“Where do they take them?” Sutter asked. “Have they found you homes?”
“They came again six days ago. I woke up and hid in the closet. I think they would have taken me if I’d been on my blanket. But instead they took my friend, Salman.” A silent tear streaked the dirty face of the lad. “And while he dressed and put on the shoes they brought, I heard their whispers.”
Sutter braced himself. Even before hearing it all, he began to understand.
“They’re losing the war,” the boy said. “They need better swords and faster bows. More of those big rock throwers they roll on wheels. The stuff to make all that … they trade us for it. None of my friends have ever come back from the walk.”
“The walk,” Sutter repeated, lost in his own dark musings.
“That’s what they call it when they get us up. A walk to wear-in our new shoes. But we all know now what it means. Why would the king let them take us?” the boy asked. “He’s supposed to protect us, isn’t he? Him and all the great ones in the castle. My dad fought because of that idea. What changed?”
Under a hot sun, Sutter looked at the boy and had no answer. But by every absent god, I will find one.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
The First One
When someone we know takes their own life, our natural response is, “What could I have done to prevent it?” Consider: While well-intended, this reaction does not sufficiently acknowledge the magnitude of the sufferer’s pain. In short, it’s beyond you.
—From The Fallacy of Understanding, an examination of self-slaughter, penned by Shurts Nephets, who failed at self-immolation
They wove through streets more crowded with merchants than Tahn remembered. But the walk grew pleasant despite the pain and torturously slow pace he was forced to keep. On top of his aches and pains from passing through the Telling, he’d had his ass whupped by a Quiet man in the astronomy tower. Not an easy thing to explain away. Fortunately, there were plenty willing to believe he’d been rather clumsy this soon after returning to the Grove. And his pains were mostly bruises that lay beneath his clothes.
But he limbered up the more he walked, and began to enjoy even the unique merchant district of the Grove. It had the agreeable feeling of people too consumed with intellectual puzzles to haggle over the price of beans or quality of workmanship.
He more often heard traders and customers asking each other questions about where they’d spied a certain star than he heard them making change on a silver coin.
He smiled to see pairs of researchers walking shoulder to shoulder so they could stare down at the same book and read as they made their way along.
And through the cobblestone roads swept the gentle scents of juniper and cherrywood blossoms, and stone wet from recent scrubbing.
There was a hum of activity that could scarcely be heard, because it happened mostly in the heads of Grove residents. Which wasn’t to say there wasn’t also amusement. Tahn caught snippets of laughter, but usually after some misstep of logic.
As he passed, one man was laughing at another, younger man. “Next you’re going to tell us it’s true because no one has proven it false. Such an appeal to ignorance.” To which the younger man aptly replied, “And next you’re going to tell me it’s false, because the college savants have always held that belief. Such an appeal to authority.”
The two men shook hands over their logical fallacies.
Tahn breathed deeply as they passed, feeling more comfortable every moment.
Eventually, he and Rithy reached the main halls of study and observation. Old stone, blackened by age, crept up four stories. The doors, similarly darkened by time and fortified by heavy iron, seemed imposing to try to pass. But Rithy simply opened the door, which creaked some, and led him inside the cool and dampened air of the astronomy college, where long ago he’d walked and studied.
It was strange to be back. On one level it seemed as though he’d never left. On another level, it was like having a third life—a life different from both the Scar and the Hollows. In some ways, though, this place struck him as the most … real.
Rithy ushered him inside a discussion hall where Polaema spoke, her head cocked back as she paced and gave a discourse on solar and lunar conjunction. She only stopped when the attendees, on seeing Tahn shuffle in, one by one slowly rose to their feet.
When she finally took notice, she lowered her head and turned toward the door. “Your reputation precedes you, Gnomon.”
He knew a few of those now standing and staring. Names returned: Goffry, Mikal, Saranda, Cholas …
But the number of those he didn’t know was even greater. And he became self-conscious as they stood to honor him. Though a few did hold guarded, rivalrous expressions.
He’d loved the work and study of the firmament here, had flourished at it. By the age of nine, he’d earned enough of Polaema’s trust that he was allowed to ascend the astronomy dome at will. But that had been a long time ago. Why were they standing now? And why, all these years later, were they discussing conjunctive phases? It left him a bit stumped. Perhaps there were new understandings of sun and moon movements that required further investigation.
“Come in, you two.” Polaema motioned them deeper into the hall. “I was just talking through the somewhat rare lunar eclipse of the second moon.”
“We should talk more about Ardua soon. I think there’s something to this dual eclipse.” Tahn made a mental note of it. “But for now, perhaps we should find someplace more private,” he suggested. “I’m ready to explain my … request.”
“No secrets here, Tahn.” Without looking at them, she pointed at those standing behind her. “And I think you’ll find some help here, besides.” She looked over at Rithy and winked.
Tahn followed Mother Polaema’s gaze to his friend. “Had this planned, did you?” Tahn started to laugh, before wincing with pain and shutting it off.
“Tell them,” Rithy urged gently.
Tahn gave her a thoughtful look, then without holding back, addressed Polaema and the other astronomers. “I’m going to call for a Succession of Arguments, and I ask for your help.”
A chorus of murmurs followed his announcement. Tahn gladdened to hear in it a tone more of excitement than concern. It lent him a shade of confidence. Successions didn’t usually originate out of the College of Astronomy. Willing supporters meant a lot.
But in truth, Successions weren’t common from any of the five colleges at Aubade Grove. They happened infrequently. They had a specific purpose, and proved grueling for everyone involved. They even followed the Grove’s architectural logic. This city of science had been thoughtfully and deliberately laid out. Five towers, five disciplines. Each tower was the point on a broad star or pentagon. And the relationship of each tower to its two nearest towers held a logic of its own.
At the northern tip, Cosmology—the study of the structure and origin of the universe. Then, moving counterclockwise, came the College of Philosophy, which more than the other disciplines sought to find meaning in the sky—akin to cosmology. At the southeastern point, Mathematics. All students at the Grove were required to achieve a base level of proficiency in math, as they were in all disciplines. Those that kept on at math, however, wound up using it to theorize at a level that made it a near cousin to philosophy. East of that rose the tower of Physics, where researchers pursued enlightenment around the physical properties of celestial bodies and their interactions with one another. “Grand mechanics,” Tahn liked to call them. Lots of math and astronomy in their work, thus why they were positioned between those two colleges. Finally, at the northeastern point, Astronomy—Tahn’s own specialty. The College of Astronomy was one part physics and one part cosmology, making its position between those two disciplines sensible.
In his years here, he’d actually excelled at each discipline. But he had the heart of an astronomer: studying and describing the nature and position of celestial bodies, their motion—stars, planets, and other night sky objects—that
was his best thing.
The Succession of Arguments was a rigorous process of discussion and debate among these colleges. Its intention was to find the heart and answer to a specific question or supposition. In an open and formal dialogue, Tahn would make his argument, appealing to each college in succession. He’d have to prove his supposition on the basis of each college discipline.
Since Tahn belonged to the College of Astronomy, Succession would begin with the College of Physics—the closest discipline in a clockwise rotation. The men and women of Physics would offer input, speculate and ultimately challenge Tahn’s question with their science. Their intent was to find its flaw and thus end Succession, or help prove it should continue on to a debate with the next college in turn. As long as the argument prevailed, it continued to move around the five points of the Grove, finding more strenuous challenge in each debate.
These contests of scientific prowess and inquiry were draining and often combative. Fights had been known to break out on the theater floors. Ultimately, the answer to a particular question or position—its “proof,” as was said—either found its way into the volumes of their libraries as fact, or died in the Succession of Arguments, exposed for its rational flaws.
It was their way to test hypotheses and assumptions and agree on first principles and common understanding.
Staring into the inquisitive eyes of these twenty astronomers, Tahn answered their unspoken question. He hadn’t time or inclination to be coy with information. He needed their help, and quickly. So Tahn told them about the Quiet coming into the Hollows. He explained that the ground there had been hallowed—which meant that Quietgiven coming into the Hollows now suggested at least two things: their world was changing; and the Veil had weakened. Tahn believed the two were related.
He turned to face Rithy and Polaema, who now stood near each other. “We have to determine how the Veil works. So we can strengthen it.”
“Strengthen it?” one of the young astronomers asked.
Tahn nodded and paced a bit, rather professorially. “The Veil is failing. I’ve seen an army of Quiet that obviously pushed its way through. Time’s running out.… If we can strengthen it, we can stop a war before it begins.”
Polaema sighed audibly. “I’ve been thinking, Tahn. We will likely fail when we come to the College of Philosophy. And that’s if we can get past Physics and Mathematics. Humorless bunch—” The master astronomer cut her comment short, and nodded in silent apology to Rithy.
“Why?” Tahn asked, feeling a small flutter of panic.
Polaema offered a sad smile. “Opinions about old stories like that of the Veil have begun to change.”
“But if we succeed in our debate with the Colleges of Physics and Mathematics,” he argued, “we’ll have the support and evidence of the core sciences when we debate the philosophers—”
“Who will turn it against you that such a Veil should even exist,” Polaema interrupted. “Yours is a difficult supposition, Gnomon. Even before the philosophical arguments, you must first prove the existence of a boundary that I’m quite certain no one in the Grove has ever seen or felt. Then you must suggest that this boundary is weakening. I assume this is because there is trouble in Descant.”
Tahn shook his head. “No. At least, not entirely. I think what’s happening goes beyond the Song of Suffering.”
“That, at least, is good news. There are critical views of Suffering, as well,” Rithy added.
Tahn didn’t bother to respond to that. Skepticism over tales of the Quiet and the practices of the Leiholan, not to mention the Sheason, weren’t new to him.
So, he finally, fully embraced the argument that he was about to resurrect from the long-cold ashes of a failed Succession. The last time I was here.
Still holding Polaema’s gaze, he said, “We will argue the Continuity of All Things. But this time, it will be about Resonance.”
The mutterings that followed sounded of curiosity and excitement. Good! He couldn’t wait to get started.
But Rithy and Mother Polaema didn’t seem to share the excitement. Their faces showed the shock and worry he’d expected. It was why he’d waited until now to even utter the word “Continuity.” He was sure they’d suspected. His talk of Succession to find a unifying principle … they must have known. Hearing it out loud, though. Tahn declaring the argument. It seemed to bring the past whirling back, causing their worried faraway stares.
He had his own approach to Continuity, though: Resonance. He hoped it would be different enough from before that they would still support him. The outcome of the last Succession on Continuity, in which they all three had shared a part, had gone badly. It had to be different this time. And Tahn had to tell them why. He needed to make them understand his reason for coming here. If he was going to ask them to help with a Continuity argument, he owed them that. Because it would open that wound again: Nanjesho. Absent gods, he missed her, too.
He gave them each a sympathetic, reassuring look, and started to explain. Not by talking about armies of thousands who would be called to war. Or Wendra. Or Mira. Or his own choices about when he fired his bow. Not even by sharing the story of Devin or Alemdra, both of whom had died in a Scar created by the Quiet’s stripping of the land ages ago.
“Before I came to the Grove, I lived in a place called the Scar.” Tahn gave a weak smile of remembrance. “It’s a dry place. Broad and lifeless. Except for a house where a man watches over children who are left in his care when their parents can’t be found. He teaches them to fight, because the world is cruel. He teaches them not to trust adults, because adults lie. He teaches them that the Quiet will return, because the Quiet want what we have. And when the Quiet come, he says, the Scar will grow. Maybe everything will become Scar.”
A few of the astronomers nodded, as though they’d heard of the place.
“I had friends there,” Tahn said, his smile this time more of fondness. “It was the only way to make it through the training and heat and bad food. We became a family. A strong family, I think, because of what we endured together.” Tahn paused a long moment, looking over these Succession helpmates. “So it was especially hard when one of us chose to leave.”
Rithy and Mother Polaema stood listening. Their expressions of apprehension had softened a little.
He swallowed hard, not really wanting to say this. But they needed to understand this was about more than the interests of kings and Sheason and big armies far away.
“No one ever left the Scar to find a new place to live,” Tahn added. “No one I knew, anyway.”
There were puzzled looks, a few of his listeners framing questions. Tahn held up his hand, begging their patience.
“The first time I found one who chose to leave, I was four.” He nodded, remembering more clearly now. “My job was to see if any sprouts had sprung up near a small stream that flowed whenever rain fell. It wasn’t far. And everyone who can walk has jobs to do in the Scar. So that evening I walked out to the streambed, maybe three hundred strides east of the house.”
“Tahn,” Mother Polaema said softly. “You don’t have to…”
“I’m all right,” he replied. “There were lots of brown shadows that night. Baked stone at dusk makes everything look brown. And most everything was stone or caked soil. Except the stream. It was trickling along from a storm that had passed through the day before. I remember liking that sound a lot. A trickling stream.
“In the dusk, I could see sprouts in the shallow water, which meant fresh greens that night for supper.” Tahn could taste them even now, pan fried and salted. “So I hurried down into the gulley and began to gather them in. I had a burlap bag to carry as much as I could pick.”
“I worked downstream until there was almost no sunlight left in the sky. The stars, I remember, looked watery and washed—not yet bright as they do when the sun is fully gone. That’s why I didn’t see her at first. Another dark shape on one side of the gully, like any mound of rocks. But I kept gathering, drawing closer.
And eventually I saw the shape for what it was: my friend Tamara.”
Tahn could see realization blossoming in his listeners’ faces. The end of the story wasn’t hard to know.
Tahn stopped. The feeling in the discussion hall was tight, full. His own emotion had risen high in his throat, the old ache made new and now touching his voice. He swallowed again and pushed on.
“She was twelve. She told funny stories. She said her mom and dad weren’t dead, but that they thought she’d be better off in another home. And so she wound up in the Scar.” Tahn shook his head, anger now accompanying his grief. “She did it with her work knife. She cut her veins lengthwise to make it fast. Her short note said that she didn’t think her parents were alive after all, because if they were, they’d have come for her by now. She said that she couldn’t take another day in the Scar. That she couldn’t bear the thought of living with people again. And that she didn’t want to be around when the Quiet came. And she said she was sorry.”
A few of the astronomers sniffed. Mother Polaema had tears in her eyes. Rithy’s head hung down.
“I found her there, because she liked to go to the stream when it was running, to see the sprouts. She loved the color green.” Tahn nodded to himself, just able to hold back his own tears. “She liked the smell of them, too. And that they had the bravery to come up, ignoring what would happen when the stream soon stopped flowing. That’s where she wanted to be when she left the Scar.”
In a soft whisper, Rithy asked, “Why tell us this, Tahn?”
He didn’t immediately answer, thinking about Tamara. She’d been the first ward Tahn had found dead. “Don’t cry for Tamara,” he said. “She’s no longer in any kind of pain. But that’s why I’m here. Not Tamara, in particular. But because if we don’t find a way to make the Veil strong, the Quiet will come … and there’ll be many left alone like Tamara. And the only home for them will be an even wider, broader Scar.”
Trial of Intentions Page 48
