Roth drew forth another parchment and threw it at Artixan’s feet. “A transcription from the books of Judicature by First Counsel Jermond himself. I’ll spare you having to hunker down to pick it up,” he said mockingly. “It says that witnessed votes of the members of the Council can serve as proxy for a meeting had in chambers. And before you ask, Jermond himself validated the urgency of immediate action, and witnessed every signature. It is law. I do you the honor of letting you know before the order is executed.”
“A coup,” Helaina said, her voice distant. “Why haven’t you used this maneuver before?” Her question was aimed at herself, as she began thinking of her next step.
Roth dismounted, and came to stand before her. “Let’s you and I be honest. You hate me as much as I do you. But I don’t tamper with the proper order of things. I will avail myself of every possible avenue to see the civil mind arise in Recityv, and elsewhere. But I won’t do so by immoral means.”
Artixan gave one of his mild, derisive laughs. “You have a double tongue, Roth. But worse than this, you—of all people—force civil unrest at a time when we should be forging common bonds. Your purpose is political gain. No one’s deceived about that. But would you really risk civil war now? When the Quiet presses across the Pall? It’s madness. Even if you still believe the Quiet are a child’s rhyme, help us prove it. Help us prove it before you tear down the halls of servants that would stand with us to defend against the onslaught.”
“Artixan,” Roth said coolly, “the only Quiet I believe in are Sheason, who play at arcanum and keep men subservient and indolent.”
Helaina rested a hand on Artixan’s arm to calm her friend before he said or did something that might get him killed.
“Roth, I will return to the city, and I’ll visit every witness to this decree.” She leveled a look on him that bore all the weight of her office. “I want you to acknowledge that the execution of any Sheason before I can attend to this matter will be treated as murder, and you, as the Ascendant of the League of Civility, will be held fully accountable.”
“I will not—”
“Moreover,” Helaina pushed on, “I will expel the League from Recityv, from all of Vohnce. Even if it means that the fires that burn in our squares carry the smoking offal of their broken bodies.”
Roth raised a defiant chin, but didn’t speak. The time for further speeches or councils had passed. They had each stepped over a line, and would either keep their grim promises or recant.
After several moments, he gave a slight mocking bow of deference to her, and climbed back into his saddle. Before reining around and galloping back to the city, his face relaxed again, becoming frighteningly impassive.
“I do you the honor of giving you time to say good-bye to your friend, Helaina.” Roth nodded toward Artixan. “Though you should know that many suggested he be the first taken. When we meet again,” he warned, “my honor will be to the will of the people, as should yours.”
Roth kicked his gelding into a full gallop, his men doing the same. Behind them, Helaina dropped the damned document and began to run as fast as her aching legs would carry her back toward the city gate, Artixan at her side.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Fields of Wheat
An attack of Will, which is Resonance, can take many forms. The least-consuming of your own energy is to drive an attack through space at your target. Much more of you is required to cause spontaneous and immediate Resonance inside your enemy.
—Allocating Forda, a senior course of study in Estem Salo for Sheason studying Influence
Thaelon arrived unannounced to Exemplar Odea Ren’s battle training sessions. Her preparations were taking place in a meadow high above Estem Salo that was flush with unharvested mountain wheat. Warm sun touched everything with a golden hue and lit chaff raised from the shuffle of feet through knee-high grasses. A group of Sheason stood behind Odea, watching their fellows take turns at the meadow’s center. Thaelon stood a stride back, so as not to interrupt or distract them.
A woman had just taken position out in the meadow, surveying several rough scarecrow figures fashioned of white pine limbs and aspen branches. Near each scarecrow stood a Sheason who would provide the actual attack on the woman taking her turn.
“Defense first,” Odea called, her voice carrying with a single echo. “Simple barriers to deflect what’s thrown at you. And remember, it won’t always be an attack on your body. Smart opponents will try to cause change around you to distract and disrupt what you are doing.”
The woman nodded and turned back toward the five scarecrows, preparing herself.
Odea gave one last instruction. “Once you’ve withstood their initial barrage, strike back. Keep it focused and specific. Conservation of energy, remember. This is one fight. You could have several in a day.”
The woman nodded, and slightly raised her hands.
A moment later, the tops of the wheat whipped, as though a gusting wind traveled along a narrow chute. With immense speed, a burst of energy cut toward her in a straight line. She got her left hand up, but not in time to begin a defense. The attack knocked her back hard on the ground. She stood fast and saw another racing line of disturbed wheat tops. This time she got both hands up and partially defended against it. Partially. A deep-toned boom sounded when the renders met, causing the wheat around her to whip outward. She was knocked back, but kept her feet.
Two of the Sheason standing near the scarecrows made small, coordinated gestures with their fingers. This time, no wheat stirred. Thaelon watched as the woman’s breath began to plume on the air. Thin at first. Then thicker. And a few moments on, her coat began to whiten with thick frost.
She lifted a hand, rotated it—a rendering indication for warmth. The frost ebbed, then returned, thicker. The woman dropped to her knees, shivering.
Odea held up a hand. The attack stopped. Two Sheason rushed forward to help the woman back to the group. Odea didn’t speak to her, and motioned for another Sheason to step into the meadow.
This man was well into middle age. He had a calmer face. The confidence of years, Thaelon thought, and was eager to see how this one would perform.
Odea didn’t repeat her instructions with him. She said simply, “Begin.”
The air shimmered, like the look of a long plain baking in the heat. The man’s hands went up, but not to render a barrier. He grabbed his head as if feeling a sudden sharp pain behind his eyes. He gathered himself, and pushed his hands out as though meeting the resistance of thick cords trying to constrict him. Once his arms were fully extended, he focused on one of the scarecrows and clenched his fists. The figure shattered into splinters.
A few of the Sheason near Thaelon commented on the strong counter. But the man wasn’t through. He whirled to face another of the scarecrows and pointed. A crack sounded, but was cut off when the earth beneath the man’s feet shifted violently, causing him to fall.
Rather than try to stand, he got to his knees, his shoulders and head visible above the wheat. He swept his arm out. He’s creating a rendering blockade. Direct attacks wouldn’t reach him. It was a simple defense, but effective. While the man concentrated on his next action, the earth beneath him softened to thin mud. He sank to his neck. Then the earth hardened again, fixing him there. To prove a point, the wheat around him lay down over his head, suggesting he could have been buried alive.
The attack stopped. Again a few Sheason went forward. They got the man free and helped him back to the group.
Odea held her comments. The Exemplar of Battle was letting these failures do the instructing. For now.
Sheason after Sheason went forward. All with little success in defending against the varied attacks. Finally, Odea seemed to have reached the limit of her patience.
“Tuomas.” It was all she said.
A young man, perhaps near his thirtieth year, walked to the center of the meadow. His head slowly rotated as he noted the exact positions of the scarecrows. There was no call to begin or
whipping of wheat or low boom of clashing Will. What came was silent. And something Thaelon only saw because Tuomas flashed in and out of view.
An immense rendering of force pressed down on him. Compaction. If he wasn’t up to the task, his every pore would begin to leak blood. In response, Tuomas stood still, focused on the scarecrows. The young man was exerting great Will in a protective layer against a weight that could crush him. Clearly his attackers knew his level of skill.
When Tuomas no longer flickered—the first attack over—he widened his stance. He made no effort at counterattack. He waited. But not long. A funnel wind descended, ripping at his cloak, stirring leaves and wheat stalks and small stones in a painful spout that began to riddle his body and obscure his vision.
The young man extended a hand, creating a bubble inside the spout. He didn’t try to end the wind, just survive at its center.
Moments later the funnel wind dissipated, rocks and torn wheat falling in a sheet around him.
The ground softened. Tuomas floated a hand’s width above the ground.
The air grew chill. Tuomas sped his heart to pump blood faster, warming himself.
Arrows were fired. Tuomas brought them to a full stop in the air just an arm away.
Painful memories reared. Tuomas brought to mind simple images of kindness.
It was as impressive a demonstration as Thaelon had seen since … well, since Vendanj.
The attacks let up, for a moment. If the pattern held, things would escalate. Tuomas apparently had no intention of waiting on that. At a look from him, the scarecrow on the far right splintered and exploded. The next one had a sudden break where its neck would be, the head lolling back, held only by a bit of green bark. The next scarecrow blackened, seared with heat. Smoke rose on the air. The scarecrow to the far left began to spin. It gained speed until it hummed. Until it was torn apart by the force of its own spinning.
Then all fell to silence. Tuomas slumped. Spent. The Sheason who’d been attacking Tuomas all sat where they’d stood, then lay down, disappearing in the wheat.
Odea turned to the group of Sheason around her, finally seeing Thaelon. Her face told the story of her disappointment.
“Tuomas is ready.” She pointed at a woman on her far left, who Thaelon hadn’t seen tested. “Glenna is ready. The rest of you would die if you went to battle today. I know you understand strategy, tactical offensive and defensive measures. I know you study war. And you appreciate the ramifications.” She looked them over, her stare hard and telling. “But understanding these things from books is different from understanding them in practice. We’ve been to the meadow a dozen times. From most of you, the progress is unacceptable. Pair off. Keep it simple. Keep testing each other relentlessly. The pressure of constant defense will create the right habits. Go until you’ve no more energy for the exercise.”
The Sheason dispersed, finding areas of the meadow to begin their sparring. Odea gave Thaelon a sour grin. “How did you like that?”
“Tuomas was impressive,” he said.
“And he has Leiholan talents, too. I use him to shame the others.” She looked back at the many Sheason behind her. “Mostly it doesn’t work. There’s a sense in which this kind of rendering is something you’re born to. Or not.”
Thaelon came up beside her, surveying the crop of Sheason. “I don’t believe that. Where survival is concerned, most will find the mettle they need. We just have to find a substitute for real threat to help them reach that deep inside themselves.”
Odea gave a laugh. “You sound like the books I’m asking them to leave behind.”
Thaelon smiled. “Maybe I do, at that. But have more faith in them. It’s been a long time since Sheason were needed this way. They’ll answer just fine.”
She sighed with a bit of exasperation. “These are basic tactics. We mostly use attacks that travel. And we do it here where they can see it coming.” She pointed at the wheat field that had been stirred by many of the renderings. “This is like learning to pluck a single string on your way to playing a symphony.”
“We all start by plucking a string,” he said, pretending to do just that. “And the only gift you possess that matches your rendering is hyperbole.”
“That must be why you’re Randeur,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
She gave him a genuine smile this time. “Your optimism. What will it take to see your pessimistic side?”
He shook his head. “Oh, I’ve my share of that. Visit the intention trials with me if you don’t believe it.”
They stood in silence for a time, watching Sheason test their ability to defend against one attack or another. Many fell. Many stopped to rest. The sun made the training a hot affair. This, along with the trials, and the envoy to Recityv … they were doing the right things. And he relaxed long enough to take in the smells of wheat and pine and aspen. He enjoyed the sounds of rustling grasses and humorous falls as Sheason failed some defense. This high mountain meadow above Estem Salo had helped him focus. There was work to do, but he trusted Odea would get them there.
“I want to show you something,” she said.
She led him back beneath a large quaking aspen and produced a ledger from a bag. She opened it as they stood together.
“What am I looking at?” he asked, scanning page after page of names.
“A list of Sheason,” she answered, seeming to wait on his questions.
“And the circle beside some of these?” Thaelon turned several pages, noting that few bore the circle notation. Maybe one in twenty.
“The circle means they’re ready to fight.” She placed her finger beneath one circle, which had a line drawn horizontally through it.
“And the line?” he asked.
“Means they’ve had their Trial of Intention, and been found guilty of sympathizing with Vendanj.” She looked up at him. “They’ve been divested.”
Thaelon’s stomach sank hard. “We’re eliminating our own best defenders.”
“Not just defenders,” she clarified. “But those who can actually render the Will to fight. In a manner that would be helpful, anyway.”
He looked up to where Tuomas still sat, resting. “Do you know the leanings of those who can fight but haven’t yet been through trial?”
Odea hesitated. He could tell she wanted to say something larger than she finally did. “My sense is that seven of ten who have the ability to use the Will in combat … sympathize with Vendanj. I can’t say whether they’ve had some kind of training I don’t know about, or if there’s just a fighting nature to those who believe as he does. But if we’re preparing for the possibility of war with the Quiet, your Trials of Intention are drastically reducing our numbers.”
“Do I hear dissent?” he said with a slight smile.
She gave him an incredulous look.
Thaelon took a deep breath. Shook his head. “We’re not gods, Odea. We don’t satisfy our whims. What we do can’t start from selfishness. Or personal desire.” He held up a hand before she replied. “But it can be done with power. And indignation, if need be.”
“You want me to teach them to be indignant?” she said, jabbing a thumb at the practicing Sheason.
“With you as their instructor, I assumed indignation was a given.”
They shared a quiet laugh over that. But when the laughter faded, Thaelon found himself staring at Tuomas, wondering what side of all this the young man would take. Wondering about sides. And hating that he had to question the intentions of his own people.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
A Quiet House
Wherever you think the bottom is, it’s usually deeper. And darker.
—Familiar commiseration used by coastal laborers, believed to have originated on the decks of Wanship trawlers
The sun had not yet set, the skies bright with streaks of red as sunset came. Soon the blue and grey of twilight would fall, and a chill would rise on the air. Sutter was spent. He’d visited other orphanages, hearing more
stories about these “walks.” And now he made his way back toward the king’s keep. He had no appetite, and no desire for company. So he said goodnight to Yenola and returned to his room alone.
They’d moved his things. A house servant said something about the king wanting Sutter in a middle room—no windows. He guessed Relothian was simply being cautious, and followed the attendant to his new quarters.
By lamplight, he undressed, propping his Sedagin blade against the wall beside his bed, and stowing the Draethmorte’s pendant beneath his pillow. After blowing out the flame, he stared up into the dark for only a moment before sleep took him. And for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long, he dreamed. Nothing sobering or evocative of all the revelations he’d had today, or even of his pageant wagon parents.
Instead, he dreamed of twilight in the Hollows as seen from the porch of his boyhood home. He saw light-flies dancing near the trees, winking here and there. He smelled the sweet, tangy smoke of his father’s pipe lazing around them. He heard his mother singing a soft tune, neither mournful nor merry, but simply lending a gentle accompaniment to the end of day.
He tried more than once to join her, but always made bad harmonies that got them laughing with each other. His father had prepared his special drink, water flavored with several sour fruits and a stem of spearmint.
And as light fled the sky, the crickets began to whir, laying in a soft chorus to his mother’s song and their unhurried chatter about whatever crossed their minds. Vaguely, they remembered Renae, his sister who died in the winter of her fourth year. And without feeling somber about her absence, they mentioned how good it would have been to have her there. His father raised his cup to her memory and sipped at his drink.
The western rim slowly lit with an array of scarlet, auburn, and orange hues. Clouds came to look like puffed-up, colored lanterns near the horizon. And his father would begin to rock in his chair, which meant he was about to share a story.
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