The queen seemed unmoved, but said nothing more.
General Kaleth Weren chimed in, a man with more beard than face. “I agree we should always be prepared, Sheason. But you’ll understand if I’m skeptical of your testimony.”
Vendanj gave the general a thoughtful look. “You’ve heard of the rift that threatens to tear my order apart. I’m largely to blame for that. I don’t care to curry the Randeur’s favor, or the regent’s, or yours.” He looked around the room. “Any more than I care for reputation or my own ascendance. I pursue one thing, at any cost: the preservation of our way of life against real threats. And I won’t be moved from that course, regardless of what you decide here.”
He began to walk again, gathering his thoughts. “The third thing I ask of you: Choose here, now, to stand together against whatever threatens us. You still possess the freedom to meet and debate and disagree. You should unite if for no other reason than to protect that freedom.”
His words resounded in the great hall. When they’d echoed their last, he paused, then spoke again, with a hint of finality. “If you don’t, the Quiet will come. They will bring down the Veil, and the Bourne will stretch itself to every land and people.”
Some moments later, into the stillness, Baroness Asari Redall of Ebon said softly, “I believe you.”
The woman bore a haunted expression. Her cheeks were hollow, her eyes rimmed with dark circles. She ruled a kingdom that bordered Destick’Mal, and so she knew more intimately the ravages that affected those near the Veil. Her realm’s history was a series of wars with the Mal. Ebon was a nation of halves, bright and shining near the coast of the Soren Seas, but thorny and blasted by scouring winds in its northern regions.
Roth drummed his fingers twice on the table. “We’re at an impasse. So for the moment, let’s put aside the question of the Quiet and our response to it, and focus instead on any threat from any quarter of the world. Since if we believe the old myths, then across the Soren Seas there are other dangers, the Rim hides secrets of its own, and far over the ocean beyond the Mor nations there are things about which there aren’t even stories to tell.”
Roth sipped from his goblet, pausing dramatically. “But I don’t believe in myths. I see enough evil in the actions of men, even if that evil is nothing more than negligence and selfishness. Our own known world, the many nations on this side of what you call the Veil, is varied and wide. Our nations are disparate kingdoms with no concern for each other. Openly hostile, in fact. We raise armies to defend ourselves or war with each other. Our greatest—or at least our first—fear should be of ourselves.”
Fists pounding the table interrupted Roth. It was Jeshel Solomy, king of Nallan, whose ears looked like cauliflower from a lifetime of helmets and beating. “May the deaf gods hear you,” he shouted. “I do nothing but defend my people against your beloved smith king of Alon’Itol.”
Jeshel was a warmonger. The smith king was likely not here because he was busy even now fighting back Nallan advances.
Roth nodded thanks to Jeshel for the endorsement. “I have long sought peace and camaraderie across borders through a common set of manners and principles. And I will remain tireless in their defense and evangelism.” Roth paused again, raising a contrary finger as if he might argue with himself. “But I have likewise seen that manners and principles by themselves won’t be enough to forge the peace we all deserve and expect.”
He drank again from his goblet, setting it down empty this time. “Today, there are but a few of your kingdoms where the League of Civility isn’t welcome, where it doesn’t already have men and women educating people on courtesy and lawfulness. In most places we’re part of your ruling councils, and help create and enforce your laws because we prize nothing higher than civility.”
Roth stood again, his posture as one prepared to make a historic announcement. “So today, after all that we’ve been told, and all that I have myself heard and seen, I announce the formation of a fifth contingent of the League’s Jurshah. Alongside politics, justice and defense, history, and finance and commerce, I have established … a faction of war. This division will be separate from those who police laws and ensure justice. They will be trained in warfare. Their ranks will grow from within the League, and from recruits who will take up the cause. They’ll stand with your own militaries if there is need, or they’ll be the first footmen to meet an aggressor that comes to your border.”
The Ascendant looked thoughtfully around the table. “No matter what threat arises, whether political enemies, strange encroaching hordes, or heaven and hell themselves, the League will stand on your soil and defend your people and their way of life.”
A tall man clad in black armor entered through the hall doors. His confident gait spoke of battle and ability. The man came to stand directly behind the Ascendant. Vendanj caught a worried look on Van Steward’s face. He studied the newcomer—clearly Mal—and had the feeling he knew or had seen him before.
“You’re creating your own army.” Vendanj didn’t hide his contempt.
“I think of it as an army of the people. Yours, mine, everyone’s here. They may report to me, but,” he added, “I’ve made my goals and philosophies clear. And these do not, will not, run counter to the will of rulers whose borders we serve. Lawfulness, mutual respect, safety, these are the things we care about. If anyone disagrees with these, there are larger issues to discuss.”
Vendanj restrained the desire to denounce the Ascendant. At least for now. He still hoped to convince the Convocation to ratify the regent’s strategy. But before he could speak again, Roth continued his politics.
“If any of you wish to combine your own military with the League’s force in your home nation, we welcome it gladly. The united power will make our mutual cause stronger.” Roth then offered an easy smile, relieving the tension of weighty matters. “My friends, I believe this is all precautionary. I would have us prepared for the worst. But in my heart, and from the reports I receive from my men who live and work beside your own people, I believe our only danger is from lending fanciful stories more meaning than is their due. So, yes, let us prepare. The League of Civility will create this martial force as a safeguard against any that might march against us. But its presence will more practically put an end to border disputes. It will end civil unrest, and draw us all together in our mutual desire for peace and progress.”
Vendanj shared a look with the regent; they both knew Roth’s unspoken intention. He meant to create a hegemony under his own rule. Not today, perhaps not even this year. But the monstrous ambition of it was clear. Had those seated at the table likewise recognized it? He feared that many would allow Roth’s army a garrison in their lands, believing they could control it and still benefit from its presence.
“Ascendant Staned.” Volen Chraestus, king of Kamas, stood and faced Roth. He leaned forward, his hands spread on the table. “The Kamas Throne has no need or desire for League presence. I want you to acknowledge that you understand me.”
The Kamas Throne defended the Divide mountains, Estem Salo. Its army was the reason the Mal had never succeeded in expanding farther east. Holding back the Mal … that was deadly work.
Roth remained poised. “We should discuss—”
“Acknowledge that you understand me.” Volen’s eyes burned under a heavy brow. But he never raised his voice.
“I understand.”
Roth was as rattled as Vendanj had ever seen him.
Volen sat down, and Helaina rose to stand beside Vendanj. She wore an expression as stern as the Kamas king’s, and likewise focused it on Roth.
“This Convocation will not become the pulpit for your expansionism, Ascendant. I won’t allow you to use our pressing need to further the League’s agenda. Take care. The recalling of the Convocation is my duty. Those seated among us will hear from me the advisability of what you propose. But not at this table. Not in this hall. And your war faction, we will discuss whether this is permitted under Vohnce law. Others here m
ay wish to do the same.”
She looked around the room then, calling each king and queen and ruler by name, until she had spoken them all. “The corridor you walked to enter this place is lined with the memorials of men and women who, like you, came to this place for one reason. I ask you to honor their memory, and commit yourselves and your defenses to the threat that has reawakened.
“This is why we are here. It is your sovereignty”—she shot Roth a glare—“that is at risk, and your sovereignty that I would enlist in a common cause. Let our banners fly together, stronger collectively than any one or few flown separately; and stronger, too, than a single banner flown by one who holds no throne.” She finished, still holding her glare on the Ascendant.
Roth only smiled and nodded. “Nevertheless, a fifth faction has been created. Five arms now, instead of four. For peacekeeping. Not war with a myth.”
Vendanj’s anger boiled over. “You ask for proof of the Quiet.” He thrust his hands forward, and concentrated on the space above the great round table. In the air materialized an image of Zephora coming upon him and his companions in the Saeculorum. He caused the memory to unfold in such vividness that one might have imagined he could reach out and touch the things he saw.
The sights, smells, voices, and sounds—everything was recounted for the Convocation. The dreadful feelings of hopelessness and hatred filled the room as though the Draethmorte had appeared before them. Vendanj expended great energy to relate every detail of their fight. The air itself stirred, as if the winds of the mountains were blowing here, now.
Like a tempest it raged before them, blocking out mutters and gasps. Vendanj deepened his call of the Will, creating a full vision that engulfed every man and woman seated here today. The hall seemed to disappear. It was as though they sat in the heights of the Saeculorum, personal witnesses to the battle.
His companions were thrown and beaten. Zephora shot great bursts of darkness from his hands, blackening stone and air and minds. Vendanj shared the filth that Zephora’s touch of darkness had left on them.
The storm and battle raged as real as he could command it, until he was spent, and he let the vision recede. The room around them came into focus again, the images dissipating.
Profound silence settled around them all as Vendanj collapsed over the front of the Sedagin’s empty chair. Braethen rushed forward and eased him to the floor, where he lay on the stone in the quiet. Vendanj hoped the nightmarish sight had moved proud and cynical hearts.
At the sound of the first words to break the silence, he shut his eyes.
“A parlor trick that insults our intelligence. And having rendered the Will, the Sheason has broken the law.” It was Roth, speaking coolly. “Helaina, will you call the guard, or shall I?”
Vendanj then heard steps, and a sword being drawn. He didn’t need to see it to feel the power of the Blade of Seasons raised in Braethen’s hand.
“Leave him alone.” There was real warning in Braethen’s voice. Vendanj knew the others could hear it, too. The sodalist was not just a man with a sword. The blade had infused him with a sense of authority that went beyond steel alone.
“Obstructing the rule of law, my young sodalist friend, will only earn you your own prison cell. And raising your sword here is not only caddish, but unwise.” The Ascendant sounded as though he spoke while smiling, though his voice remained solemn.
Braethen replied with measured calm. “Test me.”
Then another stepped forward and spoke to Braethen in a soft voice. Vendanj opened his eyes to see Grant standing next to the sodalist. “Now is not the time,” Grant said, and put his hand on Braethen’s sword-bearing arm. “You’re of no use to the Sheason, or anyone, locked away in the pits of Solath Mahnus.”
The sodalist sheathed his sword, then knelt beside Vendanj. He reached into the folds of Vendanj’s cloak, found the small wooden case, and produced one of his sprigs. After placing it in Vendanj’s hand, he asked, “What should I do?”
“Grant is right. Now is not the time.” He quickly ate the sprig, and had Braethen help him to a sitting position. He then turned to the regent. “We won’t be a distraction.”
Helaina nodded appreciatively. Shortly, three more guards came to escort him from the hall. With Braethen’s help, Vendanj got to his feet. Before leaving, he spoke to Grant. “When the time is right, say what must be said.”
A look of eagerness rose on Grant’s face. Except for his deeply weathered skin, Grant looked very much like Denolan SeFeery again, the man who twenty years ago had defied everyone, even his own wife.
Vendanj went with the guards, Braethen accompanying him to the door. They passed those seated at the table, including Roth, who eyed them with indifference.
“Go see E’Sau when you have time,” he said softly to Braethen. “You’ll appreciate his perspective.”
Then he left Convocation for the darkness and stench of the dungeons below. He went with some anticipation, though. There was a man in the depths of the Recityv prison that he wanted to see. A man who stood on the other side of the rift in the Sheason Order. He wondered if seeing him again would help Vendanj see a way to bridge the schism that divided their order. Or make it clear that such could never be done.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The Bourne: Canon
When the Mor houses escaped the Bourne with the Refrains, they managed to sweep the very memory of song from the minds of those they left behind.
—Studies in Exodus, a Quiet chronicle of Veil crossings, and resulting suppositions
Balroath said simply, “Follow me,” and led Kett from the Assembly Hall down a different passage than he’d entered by. They traversed dimly lit corridors, Kett in a bit of a haze. He was trying to reconcile what he’d just done—giving himself to Quietus—with the larger plan he still held in his heart of liberating the Inveterae from the Bourne. He focused. He needed to find out what he could about these rumors—that the Quiet had discovered a way to pass over the Pall into the south.
Soon enough, Balroath halted at another door, which stood in deep shadow somewhere in the depths of the Assembly Hall. He knocked once and entered. Inside, a small office was lit by two double-wick candles set on either side of a burnished ilexwood desk. The walls were entirely covered with bookshelves, deadening their footfalls.
The room had a quiet, studious feel. Behind the desk sat another of the Jinaal—smaller, with rounded shoulders as if slumped from long hours hunched over his desk. Only when Balroath and Kett had come to a stop in front of him did this new Jinaal finally look up.
“Is he given?” he asked, his voice also deep like Balroath’s, but more coarse.
“Yes,” Balroath replied.
The other nodded. “Kett Valan, you are a more important Inveterae than you know. I am Stulten, and I’ve some things to tell you.” The Jinaal tapped the parchments on the desk in front of him and sat back into his chair, which groaned beneath him. “But let me start by asking you a question: What do you feel now, having given yourself today?”
He had the feeling Stulten knew his answer already. “I didn’t understand what it was until Balroath put his hand on me. I feel some grief over the vow.”
Stulten laughed. The sound became a hoarse cough. When he’d gotten control of his voice again, he looked up at Kett. “I think you are well sworn, Kett Valan. Now, I will reveal to you your true purpose. We know who your friends are. We know the extent of your plots and plans. If it had seemed prudent to us, we would simply have brought them all here and put them on the Assembly Hall floor for slow execution. We would have received their confessions and any additional names they might cry out to end their own prolonged suffering. Or, if we hadn’t the time, we would simply have sent tribunals to their various homes, as we did yours, to try, convict, and execute them as quickly as possible. Can you guess why we did not?”
He stared hot grief across the desk at the old Jinaal. “Because you want me to do it for you.”
Stulten looked pleased
. “You were the right one to enlist,” he said. “Of course, you’re right. Your responsibility will not be to convince these Inveterae separatists—indeed all Inveterae—that we seek the same thing. Most would laugh at you, and certainly distrust you.”
Kett meant to argue with him. But before he could speak, the Jinaal lifted a hand to stay his tongue. “Oh, I know your kind has great respect for you. But few would believe your words, and most would come to doubt you. Soon enough, your access to those who interest us would be compromised.”
Stulten then picked up a piece of parchment and handed it to Kett. In the weak light, he could see it was a long list of names—friends, and those who’d worked beside him pursuing escape from the Bourne. When Kett looked up, a gratified smile rested on Stulten’s lips. “A bit shocking to you, isn’t it?” he said.
“These are my friends,” Kett answered. “There’s no need to kill them. They’ll listen to me. Let me convince them. They’re worth more to you as allies than as dead martyrs to other Inveterae.”
Stulten laughed again. More coughing ensued. “A true leader you are, Kett Valan. But I think you overestimate your coconspirators’ influence—they are not martyr-worthy. And we don’t believe ages of distrust and hatred can be changed, even by you. No, the example of their execution is far more valuable to us.” The elder Jinaal leaned forward, a few bones in his neck cracking the way knuckles do. “More than that, Kett Valan, the example you will make of them is what will matter. One of their own, one who has led their hopes of separation, one who knows them, is now with us. It will demoralize them to learn that you have sworn to us your allegiance. And when you have scratched out the last name on that list, not only will you have rid us of the separatist threat, you will have sent a message to the rest that we are watching, that we cannot be deceived.”
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