The regent said nothing. She had guessed as much. But hearing it from Artixan made it real and dire. There was no Layosah in this age of men to inspire the minds of rulers, to force their collaboration against a common threat. Instead there was skepticism and maneuvering.
She stopped again on the stone-cobbled road that encircled Solath Mahnus, and looked up at the Wall of Remembrance, where the Wars of the First and Second Promise played out forever upon the stone. She could see Layosah even now, depicted in the granite with her child raised up in risk of imminent death. The sculptor had given the figure an attitude of resolve the regent could see even in the darkness.
The Wall of Remembrance served its purpose well for Helaina in the dark hours before dawn. She considered a mother sacrificing a son against the threat of nations … of the Quiet.
No measure must be left untaken.
“Your recommendations?” she asked. “What do you advise?”
“Dispatch Roth,” Van Steward said without hesitation.
The regent looked around at her general, at his uncustomary joke. The three chuckled lightly in the darkness.
The general spoke again. “Truly, Helaina, put the call out to bolster the army. As peacekeepers we’re content. But we have not taken to the field in open war for a long time. If that is coming, we should train a contingent twice the size of what we have. It will also give you more weight against the League’s shadowy aims.”
“Are there men in Recityv to answer such a call?” she asked.
“No. But I would invite the whole nation of Vohnce to our ranks. And if even then we fall short, I would recruit beyond our borders.” The general spoke with earnest passion. “There are men who would take a post with us who have no allegiance elsewhere. I can find such men.”
The regent heard secrets in her general’s words, and was considering pursuing them when Artixan placed a gentle hand on her arm to draw her attention.
“You would expect me to ask you to rescind the order set against the Sheason, which even now imprisons one of my own. But it is not the time. The League needs to believe it remains in control where justice is concerned. Their propaganda convinces the people that they are their advocates. While you fortify the halls of Solath Mahnus with alliances, you should not give your people cause to question you.”
“It is an unholy law, Artixan. You know how I feel.” Helaina’s anger rose.
“I know. And the time may come. But that time has not yet arrived.” The Sheason himself looked at the Wall of Remembrance, his gaze growing distant.
The three then took another stroll around the wall, walking for a time in silence before Artixan spoke again. “It is your own council where you must begin, Helaina. Roth is right that many of its members are not rulers, and certainly not leaders. Their appointments were made in a time of peace, and most will either completely defer to your judgment, offering you no real counsel, or they’ll vote with the League, who will offer them false security for their support.”
“Are you suggesting that I remove members of the High Council?” she asked.
“Replace,” Artixan corrected. “Many of them will be relieved to go, I promise you. And you will have the advantage of qualifying their replacements before they take their position. You need to employ the shrewdness that won you the regent’s mantle to begin with. We need that now, more than ever.”
That was all it took.
In the many years of her rule, she’d been firm and fair, but her statecraft had not often been needed. As if new breath entered her bosom, she felt renewed. She would be the iron fist of Recityv again, by Will or war. The carvings on the wall around her home and courts helped give life to these old stirrings.
And with this decision, the path before her became clear.
“General, begin your recruitment. I will draw up the Note of Enmity before the day is done. But don’t wait for the note to begin; get started the moment you return to your offices.” She turned to her closest friend, and possibly most powerful ally. “Artixan, find those who have come already to Recityv to answer the call of convocation. I will see each privately to either discover their allegiance or create a new alliance. I will take those audiences in the High Office, where the glory of Recityv may be seen from the windows to inspire their honesty … and choice.”
She thought a moment, considering her next words. “As for my own High Council, it is made of old friendships, and I must speak with them, too. So we will do that in their homes, where they are comfortable. But we will do more than replace those who no longer have the capacity or desire to serve. We will find our next generation’s stalwarts. I daresay our incumbents can help point us toward them. They know well the guilds and orders they represent.”
Helaina paused, not from doubt, but from gratitude for her own renewed purpose. She had but needed to remember. With the image in her mind of the shrikes taking wing to carry the message of the Convocation of Seats, her resolve hardened further.
“And we will fill again the council chairs that we have thought unnecessary for far too long. The Maesteri will be recalled; I will make this request myself. My own council will be whole and strong when the convocation begins. Send the riders and criers to proclaim it: Recityv’s High Council will be made whole.”
The regent then considered one last seat at her table. “And announce that we will once again seat the Child’s Voice. Let word go forth that we will run the Lesher Roon. And the winner of the race, as in times past, will speak for the children and give us balance.”
Artixan smiled in the darkness. “Roth will take exception to it as another false tradition better left in the past. He won’t care to listen to the opinions of a child.”
The regent spared a last look at the Wall of Remembrance, where she saw the granite image of the Lesher Roon being run by countless children. “Come, we have much to do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Widows Village
Braethen’s muscles ached. For two days they had pushed on. It was not the ride that made him sore, but the incessant training. Each night Mira worked with him, though he practiced with his old sword, not ready to take up the Sheason’s gift again so soon. And neither Vendanj nor Mira spoke of the blade; their silence unnerved him.
Late in the third day, under gathering clouds, the hills rose up to the north and east. Through a dispersion of oaks they entered a village of humble dwellings thatched together of tares and plant husks and rough wood huddled against the ground.
Meager to the last home, something was missing, but Braethen could not put a name to it. The closer they drew to the dwellings, the bleaker everything seemed. The threat of rain came with peals of thunder not too far distant. He welcomed the promise of rebirth that the rains might bring to this place. But he sensed that the rains held no such promise here, likely only to cause muddy feet and the musk of wet thatch.
The sparse village looked abandoned. Perhaps the residents had retreated indoors with the coming of night or the storm. Yet the windows held no lamp or candle, seeming cold and unfriendly in the grey twilight. A gentle breeze pushed by the coming storm tugged at their cloaks. The wind unsettled the horses, as though carrying a harbinger of bad business; they rolled their eyes and tugged at their reins. The sizzle of rain falling upon the hills began to drone like a distant hive. Braethen hoped they could find lodging before the storms came on full.
They passed through the center of the village, coming to a longer building near the end of the few homes. A woven rug had been hung from the cross brace to serve as a door. Vendanj lashed Suensin to a post and rapped on the lintel as rain cascaded into the streets behind them. Braethen heard nothing stir, and no light or fire could be seen through the windows. Vendanj waited as Mira and Braethen tethered their mounts.
He rapped again, more softly this time, the sound of it meek and hollow, nearly lost in the hammer of rain upon the thatch of the small building.
Several moments later, a woman drew back the rug and stared coldly a
t them. She wore a featureless smock the color of clouds at night. Around her shoulders she had wrapped a shawl of the same shade. Its weave was so coarse that Braethen wondered if it held any warmth and was not abrasive to the touch. But it was her face and eyes that caused pity to swell in Braethen from first sight. Her ashen skin lacked the flush of womanhood or even the natural color of flesh. And in the pale skin, the woman’s aspect conveyed no emotion. The plain, unexpressive cast of her face could be described only as haunted.
She looked at each of them with indifferent eyes. Under her gaze, a sudden feeling of guilt washed over him, guilt for his ability to feel emotion, to know fury and joy. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, then she stood back and held the rug aside as she motioned for them to enter.
The room within seemed smaller than it appeared to be from the outside. Braethen took it to serve as the town tavern or common room; a table with a few bottles set to one side served as a little bar or kitchen. The hearth opposite the bar sat cold and silent, the hollow sound of rain echoing down its flue. One lone table stood at the room’s center, three chairs at each side and one on each end. A gourd in the middle of the table held an unlit candle. In the rear wall Braethen noticed a second doorway, also hung with a shabby rug. The floors were clean. And despite the house’s abandoned feel, he could see no cobwebs or dust anywhere. A feeling of habitation resided there, but not of life.
Penaebra, he thought, an old word that described the untabernacled spirit, a soul with no body. This place felt like a body, a husk, left behind when its panaebra had gone.
Vendanj took a seat at the low table, and Mira sat beside him. Braethen stepped fully into the room, allowing the woman to let back the rug. She gave him another appraising look, then shuffled past him toward the others. The rain began to fall more strenuously, pounding the world outside. The hollow sound of drops hitting the window filled the empty room. Middle-aged, the woman slouched like the elderly as she took a seat opposite Vendanj.
Braethen sat at the end of the table, feeling uninvited to the triumvirate gathered at the table’s middle. He wrapped his cloak tightly about him to stave off the growing cold, and focused his eyes toward the others, where grey shadows absorbed them.
“You should not have come here.” Her voice never changed or rose, but fell out in soft, diffident rhythms.
“I would not have,” Vendanj said, “but it is important. Only a list of names. That is all.”
Braethen listened, noting in Vendanj’s exchanges a deference he had not heard before. The tall, imposing Sheason sat and looked across at the frail woman and spoke with a hint of kindness beneath his unwavering words.
“Important,” the woman echoed. “How interesting is that word. And names…”
Vendanj did not reply, merely waiting as the woman seemed to consider.
“North is Scarred land, Sheason. As inhospitable as its inhabitants,” she began. “Foolishness.” She scoffed, but still her voice remained even and uninflected. “The Far perhaps, but this one.” She pointed at Braethen. “He is a stripling, cowering in the windbreak of the tall ones. Shallow roots. The Scar is no place for him.”
“You are right,” Vendanj agreed. “But there is no choice in this. He will learn as he can.”
The woman nodded, then turned to Braethen. “Do you know this place, sodalist?”
Her question caught him off guard. He returned her stare, discomfited by her waxen cheeks and flat eyes. “Anais, I am in a dreary place. And forgive me, but one I hope soon to leave.”
The woman coughed a bitter laugh, but the sound came without mirth. “Your father taught you honesty; I’ll wager he was an author. Well enough, sodalist, but I am going to tell you a fuller truth. And your stripling soul will be cankered by the knowledge, but so be it.” She paused to light the candle between them. The sudden flare of light into the room made Braethen squint. The woman turned more fully toward him, her nose, chin, and brow throwing the right side of her face into shadow. “My name was Ne’Pheola. I walked freely the Halls of Self-Sacrifice at Estem Salo, where the Sheason make their home. For twelve years I lived there, not as a renderer, but as a companion to one. We were wedded, and our life was happy. But that name has no meaning for me now, not in this place, not after his death.”
No emotion cracked her voice as she spoke of her loss. The strange calm of her words continued.
“Yes, sodalist, it is a dreary place. It is Widows Village, where the use of names is no longer meaningful. Those here are the severed halves of such unions as mine, men and women left to live after their companions have been taken. They come here to live out the balance of that life, but it is a desolate heritage we have, sodalist, long and forgotten.”
Braethen did not understand. The death of a spouse was tragic, but didn’t the widowed eventually find some peace?
Ne’Pheola’s eyes lit in understanding. “You don’t believe I deserve my sorrow.”
Braethen did not get a chance to speak.
“That emblem on your breast is a dangerous one, sodalist. It represents what was well begun a thousand generations ago, but is now mocked and ridiculed and denigrated. Beware of yourself. Standing where you will be called to stand with that oath threatens the fabric of your life almost as much as the Sheason’s insignia dooms him.
“We here are baenal.” She looked to see if he understood the word. Braethen shook his head. “Eternally left behind,” she explained. “The Inveterae and Given have swarmed into the land many times. But their last coming wrought one mighty work on our side of the Veil, sodalist.” She paused, her silence lending weight to what would follow. “The Undying Vow.”
Braethen stopped breathing. He knew of it, of course, had read about it. But references to it in the books he’d read did not give a lot of information, and even then had been found only in the oldest texts his father owned, as though the writers of the histories were reluctant to disclose too much.
“Of course you’ve heard of it,” she said. “But you most assuredly know nothing of it, and that is as it should be.” Her eyes narrowed. “Except that now you have placed yourself alongside those who walk into the breach, and the burden is yours to share.
“When the war was all but lost, the Sheason convened at Estem Salo to consider what could be done if the Quiet took all the Land beneath the Hand and Pall and Rim. G’Sare, the greatest among them, returned to the archives, hidden deep in the vaults of the Sheason. In the ancient texts he found an answer: to bind husband and wife together for all time, to eternally sanction their union and ensure their happiness beyond the dust. In this way, even if the Sheason could not defeat Quietus in life, after death, they would defeat what he stood for, by knowing happiness forever with those they loved. What G’Sare did not know was that Quietus had written many of the texts hidden by the order. And the Velle which the Whited One sent into the land wielded a dark power as they drew upon the Will, a power to sunder the Undying Vow and bring not just physical death to the Sheason, but the death of their eternal bond to those they loved.
“Each man and woman of the order that fell, fell alone … forever. Those left behind would likewise go to dust, their union broken, and their spirit, their penaebra, left without the promise of reunion with their spouse. In this way, the One made our defeat complete. Valiant Sheason, confident in their struggle because of the vow, were struck down by the unhallowed, and their companions instantly knew the vow was null. We are these, sodalist. This is Widows Village … and ours is a desolate heritage.”
“But this war was a thousand lifetimes ago,” Braethen said.
“No, sodalist,” Ne’Pheola said, “the war continues. It is more careful now, more subtle. And growing, stripling, growing as sure as the Scar. My love was killed by the Exigents under the Civilization Order sanctioned by a council of men with greed in their fingers and wine in their gullets. Something of the Bourne rests in the vaunted halls of civility. And so your emblem puts you in danger, because standing next to Inner Resonance, y
our own life isn’t worth a pinch of salt.”
The candle danced slowly in the quiet of the room. Inner Resonance, a rare term for the Sheason. Few knew or used it. Vendanj, appearing lost in thoughts of his own, did not look at Braethen. But Mira looked carefully at him, her eyes seeming to test the conflict the woman’s words might have caused in him. The scrutiny angered him; did she think he would now become a liability?
He mustered a harsh look, forgetting the patience and benevolence A’Posian had taught him, but remembering one of the great truths written by his father’s own hand: “And this is the great gift of life, is it not?” he said bitterly. “That I may choose to go where others have found sorrow?”
He stood and stalked out into the storm.
* * *
The rain descended in great drops, hammering the ground like stones. Braethen pulled his hood up and strode through the downpour. There was no place for him to go, but he needed some time alone. He slogged south, the way they had come, watching his feet kick through the gathering puddles. Then the splatter of the rain changed as hailstones replaced the drops, beating the sodden ground more heavily, tapping an endlessly complex rhythm against the earth. The hail fell on his shoulders, and quickly stung him through the thickness of his cloak.
In moments, the world filled with a dizzying white roar, hail striking the ground so hard that it jounced up at odd angles and skittered against other hailstones like glass balls that children rolled in their games. The hail fell in sheets, shortening his vision, the hovels of Widows Village nothing more than low, hulking shadows through the gloom. Braethen looked desperately about for a place to take cover. The tree’s bare branches rattled in the hailstorm assault, offering no cover. He almost turned to dash back to the room, the Sheason, and the Far when a voice rose through the storm.
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