It was Dossolum’s turn to smile. “You’ve a good heart, Palamon. But at times it makes you unwise.” The Voice of the Council raised a hand toward the expanse before them, where far away and below a few small villages and one sizable town could be seen on the horizon. “Should we suffer more of these mortals to die while we seek answers to one Sheason’s sickness?”
“I ask your forgiveness,” Palamon said, offering a slight bow. “I thought I could find an answer quickly. Surely it’s been written of…occurred before.”
Dossolum shifted his stance and looked at him. “There has been arrogance and pretense, yes. And there have been challenges in the formation of many worlds. Even bloodshed like Manoa’s.”
“I’ve not seen these records in the Archives,” Palamon said. “Wouldn’t those help us find answers to what is happening now?”
“We’ve not recorded these, because it is not a pattern we wish to repeat.” Dossolum’s countenance drew taut with a faraway look, as if in remembrance. “There’ve been worlds, my friend, where our efforts have not gone precisely as we might have hoped. The temptations of Maldaea’s office—to create all that is baneful; in particular, creatures that revel in violence against all other creations—these temptations are strong. Other council members who have held that office in the formation of other worlds have nearly gone too far…”
Palamon shivered. He’d not heard Dossolum speak of such things. Even the tone of his voice had changed, sounding doubtful and sad.
The Voice of the Council then turned to look at him. “But never,” he said, giving Palamon a regretful look, “never to this degree. This is the dawning of a new corruption, a new sorrow…a new damnation. I ask you to waste no more time in seeking a cure. We will have enough to do just annulling this awful work.”
Palamon’s intuition revealed a terrifying suggestion in Dossolum’s words. He turned to look at the Voice of the Council. “What would you ask of me?”
Dossolum smiled. “You are a serious man, my friend. I suspect it is why I’ve taken you to my right. But you’ve become more than a helpmate; I have never had so good a friend as you.”
“Thank you. And I am not always so serious,” Palamon said, smiling at his own denial.
“No, not always,” Dossolum conceded. “But you have a keen mind. You are first among your Sheason brothers not because you stand at my right, but rather you stand there because of that mind of yours.”
Palamon turned and looked back at the horizon. This promontory, which he’d come to consider sacred, looked out over lands that stretched for leagues east of the Divide Mountains. Countless times he and Dossolum had stood right here, taking in the view, considering the work in which they were engaged. And now, the work itself had ground to a halt under suspicions and the chaos of so much violent death.
Finally, he only nodded to Dossolum’s words. When the Founder spoke, there was hardly any opinion in it; he was a truth speaker, the Voice of the Council.
Another companionable silence fell between them, as each considered, Palamon guessed, his own grave thoughts. Dossolum later placed a hand on Palamon’s shoulder, preparatory to speaking again.
“They will not survive,” he said.
Surprise and panic filled Palamon. “Nonsense. The council will surely put a stop to Maldaea’s efforts. And Jo’ha’nel will fall in line once that is done.”
“And what of the vile species given life by Maldaea’s hand? What of them?”
Palamon considered the words, and said again, “What would you ask of me?”
Silence stretched for long moments before Dossolum spoke. “Palamon, I am going to confer upon you the authority to render the Will and the office of intercessor for the people of this world.”
Dossolum’s hand on his shoulder suddenly felt very heavy. He could only think that this responsibility came as a result of recent changes, in Maldaea and Jo’ha’nel—and because of the death of his friend. He feared that he would have to use this new authority not—as it was intended—to create and sustain, but to defend…and destroy.
“Jo’ha’nel has been given the power of the Will,” Palamon said. “He wields it, I fear, with ill-intent. And with Manoa dead, someone must answer this threat,” Palamon deduced, with some bitterness.
Dossolum surprised him when he said simply, “Yes.” Then after several moments he added, “But not only that, Palamon. You have been on this path for a long time. Have you not already been among the people, providing comfort?”
Looking out over the wide terrain, Palamon nodded and thought of Efram and his little girl…and the woman and child he’d been too late to save.
Dossolum made a sound deep in his throat. “They will not survive unless there is one to protect them.”
“With more than a quill and his knowledge of history, you mean,” Palamon said, and offered a faltering smile. “You see, I am not always so serious.”
Dossolum returned the smile. “Kneel, my friend.”
Palamon knelt, steadying himself with his hands on the ground and feeling the cool earth beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes as the Voice of the Council began to speak in a commanding yet soothing tone.
“As it lives in me, so shall it live in you, Palamon Dal Solaas. The right and privilege to stir and direct the Will that resides in all things, in all Forda I’Forza, you already bear. It is a gift and power to be used wisely, never selfishly, and never to bring harm to the lives of mortals. With this authority you may direct and shape the things around you, even unto the healing of that which is broken, body or spirit. You have proven worthy of this endowment, Palamon; generations will revere you, peace will be yours, and the world may have hope now as you take the mantle of intercessor for the people of an imperiled world.”
Dossolum’s hand never left his shoulder, and in the moments that followed, his entire body warmed from within. His mind filled with hopeful thoughts and good memories, until other revelations were imparted to him, dark things, things he would be asked to do with this new mantle. Images traced through his consciousness with such speed and force that he began to fear for his own sanity.
He shuddered, considering what this could all mean before it was through.
But before that thought could consume him, the simple ritual was at an end, and he felt peace in his heart like the calm of still waters.
When Dossolum finished speaking, he gently urged Palamon to his feet, a fatherly smile on his face. “I know the peace that rests in your heart at this moment, my friend. May it ever be so. You must, however, remember this, that as a man your rendering of the Will can only come at the expenditure of your own spirit.”
“I know this, Dossolum. What are you telling me?” Palamon said.
Dossolum smiled. “Balance, my friend. It is about balance. When you choose to draw upon the Will, it requires a measure of your own Forda to give that rendering life. So be judicious in your use of this gift, as the greater your rendering act, the greater the price to your own spirit, your energy…your Forda. It will take a physical toll, and as intercessor, there will be multitudes who will call upon you for help. You will have, sometimes, to say no.”
Palamon nodded, a vague unease now in his heart. They resumed looking out over the expanse that fell away from their high place. And just before the Greater Light fled the sky entirely, Dossolum said with a tired fondness, “Your work as a servant now has new meaning, my friend. What you have done for me, now do for them.”
The words were lost to the whir of crickets. The chill on Palamon’s skin, he thought, came not only from the cold of night.
* * *
News of the Founders’ decision to abandon their labors had spread like fire. A week ago, Palamon had stood with Dossolum and been given the power to render the Will and made intercessor. Now, he rushed down the vaulted marble halls of the Tabernacle. The great pillars rose majestically on either side of him, ending at the open sky. In the marble surfaces everywhere were recorded the many feats and designs and effor
ts of the council to bring forth worlds and give place to men to learn and grow. Many of these Palamon himself had chiseled with painstaking care.
Today he hurried past it all, hastening to the central chamber, having called the council to convene to hear his plea.
Fear and uncertainty had swept Estem Salo. Palamon, chief among the Sheason, had requested a formal audience with the Framers and Dossolum, who he saw first as he entered the council chamber.
“Palamon,” said the Voice of the Council, “we will hear you because of your long and faithful service, but there are pressing matters to attend to. We do not have much time.”
Palamon did not hesitate. “Stop this. Don’t allow the taint of one council member’s efforts to cause your ill-faith in an entire world. It needn’t be so. Please.”
Dossolum stood. “The vote to abandon this labor has been made, Palamon. It was not a debate. The entire council, save Maldaea, is in agreement. We did not rush to judgment in this, my friend. We have long contended with Maldaea over his efforts here. We’ve tried to turn back what he has done. And we do know what it will mean to this world that we must leave our work here unfinished. But we find this to be the best course.”
“Why?” Palamon asked. “I don’t understand.”
The Voice of the Council stood looking at him, seeming to consider how much he should say. Finally, he gave a slight nod of acquiescence. “You know, my friend, the first eternal truth: that Forza and Forda, matter and energy, can be neither created nor destroyed, only rendered, changed. The council could remain on this world, spend years, perhaps an age, trying to undo the imbalance Maldaea has wrought.” Dossolum paused, looking more distraught, more human than Palamon ever remembered seeing him. In a softer voice, he continued, “But it would be irresponsible of us. It would not be a good use of the Will.”
“To save the lives of so many—”
“Palamon,” Dossolum interrupted, “We lament the choice. We care about those to whom we give the breath of life. But the council must weigh the cost of its use of Forda I’Forza. It must decide whether, on balance, it is better to expend so much effort in repairing what is so far damaged, or whether more may be accomplished by expending that same effort to build something new or care for a world that has not such overpowering corruption.”
“But you are many, and Maldaea is but one,” Palamon countered.
Dossolum said only, “Maldaea’s gifts are great, my friend.” His words echoed in the Tabernacle of the Sky like a malediction.
“Have you ever deserted the children you’ve given life to, ever once in all your immortal lives? Think on that. If you permit yourselves now to be dissuaded from treading the rough course ahead, how much easier will it be to do the next time? Your offices are sacred and perilous. I implore you, stand fast in your duty now. There are so many of your children, that I cannot count the lives that depend upon it.”
In a soft voice of warning, Dossolum said, “Take care, Palamon.”
But he could not. Manoa was gone, the intercessor who spoke to the Council of Creation for the people. He had been slaughtered by the very thing to which these Founders now had chosen to abandon their young world.
“I will not!” he declared. “I will be damned before I remain silent. The mighty work of your own hands toils in the fields you’ve given them; they look up at the Sky when they seek peace, and eagerly await the knowledge you impart to provide the path for their growth. It is unthinkable that you would shut them away from your grace and leave them to a world now fraught with unimaginable peril. How can you be so heartless?”
“Be STILL!” Dossolum commanded.
Palamon froze. The echoes of the council Voice rippled every surface of the Tabernacle.
When the quaking abated, Palamon made a fateful decision. He would risk all, since to live afterward if he did not would be a hell of his own making. With quiet intent he drew the Will for the very first time, pushing a barrier of calm out from his body, the quietude expanding slowly, gently, until it filled the Tabernacle of the Sky.
It was not a rendering to inflict or compel, but simply to impart the honesty and hope of what he would next ask. Many on the council nodded in silent appreciation of the restoration of serenity which typically abided in the Tabernacle.
With a final thought of what he risked, Palamon addressed the men and women seated at the great semi-circular table. “If you will not keep this world in your embrace, and finish what you have begun, then at least give them some means whereby they may rescue themselves.”
Given gently, earnestly, Palamon’s words, he knew, were also an indictment. But not one, he could see, that the council would deny. Though they remained steadfast in their course, his plea touched the air in the same way Dossolum’s words had so recently done…but with an undeniable compassion.
The members of the council looked around at one another, seeming to come to agreement without the need of words. Dossolum nodded, and soon his face showed the familiar smile.
“You remind us of our purpose, Palamon. Thank you.” He looked up at the great open sky above the council chamber and drew a long breath. “We will yet abandon this labor. It is a hard choice, but the right one. What has transpired here is irreparable without inordinate use of the Will and the rendering of matter and energy. You may trust that shortly we will deal with Maldaea for his crimes. But for your sake, we will see the vile breeds given life by his hand placed in the outlands far from the family of man. There we will seal them with their creator, never to return. We will make mortals accountable for the maintenance of the veil that holds these creations at bay. And still other instruments of power, even the Charter itself, we will put in place here because you have hope for them, where we do not.”
A feeling of agreement, contentment, filled the air. The council, Palamon could tell, was pleased with itself.
But there was still more he must say.
“A man may eat, and be warm, and remain relatively safe from the menace of the world he treads, but if he has no hope…he is dead.” Palamon looked directly at Dossolum, realizing he spoke as much for himself as for the people he now served as intercessor. “The faith we have offered them will be hollow when you leave, Dossolum. They will learn of this abandonment, and their hearts will grow hard—a hardness they will turn against one another, despite the exile of Maldaea’s fiends beyond some veil. What will they believe in?”
Dossolum looked back, his eyes intent but kind. “Does there need to be a god for belief to be valid and meaningful and…powerful, Palamon? Perhaps, my friend, that is precisely what belief is…having faith even when you are uncertain.”
The simple truth of it struck him, and yet the reasoning broke down in one tragic respect. “But who will answer them, when they lift their voices in prayer?”
The Voice of the Council looked at Palamon with a knowing expression, but said nothing. It was then that Palamon knew the reason for his ill-feeling at the moment he’d been given the authority to render the Will and made intercessor. He bowed deeply in gratitude and deference, and left the Tabernacle of the Sky, realizing his choices had lasting consequences for one other.
* * *
Throughout the evening after his audience with the council, Palamon said nothing, holding back any questions or deep discussion with Solera. He wanted one last normal night with his companion. He meant only to see to the uncomplicated straightening of their small home, conversation over less important things, and one last night of love-making before he told her, before things changed for her, for them.
Throughout the course of the evening he often found himself gazing at her, acutely aware of her fair skin, deep auburn hair, and penetrating brown eyes. After so long, he still felt physically drawn to her. And as much for her keen mind as her beauty.
Solera, like him, had ascended to the office of Sheason. She served Anais, the second voice of the council. But his affection for her had nothing to do with the strength of her service, or even her beauty, but rather
his fondness for her came first for her good humor. Perhaps, he thought, because he was, as Dossolum reminded him, a serious man.
But they’d found joy in each other’s company and in the sharing of their Sheason calling, and had known love for many years, supporting the labors of the Great Ones in fashioning this world.
And yet, the grand designs toward which they worked each day seemed less important when they spent time together discussing the rain or wind or the power in language, not to create—as the Founders made use of it—but to thrill and inspire. Theirs was a love affair that had sustained Palamon for longer than he could remember. But tonight he feared the question they must discuss, one they could no longer avoid.
In the afterglow of long and tender love-making, they lay together in a grove of blooming aspen—their place—beneath the Lesser Light, the perspiration cool on their skin as they stared up.
“What is on your mind, Palamon?” Solera asked. “You’ve held it through all our quiet talk and love. Now unburden yourself.”
In the dark, he smiled. Somehow he’d known she would see through him. Still, he’d wanted this before…
“You’ve heard of the Framers’ abandonment,” he said, believing she surely must be aware.
“And I heard that you went and pleaded for those being left behind. You can take heart that you did what you could.”
“I am no martyr,” he said. “The Founders still intend to abandon their labors here.”
“We are wise, you and I, and have toiled much to aid this work, but we are not gods, Palamon. You must trust their wisdom.” She drew his face around to look directly at him.
“Have you considered that they entrusted you with the same authority they possess to call on the Will? It is the first power, Palamon. The other powers of language and song and movement and all the rest are connected to the Will, each in their own way. But the power to render the Will is its purest, most direct use. What Dossolum has done for you is give that power more purpose, as you serve as intercessor.”
Sacrifice of the First Sheason Page 3
