“I believe that is the last of them, Ancient One,” Venli said to Raboniel.
Raboniel nodded and rose from her throne, then walked into the hallway leading to the two scholar rooms. Her specially tailored Alethi-style dress fluttered as she walked, accentuating the lean, thin pieces of carapace armor along her arms and chest.
Venli followed; the Fused hadn’t indicated she should withdraw. Though Raboniel had a workstation and desk set up at the end of the hallway, she always preferred to take reports out near the stairwell. It was as if Raboniel lived two separate lives here. The commander-general of the singer armies seemed so different from the scholar who cared nothing for the war. The second Raboniel was the truer one, Venli thought.
“Last Listener,” Raboniel mused. “Last no more. Your people were the only group of singers to successfully reject Fused rule and make their own kingdom.”
“Were there … unsuccessful attempts?” Venli dared ask, to Craving.
“Many,” Raboniel said. She hummed to Ridicule. “Do not make the same mistake as the humans, assuming that the singers have always been of one mind. Yes, forms change our thinking at times, but they merely enhance what’s inside. They bring out different aspects of our personalities.
“Humans have always tried to claim that we are nothing but drones controlled by Odium. They like that lie because it makes them feel better about killing us. I wonder if it assuaged their guilt on the day they stole the minds of those they enslaved.”
Raboniel’s desk was nestled right up against the shield—which, once a bright blue, had grown dark and violet.
Raboniel sat and began looking through her notes. “Do you regret what you personally did, Last Listener?” she asked to Spite. “Do you hate yourself for your betrayal of your people?”
Timbre pulsed. Venli should have lied.
Instead she said, “Yes, Ancient One.”
“That is well,” Raboniel said. “We all pay dearly for our choices, and the pain lingers, when one is immortal. I suspect you still crave the chance to become a Fused. But I have found in you a second soul, a regretful soul.
“I am pleased to discover it. Not because I admire one who regrets their service—and you should know Odium does not look favorably upon second-guessing. Nevertheless, I had thought you to be like so many others. Abject in your cravings, ambitious to a fault.”
“I was that femalen,” Venli whispered. “Once.”
Raboniel glanced at her sharply, and Venli realized her mistake. She’d said it to the Lost. One of the old rhythms that Regals weren’t supposed to be able to hear.
Raboniel narrowed her eyes and hummed to Spite. “And what are you now?”
“Confused,” Venli said, also to Spite. “Ashamed. I used to know what I wanted, and it seemed so simple. And then…”
“Then?”
“They all died, Ancient One. People I … loved dearly, without realizing the depth of my feelings. My sister. My once-mate. My mother. All just … gone. Because of me.”
Timbre pulsed reassuringly. But Venli didn’t want reassurance or forgiveness at that moment.
“I understand,” Raboniel said.
Venli stepped closer, then knelt beside the table. “Why do we fight?” she asked to Craving. “Ancient One, if it costs so much, why fight? Why suffer so much to secure a land we will not be able to enjoy, because all those we love will be gone?”
“It is not for us that we fight,” Raboniel said. “It is not for our comfort that we destroy, but for the comfort of those who come after. We sing rhythms of Pain so they may know rhythms of Peace.”
“And will he ever let us sing to Peace?”
Raboniel did not respond. She shuffled through a few papers on her table. “You have served me well,” she said. “A little distractedly, perhaps. I ascribe that to your true allegiance being to Leshwi, and your reports to her interfering with your duties to me.”
“I am sorry, Ancient One.”
Raboniel hummed to Indifference. “I should have arranged for a regular meeting for you to give her your spy reports. Maybe I could have written them for you, to save time. At any rate, I cannot fault you for loyalty to her.”
“She … doesn’t like you very much, Ancient One.”
“She is afraid of me because she is shortsighted,” Raboniel said. “But Leshwi is among the best we have, for she has managed to not only remember why we fight, but to feel it. I am fond of Leshwi. She makes me think that once we win, there will be some Fused who can rule effectively. Even if she is too softhearted for the brutalities we now must perpetuate.”
Raboniel selected a paper off the desk and handed it to Venli. “Here. Payment for your services. My time in the tower runs short; I will finish unmaking the Sibling, and then will be on to other tasks. So I will now dismiss you. If you survive what comes next, there is a chance you may find some peace of your own, Venli.”
Venli took the paper, humming to Craving. “Ancient One,” she said, “I am a weak servant. Because I am so confused about what I want, I do not deserve your praise.”
“In part, this is true,” Raboniel said. “But I like confusion. Too often we belittle it as a lesser Passion. But confusion leads a scholar to study further and push for secrets. No great discovery was ever made by a femalen or malen who was confident they knew everything.
“Confusion can mean you have realized your weaknesses. I forget its value sometimes. Yes, it can lead to paralysis, but also to truth and better Passions. We imagine that great people were always great, never questioning. I think they would hum to Ridicule at that idea. Regardless, take that gift and be off with you. I have much to do in the coming hours.”
Venli nodded, scanning the paper as she rose. She expected a writ of authority—given by Fused to favored servants, granting them extra privileges or requisitions. Indeed, there was exactly that on the front. But on the back was a hastily sketched map. What was this?
“I had hoped to find good maps of the tower,” Raboniel noted to Fury. “But Navani had some burned, and disposed of the others—though she feigns ignorance. This, however, is a report from a human scout who was flying along the eastern rim of the Shattered Plains.”
Upon closer inspection, the page read in the human femalen writing system, it appears the group we assumed were Natan migrants are instead Parshendi. A group of a few thousand, with a large number of children.
Venli read it again.
“Did some of your kind leave?” Raboniel asked absently. “Before the coming of the Everstorm?”
“Yes. Rebels who did not want the new forms, along with the children and the elderly. They … escaped into the chasms. Shortly before the storms met, and the floodwaters came. They … they should have been completely destroyed.…”
“Should have. What a hateful phrase. It has caused me more grief than you could know.” She began writing in one of her notebooks. “Perhaps it has treated you with kindness.”
Venli clutched the paper and ran, not giving Raboniel a proper farewell.
I felt it happen to Jezrien. You think you captured him, but our god is Splintered, our Oathpact severed. He faded over the weeks, and is gone now. Beyond your touch at long last.