Trial of Intentions by Peter Orullian

Belamae . The music teacher, Maesteri at Descant Cathedral. Belamae trained Leiholan like her in the use of their song, and how to control it. He’d asked her not to leave Descant before she could be properly educated. He’d wanted her to stay behind, not come to Naltus, as if he’d known what would happen.
    What did happen? she thought.
    With some returned strength, she got to her knees, and looked around. Dear dying gods! So many dead. Thousands. Maybe more. And many who had died … because of her …
    I killed Far with my song. Innocent people.
    She blamed the Quiet.
    A new kind of anger filled her and she began climbing to her feet, surging with renewed energy. She’d almost gotten up, when a body fell on her. Then another. And another. In the tumble of limbs, her head struck—or was struck by—something, and she fell into the dark of unconsciousness.

 
    CHAPTER FIVE
    A Different Aim
    Everyone and everything has substance of a kind. What a Sheason must learn is how to manipulate his own. Once he can, permanence means nothing. And everything.
    â€”“On the Nature of Influence,” a fifth year discourse in Estem Salo
    S omething is wrong.
    The battle raged all around Vendanj. On his right, Braethen fought hard, keeping the Bar’dyn at bay long enough for Vendanj to draw the Will. On his left, Elan marshaled the Far, putting distance between Naltus and the Quiet.
    But something was wrong.
    The Quiet fought to kill, and yet they hadn’t tried to work a flank. They weren’t even trying to push through the Far lines.
    Why?
    Tahn!
    He rushed to the dolmen where Grant and Mira were fighting back Bar’dyn who had broken away to try and take them down. He didn’t immediately see Tahn. On instinct, he ducked inside the dolmen. Chill air rested heavy over everything, including Tahn, who lay unconscious and bloody.
    He quickly sought a tuft of dry grass and pulled it out of the soil. Dividing it into roughly equal parts, he twisted the two clumps together into the vague semblance of a man. He then bent to Tahn and rubbed the grass figure in the boy’s blood.
    Tahn stirred.
    â€œLie still. But get your wits about you. You’ll need them soon.”
    Vendanj extended a hand and caused a new kind of stillness in the dolmen air. A complete stillness. To hide Tahn from probing minds.
    Then he ducked back into the morning light, searching for a horse. With so many Far already fallen, he quickly spotted a riderless mount and raced southward to catch it. After a gentle whisper on the wind, he quieted the riled beast and soon had hold of its reins.
    He closed his eyes and focused his Will on the grass idol. He recalled the many things he’d seen Tahn do, his words, his mannerisms, his anger and laughter. He captured a mental picture of the Hollows boy, forming it in his mind until it seemed to have a separate—if simple—mind of its own. Last, he added fear—not the strongest emotion, but the easiest to track. He imbued as much raw terror and desperation as he could into the grass doll. When he’d transferred the whole of what he’d envisioned to the effigy, he opened his eyes and looked down. The straw had twisted more fitly together, braiding itself, crimping, looping in places, to roughly resemble the persona that gave it a strange bastard intelligence. It twitched in the Vendanj’s hand with the distress he’d imparted to it.
    Using the reins, he tied the bloodied straw figure to the saddle horn, and slapped the mount on the ass. The horse leapt and ran west, a wild look in its eyes.
    The thunder of the mare’s hooves clapped over the shale plain, receding fast, as the mount bore away Tahn’s effigy.
    Vendanj turned his concentration back toward the battle raging to the north. He looked with his eyes, but also extended his connection to the shale and sage and wind. He waited, patient, for the faintest of stirrings.
    He