Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  Wendra stood. “I only came to talk. I’m sorry if listening to your songs offended you.” She paused, then added, “They really were quite beautiful.”

  Telaya did nothing for a long time. She simply stood there high in the archive at her podium. “Your music is strong,” the woman finally said, the sound of it like a reluctant confession.

  Wendra took it as an invitation, and made her way through the darkness to a long, winding ramp that spiraled up along the circular wall of the archive. She lit a lamp of her own, and started up.

  “Why ‘dissonant friend’?” she asked as she climbed.

  “Your voice creates half-step overtones. Not always, but sometimes. I’ve never heard a singer do it before.” Telaya spoke with certainty but caution, her voice still echoing out over the expansive dome. “Why are you here?”

  Wendra reached the second level, continuing up. “Belamae said it was worse than he thought when he heard your song at Rafters. What does he mean?”

  A caustic laugh reverberated suddenly around the dome. “So you are an informant. Or, have you come to join me in my sedition?”

  “I haven’t decided to join anyone,” Wendra said, making her meaning clear.

  More laughter. This time with genuine delight. “Wonderful. Does Belamae know this?”

  “Why does his failure make you happy?” Wendra passed the third floor.

  “This has little or nothing to do with Belamae. I’m sure he’s convinced what he does is right.” The mirth left Telaya’s voice. “But he works from very old ideas. His concept of Leiholan is destroying Descant.” A softness entered the woman’s tone. “I can’t let that happen.”

  “But you nearly incited a mob at the performance tavern. They were chanting ‘Burn Descant.’ I think you’re as much a danger to this place as you accuse him of being.”

  The bitterness returned to Telaya’s words. “Don’t fool yourself. And you didn’t hear the end of my song. I would have steered them into a different course. I was … interrupted. My feelings about Belamae and Descant aren’t a secret. But I would never let my dislike for one destroy my love for the other.”

  Wendra reached the fourth level, over halfway to where Telaya stood. Hearing the woman talk Wendra found her reason for coming here growing firmer in her mind. A decision lay ahead. She would have to either remain here, under Belamae’s tutelage, or follow her heart. And despite her fondness for him, and the thrill of learning, and even the possibility of singing Suffering, her thoughts often returned to the blocks, those platforms where people were sold into Quiet hands.

  “Tell me why you think Belamae’s ideas of Leiholan are destroying Descant,” Wendra said.

  “Think of it this way,” Telaya began with undisguised condescension. “If the gift of a Leiholan is a real thing, if she can render song to give Suffering a power that any silly tavern performer cannot, why aren’t Leiholan also singing in orphanages and sick houses and the homes of widows? Or…” Telaya paused, as if for dramatic effect, “if the gift of Leiholan is no mythical or transcendent thing, but just expert musicianship, why would those who desire to sing Suffering be denied the opportunity?”

  Wendra climbed through an entire floor in silence, considering the contradictions Telaya had shared. By the time she’d reached the level where the woman stood, she’d found an answer. She stepped toward Telaya, who turned from her podium to face Wendra.

  “You know the gift is more than expert music craft. You knew it long before we stood together on that stage. But if you had any doubt, you surely knew it after I knocked you on your ass.” Wendra smiled without any malice.

  A grimace of distaste rose on the woman’s lips. “I hear the dissonance in your voice again. Are you going to start shrieking at me?” Telaya stared at Wendra with chilly judgment.

  It was Wendra’s turn to give a laugh. “Careful. I don’t have the same restraint toward you that others at Descant must have.”

  Telaya’s face slackened with worry, but it passed quickly. “And still you come to me for answers. I find some poetry in that, don’t you?”

  Wendra disregarded the woman’s posturing. “I can’t tell you why Descant Leiholan don’t go into the streets with their gifts. But I know there aren’t many of us. And the Song takes a heavy toll. Even training to become Leiholan has its dangers. Perhaps the best help Leiholan can be to anyone is to remain healthy for Suffering.”

  Telaya was silent a long moment. “I would gladly take the risk of becoming Leiholan if it meant singing Suffering.”

  Wendra nodded, unable to deny how much she, herself, wanted to sing the Song.

  “Looks like you’re convincing yourself to stay,” Telaya said, smiling. “How nice that Belamae will add a puppet to his play.”

  “I don’t think you’re here just for orphans and widows,” Wendra said. “I hear a woman who is bitter because she isn’t Leiholan herself. Is that why you come here late to study? Are you hoping to find something hidden in old sheets of music that will reveal the secret to you?”

  Telaya stared back, anger in her eyes. “There, you’re wrong. I come here to perfect my craft … because I care about the music. Yes, I hope to find some clue to what makes a Leiholan unique. But it’s not the reason.” She tapped the sheets of music atop the podium on her right. “I find a different kind of strength here, Wendra.”

  It was the first time Wendra could recall the woman using her name. It disarmed her a bit. Or perhaps it was the genuine tone of Telaya’s voice.

  “For instance,” Telaya said, “I study the musical epochs catalogued on every floor of this archive.” She looked around at the many floors obscured in shadow. “I learn about entirely different musical scales that have been used to compose music I’ve never heard. I find modes within those music systems unlike anything I’ve ever studied before. Hundreds of them. They’re hard to decipher, but I can usually piece them together.” Telaya’s passion for music softened and brightened everything about her. “And when you hear the melodies and harmonies possible from these variants…”

  Telaya seemed to drift into her mind, hearing some song Wendra couldn’t share.

  “And on these shelves,” she gestured around her, “are the songs of things. The very music that describes and defines a tree, a cloud, the feeling of morning sun on cobblestone.” Her voice grew softer. “More than this, if you look, you’ll find the songs of people. The notes that make up their lives. Performing one of them is knowing who they were, and how they felt, and what they hoped for. The song of them. Some are songs of people you don’t know. Others, you would. It’s a resonant art to write the song of someone. Rare. And not often done anymore. But when you see it … when you sing it…”

  Then the woman gave her an appreciative look. “Your song the other night at Rafters. Pure shotal. And offered in the Phrygian mode of the Elyk Divad system used thirteen generations ago. I don’t suspect you knew that. But it was stunningly beautiful nonetheless.”

  “Thank you,” Wendra said, feeling rather outclassed.

  “It’s also what makes me worry,” Telaya added. “I have no idea what your real intention is. The shotal of your song. Its meaning.” She gave Wendra a searching look. “You find resonant notes well enough. But I don’t think you’ve decided why you do it. Or maybe it’s that you haven’t found where you should do it.”

  Wendra felt a mounting desire to understand these things the way Telaya did. She wanted to explore new scales, and the modes inside them that this singer seemed already to have mastered. But she caught herself, remembering that her reason for coming to this dissident Lyren was to try and find some clarity of purpose. She wanted to speak to someone who understood the cathedral’s function, the role of Leiholan, but who saw it all with different eyes.

  Then she stopped deceiving herself. What she actually wanted was a way to justify leaving. She’d hoped Telaya could give her that.

  The woman had been watching her closely. “You really haven’t decided to stay, have you?�
�

  Wendra looked back, but said nothing.

  Telaya picked up a couple of the sheets of music and looked them over. “There was a time, Wendra, when thought and sound were taught as the same thing. Did you know that?”

  Wendra shook her head.

  “Not many people do. It’s an old philosophy.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

  “Because we need to find new ways of doing old things. And maybe the answer is here somewhere.” Telaya shook the sheet in her hand, then waved out at the great archival dome. “Particularly if those blessed with the gifts we need are uncertain of how best to use them.”

  Wendra caught sight of words carved into the shelving behind Telaya: Descant, then labels organized by epochal age. Telaya was studying the music of the cathedral itself. She had a sudden thought. “You’re here because of Soluna. She died singing Suffering. And you’re here looking for the reason. Or for a way to prevent it from happening again. Or both.”

  Telaya stared back at her, confirming nothing.

  “Because the Song is changing,” Wendra added. “Right?”

  “All songs change over time,” said Telaya.

  She stared back at the expert musician, and had a new thought. “Maybe Suffering needs to change. And maybe we’re just not evolving fast enough to compensate for whatever pressures are shaping the Veil.” Something felt right about that. “So maybe,” she finished, “that’s what you’re doing here so late.”

  Telaya didn’t acknowledge this, seeming to stay focused on something she wanted to share. She held the transcribed music sheets out to her. Wendra gently took them.

  “You may find these helpful,” Telaya said.

  “What are they?”

  She humphed out a quiet laugh through her nose. “Two pieces. This one,” she tapped the topmost sheet of music, “is a Telling for Descant. In case, should you leave, you need to return in a hurry. The other … is your mother’s song.”

  Wendra pulled the second piece up close to look at it. “She wrote this?”

  “No, it is the song of your mother.” Telaya was smiling when Wendra lowered the music to be sure it wasn’t a joke. “Belamae wrote this. It’s the sound of who your mother was. Singing it … it’s more than memory. I thought you should have it.”

  Stunned, Wendra looked at the music a moment, then up at Telaya.

  “Vocencia left Descant. She left for the right reasons. It does happen.” Telaya gave Wendra a thoughtful look. “When you hear that, you’ll understand.”

  Wendra stared at Telaya a long moment. “Thank you.”

  The woman seemed uncomfortable receiving thanks, and quickly moved on. “And you’re right. I’m here partly because of Soluna.”

  Wendra stared back, concerned.

  Telaya pulled several music scores up from a satchel at her feet and laid them out across the lectern. She also went to the shelves behind her and pulled several more sheets of neatly notated music. She laid them all out together.

  “Before Soluna died, we had Leiholan falling ill for days. Progressively so.” She began organizing symphonies, choral arrangements, and other musical scores. “And you’ve seen what’s happened over the last several days in the Chamber of Anthems.”

  Wendra nodded. “I assumed it was because the Song was changing.”

  “As we’ve said, all songs do. But after Soluna died, I started to research other times in Descant history when the Leiholan have struggled inordinately with Suffering.” She tapped a symphony written in a Divadian mode. “I thought maybe I could identify some patterns.”

  “And have you?” Wendra felt her pulse quicken.

  “What I’ve found is that at certain times, composers seem to write more nocturnes, more requiems, and more musical odes to the vault of heaven.” Telaya began to talk faster, grouping the scores together. “It’s as if there’s something about celestial movement that has a direct bearing on the music that’s written during specific periods in history. And these are the periods when Leiholan struggle, and even die. Sometimes it’s a single day. Sometimes twenty or more days.”

  Wendra stared at the groupings of compositions on the lectern. “And Soluna died on the night of the last lunar eclipse,” Wendra added.

  Telaya looked at her, seeming impressed but also puzzled. “How did you know that?”

  Wendra shook her head. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I think it does,” Telaya said. She pointed up at the window high above them in the vaulted ceiling of the music archive. “We’re about to have a somewhat rare second lunar eclipse. Of Ardua, tonight.”

  Wendra looked up and saw a wine-colored moon high in the night sky. Panic gripped her chest. Like the moon on the Soliel when the Quiet came!

  Telaya put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve asked for two Leiholan to be standing ready tonight should our singer go down. Particularly with everything that’s been happening the last few days to those singing Suffering.”

  Wendra shook her head, wishing this weren’t true. Believing that failure tonight might let another Quiet army slip into the Eastlands.

  “I’ve got to go.” She turned and raced down the long, sweeping ramp. Toward the Chamber of Anthems.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  Uncommon Understanding

  Some say Mikal’s brews were different on account of his apples. How a Wynstout man got hold of Su’Winde yellows, I’ll never know. But I’ll say this, he never turned a tasty yield until he started toting that spigot around on his belt. I half believe that spout gave Mikal’s brew its edge.

  —One of sixty-three accounts of unusually fast overland portage collected by House Storalaith for the League of Civility

  Braethen entered Recityv’s famed Library of Common Understanding. It was late, and the library was empty. Vendanj had suggested the basement for what Braethen sought—more information on the Blade of Seasons. Braethen had promised he’d be only an hour.

  Crossing the atrium, he stopped and looked up. Eight stories above, through a glass pyramid that dominated the ceiling, he saw distant, distorted points of light—stars far away in the heavens. He would have liked to talk with his father just then. He longed for the simple, quiet evenings he’d spent with his da, doing nothing more than reading on their open rear porch.

  He smiled at the thought, then moved to the outer perimeter of the main floor, and started around. There were many doors. But the rooms behind them held little more than water buckets, brooms, dirty rags, and once a selection of books awaiting repair.

  Halfway around the main story a second time, he spied an inconspicuous doorway he hadn’t noticed before. It lay tucked partway behind a tall standing bookshelf. Drawing it cautiously open, he found a set of stairs. He struck alight a handlamp set on a table just inside the stairwell. And with a single, clean whit of dread, he went into the bowels of the library.

  Even the rough stone staircase was lined with books. Thin ledges had been carved directly into the stone walls, and dusty tomes sat patiently waiting for a reader. The selection seemed random, and made Braethen’s descent slow, as he was forced to read every spine, looking for a title relevant to his search.

  He judged he’d descended fifty strides of the slowly winding steps before the staircase opened into a subterranean level of more book stacks. Braethen had expected it to be cold and dank, but the walls had been paneled up with heavily oiled oak, sealing the cold of the earth out and the warmth of books in. The air hung still and silent. If there were secrets to be had, this certainly felt like the place to find them.

  As he began to browse the first volumes, he came upon very old books by Shenflear with titles he’d never heard of, small handbooks by Celysias the poet, again with titles unknown to him. He realized he was browsing work and words carefully preserved in a place where they’d be protected from fire or other kinds of negligence.

  Of the secrets and silences preserved in this vault of the earth, however, he couldn’t see anything that might h
elp him. It could be that the wisdom he sought did exist somewhere in one of the books. But he didn’t have time to peruse every volume.

  As he walked the perimeter of the deep floor, he let his eyes pass randomly across their spines, holding his small handlamp before him as he went. He had a sense that if he let himself relax, he’d notice the right detail. Something that felt right.

  Just before turning at one corner, his eye caught something high up on a shelf. Graven into the wood at the top of one bookcase against the far wall were two words. It took Braethen a few moments to shift his thinking into the Falett tongue in which the words were written—a language he knew somewhat well from his studies with his father’s favorite author, Macam.

  They read: UNCOMMON UNDERSTANDING.

  He paused, considering the preposition further. In Dimnian, un could mean “through” or “past.” In Kuren dialects, it often meant “beyond.”

  It can’t be that simple, can it?

  Braethen crept close, reading the spine of every book in the stack beneath the foreign words. Though he knew few of the authors, the titles and subjects indicated nothing uncommon that Braethen could see. However, one book seemed rather out of place, a very thin volume set on the top shelf and almost unnoticeable for being pushed back between two thick tomes.

  He reached up and retrieved the little book. Opening it, he found but a single page written on in what his father would call a “bad hand”—almost illegible—and with but a single phrase: Put me back, down.

  A strange pamphlet. One page. One sentence. It wasn’t even poetic. And the cover had a strange feel. Almost slick. He held it up in the lamplight, and decided it was a lightweight metal of some kind. Though it was so soiled it was hard to tell.

  Did it mean anything? He read the line several more times before it struck him. The placement of the comma. The words already read like a command, but pausing where the author had placed that simple bit of punctuation … Braethen knelt and hunkered close to the bottommost shelf, running his hand along the volumes. And looking more carefully this time, found a very small slot where a thin book might fit. Put me back. And so he would. Down, on this bottom shelf.