Belamae nodded, then motioned Wendra to his side. “This is Dalyn. One of our newest Leiholan. Though don’t mistake new for weak.” He paused, putting a hand on the man’s chest. “Still, he fell sick while singing Suffering this morning.”
Her stomach dropped. “You want me to try and take away the sickness, don’t you?”
“That’s the wrong way to think about it.” He showed her his patient smile. “I want you to resonate with him and the idea of health. Draw on your own sense of well-being.”
“What if it … goes wrong?”
“I’ll be here.” He placed his free hand on her shoulder. “But if you’re to sing Suffering, I need you attuned. And not just for dissonant effect. Do you understand?”
“The practical lesson is to restore rather than tear down,” she said. “Something besides my song.”
He shook his head. “It’s all your song, Wendra. You’ve just chosen a particular refrain most of the time. Sing something new today. Something Dalyn.” His smile brightened, and he moved aside, gently nudging her closer.
Wendra sat at the man’s bedside. I can’t do this. She cleared her mind. If she was going to fail, it wasn’t going to be because of doubt. For several moments she studied his face, searching for an entry melody. Finding nothing, she started as she often did when singing something new—she sang her song box melody.
The box had been a gift from her mother. Its melody had been how she healed herself that first time in the caves beneath the Sedagin plain. And several phrases into the song, she found a new course. She imagined the pressure of Suffering. She imagined Soluna, the Leiholan who’d died under that pressure. And note by note, her melody grew. It started to come in bold phrases, the way fight songs do. She lent strength and volume to it, not caring that it sounded too loud for the little room. What she sang wasn’t the simple restoration of health. It was a challenge to sickness, a declaration of wholeness inviolate.
She inclined, singing loud into Dalyn’s face. She thought for a moment she could feel the sickness pushing back, wrestling with her for purchase over Dalyn. She sang louder. She invoked the roughness of her song. Dysphonia, Belamae called it. She got up onto the bed, nearer this sick Leiholan, and shouted down her song not a finger’s breadth from his nose and mouth. She was challenging this godsdamned sickness. This sickness in Suffering that put him down! She called with her shout-song for Dalyn’s strength to return.
And a moment later his eyes fluttered open, a broad smile lighting his eyes and mouth. It was as though he’d heard every screamed note and was thankful as all hell. He reached up and took her in a bearish embrace. There was certainly no lingering weakness in his arms.
When he let her go, he turned to Belamae, his wry grin a mark of approval. “Leiholan?”
Belamae didn’t seem to hear him. “Fight song. I’ll be damned. You made even health a battle.”
She shrugged. “Seems to have worked.”
He laughed hard at that. “Used your mother’s song as a start, too.” His eyes lit when he mentioned Vocencia. “Come. One last thing for you and me.”
They said good-byes. Telaya gave an appropriate level of thanks, a cool reserve still in her voice and expression. Then, in the hall, Belamae took Wendra by the arm.
“Now it’s time for you to remember your mother … entirely. Vocencia, more than any Leiholan I ever taught, understood what I’m trying to teach you.”
Wendra had forgotten about having her memory restored. Hearing her mother’s name again brought another rush of sadness for stolen memories. The Maesteri didn’t wait for a better time or place. He guided her to a seat in the hallway, and promptly began to sing. It was a soft, slow air, sung with tenderness and a pang of loss, but also of glad remembrance.
She found herself swept away, the present moment lost, and a kind of emptiness filling her mind. Then, slowly, like a flower blooming in the rays of daybreak, images drew into focus, and bittersweet feelings consumed her.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The Uses of Youth
There’s more to be learned from what an adversary won’t do, than what he will.
—Maxim from Exposing Indicative Behavior, a recovered text from the east of Mal’Tara, now in the possession of League leadership
The mealhouse had been cleared for Roth’s meeting with the envoy from Estem Salo. He wanted privacy for the discussion that would follow. Helaina was having him watched by her Emerit guard, so meeting in a public place where his own men could secure the doors and windows was the safest course. When he finally entered the hall and saw the very young woman, he did something he rarely did. In taking her hand, he placed his left palm over their clasped fingers. It was a rare sign of warmth and familiarity that would put the young politician at ease.
“Let’s sit,” he said graciously, extending an arm.
A long table had already been set with plates. Warm wheat bread generously spread with butter steamed beside pitchers of cool water flavored with slices of cucumber. The young woman smiled and took a seat at the head of the table. Assuming a dominant leadership position.
But it was an amateur tactic. She’d been sent, no doubt, because she was bright. But he guessed she wasn’t seasoned at politics.
As he sat along one side, in the middle, where he could turn to face each of them as the need dictated, other Sheason sat next to and across from him. His own Jurshah leaders filled out the rest of the seats.
“Now then,” he began, tearing a piece of bread and passing it along, “I’m Roth Staned.” He deliberately left his title out.
A half grin tugged at the young woman’s face. He wondered if she smiled so he could see that she was keen to his desire to keep things informal. At first, anyway.
“I’m Ketrine. My friends and I are here at the request of Thaelon Solas.” The woman took the bread handed to her and tore a piece.
“Your Randeur,” Roth clarified. “I don’t wish to sound ungrateful or overstep myself, but did he not come himself due to the troubles Sheason are having … internally?”
Ketrine laughed so delicately that it almost disarmed him. Almost. “Skies, no. Not any more than the difficulties the League is having with the many inquests it’s facing.”
Roth kept his composure, but was ready to accuse her of rendering to divine this information, when Nama, his political advisor, cleared her throat. “The regent published the inquests earlier today. The entire city knows we’re under scrutiny.”
In response, he turned to Ketrine. “I’m somewhat embarrassed. But this will pass. Our fraternity is swelling, and our influence attracts suspicion.” He shifted his focus, scanning the other Sheason. “I assume this is why you’ve come to see us. To seek our help with something?” His tone sounded of invitation and readiness to help.
It was Ketrine who spoke—the youngest of the Sheason envoy at the table, and clearly the one the others deferred to. “In some ways, we have come to help you. But that’s not the whole of it. And I don’t expect full bellies to make our request any more palatable to you, so I’ll simply share Thaelon’s proposal.”
Roth took a bite of his bread and chewed through his smile, putting on his best ordinary look. “I like your honesty. How can we help?”
She leveled her eyes with serious intent, but spoke in an unhurried and unsettling calm. “We can no longer suffer Sheason deaths. They have to stop. This means the Civilization Order must be repealed.”
He gave her a look of surprise, but not at the request, exactly. “You realize that the League didn’t pass this law alone. We certainly raised our hand to it. But it was ratified by the High Council. I can’t speak for—”
“The League proposed the law. And you lead the League.” Ketrine took a sip of water. “You can call for a retraction. And in exchange, Thaelon will commit the resources of Estem Salo to help build the schools and physic shelters and trade academies the League is working to establish across the Eastlands.”
The offer stunned him. He sat staring at the young woma
n, remembering suddenly the reason he’d begun his deliberate ascent through League ranks in the first place. How much faster, and better, could he see his desires fulfilled if this offer was true.
Ketrine pressed on. “For our part, we’ll continue to exercise discretion in our use of the Will, since this is the center of our quarrel. But we won’t stop rendering when it is in the interest of those who need our help. That will continue as a companion to the work we do with the League in these other ways.”
This last bit snapped Roth out of his momentary reverie. Rendering. Dependence. He took a moment to drink from his own cup, preparing his thoughts.
“You’re rather direct, my young lady. May I ask,” he said, swallowing, and giving each Sheason a quick look, “what if we say no? What if we believe we don’t need your help? Or that the Sheason should fade in the same way the First Fathers have faded—into the pews of the mausoleums we call churches.”
Ketrine raised her cup as though he’d issued a toast. “Then we remain at odds. Which, I imagine, means that eventually we’ll fight openly. If the Quiet haven’t come and put an end to all our quarrels.”
Roth put his cup down, nodding as though he’d fully expected this. “Is that your true intention? An alliance to stand against these people from beyond the Pall?”
The woman took a long moment to study him. He could see that she didn’t believe he was ignorant about the reality of the Quiet. Humanizing them, though. Calling them people. He looked forward to her reaction to that.
She leaned forward, continuing to chew casually. “My father is Thaelon,” she began.
He hoped she didn’t see the delight it gave him to hear it.
“I don’t share that as a threat. I share it in the spirit of earnestness. We need to find compromise between the League and Sheason. My father wants that.” She stopped, seeming to consider her next move. “And you should want it, too. Whether or not the Quiet come, you should want it. But let me tell you,” she leveled a grave look on him, “whatever you choose to believe lives beyond the Pall, they don’t have kind feelings for you. Or for me. Or any of us. You should trust me on this.”
Roth did a fair job of maintaining his nonchalance. But if anything anyone had ever said to him about the nature of the Quiet struck him, it was this. He couldn’t say why. Maybe it was because the young woman didn’t behave like a politician. She didn’t seem to care about repercussions. She seemed only to care about getting to the heart of matters. Which he applauded. But which he could also manipulate.
With a nod, Losol stepped from a rear shadow and put a knife in the back of one of the Sheason. It wasn’t a mortal insertion, but a painful one. The man cried out, his back arching. Losol slid back with two graceful steps, sheathed his knife, and drew his sword.
The table around Roth erupted as Sheason sprang to their feet, chairs clattering back. His Jurshah leaders did the same, falling into a vague line behind Losol as the air thickened and took on a faint hum.
A focused push of force swept past him, riffling his collar, as it struck at Losol. Roth saw one of the Sheason’s hands draw in and thrust forward again. But these bursts of Will broke and faltered against Losol’s sword. There were no bright lights or shouts of pain. Just a warm wind that dissipated to nothing.
The wounded Sheason slipped to the ground. Seeing him fall, two of the other Sheason, both seated nearest their fallen fellow, raised upturned palms toward Losol. A moment later, the others joined them. All but Ketrine. She’d gotten to her feet, a look of concern and frustration on her face.
She can’t render, Roth concluded. Oh, this is lovely.
The young diplomat hunkered low and rushed to her friend’s aid. She examined the wound, pressing a cloth against it, and nodding in reassurance. She’d recognized that it wasn’t fatal. Would she think Losol a bad assassin, or recognize it for the ploy it was? Didn’t matter. Roth sat in that suspended moment, as one might at a mummers’ play, waiting for the rest to unfold.
All the Sheason, save the one who’d fallen, were now showing the same stance. They were combining their efforts. The floor began to rattle. Dust streamed from the rafters above. Lamp flames inside their glass guttered, a few extinguishing. Windows cracked, glass tinkling to the floor. Bottles fell, smashing into liquid pools filled with shards. And the wood of the mealhouse groaned. Roth fought to take a breath. They were like bugs in amber. A few of his Jurshah leaders looked about them, real concern in their faces. Only Losol kept a steady, unwavering focus. And a thin smile. His sword still held forward like a shield.
“Enough.” Ketrine stood, and said again with equal calm, “Enough.”
Neither side heeded her, but the fight did not escalate, either.
She turned to Roth. “An overzealous leagueman, no doubt. Not a sanctioned action.”
She was giving him an excuse. This young woman was exceptional at diplomacy. Roth made his best apologetic smile. “That’s right. My deepest regret for his rashness.”
He held up a hand for Losol and the others to lower their weapons, which they did, slowly. “Losol?” he said, with a clear question in his voice.
“I thought I saw the man rendering where you couldn’t see. A hand gesture like they do when they command a heart to go still.” Losol wasn’t good at faking sincerity, and fortunately he wasn’t trying. “I took him for an assassin, Your Leadership. There was no other choice.”
Ketrine didn’t address Losol; she spoke directly to Roth. “This man is either a dullard, or a liar. The only real question is whether he acted on his own authority,” she paused, fixing him with an iron stare, “or someone else’s. You’re telling me it’s his own zeal, and I will take you at your word.”
Roth didn’t let the smile touch his face. She knew. And she was looking past the incident in hopes of fulfilling her father’s desire to have the Civilization Order repealed.
He nodded as she spoke. And when she’d finished, he showed her a different kind of regret. “There’s a law against rendering in this city.” He sighed as though it pained him to say it. “A law that comes with a heavy penalty.”
Ketrine took slow steps toward him, drawing near. She was two hands shorter than he was, but it didn’t feel that way. He doubted she could be intimidated at all.
“I’ve looked past a murder attempt. Also something that comes with a heavy penalty. What we saw,” she said in a voice loud enough that all could hear, “was the League Ascendant trying to kill a Sheason who came with an offer of peace. Reconciliation. Five witnesses to this.” She turned her cool stare on Losol. “You have interesting weapons, Roth. They turn aside the effects of the Will. At least until we adapt to them.” She looked back at him with cold assurance. “And we will adapt. So, now, what shall it be?”
Roth let none of his thoughts give him away. His showed her a patient expression as he began, “I can’t, of course, make promises on my own. I’ll need time to talk with others who will need to vote on this. But here’s how you can help.” He put a hand out and gently squeezed her elbow—another sign of warmth and familiarity. “Write me a letter of endorsement. Set down what you told me: the Sheason commitment to the League ideals of training and schools and physic shelters. I can share these with those I’ll need to convince—”
“I’ll go with you,” she said. “It’ll carry more weight if they hear it from me.”
Roth was shaking his head. “No, in fact some of the Council members are fearful of your order. They wouldn’t receive you.” Her offer dismissed, he continued. “Maybe a hundred copies of the letter I mention. Something we can carry into all the places that need our help.”
Ketrine fell silent for a moment, appraising him. “You’ll have these letters once the Civilization Order is repealed. Until then, one copy. To use with your Council.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “And it’s a good bargain for Thaelon. Not simply because of a change in the law. Your fellowship is distrusted and feared in most places. You know this, don’t you?”
> “That, my new friend Roth, is the propaganda of the League.” She smiled so imperceptibly that it nearly aroused him. “And part of what you will set down in a letter that expresses League commitment to repairing the damage done to our reputation. In fact,” she added with satisfaction, “you’ll want to write about how you’ll stand in defense of Sheason if and when it’s necessary.”
Roth returned her thin smile. “It’ll be hard for us. You have the better of the compromise.” He patted her arm. “But I’d have it no other way.”
The letters from the Sheason would help Roth open territories that had resisted League presence. And he’d get them, despite having no intention of repealing Civilization.
The Sheason lowered their hands. The hum and rattle stopped. One of the women turned and put her hands on her wounded companion’s back, healing it.
“All’s right again,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Now, it’s late. I have things to attend to, and you’ll want to rest. Losol,” he said, calling his war leader forward, “as a sign of good faith, you’ll escort our new friends to a safe place to wash and rest.”
“We don’t need a guard.” Ketrine looked up into Losol’s Mal features, scrutinizing him closely but with dispassion.
“Of course not. I’m simply playing a good host,” Roth said. “You’ll allow me, won’t you?”
She extended a hand, waiting for him to take it in token of an agreement. Roth did so, offering a small, deferential bow. “Rest up,” he said. “We’ll talk soon.”
The Sheason and the daughter of the Randeur followed Losol out of the mealhouse, as Roth smiled wide at his good fortune.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
First Sodalist
Some say darkness breathes.
—Unattributed folk saying
Night had fallen. The streets of Recityv resembled a festival now more than they had during the day. Opportunists had flooded the city with the start of Convocation. Braethen took to alleys to avoid the crowds. Vendanj had suggested he visit the First Sodalist of Recityv, Rochard E’Sau. But he’d have been headed there anyway. Ask the person who knows, his father used to say. And with what Braethen had learned about his sword and the origins of the Sodality, he had questions.
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