Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  “Sodalist Palon,” Roth called, getting the young man’s attention, “may I walk with you?”

  Relief touched the young man’s eyes at seeing Roth. The Ascendant had made every effort to comfort and advise Palon, E’Sau’s obvious successor.

  “I’m on my way home,” Palon said, “if you’d care to go that way.”

  “Would be my privilege to accompany the new First Sodalist.” He showed the man a smile of knowing regret, as only the leaders of men can.

  “You heard?”

  “You were the clear choice. I applaud the Sodality for naming you so quickly. No doubt,” he said, looking away in the direction of Solath Mahnus, “other venues have helped their haste.”

  Palon followed Roth’s gaze. “They want me sitting at both High Council and Convocation tomorrow.”

  Roth turned and gave the young man a steady look. “As do I. Come, let’s get you home.”

  The two walked in companionable silence through mists that swirled around them as they went. The flat sound of their boots came muffled, absorbed by the thick Recityv night. Sensing Palon’s insecurities, Roth began laying the foundation for his evening’s goals.

  “They elected you because of who you are,” he began, using the voice of a father. “Don’t fall into the trap of thinking you need to be someone else now. The quality that earned you their trust is the quality you need to go right on showing.”

  “Leading the Sodality isn’t my worry,” he said. “I would just have liked to lay E’Sau to rest first. Then serve for a while before going into something like Convocation.”

  Roth chuckled softly. “Oh, that. Never mind about it. Think of it like a schoolroom filled with rowdy children, except their toys are armies instead of dolls and blocks.”

  “Not sure that helps,” said Palon, and managed a smile.

  Roth nodded to that. “About E’Sau, I know it’s hard. So let me shoulder some of that burden, if you will. I’ll take care of all the burial arrangements, and make sure you see and approve them. We’ll also get to the bottom of the affair. Find the murderer. Bring him before Judicature.”

  Palon nodded to most of it. “I’ll want a few of my people to participate in the search for E’Sau’s killer. The Sheason are implicated. But I don’t believe they’re to blame.”

  “I can understand that,” Roth conceded with an appreciative nod. “But I’ll ask you to put aside your preconceptions in this matter. Leaders must, you know. Your best friend is objectivity.”

  They rounded a corner, and shortly came to a modest home. Roth walked Palon to the door, where the two men turned to face each other.

  “There’s something more?” Palon asked.

  “I’m afraid so.” Roth made an audible sigh, so that Palon might sense that Roth had no other course. “May I come in for a moment?”

  “Certainly.” Palon unlocked the door and led them out of the chill night mists.

  The house was warm and homey. A mild cinnamon scent rose all around, and shortly a lovely young woman came in, carrying a child on her hip.

  “Faster than you thought,” she said, eyeing Roth.

  “I think they’d decided before the assembly was called,” he said to her. “This is Ascendant Roth—”

  “Staned,” she finished. “Yes, I know who he is.”

  Her tone was hard to decipher—contempt or appreciation. Either way, Roth was glad she was here. He smiled warmly. “My apologies for the intrusion. I’ll make it brief. But I suppose my purpose will be your husband’s first bit of business as First Sodalist.”

  She gave Palon a sideways embrace. “There’s supper when you’re ready,” she said, and left them alone.

  “Lovely woman,” Roth observed.

  Palon sat heavily in a chair beside a hearth crackling with a modest fire. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all, she seems—”

  “No, for your help after E’Sau…”

  Roth shook his head. “Leave that alone. It’s only right that I lend whatever help I can. But I’m afraid I come to you with some hard business, my young sodalist friend.”

  Palon looked up, his face lined with concern. “What is it?”

  Roth reached inside his oilcloak and drew out leathers wrapped around a document of several sheets. He handed them to the new First Sodalist. “You need to read that.”

  Palon took the parcel and placed it in his lap. “I’ll read it later. Please just tell me what it says.”

  Again Roth sighed, as if reluctant to speak. Then he cleared his throat, making a show of bracing himself, and drew a chair over to sit across from Palon.

  “It’s no secret that I’ve had my contentions with the Sheason.” He held up his palms as though there was nothing to be done about it. “And to some degree, I imagine, that means the Sodality, too. Though, from what I’m able to discern, your people don’t make any attempt at these old ways of mysterium. You’re protectors, helpmates. Am I right?”

  Palon sat back. “Mostly, that’s true, yes.”

  “You study rigorously. And then marry that knowledge with some weapons mastery. That about the size of it?” Roth asked, nodding while he said it.

  “We do believe in the Sheason right to render the Will,” Palon replied. “I can’t lie about that.”

  Roth raised his palms again. “Fair enough. But there’s a gulf between defending those who do so, and doing it yourselves. Let’s not argue about that.”

  Palon put his hands on the document in his lap. “What is this, Roth?”

  “The Civilization Order,” he said.

  “I already know it word for word.” Palon picked it up and tried to hand it back to him.

  Roth made no effort to take it. “It’s been revised,” he said softly, just above the crackle of the fire. He was keeping everything gentle, for a man newly and heavily burdened.

  “Tell me,” Palon said, his voice sharp now—there was obviously good reason for giving him the First Sodalist mantle.

  Roth wouldn’t be pulled into debate or sharpness, himself. Gentleness would be best here. Gentleness and suggestion. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and knitting his fingers together—the picture of a man about to reluctantly share something hard.

  “The High Council—the one on which you now sit—will be voting to extend the Civilization Order.” He paused, looking Palon dead in the eye. “It will no longer be required that a Sheason render the Will to be executed.…”

  Palon sat forward, the papers falling to the floor. “What? You can’t be serious!”

  Roth nodded. “Once this is ratified, any Sheason living in the nation of Vohnce will be put to death. I don’t doubt that this makes us enemies. But for my part, I’ve lost patience with men like Vendanj. His thinking sets us back a thousand years—”

  Palon jumped right to the heart of the matter. “Do you have enough votes to pass this?”

  Roth sat back. “Not yet. That’s why I wanted to talk with you.”

  The sodalist stared intently. And by slow degrees, his anger turned to horrified understanding. “My deafened gods, you want me to sign it.”

  “I do,” Roth admitted. “But not for my sake. And not even to pass the law—”

  “Who all have signed it? How many signatures do you need?”

  As if on cue, a knock came at the door.

  “May I?” Roth said, and got up before Palon could answer.

  He went to the door, and pulled it open, admitting a runner. The young messenger wore a Recityv court uniform. Specifically not League garb.

  “Yes,” Roth said, once the runner was in. “What news?”

  The fellow handed Roth an oiled leather, which he opened, reading from a single sheet of parchment that had been folded within. Roth looked up at Palon. “The authors will sign,” he lied. “I have the votes I need.” He crossed to Palon and handed him the paper to read himself.

  The young man took the message with trembling fingers and read the expert forgery that bore Author Garlen
’s mark. Roth could only hope that in his fragile state, the new First Sodalist didn’t decide to corroborate the news. To keep him off balance, he pressed on.

  “I suspected as much,” Roth said. “The authors and scriveners and poets and the rest have no real love for the Sheason. Not that I’ve seen, anyway. So you see, I didn’t come seeking your signature to pass this expansion of the Civilization Order.”

  Palon had a bit of terror in his eyes. “Then why?”

  Roth bent and gathered the fallen Civilization documents. He ordered them neatly, and placed them back in the man’s lap. “My young friend, I want to give you the opportunity to strike the Sodality’s name from this revised law.”

  The blood drained from Palon’s face. His jaw visibly slackened. “What are you saying?”

  Roth sat back down, leaning forward again, as a man advising a friend in a dire hour. “The expansion here names the Sodality alongside the Sheason. Once it’s passed, the executions will include the men and women who now follow you.”

  Palon’s mouth worked wordlessly for several moments. Finally, he found his voice. “You can’t do that. We could fight you on this.”

  “Legally?” Roth said. “You’re outnumbered. Physically? Well, yes, you could. But the Recityv army is bound to uphold High Council law. So, you’ll be outnumbered there, too.”

  The man sat still a moment, thinking. A measure of calm entered his face. “Do you really want to declare war on the Sheason? You may hate their old abilities, but I don’t think you can stand against them.”

  For what he believed would be the last time, he sat back in a self-assured motion. “We’ve found ways to compete with what I’ll call your Sheason’s thrall. You don’t have to believe me, if you choose not to. But I want you to understand what is going to happen.”

  Palon seemed to steel himself.

  Good.

  “Once the order is signed,” Roth said, taking care not to sound as delighted as he felt, “it’s unlikely that your people will always stand in the protective company of the Sheason.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, you’re plenty capable with a blade yourself. All sodalists are. But you’ll be outmatched. And as days roll by, Sodality numbers will dwindle. In Vohnce, anyway. That’s where it will start.”

  Roth stopped. He could see Palon reasoning ahead, and decided to let the man think it through. Moments on, Palon opened up the expanded Civilization Order. To the crackle of the fire, he read a long time.

  When he looked up again, his eyes were haunted and distant. “And in exchange for my signature, you’ll strike the Sodality from the law.”

  Slowly, Roth looked past Palon toward the kitchen, where they could now hear the man’s wife humming a tune as she worked at something there. “You need to think beyond the lives of your own order,” Roth invited. “Yes, of course they’re your concern. But they’re not your only concern. Or maybe even your chief concern.”

  “We’re meant to serve the Sheason,” Palon said, his voice flat.

  Roth now shook his head, adopting his best fatherly warmth. “That’s how you began. It isn’t how you need always be.”

  “What choice is this?” Palon said, running his fingers over his own emblem—the dancing quill atop the horizontal length of a sword.

  “It’s an awful choice,” Roth admitted. “And I’m a bastard for putting it to you. But that’s a name I’ll gladly accept to push us all forward. Past the henpecking of these Sheason. Past their theatrics that frighten us into believing falsehoods. Past … the past.” He steepled his fingers beneath his lower lip, narrowing his eyes judiciously. “I will understand, and even admire, your choice to stand your vow. Die with the Sheason. But”—he pointed at Palon—“I’m offering you a chance to lead. A chance to choose that your followers not die. Right here, you can sign this document, strike the Sodality from the order, and chart a new way to serve.”

  Palon stared dumbly, caught in his own inner loops of logic and worry.

  Roth watched him a moment. “You may be thinking that if you stand with the Sheason, you can defeat this expansion of the Civilization Order. If nothing else,” Roth said with resounding confidence, “you need to reject that possibility. Trust me on this.”

  The man’s attention was drawn toward the kitchen when his child babbled something. It was as though he suddenly realized how close his family might be to a predator.

  Roth smiled graciously. “The order doesn’t extend to families,” he said. “But that will hardly comfort the fatherless, will it.”

  Palon’s face was now coated in a sheen of sweat. His lips and fingers trembled. “And the High Council all support this?”

  “Of course not,” Roth said. “Helaina has her cronies. But if you look, you’ll see the signatures I’ve already secured.” He let sharpness enter his voice for the first time. “And I’m losing my patience.”

  Palon stared back at the document for a moment. “Isn’t it really the regent’s seat you want? So you can direct Convocation? Why not gather signatures to replace Helaina? Leave the Civilization Order as it is now?”

  Roth tapped the parchment in the sodalist’s hands. “Some who are willing to sign this are yet unwilling to side against Helaina. Most of her friendships go back a lot of years. And I’ve a feeling that the expanded order will be disruptive enough to Convocation to help them see my point. At the very least, I’ll have two more votes for dissolution: yours and the absence of Artixan’s. I’ll deal with the rest during the adjournment of Convocation that will surely come once this is signed into law … which happens tonight.”

  Palon looked pleadingly at Roth. “If I do this, Estem Salo will forsake us. The Randeur. The Sodality leadership—”

  “Then you become your own Sodality,” said Roth, pointing at Palon’s chest. “Better to decide your own damn fate, anyway, isn’t it!”

  Palon’s eyes were distant. “I can’t decide this alone. It takes the support of the Second and Third Sodalists—”

  “Who I’ve already met with,” Roth interjected, “and secured their support.”

  Then all fell quiet. Palon, who’d been the First Sodalist of Recityv and Vohnce for all of a few minutes, stewed in the cauldron Roth had placed him in.

  “How would you do it?” Palon asked sometime later.

  Roth had considered it carefully. He couldn’t announce the change broadly and proceed with incarcerations and scheduled executions in due course. It would have to be a hammer stroke. Quick and sudden. The whole thing might fail if he left time for due process, debate, or for the Sheason to mobilize and fight back. He’d long ago conceived a cleansing sweep of Recityv. The methodical plans for that were laid out and waiting. He’d even selected the time and place to alert Helaina. There might be complications with so many visiting dignitaries in the city, but success was just a matter of timing.

  “Leave that to me.”

  Many, many long moments later, the man’s head bent forward. There was the barest of nods. Roth coaxed a pen into Palon’s hand. The word “Sodality” was stricken from the document, and a loose scrawl added to the last page.

  It had gone as he’d hoped. But he didn’t rush to leave. He stayed sitting by Palon after he’d won the signature. It was the strangest thing; the home seemed smaller. Tighter. It reminded him of his own boyhood home that morning when he’d been dragged away from his father in exchange for a debt. It was a wounded feeling. A defeated one. That deep, deep ache. He hated the feel of it. But didn’t abandon Palon to it. The young man had made a very hard decision. A right one. But it had cost him much. And would cost him more, when others learned of it. But for the time being, Roth spoke in hushed tones, sharing examples of how the young man’s choice was a good one.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  A Widening Schism

  The question I ask myself is whether this is yet another branch in the Sheason Order, or whether it’s the same division as occurred with the first Trial of Intentions.

  —From the journal of Randeu
r Thaelon Solas

  Vendanj woke to the feel of a cool wet cloth dabbing his forehead. Through the gloom, he looked up into a gaunt face he thought he knew, but didn’t immediately recognize. After a few moments, he realized he’d been moved during one of his deep sleeps—which often came after prolonged use of the Will—and placed in a cell with Rolen after all.

  “Artixan had me moved here?” It wasn’t really a question.

  “Came with the turnkey himself,” Rolen said, wiping his brow again with the wet cloth.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Several hours,” Rolen answered. “I’m guessing the cumulative effects of rendering and endless parading around the countryside have gotten you into this condition. You should rest.”

  Vendanj made no effort to sit up. Instead, he lay still, allowing Rolen to dab more water over his skin. “You don’t look well, yourself. You’ll die of disease if they don’t execute you first.”

  “I always could count on you for a cheery thought,” Rolen said, his hollow cheeks pulling into a grim semblance of a smile.

  Vendanj offered a weak but genuine smile in return. They might have fundamental differences—Rolen was of Thaelon’s mind—but they were also good friends.

  “Why haven’t they executed you yet?” Vendanj asked. But before Rolen could speak, he added his own answer: “They use your ability for their own needs.”

  Rolen nodded, his head a bobbing silhouette. “An execution day has been delayed several times. Leaguemen find their way into my cell late at night with injuries and ailments. A few come raving, as though fractured in the mind. I mend them all. It seems I’ve become a pet.”

  Vendanj frowned. “We’ll share this with Helaina. She’ll use it to strike the Civilization Order from the Library of Common Understanding.” He finally sat up.

  Another faint smile shone from his old friend’s face. “They’ll deny it, and I have no proof. Besides, I’d offer the help even if I were sitting in my own home.”

  “That’s not the point, and you know it,” Vendanj argued. “If it suits their needs, the League is glad to exploit even those things it condemns. We need to expose their hypocrisy. Otherwise,” he sighed, “otherwise the Civilization Order will destroy the fraternity we both swore to preserve.”