It had all gone as planned. The moment he’d handed Helaina the change to the Civilization Order, Losol had raised his left arm—a signal that had set off a coordinated effort to rid Recityv of the arcane arts of the Sheason. Striking fast and all at once, they would allow no time for Van Steward or the Sodality or the Sheason themselves to respond. Roth did regret that there would be innocent children left heartsick at the loss of loved ones—he knew that pain—but you must sometimes cut to heal, he reminded himself. And as Ascendant, he couldn’t afford a weak resolve.
There was a better day ahead for men once they found their way beyond the superstitions of the past, and tackled their problems carefully, logically. The enemy was not truly the ghouls and gods that lived in story; the enemy was empty coffers when food was needed and the idea that one’s ills could be remedied with a simple touch. Education and discussion had failed to achieve the necessary change. History would record that Ascendant Roth Staned showed unnatural courage to lift men to a new consciousness, even if it came by the loss of life.
And the last act of today’s historic effort would come here. While some of the cleansing had taken place in the bedchambers and homes of the Sheason, the important part would happen on the great central plaza of Recityv. He’d directed his men to usher the rest to this place. Along the way, citizens’ and onlookers’ curiosity would rise. And they’d follow.
As Roth looked around now, he nodded to himself. Indeed they had. As dozens of Sheason were herded into the center of the plaza, the periphery filled with hundreds of Recityv men and women and children. Soon it would be thousands. A low babble rose, words shared behind the backs of hands or close to the ear of a neighbor. His men, some with blood on their hands and arms, firmly held a perimeter, allowing through only other leaguemen who escorted more Sheason to the center of the square—Sheason, accompanied by sodalists.
This was regrettable. He hadn’t given Palon time to share with his order what he’d done. Men and women of the Sodality were still protecting Sheason. Many of them would die doing so. But it was an acceptable loss.
There wasn’t much time before Van Steward would arrive in force. But Roth breathed deep, savoring this moment. The air was crisp, the sun full now in the eastern sky ahead. The rays of light struck his face and warmed him, though most of the plaza lay yet in cool morning shadow.
The scrutiny of those gathered for Convocation would come. He’d been losing his argument there, and the seat holders would likely see the escalation of the Civilization Order as a political maneuver. They’d accuse him of trying to control not just the Recityv High Council, but Convocation, as well. That couldn’t be helped. The time was now. He didn’t look forward to what was about to happen. But he was eager for what lay on the other side of it all. This was the boldest move he’d made so far to give his vision life. He’d see it through.
When it seemed most had been gathered, he raised his hands to quiet the crowd. Indeed thousands. “There is doubt and fear in your hearts,” he called, his voice echoing across the throng. “That is to be expected. Since what we do today is not trivial or easy. Today, the Civilization Order has new strength, and requires more from us. The Order of Sheason has been condemned, commanded to be executed. It is the vote of the High Council, made thoughtfully and in consideration of what is best for Recityv, for Vohnce.”
Some murmuring arose. Roth waited until it died back down.
“I take no pleasure in enforcing this law,” he continued, lending his voice a touch of regret. “Death is not the means by which I would seek civility. But we’ve wasted countless words trying to bring rational, needful things to you. We’ve tried to stop the foolish, uneducated rumors of this Quiet and their aim to enslave and destroy. If we ever find truth in this, then we’ll approach the problem responsibly and with real force. But we will not call on myths and the dangerous practices of those who seek to deceive or control.”
One of the Sheason cried out. “This is shameless! You know these people. They’ve only ever tried to help you.” The appeal had been directed at the crowd, but Roth took it personally.
“You see,” he said, looking around the great square, “even now they would rather lie than admit the truth.”
He paused, knowing that eventually these remaining Sheason would strike back. They would seek first to persuade their captors to let them free. But then they would do as all animals do, and fight to survive. So, even here, his actions would need to be swift.
The Sheason who had called out came forward then—Ketrine Solas, the Randeur’s daughter. It was poetic in a way he hadn’t dared hope.
Drawing near Roth, she said, “You claim to want what is best for the people, and yet you condemn our efforts, even when we leave the Will out of it. This is madness. Where is the regent? Let us hear from her and her Council that what you do is lawful. Before another sword is raised!”
He stared down thoughtfully at her, knowing that in her case he needn’t fear rendering. “My dear, appeals are done. We’ve been patient with your kind since the order was first passed, and men like Vendanj continue to demonstrate that it wasn’t enough. Really, we have no choice.”
She glared up at him. “If you do this, or even attempt it, you’ll wake my father’s anger. Do you want to risk putting him on Vendanj’s side?”
Roth laughed behind his gloved fist. “I have it on good authority that these two will never share a pie.”
“Good authority?”
“Out of House Storalaith, Helaina’s house, as it happens,” Roth said, taking some satisfaction in sharing it with her. “Seems we common folk are rather resourceful, doesn’t it? And the real value of a Storalaith is not in ruling but in information trading.”
Ketrine’s eyes turned plaintive. “Let me take them away from here. We’ll leave this very moment. There’s no need to kill them.”
But there is.
“Oh,” Roth said, pulling her letter of endorsement from his inner pocket. “And thank you for this. It should make rounding up Sheason in other cities a cleaner matter, before we execute the order.”
Her face twisted in rage and horror. “You bastard!”
At a small hand signal from Roth, Losol moved his horse forward, circling Ketrine, who did not move or flinch, but stood steadfast as Losol circled her, twice around. Then, while at the young woman’s back, he silently drew his sword and hewed her head clean off. It rolled backward toward her fellow Sheason, silencing the crowd.
As the headless body slumped to the ground, Losol lifted his chin and declared. “We are the law. We do the will of your ruling Council, and we will not suffer a single insurgent.” He pointed his blade at the headless body. “The consequence of defiance.”
A powerful sense of certainty and calm settled over Roth. So different from the tentativeness he’d known as a boy. He kept the satisfaction off his face as he focused his attention on the several dozen remaining Sheason. He could see horror and anger in their expressions. The time was now. A public display of the new Civilization Order—the entire reason for driving these Sheason to a public place—was necessary. It would make his resolve clear. And the tale of it would spread, grow. Some would hear of it on the road. Others would read it in the pages of authors. It began here in a morning of cleansing, but would move beyond Recityv. The days ahead filled him with deeper purpose and pride.
This time, he wouldn’t raise an arm to cue his men—too much warning in it. Instead, by design, when he raised his eyes to the sky … it began. He liked the many ironies of this signal.
From vantage points atop buildings surrounding the plaza, expert archers began to rain down arrows. The penned Sheason dropped quickly to the cobbled stone. Sodalists, too. The air whistled with the flight of shafts and feathers. Shadows darted in the morning rays of light. Cries of pain and surprise rose up, as did sounds of horror and shock from thousands of onlookers.
The arrows continued to fly, shot with expertise, few missing their marks. Some of the Sheason raised the
ir hands to some profane use, only to be struck by a deadly point before they could do anything more.
The sight of death didn’t particularly please Roth; the face of it left him feeling empty, even when he knew it was justified. Bitter bile filled his throat, and the nature of his cause and war overcame him.
Well-intentioned men and women would die. Those few who knew him, and for whom he cared, would misunderstand him, label him a monster and traitor—no better, perhaps, than the illusions he fought to destroy. His effort to elevate men beyond the need to steal or beg or rely on anything but their own best effort would require more brutality. So be it.
As Sheason fell, a cry rose up behind Roth. He turned to see Vendanj rushing from the doors of Solath Mahnus.
* * *
Even as Vendanj raced toward the gate where Roth and his warmonger sat in their saddles … he knew he was too late. The air rang with the vibrations of bowstrings and the slip of arrows toward men and women sworn to the same oath he’d taken. They fell in waves as their bodies became little more than targets for archers firing from rooftops. They’d been caught unaware, probably in a mild state of shock and panic.
He raised a mighty cry, filling the sky with anger and threat, hoping to scare or startle the assailants. His alarm did little more than draw the attention of Roth himself and his new Mal general. Their pitiless faces settled his anger deeper inside him. He thrust an open palm at them and forced their mounts violently apart, throwing their riders to the stone yard just before he passed into the plaza proper.
He’d deal with them later; right now he must try to protect those Sheason and sodalists still alive.
He caught sight of Helaina and Artixan entering the square directly across from him, and at the same moment, to his right, Braethen shot into view. His sodalist carried a bloodied sword and led a Sheason man who came a few paces behind. Grant appeared beside Braethen, assessing the scene.
More arrows were released; Vendanj sensed they targeted Artixan. He quickly raised his hands, palms skyward. Wind swept up from the ground in a thunderous burst, and arrows sailed harmlessly away from their targets. The howl of wind brought sudden silence to the square.
Nearly every Sheason and sodalist had been killed. All but a few were dead. Those fallen, but not yet silenced, uttered mortal cries in whispers.
“Take him down.” The words pierced the relative calm, and a new volley darkened the sky. Vendanj wheeled around to see Roth standing with an accusatory arm raised toward him. His war general stood at his side, a sword in hand. Losol’s face shone with eagerness to take the fight to the ground, a thin smile playing on his lips.
Behind him, a forceful word was uttered in a deep, calm voice. In the air, arrows lost their form, disintegrating to sawdust, and fluttered down like a soft rain across the plaza. Artixan.
The spectacle of arrows brought to dust in the open sky caused a new silence, broken only by the rush of Vendanj’s companions driving toward the center of the great square. He looked back down at the dozens of bodies, their forms pierced with so many arrows that it looked like a riverbank overgrown with reeds. Beneath it all, blood coated the plaza stones, spreading slowly in the morning light.
“Again,” the command came, Roth’s voice calm, assured.
“No!” Helaina cried out with the authority of her office. “Any leagueman who strikes will be tried as a traitor.” Her words echoed up the building faces to their attackers.
She and Artixan came alongside Vendanj a moment before Braethen and the Sheason with him.
They all stood, chuffing hard from their run. In the crisp morning air, their breath steamed, very much like the warm blood that oozed from the dead around them. The slaughter brought quiet rage to his mind, an anger like he’d known only when his wife and child … His arms and hands trembled with the need for vengeance. He would save Roth for last, and watch the man’s face as he crushed the life from his body.
“Don’t listen to her.” Roth began to walk the perimeter of leaguemen that held the crowd at bay. “We act in good conscience and in accordance with the law. More than this, we act on the moral authority of defending the civility of the people.”
Artixan stepped past Vendanj, his elderly form quaking as he cried out. “This is murder! What law is civil that calls for the death of those who do no harm?”
“But that’s where you’re wrong,” the Ascendant countered conversationally. His calm demeanor lent his words authority. “Grave as it seems, we know from sad experience that there are times when the very existence of a thing is harmful.” He held up a finger as one preparing a metaphor. “When an arm or leg is filled with the poison of a serpent, do we not often remove the appendage to save the life? So it is now.” Roth paced, looking past his army to the throngs of Recityv citizens that stood silent, watching, listening.
Vendanj could see standards far back in the crowd—members of the Convocation come to see what was happening. They’d come too late to stop this. And even if they’d arrived in time to help, he knew that governments were slow to intercede in the civil affairs of other realms.
“Listen to me.” Vendanj lowered his voice, but gave it a sharpness that would carry. “Some things are harmful in and of themselves: prejudice, selfishness, pride. To say nothing of those who prey on our little ones for their own pleasures. We’ve always stood with the League to oppose these things.”
He paused, turning a slow circle, the copper smell of blood in his nose. “But I ask you, when you’re in your homes, and you’re quiet, and you think about the old stories … when you think about the Sheason who’ve lived among you”—he raised his arms, palms up, gesturing to the countless dead around him—“does this feel like the truth? Never mind the logical arguments made by anyone!” Vendanj shot a withering look at Roth. “I ask each of you to hearken to your own wisdom. And then decide,” he called out strongly, “do you know for yourself the legitimacy of these actions. Or will you be led by others who would silence the voice of opposition.” He pointed simultaneously to the murdered Sheason at the center of the plaza and at Roth. “Will you be led by those who coerce others to pass immoral laws.”
“Beware,” Roth said with cool caution to both Vendanj and the crowd. “These are careful lies from one who would prefer you remain enslaved in ignorance. I’m no deathmonger. But neither will I stand idle any longer. There’s a new promise now,” Roth declared, “a final promise. The League and I will be its right arm. We’ll establish a new standard of life and defend it against any who threaten to tear it down. And that begins today with the enforcement of a law that I take no pleasure in upholding. But I’m bound to it, just as I’m bound to each of you. Your children will grow up safe and have opportunities to learn. They’ll no longer be dependent on anyone. They’ll have no need to fear.” Roth looked at Vendanj, the man’s eyes smiling, even if his mouth did not.
When Roth finished speaking, men and women muttered. It sounded to Vendanj like assent. He could feel the tide of opinion turning. The people would sanction this slaughter because they wanted to believe in the immediate answers Roth offered them. Vendanj looked away to catch the eyes of a few Convocation seat holders who looked on. Helaina’s efforts would, indeed, fail here today. He could think of no rendering that could stop that now.
His anger began to rise, replacing horror and loss and appeal. He meant to give every last measure of his energy to render an attack, tear apart the flesh of Roth and Losol and all the League.
Before he could begin, a low rumble, like thunder heard far away on a rolling plain, began in their midst. He looked around. It wasn’t Artixan with some act of the Will. It was Braethen, who, rather than stepping toward Roth to speak, stepped carefully into the midst of the dead Sheason and raised the Blade of Seasons. The sword shone darkly in the morning light. Its unrefined length normally appeared merely tarnished. Today it held the crimson blood of leaguemen.
Braethen raised the tip of his blade to the heavens, and with his free hand pointed
to the fallen Sheason at his feet. The crowd grew silent. The sword trembled in his unsteady hand. With a quiet voice that carried far in the stillness, he spoke just one word.
“Remember.”
The air above the plaza swirled, weaving itself into a vision of the Placing—those events that followed the Whiting of Quietus. Creatures moved like waves over plains, pushing north and west into regions beyond nameless mountains.
The images were terrifying. Legions of unremembered races. They didn’t howl or caper about madly in petulant protest. There was no gnashing of teeth or rending of clothes or apocalyptic battles. Most walked quietly, somberly, their eyes telling of acute minds and long memories, of malice tempered by patience.
Vendanj shivered. Those being herded were aware. Aware of their mistreatment. Aware of the injustice. And though the languages they spoke were foreign, the oaths on the lips of these forgotten races were clear: vows to come again into the Eastlands, and to come without mercy.
The images coalescing in the air above the plaza changed, and new scenes from the Placing drew into form. In these, Quietgiven fought their confinement. With powerful grace they stood against the hands of renderers, their faces calm with defiance. And while some raised makeshift weapons of stone and wood, most defied the Placing with nothing more than questions. Without ceremony, these defiant ones fell. Renderers simply put them down with an act of Will and moved on.
The images shifted again and again, showing more scenes of numberless creatures being marched into new geographies. Into far places deep inside the Bourne.
Among those driven into the distant lands were some whose protests struck a sympathetic chord. Inveterae races, who had no ill-purpose concerning the people of the east. There was a pleading tone in the questions they asked that was heartbreaking to hear.
Trial of Intentions Page 55
