The Ascendant took a long, steadying breath. When he spoke again, he filled his voice with reminiscence. “I’ve known the taste of bone broth as my only meal, listened to a moneylender offer a mere plug for my mother’s good things when we had nothing left to pawn.… But it makes me want to be sure our own children never know such things. And so,” he said, sitting with dignity and resolve, “not only do I question the intentions of this Convocation … I propose that we disband it entirely. Its purpose belongs to the past. We’ll find new solutions to new problems, and we’ll be better for it.”
Grant laughed. It carried into the vaults of the Convocation Hall. It had nearly echoed its last when Roth simply said, “I call for a vote of dissolution.”
Almost immediately, hands began to rise. Many around the great table, and one by one hands in the outer gallery were likewise going up. Voices began to mutter. The Convocation was going to fail to answer any promise at all.
Roth slowly raised an arm, and pointed at the man whose arm Grant had removed. The gesture brought silence again to the hall. In a low voice, Grant made one last argument. “This is your evidence. This man beat his wife. Beat the child I trusted to his care. Again and again he beat them. He’s lucky I didn’t take both his arms.”
He then took a long, measured look at those seated around the convocation table. “Tell me that if you found someone abusing your child you wouldn’t do the same. Tell me that your heart doesn’t whisper that I was right to do it.” Grant looked up at Roth. “You may once have known the ache of an empty belly and the hardships of poverty. But don’t sit there and pretend you understand them now. Your empathy is a mockery, since you use it for political gain.”
Grant looked around again at these kings and leaders. “A man can only truly know the state of another’s heart if he bears the same condition at the same time. The rest is sophistry. Maneuvering. This man with all his tenderness,” he pointed now at Roth, “claims the interests of the people, but would let a child die rather than allow a healer whose art he doesn’t understand to restore that child’s health. This man decries others as dictators and religionists, and yet has published his own creed and tried to have the regent assassinated. This man,” Roth sneered the word, “would let this Convocation fail and your people consequently die, to advance his own ideas of reform.”
Grant’s voice softened. “Think, my friends. Your ancestors came to this same place for this same purpose. They weren’t deceived. They didn’t always make right decisions. But they came here with an understanding that some threats are real, and need to be met. We don’t wish it so. But we have strength enough to meet these threats.… If we do it together.” He paused, coming to the simplest truth he knew. “You wouldn’t be here at all, if part of you didn’t believe that was true.”
When he’d finished, there was a deep silence. The kind in which you can hear true things.
Roth must have heard it, too. He’d just begun to interrupt that silence, when beyond the doors and windows, the distant sound of trumpets filled the air, hailing some arrival. They continued their call for several moments, until the doors opened once again, and for the first time in the history of Recityv, a Far king strode the halls of Convocation.
Behind Elan came ten of his closest guard. They peeled off several strides back, leaving their king to approach Helaina alone. Roth and Grant stood back as the Far came on and extended a hand to the regent. Helaina received his hand and bowed her head. Then Elan, as if accustomed to the place, moved in beside the empty seat next to Helaina’s and leaned forward over the convocation table, placing his hands on its surface and staring around at the leaders of nations.
Helaina retook her seat just as Elan began to speak.
“I am not a myth.” He gave Roth a dark look. “Nor is the commission my people have borne for ages. We were entrusted with keeping the Language of the Covenant safe until the time came, if ever, that it should be needed.… That time has come.”
Roth waved a hand. “Surely, you don’t—”
“You will let me speak, Ascendant Staned; the blood of countless Far gives me the right.” Elan’s eyes invited Roth to challenge him. Roth waved his hand again for the Far king to continue.
“If it is not yet known to you, the library at Qum’rahm’se has been destroyed. Your attempts to reconstruct the Covenant Tongue have been burned to ash. This comes at the hands of Velle, dark renderers of the Will who believe that your only hope against them is the use of this forgotten speech.”
“More magic and mysteries,” Roth interjected. “When will this end?”
It was Elan’s turn to hold up a hand, signaling his men to drag forward something Grant hadn’t noticed. Before anyone knew what was happening, several Far heaved a great form and cast it on the table, ripping free the dark shroud that had concealed it.
Men and women around the table and in the gallery shot to their feet at the sight of the slain body of a Bar’dyn.
Elan waited for the muttering voices to calm, for most to reclaim their seats, before resuming. “The Quiet have crossed the Veil. Some of them, anyway.” Elan shared a look with Grant, then stared back at Roth. “This very turn of the moon a host of them descended out of the Saeculorum, crossed the shale plains, infiltrated the heart of our city, and destroyed the Covenant Tongue.
“My friends,” Elan said, casting his gaze around the table, “you see the proof of the enemy before you. These events are not random. The Quiet have destroyed the greatest weapon we possessed to fight them. The time for deliberation is past. War is coming, whether you choose to answer its call … or not.”
In the silence that followed came the slow clap of a single pair of hands. Roth’s. “Fine theater, gentlemen. Oh, I have great respect for the Far.” He looked at Elan. “For your steadfastness, if not the reality of some lost language. But this”—Roth stood and looked over the body of the Bar’dyn—“proves nothing.”
“Certainly looks like something to me,” Grant said.
Mild laughter filled the table.
“A foreigner,” Roth said, hunching his shoulders. “He looks different. Smells different.”
More laughter.
“But,” Roth said, raising a finger, “is he an enemy? That’s the question, isn’t it. He needs to be an enemy for Helaina’s Convocation to succeed. But what if he’s just … a foreigner?”
Elan stood tall. “Thousands of my people died at the hands of these foreigners.”
“And what if that could have been avoided,” Roth said, and started to pace again around the backs of those seated at the convocation table. “What if through negotiation no battle need have been fought? Or be fought again? This is what we have to decide. Do we arm ourselves again for some great war? Do you put your children in armor and stick a sword in their hands and pray to dead gods that they return?” He paced faster. “And when was the last time a dead god answered one of your prayers?”
“Roth—” Helaina began.
“No, think on it. I’ve never doubted there were nations beyond the Pall. I simply don’t believe they mean us harm. Or there’s some old misunderstanding. A misunderstanding I’d rather us fight with diplomacy and leave our swords home.”
“Is this why you’ve armed a fifth branch of your Jurshah?” Grant asked.
Eyebrows rose at that bit of logic.
“Now that’s a sound argument,” Roth said, seeming genuinely pleased. “The League is arming to keep the peace. And as I’ve said, if hostility comes, we’ll then be ready. But as a last need. Not our first response.”
He stopped pacing finally, took his seat again, and spoke with the humblest voice Grant had heard him use. “What have we seen to convince us of this Convocation’s purpose: parlor tricks, a dead foreigner, false accusations about me and the League, an appeal to us to do things today the way they were done ages ago.” He gave a tired sigh.
“There may have been a time when Convocation for the purpose of war was right. In fact, I’m sure that’s tru
e. But now is not the time for it. We are better than this. We need to be. Let us dissolve this Convocation, and re-form it with a new purpose. I will personally ride to these people”—he nodded toward the dead Bar’dyn—“and broker peace. But please, let’s not send our men and women to war again. It’s a waste. And it is not the way to resolve differences. Not anymore. What say you?”
An overwhelming number of hands began to rise to the vote of dissolution. Grant shook his head, and came around to place a thankful hand on Elan’s shoulder. While arms hung aloft, he spoke quietly, his voice carrying in the great hall.
“Days ago, when Elan’s First Legion met the Quiet out on the shale, they found these foreigners had come with more than swords.” Grant paused, staring across at Roth in the silence. “Like the Battle of the Round, which created the Scar I now call home, they came with renderers of the Will. Velle. Quietgiven with skills like the Sheason that Roth and his League are trying to abolish.”
Upraised hands were returned to laps. Seat holders shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, waiting on Grant’s next words.
“Do you know the difference between a Sheason and a Velle?” He didn’t expect an answer, and he got none. But he let the moment draw out a good long time before going on. “A Sheason draws on his own life to do the things he does. Velle do not. They pluck the life from anything at hand to fuel their craft.”
“Are you going to tell us more stories?” Roth said. This time, no one laughed.
He can’t see beyond his own view of civility. Grant almost pitied the man. Almost.
“The Velle who came to Naltus knew the shale there holds little energy for rendering. So, they brought vessels.”
Queen Ela Valstone of Reyal’Te asked, “What do you mean, ‘vessels’?”
Grant turned saddened, weary eyes on her. “People. Children.”
There was a new silence. A heavy kind. In it, Grant thought he heard some culpability.
“Every one of you seated here knows that highwaymen walk your roads. There’s a human trade being done in the remote places of your realms. For some buyers,” he said, “it’s a slave to drive a plow or mop a floor or row a trawler when the wind flags. But the best coin is paid by foreigners who seek strong, mobile vessels that can be used to give their renderings life wherever they go.”
Grant walked around near the dead Bar’dyn and looked down at the decaying body. “I would be moved by the Ascendant’s words myself, if in my life I hadn’t seen what they do to a captive when they use his spirit to render the Will. I’ve watched it happen to young men and women in my care. No one should ever know that pain. Or have to witness it.”
He turned a slow circle, speaking mostly to the outer gallery. “They’re not simply preparing for war. They’re preparing for annihilation. They don’t want to rule us. They want us dead. They’re carefully trying to remove every defense or weapon we could use against them. And the strongest weapons on their side of it … are fueled by the lives of people they’ve bought or taken from among us. Thousands. More.” He shook his head again, in rejection of Roth’s diplomatic charade. “No, there’s no peace to be had with them. I would rather not go to war. But the Quiet are coming. And they come with intractable intentions. If you let this Convocation fail, trust me, it will be the last thing you think about when the Quiet sweep through your homelands and thresh them like spoiled wheat.”
Helaina let Grant’s words linger a moment, then spoke quietly but firmly. “Who will answer this Convocation’s call?”
Hands began to go up. And the clear indication was that there’d be no further need to deliberate. But before a count could be taken, Roth spoke again.
“My regent, I have one last argument to make. And then, I give my word, I’ll be led by the crowd.”
Helaina looked warily at him. “And what is that, Ascendant?”
“I can’t present it today, I’m afraid.” He smiled apologetically. “May I beg a day’s indulgence? I’ll be ready for tomorrow’s session.”
“She doesn’t have to wait,” Grant reminded them all.
“No, she doesn’t,” Roth agreed, and turned his appeal to the many leaders around the inner table. “But if I can show you that this isn’t necessary, wouldn’t you at least want to hear me out?”
Several turned to Helaina, nodding approval for a day’s delay.
“It’s a trick,” Grant whispered to Helaina.
But Helaina was bound to honor the Convocation’s general wish, and they adjourned.
As the hall cleared, Helaina stood and took Grant’s hand warmly. “We can make it through one night. We have the votes. It would have appeared uncompromising to deny him. And I’ve a feeling a few of these seats are being pinched.” She smiled at that. “My indulgence of Roth on this point will help us eventually.”
Grant had a restless, uneasy feeling about it, but let it go for now, escorting Helaina from the Convocation hall, where it appeared his own brand of convincing might have helped them earn the day. Helaina’s tight lock on his arm seemed to say as much, and proved a welcome reward for the effort.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The Bourne: Elegy
The problem of most messiahs is that the very compassion which stirs them to save a people also makes them faint of heart when there’s killing to be done.
—From Sedgel writings, In Search of Shelah
They marched into the town of Jopal in the broad light of day. Kett Valan’s shoulders and chest still burned with the ritual branding he’d received after giving himself to Quietus. His skin now bore the same marks as worn by the six Bar’dyn he led, as well as the Sedgel leadership emblem. The painful scars raised by the meticulous application of hot irons wove in alternating swoops and jags across his skin. He chewed root after root of balsa plant to dull the pain.
His old friend Lliothan was with them. He commanded the squad, and took orders from Kett. But there wasn’t much to say. Their assignment was simple. Kett suspected Lliothan had been assigned to him more to keep his eye on Kett than help him.
It was midday, a time when field workers were home to take meals before returning to dredge the rows of brickle grass after the morning’s irrigation. There needed to be a lot of witnesses.
He didn’t rush. News of their entrance to the Inveterae town needed to spread. And he was still trying to think of a way out of this. Before long, crowds did begin to gather along the dirt roads. Hundreds of Gotun, his own kind, looked on. He could see expressions of surprise, disgust, and worry at the sight of the branding that marred his skin. The size of the crowd made him grateful that Inveterae weren’t allowed to have weapons. An armed mob of this size would slaughter him and his small Bar’dyn detachment in moments. But untrained, and against the vicious steel of the Quietgiven, they would not attack. Or so he hoped.
He stopped in the middle of the street and halted his new companions. He turned a slow circle, surveying the mix of buildings, some raised of ailantus and cercis wood bleached by rain and wind, others built of dark grey stone mortared with black clay. Everything appeared somewhat muted through watery light under a ceiling of low clouds. The air hung damp today, promising rain later. The same rains that gave rise to the grasses and ironwood trees and dark green brambles that suggested edible crops might be easier to raise here.
Around him, all had stopped to watch what he and his Bar’dyn contingent would do. The shuffle of heavy feet and the taking of midday meals had ceased. It placed him on an eerie stage, and yet this was precisely what the Jinaal sought—his own people’s complete attention to Kett’s commission.
A mild wind swept up the street, cooling his seared skin. He nodded, mostly to himself, and turned to the building on his right, the home of Reelan Sotal … a friend.
Reelan had been Kett’s first confidant. They had met as guards, both having been placed on assignment over one of the human birthing camps. Light duty—when men and women from south of the Pall came into the Bourne, they quickly lost their sense of hope. I
nveterae had to do little more than be sure they were fed and that they worked at whatever menial task the camps had for them—cultivation of crops, quarry shifts, some iron work. That, and the captives needed to remain healthy enough to have babies.
It had been his time at that post with Reelan when he’d first realized he had to do something about his ideas of escaping the Bourne. It had taken seeing a certain light go out of human eyes—as their expressions came to resemble those of Inveterae—to realize what his own kind had lost. Human women and children held on to some hope of escape for a few days, maybe weeks, before it slipped away. Usually it occurred naturally, without any assistance or punishment by the camp guards; the Bourne had a way about it.
He’d seen that human look before, though. Saw it in Inveterae children, who knew no other way, no other place. They lost it too, in their late childhood, when they became aware of their world. Inveterae called that look, that feeling, the music.
He and Reelan had begun to talk about when they’d stopped hearing the music. And when they were far enough from others not to be heard, they had whispered heretical things: revolt … escape.
Looking now at the door of his oldest friend’s house, he hesitated. But only for a moment; any more and his Bar’dyn detachment would question. Or worse, go to it themselves. He crossed to Reelan’s door and knocked. He could feel the collective weight of stares at his back. That’s what the Jinaal wanted: witnesses, to quell the thoughts of separation, and to destroy any loyalty the Inveterae might show Kett.
The door opened, and Kett looked down at Salah, a young Gotun girl maybe four years old. She still held in her youthful eyes the light of one who had not yet fully realized who or where she was. The music. Reelan’s daughter immediately recognized him and hugged his legs.
“Salah,” Kett said evenly, “please go get your father.”
“Don’t you want to come in?” she asked. “We have fresh roots. There’s stew.”
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