Trial of Intentions (35 page)

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Handsong

There are other proofs of erymol that we could bring to Succession, but the College of Mathematics would laugh us from the discourse theater.

—Nanjesho Alanes, on the mathematics of movement, during the most recent Succession on Continuity

T
welve days after departing Naltus, Mira led Sutter out of the shale stretches of the Soliel and into the rolling hills of Elyk Divad. The kingdom had once been a proud nation, united under a blue banner bearing the white sigil of a lance.

They skirted just south of the Sotol Wastes for another three days, enjoying a warm spell of sun, and avoiding small towns, riding wide of them and staying off roads for leagues afterward.

Mira found new admiration for Sutter; he hadn't complained once. Most of the time, when they weren't on the move, Sutter practiced with his sword. Mira taught him the Far Latae dances—a fluid anticipation of movement and striking only known to the Far. He took to it well. Surprisingly well. Sword mastery had become an obsession with him.

Each passing day more of her Far nature escaped like steam from a cooling boilpot. She'd begun to believe that she would no longer die when she came to the end of her eighteenth year. Instead, she'd live a human's lifetime and go to her earth with a human's blemish, never to inherit the promise given the Far of a life beyond Aeshau Vaal. If true, perhaps it freed her in ways she hadn't anticipated. Like knowing Tahn better, longer. Perhaps she'd even have the chance to be a mother to a child for
all
its life.

But only if I cannot find an answer.…

On the morning of the fourth day since entering Elyk Divad, Mira caught sight of a forest of aspen on a low mountain to the north. Several wide fissures could be seen at a distance, as though the mount had been cloven repeatedly by a wood-splitter's wedge. It looked just as it did on the map Elan had given her.

Leagues from any road, any town, she turned north and led Sutter to the last range of mountains north of the Sotol Wastes.

*   *   *

The fresh scent of aspen bark and the sound of rustling leaves soothed her as they climbed the moderate slopes. With the dapple of sun and shadow over the ground, the world about them became gentle, calm. The hint of danger that resided in the Soliel and even across Divad vanished as they entered the boreal forest.

At midmorning, the slope flattened, the trees ended, and she found herself looking out over a city nestled into a low summit. Smoke lazed from chimneys, and absent was the hum of merchant voices barking or wagon wheels creaking.

“Laeodalin?” Sutter asked. “I thought you said they guard their privacy.”

“They do. We wouldn't have been allowed this far if they didn't trust that we would behave.” She gave him a scolding eye. “Don't make a nuisance of yourself.”

She got moving again, catching Sutter's exaggerated shrug as they rode toward town. Looking ahead, she noticed that no one rode on horseback. At the last stand of aspen, she steered them to the side of the road and they tethered their mounts back in the trees. They then entered the quiet community on foot.

There was no bustle to the place. The residents moved here and there, most of them wearing pleasant expressions. Some looked at Mira and Sutter with easy smiles, some simply walked by, unrushed and unworried.

They passed many simple structures, most fashioned by the hands of expert carpenters—wood seams were hardly visible, and engravings were simple and smooth. A few limestone buildings likewise showed care in every chiseled detail, and in the formation of corners and steps—nothing appeared too small to have deserved attention. Even the road they walked had been cobbled expertly, the fitting of stone to stone immaculate.

And yet there was no pretense in any of it. Just care in craftsmanship, in the good use of hands.

After walking through several streets, they turned into a plaza where a crowd had gathered around an amphitheater recessed in a broad circle at the plaza's center. As they approached, a soft, indefinable music rose in Mira's ears. Perhaps it wasn't music at all, except that it carried the same legato feeling, and seemed to rise and fall in pitch and rhythm.

Walking as quietly as she could, and shushing Sutter with a silent gesture, she crept to the lip of the amphitheater and looked down. At the center of the theater where a young woman wearing no clothes stood gracefully moving her hands and arms in patterns and gestures. The girl never spoke. Her wrists and elbows seemed to intertwine, but never touch, as they wove elegant shapes in and around each other. Her fingers, too, danced in slow, lissome ripples. The entire spectacle was almost hypnotic, as the woman bent at the hips, forward, to the side, weaving her beautiful dance.

The Soriah song,
Mira thought.
And a handsinger. Deafened gods, it's true.

She looked at the gathered crowd, and could see the rapt attention and pleasant smiles on their faces at the sounds the young woman was producing with her song. But when she looked at Sutter, she saw a different kind of delight. Not unseemly, but rather as though he watched a marvelous dance, but did not
hear
the performance.

She looked back at the handsinger, drawn into the sound, grateful her Far ears still possessed the ability to hear this song. It came like the subtle stirring of the air, where the girl's hands and arms moved through space, creating harmonics few would ever perceive.

In some moments, the handsinger's fingers were spread far apart, sometimes cupped together, and still other times held close to one another, producing higher, tighter intonations. Then her forearms would roll past one another and sweep outward from her body, carrying deeper tones. The girl would slow, her limbs barely moving, making a song like unto silence, the beauty of which Mira would find difficult to describe. And then the movements would begin again—faster, though never frenetic—her arms passing near one another, stirring and playing off the ethereal notes they created as she pulled them in flowing rhythms.

Though the music was sublime to watch, Mira pitied Sutter that he couldn't hear it: melodies created by a stirring of the air, notes sounded in an acoustical realm that his human ears simply couldn't reach.

The handsinger gradually slowed, her arms and hands coming to rest at her sides. When her movement had completely ceased, each member of the crowd raised a hand toward her—applause, Mira realized. Then they began to disperse, and the young woman at the center of the amphitheater pulled on a modest white chemise, and began to climb the stairs from her cobblestone stage.

Mira motioned Sutter to follow, and moved to intercept the handsinger where she would reach the theater rim. They arrived at the top of the stair just as the young woman did.

“Excuse me,” Mira began, speaking softly.

The girl started at her speech, a look of concern rising to her face.

“Please,” Mira said, “I don't wish to alarm you. I heard your song. It was beautiful. Is there somewhere we can speak more privately?”

The handsinger still looked uneasy. Then it came to Mira—not uneasy, confused.

“Do you understand what I am saying?” she asked.

The handsinger said nothing, staring back.

She stood there awkwardly for a few moments, trying to think of how she could communicate with the young woman. Then she lit on something. She motioned gently for the handsinger to follow, and led her and Sutter to a strip of trees and flowers growing to the side of one building. She knelt near the flower bed, and with her finger wrote in the loam the word “friend.” She looked up, hoping to see understanding in the girl's face.

The girl watched, but her puzzled expression remained.

Spoken words broke the silence. “I think I can help.”

Mira turned to see a middle-aged man with an easy manner. He wore a light brown tunic, and had thinning black hair over a tanned scalp. He smiled kindly at them, one hand out and palm up in greeting.

She stood and took the man's hand in a clasp of friendship. “I'm Mira Far, this is Sutter Te Polis. We're not wanderers, or merchants. We come with a request.”

“Visitors always do,” the man said, and smiled. “We're too far south across the wastes for the Pall folk or, gods forbid, the Quiet; and too far north for Divad-kind to stumble upon us. No,” he said, smiling a bit wider, “those who find their way here know about the Soriah. Intentions vary, but that's why they come. I'll say, though, it's rare to see a Far.”

Sutter came forward and put out his hand to shake. Mira liked this Hollows boy better every day—for simple things like extending a hand in greeting. “I'm Leelin,” the man said, and shook both their hands. “Eledri isn't impolite; she just doesn't know the languages of man.”

Sutter looked at the girl. “Is she mute?”

“Hardly,” Leelin said. “Most of us simply have no use for speaking anything other than our own languages.”

Sutter's brow furrowed, but he prudently held his tongue this time.

“You can interpret,” Mira assessed. “Are you also able to make the Soriah song?”

The man nodded. “Yes, but not as beautifully as Eledri. What you call the Soriah is something most Laeodalin can do. How expertly is another matter.” His smile became charmingly modest. “And I suspect it's the latter that brings you to us?”

It was Mira's turn to nod.

“And if there's something we can do to help the Far,” Leelin said more solemnly, “we will. Come, we should have this conversation in the shade of blooming trees. I only hope whatever old story brings you to us hasn't been embellished to silliness.”

Mira heard a note of warning in the man's words. But returning her gaze to Eledri and recalling the young woman's song, Mira still hoped the girl could make her whole again.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Those Left Behind

We should acknowledge that the pain resulting from a loved one's death is quite possibly more than internal anguish. Mechanical systems may well be affected.

—
From
The Science of Absences, a Physicist's Model for the Pain of Loss,
found in the annals of the College of Physics, Aubade Grove

T
he second day after falling through Wendra's Telling, Tahn could sit up without much pain. And he didn't tire from conversation. Rithy had kept a kettle of willow tea hot. Tahn had had little else to eat or drink. And she seemed to know when he was finally strong enough to talk about what had happened before he'd left the Grove eight years ago.

He'd just handed back his cup, which Rithy placed on the bed table before turning her attention back to him. “My other friends didn't know how to act, either.”

Tahn didn't need any context. He knew what she meant. Nanjesho, her mother.

“Rithy, it wasn't me. My father thought I should leave the Grove.” How could he explain this? “They worried that the rest of you might be in danger if I stayed.”

She was silent a long time, looking at him. “I found her at the end of a rope. It was made of hemp. Looked like one she'd braided herself—an eight knot, she liked the number eight. She did it in her closet where no one would see.” Rithy's voice trembled, just barely. “But I found her.”

“There wasn't anything you could have done,” he said. “And it's not your fault.”

“I know.” She looked away from him. Got better control of her voice. “But I could have used a friend for a while. The ones I had here, they stayed away. Didn't know what to say, I guess. Or maybe they were afraid or ashamed. A few teased, when they could get away with it.”

Tahn listened, and after a few quiet moments took her hand. “I didn't want to go. And I'm sorry for not being here.”

Tahn then realized that Alemdra might have felt the same way. Vendanj and his father had sent him out of the Scar to protect him from many things, among them the despair that follows the suicide of a friend. They'd even removed his memory. He'd left Alemdra behind to suffer Devin's loss without his friendship.

He'd failed Devin. He'd failed Alemdra. And he'd failed Rithy.

That's when it hit him. Really hit him. The suicide of Rithy's ma. He'd loved her, too. She and Polaema had filled a void for him. One where his own mother should have been, whoever she was. Nanjesho had shown him care that went beyond being the mother of a friend. She'd listened to his no doubt na
ï
ve astronomy advice and input. She'd welcomed him at their supper table, laughed at his jokes.

She let me talk to her about the “third purpose.”

Tahn suddenly missed Nanjesho. A powerful missing. The kind one feels in his chest and throat and eyes.

Rithy squeezed his hand hard, a griever's grip. “After she failed her Continuity argument in the College of Astronomy, she never left the house.” Rithy's stare became glassy, as though she were seeing it all again. “She worked day and night at her table. Countless sheaves of paper. Writing and rewriting proofs and equations. She wouldn't let any of her Succession team in the house. I think because she was ashamed. But she was so sure she was right.”

Rithy looked up at Tahn again. “It was like watching math poisoning, Gnomon, when an unsolvable problem grips the mind and forces it into a loop of proofs that can never be solved. She wouldn't eat. She wouldn't talk. Those last days she wasn't even aware when I was in the room. She rarely answered when I spoke to her.”

“Rithy…”

She shook her head. “It was frightening. It was like living with a ghost. I could see her, hear her.… She produced brilliant math in those days before she braided her rope. But even when I would try to take her hand, it was like she couldn't feel my touch.” Rithy spoke through her tears as they began to come. “I watched her die, Tahn. Hour by hour for days before she gave up.”