveterae alike had slipped through the Veil west of the Mal lands, and coupled with mankind, siring new breeds. To some, the Mal were the same as Quietgiven. Their wars were too many to name. But Vendanj had spent time there, and found many of the rumors to be so much bad poetry.
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  Three strides behind each seat at the table were a few short rows of chairs where vassals and attendants sat. Many lords and ladies also had a scrivener who took notes, documenting their part in the proceedings.

  And several strides behind these attendant rows were tiered galleries where lesser lords sat showing fealty to one crown or another. These peers and nobles held a great deal of power—more than their kings and queens at the center table gave them credit for. These lesser aristocrats supervised holdings, managed banks, reviewed accounting ledgers for merchant trade, and conscripted men for military service. Most of these gallery seats were occupied by men and women with “dirty hands,” as the saying went. They did the business of government. And there were more than four hundred of them in all.

  Vendanj and his companions came around to the chairs set back behind Helaina. She acknowledged him with a quick nod, before she glanced toward Grant. He saw the two share a look. Grant nodded. A brief touch of relief crossed her features. Tahn’s alive, it said. And more than that. Something more tender.

  Then Helaina adopted a regal air, raising her chin to speak. “First, thank you to those who have answered my request to reconvene the Convocation of Seats. It is neither trivial for you to come so far, nor for me to request that you do so. We’re honored that you are here.” She raised her gaze to the gallery. “All of you.”

  Then she leaned forward, placing her hands on the table, seeming to take the Convocation participants into her confidence. “I won’t delay or dissemble. Our purpose here is as it has been before. And while I don’t know how dire the threat seemed to your predecessors who sat where you do today, I believe if we can’t again find unity, we will suffer. Suffer from this new and perhaps last threat from the Bourne.”

  Mutterings rose at her use of the word: Bourne.

  She put an end to it by resuming with a vigorous tone. “There have always been Quiet who’ve crossed the Pall. But these have been small and isolated occurrences. We’ve suffered them as readily as the border disputes that rise among ourselves. Only twice has the threat been large enough to call this Convocation.”

  The regent looked around the table, her face intent, serious. “It is so again.” She then stood straight and motioned Belamae forward. The Maesteri got up from his chair and came to stand beside her.

  In a deep, resonant voice, Belamae addressed the Convocation. “For ages the Tract of Desolation has been rendered in song. That rendering is known as the Song of Suffering. Since the Placing, when all those created by Quietus were sealed inside the Bourne, the music has been made. Day and night it’s sung.” The old Maesteri looked up into the great vaults of the Hall of Convocation, as though supplicating gods long since gone.

  Looking down again, he drew a long breath through his nose, and resumed. “But the gift to render that song is no longer abundantly found in men. And the Leiholan tire. I’m here to tell you … the Veil weakens.”

  More muttering. It came loudest from Maester Westen Alkai. Westen loosely ruled in Elyk Divad. His formal robe bore the subtle stitching of a musical score. Divad had a rich musical tradition kept alive in a handful of conservatories, which sent the occasional student to Descant. Westen’s eyes were cloudy with cataracts, but he seemed to see Belamae well enough to share a look of concern.

  The murmurs abruptly stopped with the scrape of chair legs across the stone floor—Roth rising out of his seat. “Gentle kings and queens and rulers of nations, I cannot sit by another moment without speaking. I live and serve here in Recityv alongside our regent and the skilled Maesteri. I have great respect for their contributions to the people of this city and the nation of Vohnce, whether it’s done by clever governance or the art of song that ennobles us all. And I agree there is good cause for us to convene and discuss a new kind of unity or alliance to make our borders more friendly, safer. But in the spirit of openness and debate this Convocation must represent, I tell you that the original motivation for this Convocation of Seats is baseless.”

  Roth began to stroll behind the seats of the attendees. “I don’t deny reports of violence. But have we not progressed beyond the tales of caution captured in stories of myth and legend? And if there are great hordes living beyond the Pall, beyond the Rim, then they are great hordes; lawless kingdoms bent on domination that we may unify against if it’s necessary. But we inspire nothing but fear and regressive ideologies if we maintain this belief in unseen veils, dark gods, and evil creations, whose sole desire is our annihilation.”

  In his slow stroll, Roth passed behind the regent and Maesteri. “There is power in song, to be sure. But not of the sort being described here today. If there is indeed a concerted threat to the wide Eastland nations, then we can discuss a response, even war. But the time has come for us to root our decisions in what is real and practical. And I would suggest that any action anointed from our Convocation here must let go these superstitions, which I warn will only lead to unsound choices.”

  Vendanj surveyed the faces of those seated at the convocation table. Many remained impassive. But just as many appeared to find reason in the Ascendant’s words. Roth’s eloquence and logic had set a new tone for the Convocation. And he couldn’t let it pass unchallenged.

  “It’s not simply a few reports of violence,” Vendanj said, turning a hard eye on Roth. “I’ve just come from Naltus Far, where more than ten thousand Quiet came to destroy it. Thousands of Far died to turn that army back.”

  The table erupted in conversation. Some protesting that Vendanj had spoken at all, since he wasn’t a seat holder.

  Helaina touched Belamae’s arm, and the Maesteri returned to his seat.

  She then held up a hand to quiet them. “Civility, Ascendant Staned, does not mean abandoning traditions that have kept us safe.” She looked around the table before continuing. “You should all consider that we sit here in safety, able to have this conversation, because of nations like the Far, and because of the very things the Ascendant would put to an end. We have hard-earned wisdom, passed down to us, that has helped preserve the way of life we know. That wisdom includes the songs and stories that remind us of delicate balances.

  “We’re on a precipice, my friends. Our next step is precarious and crucially important. I ask you to hearken to the histories which tell of your nations’ part in the struggles of the First and Second Promise. Let that guide you as we consider a promise of our own.”

  Discussion then began. Leaders speaking, sometimes shouting, either in defense of Helaina’s proposition or taking up Roth’s practical stance. It became clear to Vendanj who Roth had spoken with beforehand—phrases and logic were repeated with too much familiarity. And in the space of minutes, the divide between two camps became clear and wide. That fast, the historic third call of the Convocation of Seats appeared on the brink of collapse.

  Vendanj shook his head and strode to the table, deliberately standing directly behind Roth.

  “I must speak,” he called loudly, over several ardent debates currently taking place. As voices quieted, he added, “And you must hear me.”

  Roth leaned to one side and turned to look up. Vendanj caught a glimpse of disgust, before the man turned face-forward again. “Only those given leave by a seat holder may address—”

  Helaina motioned for Vendanj to continue.

  “Besides the Quiet army that has destroyed the Language of the Covenant,” he paused, letting that revelation sink in, “there are three things you each must know and consider. What the regent has spoken here is not myth or mystery. I’ve spent the last several years of my life on the roads, traveling to cities far from here. I’ve been in all your own lands and capitals. With few exceptions, I’ve found the Quiet among you.”

  “It’s no surprise that a Sheason—” Roth began.

  Vendanj put a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder. “You’ve had your turn.” He went on. “More than once I’ve fought those given to the Whited One. Usually, I’ve been able to turn them back. But I’ve seen their strength
and resolve. And each year they come in greater numbers. They are a mortal threat. Make no mistake.”

  He then began to pace, as Roth had, meaning to draw near each Convocation member as he spoke. “Second, you need to understand that this isn’t merely another race or discontented people. It is many races. And it is more than discontent. They believe they belong here, in the east, with us. They believe they are our kin, and that they’re meant to test us. Even by war.”

  Roth again tried to speak, but Helaina pointed at him to be silent.

  “But in one important way, they are not like us,” Vendanj went on. “The oldest stories are true. They were not created as our equals,” he paused again, looking around the table, “but as our betters: in strength and speed … and resolve. Given to many of them are qualities the League would find uncivil. Gifts of Will. And about their intentions, there should be no question. They will come to destroy.”

  Vendanj stopped behind the empty seat of the Sedagin and gripped the heavy posts of the chair back. “The Bourne is vast, and the Quiet that have come so far, even this ten thousand, are but a trifling of what will come if the Veil falls.”

  Calene Pammel, queen of Kuren, then spoke with a patronizing lilt one didn’t possess without a great deal of practice. “You’ll forgive us, Sheason, but yours is just another claim. And even if this army marched on Naltus, as you say, what evidence is there that it’s anything more than a conflict between those two nations, or that we should get involved?”

  Elerion Saradolay, queen of Balens, a woman so obese her jowls shook when she spoke, joined Queen Calene. “Much as we may dislike it, kingdoms go to war. But we don’t need to be a party to every battle.”

  Elerion’s army was token. Her allegiance hardly mattered.

  Vendanj returned Calene’s condescending gaze. “Your Highnesses, consider what you’re saying. Your own histories tell of the great alliances forged by Convocations past, to meet massive threat from beyond the Pall. Would you prefer to have war upon you, before you commit your armies? If so, you’ll be too late. In the past, we’ve prevailed because the Right Arm of the Promise went into the breach early, and for us all. But we betrayed their trust the last time, and they’ll no longer take their seat among us.” He lifted the chair up and slammed it down. “We may fail precisely because we did not commit the last time this table of rulers sat in this hall!”