He needs a good horsewhipping. Helaina put a hand on Van Steward’s arm, indicating that it was time.
The general rose and rounded the Council table. He knocked at the chamber door, and presently two men-at-arms pushed through, carrying the body of Mendel, stripped to the waist.
Mutters were heard around the table. Helaina watched Roth’s face closely. Would he betray anything with a look? The Ascendant showed shock. A nice affectation, Your Leadership.
“Yesterday,” Helaina began, “I went to retrieve this letter.” She thumbed it forward on the table. “In my family’s vault, my own brother tried to kill me.”
Several soft gasps were heard.
The general had his men shift the body, and pointed beneath Mendel’s right arm. “This traitor,” Van Steward said, “bears the mark of the League. Can you explain this, Ascendant Staned?”
Roth stood up and went to the body, bending to inspect the tattoo, then the man. “I don’t know him. Since I assume you mean to accuse me of conspiracy, General, I’ll also assume you’ve found that this man was, in fact, a member of the League, and not just a pretender with a tattoo.”
The general nodded.
“Then I can tell you that he was quite mad. The tattoo itself is a sign of extremism, since it isn’t required and is a practice of those leaguemen who are prone to … zealousness.” Roth turned to address the Council. “We’re not a perfect order. Within our ranks, there are those who misinterpret our objectives. They’re usually men who perceive some imagined wrong, and exploit League resources to try and correct it.” He looked over at Van Steward. “Did you find anything in his quarters? Men who plot often record their plans and ravings.”
Helaina waited intently. Indeed, as Artixan had predicted, they’d found just such a journal. A perfect ploy to show that her brother had acted alone and was stark mad besides. But Van Steward had lit upon a brilliant idea: suppress the journal and see how the Ascendant responded.
“No,” the general replied. “We found nothing.”
Roth didn’t hesitate a moment, his composure never faltered, but his reply revealed as much as she’d hoped his reaction might. “A very clever individual to leave nothing behind,” Roth said, and locked gazes with Helaina.
Helaina kept the smile off her face. “We’ll need to be convinced that he wasn’t acting at the direction of someone inside the League. You have three days to do this. If you cannot, your seat on this Council will be revoked.”
Roth stared back with smoldering defiance. But even that passed quickly. “As it should be,” he said. “Our disagreements, Regent, are political. Your personal safety is as much my concern as General Van Steward’s. Please trust that it is so.”
Roth then returned to his seat, as Van Steward directed his men to remove the body.
Helaina looked down at her succession letter. The gambit had been elaborate, but it had produced the desired effect: Roth was on the defensive. Or so she thought, until he spoke again.
“I would like to come to my purpose today,” Roth said, his formal tone now more strident. “I’ve had this conversation with our regent in the privacy of her High Office. And I’ve called on her most trusted advisors, who, as you would suspect, have shown complete loyalty to her. But the time has come for new leadership. Regent Helaina Storalaith,” he said, addressing her directly, “in the company of this Council, I formally request that you step down as regent.”
Several of those seated around the table began simultaneously to speak. Roth raised his hands to quiet them. “Please, hear me out. I know it’s not how things have been done in the past. The regent’s office is a lifetime call. But do we believe it’s in the interest of the people that the regent occupy her seat until her dying breath?” He looked around the room. “I want you all to understand, this isn’t a bid to replace Helaina. It’s a trying thing to be regent, something I don’t think any man or woman would knowingly seek if they knew the demands of the office.
“But I look ahead at the challenges we face. And I worry that we don’t have the right vigor in the regent’s seat to meet them. Quiet or not, there is unrest. Our slums are growing. And there are obviously dangers in our countryside that we don’t understand.” Roth brought his gaze back around to Helaina. “One might argue that the regent is at fault for the state of things. But we must share the blame, since we govern with her. We’ve allowed the slothful and lawless to go unchecked. It’s time to put right the omission of our duty, even if it means rewriting the laws that have guided us for so long. It’s a new time, and we need a new way of doing things.”
To Helaina’s surprise, Ambassador Calon spoke next, turning to face Helaina. She addressed her more personally. “Helaina, I’ve served you for many years. I spend most of my time in the halls of leaders far from our own borders. You know how much I respect you. But maybe it’s time for you to rest.” She glanced at Roth. “There’s real tumult and question in the hearts of those you’ve called here. They wrestle with their own court intrigues, and conflict on their own borders. They hear reports of violence and the taking of women and children from their homes. There’s discord in many of the nations you expect to uphold the First and Second Promise.” She paused a moment. “They may say no.”
Helaina held back her surprise at the ambassador’s words. Not that she distrusted what Patrelia said. They’d been friends a long time.
Her ambassador wasn’t finished. “Your example has set the tone for whomever replaces you, Helaina. You needn’t feel you must see this through. It won’t be done in days or weeks or months. These problems are deeply rooted. To cut them out will require more than you should be expected to give at this time in your life.”
Patrelia spoke with a warmth of affection, where she usually spoke with a diplomat’s tone. Helaina believed the ambassador to be genuine. She didn’t feel as if Patrelia was one of Roth’s pawns.
But it didn’t change her response. “Thank you, Patrelia. But I’m many years from being a feeble woman who can no longer direct these affairs.” She smiled graciously. “I’ll be fine.” She turned to the rest. “In fact, I’ve never felt more invigorated by the work set before us. And I’ll challenge any vote that tries to rewrite law pertaining to the office of regent.”
It was Roth’s turn to nod to an associate. He turned to Jermond Pleades, First Counselor to the Court of Judicature. The severe-looking Jermond simply sat forward and began to speak.
“Regent, Council, at the Ascendant’s request I have reviewed the laws that govern the office of the regent. Indeed, Helaina, the succession letter is a critical document that seals the vote of the High Council and gives testimony to a process that departs from the way of kings that preceded it. However,” he cleared his throat, “in my research of the details around tenure, I’ve found no evidence that the calling has a duration, either short or long.”
“What are you saying?” she asked, beginning to feel a tightening in the pit of her stomach.
Jermond stared back, unblinking. “It’s my opinion, based on the procedurals I’ve read, that the office of regent can be voted upon at any time.”
“That’s outrageous!” Van Steward said, his voice booming in the chamber.
“In fact,” Jermond continued, “it makes sense to me, since it would ensure that the regent, whose discretionary power exceeds that of the other Council members, would feel compelled to remain collaborative and benevolent, so as to retain the office.”
Cheyin spoke next. “Lack of lifelong tenure for the regent would create a frenzied political environment. Council members with aspirations would be constantly vying for position and leverage.” She then gave Helaina a remorseful look. “But it is reasonable that those who departed from the line of kings would have wanted to avoid the entitlement that lifelong tenure might create.”
“The point is moot.” The words rang with inarguable intonation—Belamae. “Who here would vote to unseat the regent, besides the Ascendant? Some of us have only returned to this tabl
e because she still occupies her chair. And I can tell you that we don’t have seated among us any that can take her place. I can hear the songs created by each of you as you move and talk and think. I respect these stirrings. But they’re not the songs of one who can unify us in the way we must be unified.”
Roth chimed in. “It’s no surprise that you cling to these myths. The only reason for your group of singers is to preserve the memory of our shared history. But look at the very house of those songs, Maesteri. Dilapidated and pissed on. It’s a forgotten shrine at the heart of our slums. The poor cower in its windbreak, recalling fanciful stories of no use to them in finding another meal or warm bed. It’s a beacon that leads them in the wrong direction.”
Belamae listened patiently, his gentle old features unflappable. He even offered a smile. “I might suggest, young man, that the light of your youth is the beacon that misleads.” The Maesteri stood and with a soft, deep voice sang his next words.
The sound of his voice and the lyrics he chose were a music made uniquely for this moment, for each of them. In a strangely right way, it was their song. The Maesteri gave it life, gave it resonance. It seemed he was singing a part of them, making them feel a value they might have left behind when their own youthful lips ceased to sing.
When Belamae finished, the room fell to utter silence. The power of song had conveyed more than all their debates ever might. But Belamae didn’t leave it there. Into the silence he said just above a whisper:
“The Veil weakens because the Leiholan are too few to sing constantly with the strength that is needed to maintain it. While you talk of convocations and squabble over where to sit at a table, while some prepare to commit countless lives to war, we cling tenuously to the only thing that separates us from the Bourne itself. We’re balanced on the tip of a knife, and something must be done. Who here has the experience and wisdom to stand in this breach?”
Helaina watched Roth allow Belamae’s words to dissipate before he, too, rose.
“Maesteri, your song is rousing. I believe in its message to remind us of where we’ve been. We should remember the past as we illuminate a better path forward.” Roth let out a mild sigh, perfectly offered. “I mean no disrespect. There’ll always be value and a place for the exceeding talents you possess. But you must know that more than once I’ve called for an end to the Song of Suffering.”
The prelate gasped.
“Too many of our people listen for the song like a miracle that will redeem their ruined lives. Rather than deal with their own fears and admit their poor treatment of others, they blame the threat you sing about. The Tract of Desolation that you use to create the Song of Suffering is itself a document that gives our criminals an excuse not to reform, and our slothful an excuse not to aspire.”
Roth purposefully looked around the table at each member of the High Council. “Just as I’ve called for Helaina to step down, I likewise call again for a vote to end Suffering. Bringing an end to this song will signal a bright moment in our people’s acceptance of their own responsibility. It will breed enlightenment and enthusiasm. A new era of scholarship and hope will replace the rumors spoken of—”
“And if there are Quiet beyond the Pall, beyond the Rim, and they flood into our world like a black tide, then what?” the question came from the First Sodalist, E’Sau, who had yet to speak.
“Then we’ll meet them together, unified with a brighter purpose than living in the shadow of these gods you speak of, and their abandonment of this world so long ago.” Roth’s words came more genuinely than Helaina ever remembered.
E’Sau wasn’t done. “And in meeting this threat, what help would you have of the Sheason?”
The air in the council chamber seemed suddenly very heavy. Helaina put a hand under the table on Artixan’s leg. The Civilization Order had already seen more Sheason killed than she dared count. She’d fought the law, but Roth had conjured a magic of his own, formed of threats, to secure the votes he needed to enact the Civilization Order.
Before he spoke, she knew this would be his third request of the day.
“Artixan,” the Ascendant said, turning to face the Sheason squarely. “I respect the creed of service you’ve sworn. You and I differ only on how to serve. But the time for conjuring is through. It makes men lazy, reliant. It breeds false security. And the ability to do it cannot be granted to all, and so is necessarily elitist. Anything that places one man above another is something we must eliminate from our society.”
Artixan asked simply, “And would you accept anyone into your League of Civility?”
Roth looked back at Artixan, unspeaking.
Helaina had had enough. “Take your seats,” she said, with a tone that would brook no quarrel. She then stood herself and narrowed a sharp gaze on Roth, feeling the rage of a woman half her age. “I find your requests contemptible.
“Let me tell you what is going to happen.” She pointed at Roth. “A formal inquest will begin to discover how much the League knew about my brother.”
“I’ve already said—”
“And a separate inquest, with all the same zeal, will investigate how it is the League went about poisoning the child of one of its members. You remember that, don’t you, Ascendant Staned?”
“That is not at all what—”
“Silence!” she commanded. “Do not interrupt me.”
Roth’s face relaxed, as he sat back, biding his time.
“And last,” she continued, “a third inquest will look into the burning of Bastulan Cathedral. The same fire that left Prelate Noleris with burns over most of her body, and killed dozens of others.”
“Are you suggesting the League is filled with arsonists?” Roth asked with icy calm.
“I’m suggesting that you should hope the League is innocent of these crimes. I will exercise the full power of my office against the perpetrators we find.” Helaina sat again.
After several moments, Roth said, “Are you finished?”
Helaina nodded.
“Very well. Then I now make the formal request for a vote on the office of regent. I think First Counselor Jermond will confirm that, by law, the request of a single member of the Council is enough to force a vote.”
Helaina looked not at Jermond, but at Scrivener Cheyin, who reluctantly nodded that she believed it to be so.
“My lady,” Jermond said, drawing her gaze toward him, “it’s not personal. It’s simply what the laws allow.”
Helaina took a hard look around the table, trying to gauge the heart of all those seated here. Men and women with whom she’d served for some time. All save the Child’s Voice, and she trusted the boy’s wisdom. When she came around to Artixan, she said, “Very well, call your vote.”
Ascendant Staned put his hands on the table and knitted his fingers. “With the state of affairs as they are, and given all we’ve discussed here today, I propose that Regent Helaina Storalaith be removed from the office of regent. I further propose that I, Ascendant Roth Staned of the League of Civility, take her place to lead the free city of Recityv, the nation of Vohnce, and the immanent proceedings at the Convocation of Seats.” He paused, then sat back into his chair. “I would remind you that only a majority vote on either question is needed to succeed.
“On the question of Helaina’s removal from the regent’s office.” He raised his hand, the indication of his vote.
Helaina watched as the People’s Advocate, Hemwell Or’slaed; First Counselor Jermond Pleades; Ambassador Patrelia Calon; and Commerce Chair Krystana Surent, all raised their hands, as well.
It appeared the vote would fail, when reluctantly, Prelate Noleris raised her bandaged hand. The look in her eye as she stared back at Helaina told the regent much about who had burned her cathedral and the fear in her heart.
But even with just thirteen of the fourteen members present, Roth had lost … until the Child’s Voice likewise raised a reticent hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
More than Scales
It’s said he found the resonant note of a whole people, and singing it, destroyed them all.
—A recent song myth believed to originate from current Maesteri
Wendra awoke to the sound of someone humming. It drew her from sleep just moments before the knock came at her door. She lit her lamp and went to answer it. She found Belamae there, humming a lightsome tune through his smile.
“Come, my child, let us begin your training.” He didn’t wait for a response, and turned away, strolling up the corridor as if he hadn’t a care in the world … as if he weren’t dying.
Wendra hastily pulled on a bedcoat left on a hook beside the door, and hurried after him, smoothing down her hair as she went. The old man continued to hum as he led her through the cathedral in these wee hours of morning. He paused at the bottom of a set of stairs, before going up. It was a long climb, and at the top he paused again, coughing and looking a bit pale. When it had passed, he smiled and led her to a room with a grand view over Recityv.
“For inspiration,” he said, pointing out the window to a vista of the eastern part of the city and the reaches beyond.
Wendra briefly noted the view before her attention turned to the room itself. Instruments of all kinds rested on stands or hung on the wall: lutes, lyres, flutes, violins, a harpsichord, trumpets, horns with circular tubes, drums of all sizes, a piano, and other instruments she hadn’t names for. Most of them she’d never seen. She was drawn to them all, to the different possibilities of sound, music.
Around the room, set on small shelves, were reams of musical scores, some labeled in languages or musical notation she couldn’t read. To one side, a slate stood with various scribblings rendered in chalks of different colors.
Belamae took a seat at the harpsichord, and directed Wendra to stand at the center of the room behind a wooden stand that held several sheets of music.
“Can you read any of that?” he asked.
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