The Stories: Five Years of Original Fiction on Tor.com
Page 185
Dossolum’s hand on his shoulder suddenly felt very heavy. He could only think that this responsibility came as a result of recent changes, in Maldaea and Jo’ha’nel—and because of the death of his friend. He feared that he would have to use this new authority not—as it was intended—to create and sustain, but to defend…and destroy.
“Jo’ha’nel has been given the power of the Will,” Palamon said. “He wields it, I fear, with ill-intent. And with Manoa dead, someone must answer this threat,” Palamon deduced, with some bitterness.
Dossolum surprised him when he said simply, “Yes.” Then after several moments he added, “But not only that, Palamon. You have been on this path for a long time. Have you not already been among the people, providing comfort?”
Looking out over the wide terrain, Palamon nodded and thought of Efram and his little girl…and the woman and child he’d been too late to save.
Dossolum made a sound deep in his throat. “They will not survive unless there is one to protect them.”
“With more than a quill and his knowledge of history, you mean,” Palamon said, and offered a faltering smile. “You see, I am not always so serious.”
Dossolum returned the smile. “Kneel, my friend.”
Palamon knelt, steadying himself with his hands on the ground and feeling the cool earth beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes as the Voice of the Council began to speak in a commanding yet soothing tone.
“As it lives in me, so shall it live in you, Palamon Dal Solaas. The right and privilege to stir and direct the Will that resides in all things, in all Forda I’Forza, you already bear. It is a gift and power to be used wisely, never selfishly, and never to bring harm to the lives of mortals. With this authority you may direct and shape the things around you, even unto the healing of that which is broken, body or spirit. You have proven worthy of this endowment, Palamon; generations will revere you, peace will be yours, and the world may have hope now as you take the mantle of intercessor for the people of an imperiled world.”
Dossolum’s hand never left his shoulder, and in the moments that followed, his entire body warmed from within. His mind filled with hopeful thoughts and good memories, until other revelations were imparted to him, dark things, things he would be asked to do with this new mantle. Images traced through his consciousness with such speed and force that he began to fear for his own sanity.
He shuddered, considering what this could all mean before it was through.
But before that thought could consume him, the simple ritual was at an end, and he felt peace in his heart like the calm of still waters.
When Dossolum finished speaking, he gently urged Palamon to his feet, a fatherly smile on his face. “I know the peace that rests in your heart at this moment, my friend. May it ever be so. You must, however, remember this, that as a man your rendering of the Will can only come at the expenditure of your own spirit.”
“I know this, Dossolum. What are you telling me?” Palamon said.
Dossolum smiled. “Balance, my friend. It is about balance. When you choose to draw upon the Will, it requires a measure of your own Forda to give that rendering life. So be judicious in your use of this gift, as the greater your rendering act, the greater the price to your own spirit, your energy…your Forda. It will take a physical toll, and as intercessor, there will be multitudes who will call upon you for help. You will have, sometimes, to say no.”
Palamon nodded, a vague unease now in his heart. They resumed looking out over the expanse that fell away from their high place. And just before the Greater Light fled the sky entirely, Dossolum said with a tired fondness, “Your work as a servant now has new meaning, my friend. What you have done for me, now do for them.”
The words were lost to the whir of crickets. The chill on Palamon’s skin, he thought, came not only from the cold of night.
* * *
News of the Founders’ decision to abandon their labors had spread like fire. A week ago, Palamon had stood with Dossolum and been given the power to render the Will and made intercessor. Now, he rushed down the vaulted marble halls of the Tabernacle. The great pillars rose majestically on either side of him, ending at the open sky. In the marble surfaces everywhere were recorded the many feats and designs and efforts of the council to bring forth worlds and give place to men to learn and grow. Many of these Palamon himself had chiseled with painstaking care.
Today he hurried past it all, hastening to the central chamber, having called the council to convene to hear his plea.
Fear and uncertainty had swept Estem Salo. Palamon, chief among the Sheason, had requested a formal audience with the Framers and Dossolum, who he saw first as he entered the council chamber.
“Palamon,” said the Voice of the Council, “we will hear you because of your long and faithful service, but there are pressing matters to attend to. We do not have much time.”
Palamon did not hesitate. “Stop this. Don’t allow the taint of one council member’s efforts to cause your ill-faith in an entire world. It needn’t be so. Please.”
Dossolum stood. “The vote to abandon this labor has been made, Palamon. It was not a debate. The entire council, save Maldaea, is in agreement. We did not rush to judgment in this, my friend. We have long contended with Maldaea over his efforts here. We’ve tried to turn back what he has done. And we do know what it will mean to this world that we must leave our work here unfinished. But we find this to be the best course.”
“Why?” Palamon asked. “I don’t understand.”
The Voice of the Council stood looking at him, seeming to consider how much he should say. Finally, he gave a slight nod of acquiescence. “You know, my friend, the first eternal truth: that Forza and Forda, matter and energy, can be neither created nor destroyed, only rendered, changed. The council could remain on this world, spend years, perhaps an age, trying to undo the imbalance Maldaea has wrought.” Dossolum paused, looking more distraught, more human than Palamon ever remembered seeing him. In a softer voice, he continued, “But it would be irresponsible of us. It would not be a good use of the Will.”
“To save the lives of so many—”
“Palamon,” Dossolum interrupted, “We lament the choice. We care about those to whom we give the breath of life. But the council must weigh the cost of its use of Forda I’Forza. It must decide whether, on balance, it is better to expend so much effort in repairing what is so far damaged, or whether more may be accomplished by expending that same effort to build something new or care for a world that has not such overpowering corruption.”
“But you are many, and Maldaea is but one,” Palamon countered.
Dossolum said only, “Maldaea’s gifts are great, my friend.” His words echoed in the Tabernacle of the Sky like a malediction.
“Have you ever deserted the children you’ve given life to, ever once in all your immortal lives? Think on that. If you permit yourselves now to be dissuaded from treading the rough course ahead, how much easier will it be to do the next time? Your offices are sacred and perilous. I implore you, stand fast in your duty now. There are so many of your children, that I cannot count the lives that depend upon it.”
In a soft voice of warning, Dossolum said, “Take care, Palamon.”
But he could not. Manoa was gone, the intercessor who spoke to the Council of Creation for the people. He had been slaughtered by the very thing to which these Founders now had chosen to abandon their young world.
“I will not!” he declared. “I will be damned before I remain silent. The mighty work of your own hands toils in the fields you’ve given them; they look up at the Sky when they seek peace, and eagerly await the knowledge you impart to provide the path for their growth. It is unthinkable that you would shut them away from your grace and leave them to a world now fraught with unimaginable peril. How can you be so heartless?”
“Be STILL!” Dossolum commanded.
Palamon froze. The echoes of the council Voice rippled every surface of the Tabernacle.
It was not a rendering to inflict or compel, but simply to impart the honesty and hope of what he would next ask. Many on the council nodded in silent appreciation of the restoration of serenity which typically abided in the Tabernacle.
With a final thought of what he risked, Palamon addressed the men and women seated at the great semi-circular table. “If you will not keep this world in your embrace, and finish what you have begun, then at least give them some means whereby they may rescue themselves.”
Given gently, earnestly, Palamon’s words, he knew, were also an indictment. But not one, he could see, that the council would deny. Though they remained steadfast in their course, his plea touched the air in the same way Dossolum’s words had so recently done…but with an undeniable compassion.
The members of the council looked around at one another, seeming to come to agreement without the need of words. Dossolum nodded, and soon his face showed the familiar smile.
“You remind us of our purpose, Palamon. Thank you.” He looked up at the great open sky above the council chamber and drew a long breath. “We will yet abandon this labor. It is a hard choice, but the right one. What has transpired here is irreparable without inordinate use of the Will and the rendering of matter and energy. You may trust that shortly we will deal with Maldaea for his crimes. But for your sake, we will see the vile breeds given life by his hand placed in the outlands far from the family of man. There we will seal them with their creator, never to return. We will make mortals accountable for the maintenance of the veil that holds these creations at bay. And still other instruments of power, even the Charter itself, we will put in place here because you have hope for them, where we do not.”
A feeling of agreement, contentment, filled the air. The council, Palamon could tell, was pleased with itself.
But there was still more he must say.
“A man may eat, and be warm, and remain relatively safe from the menace of the world he treads, but if he has no hope…he is dead.” Palamon looked directly at Dossolum, realizing he spoke as much for himself as for the people he now served as intercessor. “The faith we have offered them will be hollow when you leave, Dossolum. They will learn of this abandonment, and their hearts will grow hard—a hardness they will turn against one another, despite the exile of Maldaea’s fiends beyond some veil. What will they believe in?”
Dossolum looked back, his eyes intent but kind. “Does there need to be a god for belief to be valid and meaningful and…powerful, Palamon? Perhaps, my friend, that is precisely what belief is…having faith even when you are uncertain.”
The simple truth of it struck him, and yet the reasoning broke down in one tragic respect. “But who will answer them, when they lift their voices in prayer?”
The Voice of the Council looked at Palamon with a knowing expression, but said nothing. It was then that Palamon knew the reason for his ill-feeling at the moment he’d been given the authority to render the Will and made intercessor. He bowed deeply in gratitude and deference, and left the Tabernacle of the Sky, realizing his choices had lasting consequences for one other.
* * *
Throughout the evening after his audience with the council, Palamon said nothing, holding back any questions or deep discussion with Solera. He wanted one last normal night with his companion. He meant only to see to the uncomplicated straightening of their small home, conversation over less important things, and one last night of love-making before he told her, before things changed for her, for them.
Throughout the course of the evening he often found himself gazing at her, acutely aware of her fair skin, deep auburn hair, and penetrating brown eyes. After so long, he still felt physically drawn to her. And as much for her keen mind as her beauty.
Solera, like him, had ascended to the office of Sheason. She served Anais, the second voice of the council. But his affection for her had nothing to do with the strength of her service, or even her beauty, but rather his fondness for her came first for her good humor. Perhaps, he thought, because he was, as Dossolum reminded him, a serious man.
But they’d found joy in each other’s company and in the sharing of their Sheason calling, and had known love for many years, supporting the labors of the Great Ones in fashioning this world.
And yet, the grand designs toward which they worked each day seemed less important when they spent time together discussing the rain or wind or the power in language, not to create—as the Founders made use of it—but to thrill and inspire. Theirs was a love affair that had sustained Palamon for longer than he could remember. But tonight he feared the question they must discuss, one they could no longer avoid.
In the afterglow of long and tender love-making, they lay together in a grove of blooming aspen—their place—beneath the Lesser Light, the perspiration cool on their skin as they stared up.
“What is on your mind, Palamon?” Solera asked. “You’ve held it through all our quiet talk and love. Now unburden yourself.”
In the dark, he smiled. Somehow he’d known she would see through him. Still, he’d wanted this before…
“You’ve heard of the Framers’ abandonment,” he said, believing she surely must be aware.
“And I heard that you went and pleaded for those being left behind. You can take heart that you did what you could.”
“I am no martyr,” he said. “The Founders still intend to abandon their labors here.”
“We are wise, you and I, and have toiled much to aid this work, but we are not gods, Palamon. You must trust their wisdom.” She drew his face around to look directly at him.
“Have you considered that they entrusted you with the same authority they possess to call on the Will? It is the first power, Palamon. The other powers of language and song and movement and all the rest are connected to the Will, each in their own way. But the power to render the Will is its purest, most direct use. What Dossolum has done for you is give that power more purpose, as you serve as intercessor.”
Palamon sat up, dreading what he must tell her. “Solera, I don’t believe Dossolum conferred this office on me to simply serve as intercessor.”
She sat up beside him. The wind soughed lightly through the trees, caressing their shoulders. “Why else, Palamon?”
He looked at her, feeling the bitterness of knowing his next words would change everything. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “I’ve studied the ways of the Will,
Solera. And though I’ve not yet rendered much, I’d thought I would always use it to uphold the principles that give life its meaning…”
Solera’s brow furrowed. “Palamon?”
He did not want to say it. Even now part of him resisted. But he had procrastinated long enough. “Solera, it is clear to me now. Dossolum granted me this authority not simply to aid others, maybe not even first to aid others…
“Then why?” she asked
He gave her a long, pained look. “To carry it into battle.”
He watched as understanding bloomed in her face, perhaps a hint of anger, but finally a sadness that left her countenance looking tired. She put her head on his shoulder and wept. Silent tears fell and ran down his chest.
Palamon’s heart broke. It broke because of the change that would follow for all the Sheason and all the creation given life by the hands of the Founders; but more than any of this, his heart broke because here forward, Solera would live her life in fear that Palamon could be killed by virtue of the very gift that set him apart.
She drew back, her beauty bathed in the moonlight, tears shining on her cheeks. “We will be all right,” she said.
He wanted to tell her not to worry. But it would be a lie. When the council completed t
he placing of all Maldaea’s hellish creations and raised the veil, they would move on, and he would be left here in their place.
Unable to speak, he nodded. And they held each other in their grove of aspen all night. Only when the birds of morn sang out their melodies did they rise and return to their home. A small part of him ached for her to ask him not to carry the mantle Dossolum had given him for this benighted world.
How can this be right?
He could only hope that the difference he could make here would justify whatever sacrifices he and his love would be called upon to make.
Sensing his mortality already coming upon him, he felt the bitter irony of the words he had uttered to Solera only hours ago: I am no martyr.
He might live…and die…to prove those words false.
Once in their home again, he caught her in another embrace and said finally, “We will be all right.”
She pushed him back gently. “I’ll hold you to it,” she said, and smiled. Then, to begin this new—this last—chapter of their lives, she took the vase and went to refresh it with more long-stemmed, fresh-cut grass. The light, clean smell of it, their simple, delicate forms, Palamon decided, were just the right tokens of the years ahead.
* * *
Palamon sat at the table near the front window of their home, writing. A forlorn feeling had settled over him. It had been days since the council had departed the world. The door to their house stood open, as it had done all the while. He had listened while the other Sheason said their farewells in the streets beyond that door. He’d been unable to go out and say goodbye—not for bitterness’ sake, but because there’d been nothing left to say.
It hadn’t been long after that that most of the Sheason departed Estem Salo for new lives in distant parts of this world they’d helped to form.
Now, an eerie silence had settled over Estem Salo. Once, he could have sat on his front porch and fairly heard the sound of quills moving over dry parchment in the archives a hundred strides down the road. It wasn’t really so, but the palpable feeling of thought and preparation and scholarship made Palamon think he heard their instruments even now recording it all and framing the development of these lands, these people. They were pleasant thoughts.