Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  Braethen shut his eyes against the images.

  He wrapped his arms protectively around the Quiet child and grieved the failed efforts of the abandoning gods that had brought them to this. It left him feeling weak and powerless and wanting just to sit and let the dream run out, pass him by.

  He turned to look away from the column of slow-walking creatures, and saw the same shafts of light slanting in long lines through the rain. Muted prisms over distant hills—bits of color in a world of heavy, dark greys. The scent of wet pine needles. An instant later he began running toward those who were killing one another. As he ran, a thought struck him: Do creatures without conscience fear anything enough to kill themselves? Could the Quiet actually dread the Bourne?

  Perhaps they’re not what we thought.

  The child in his arms began to cry, its weak moan pathetic, just as he reached three creatures standing in quiet companionship, each with a knife in hand. Before they could raise their blades to undo one another, he called out.

  “No!”

  The forcefulness of his cry drew their attention, and the three creatures turned intelligent, somber eyes on him. Two were clearly female, one like the mother of the child he carried; the other thick in the waist, but just as lean, her breasts and loins cinched about with thick brown leather, long hair braided into a queue. The larger female also had horns curling back from just above her ears, and a heavy jaw. The male walked naked, his genitalia hanging down and beyond his concern. His entire body had been raised in brands of varying shapes and designs and writings. A shaven head, likewise, bore the painful art. And his eyes sat deep beneath a thick brow, so that Braethen could scarcely see them.

  He came to a stop a few strides away, holding up one hand. “You don’t need to do this.”

  “What do you know about it, grub? You have the fair skin of the makers. We should cut you first.” The branded creature drew around to face Braethen squarely, its shoulders impossibly broad.

  All he could do was shake his head. “Your own children…”

  Whatever reason existed for their creation is lost.

  Or was it?

  A glimmer of logic rose up in the back of his mind. In the waking world, the Quiet had begun to slip their cage. Braethen found himself wondering: Why? Was it really retribution they sought?

  Before he could ask anything in this dreadful dream, he sensed a new presence, and jumped when a soft, authoritative voice spoke. “You don’t belong here.”

  Braethen turned, still holding the Quiet child, to see a robed figure standing behind him. The man’s countenance showed him great scrutiny, and had a look of power unlike anything he’d ever seen, even in Vendanj.

  My skies, this is one of the Framers!

  Though in a dream from which he would soon wake, Braethen stood in awe of one who had strode the Tabernacle of the Sky, who had walked innumerable worlds.

  A mere utterance from this founder could unmake him, and yet Braethen wasn’t afraid.

  “Couldn’t you find another way?” Braethen motioned toward the masses moving in dejected unison into the northern and western quarters of the world.

  The god didn’t follow Braethen’s arm or gaze. He simply continued to stare at him.

  “Your sympathies are misspent, Sodalist,” the god said. “You will become a danger to those you serve if you cannot discern which side of the line to defend. It might be wise to send you into the Bourne with the others if that’s where your heart lies.”

  Braethen looked down at the baby he carried. When he looked back into the eyes of the god, he said simply, “I suppose my heart is with any who have no voice of their own.”

  The sound that followed felt like autumn’s last gentle wind, as the god sighed. “Oh, my boy. That is a war that can never be won. The voiceless are too many. And their stories tend to break the hearts of brave men.”

  After careful regard, the god raised a hand toward him. Almost immediately, Braethen’s neck began to burn, as though hot coals touched his skin. He could smell charring flesh and struggled to hold the child as the pain grew too intense to bear.

  Then it stopped, and he raised his fingers to the spot. He gingerly felt what he recognized without seeing: an incomplete circle; a mark that started thick and strong, but faded as it neared closure at the bottom, never completing the loop. It was a brand like the one given all Quiet being driven into the Bourne.

  “You may be their patron, and bear their mark,” the god said, his voice soft and sympathetic, like a father finally apologizing after a bout of wrath. “But beware what mercies you show, and when.” The other pointed to the Blade of Seasons Braethen still carried.

  He looked down at the sword, and back up. “When?” A thought sparked far back in his mind, and a new dread filled his belly.

  “You don’t understand what you hold, do you, Braethen? You think this is a dream. Look around you. You’re not simply seeing the Placing. You’re part of it now. Don’t toy with the power of that weapon. Go back to your time, and remember.”

  His vision began to rush with images. He dropped to his knees and set the child down. He clung to the Blade of Seasons as darkness wrapped him in its tight embrace and winds tore at his clothes and hair. Winds that carried voices that called after him, entreating him.

  It all rose to a deafening scream, howling in his mind. Insecurities he’d once felt when taking hold of this blade were replaced by dreadful knowledge. He hadn’t tried to do anything more than remind the people in Recityv of the reality of the Placing, and in a moment he’d traveled there … in time.

  Then the screaming winds and voices ceased and darkness slowly receded, allowing light to bring the world into focus.

  * * *

  Darkness gave way to light, and Braethen returned from a time in history. In the space of a few short breaths, the world of the Placing became the plaza. But the Blade of Seasons had carried him into the past. It had been more than a vision. It had been going there. It left him unsettled, as the present moment crystallized into the satisfied expression of Vendanj, who had come to carry him from the fray that raged around him on the plaza.

  The images of the Placing, though, weren’t so easily left behind. And on his neck, he still felt the pain of a brand forming an incomplete circle.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  New Alliances

  Anything may be written upon. Anything.

  —Statement made by an author witness during his demonstration of Seriphic glyphs at the first Succession on Continuity

  Grant caught Helaina as she fell from the Wall of Remembrance, an arrow in her chest. Her eyes were closed, her body limp. He laid her gently on the ground as Artixan rushed to her other side, his wrinkled face taut with concern. Behind them, the sound of running footsteps could be heard, and Grant looked around to find a mob of Recityv guards and attendants hurrying toward them to assist the fallen regent.

  Grant took hold of Helaina’s left hand, and with his free hand, placed his fingers on her neck, feeling for a heartbeat. Nothing. He repositioned his fingers higher, and relaxed. His own heart raced with emotions he’d not felt in a long time. He’d always assumed that a reconciliation would come for them. That he or she would admit to being wrong where Tahn was concerned. That they’d recapture the feelings of the past. Now, he might not ever get to tell her. The swell of grief made it momentarily difficult to concentrate on his task.

  Before he could regain his focus, the hand he’d placed inside his own gave a quick squeeze. Then again. A ruse! Somehow, she’d arranged this deception. It took a great deal of effort to keep the smile of relief and admiration off his face. Crafty woman. No wonder I love her.

  Immediately, he could see the benefits of her gambit. They had to maintain the hoax. Grant gave Artixan a knowing look, and the man’s brows went up in quick acknowledgment. The Sheason then made a show of putting his hands on her chest and speaking more loudly than he otherwise would have.

  Grant leaned down close to her ear. �
�Lie still,” he said. “Don’t open your eyes. Keep your chest and belly as motionless as possible.”

  Then he stood and turned to the mob of attendants closing in. “The regent is dead,” he announced. “The regent is dead!” he said again, yelling this time with mock grief and anger. When those racing toward them heard it, they slowed, dumbstruck. “The regent is dead!” Grant cried out a third time, making sure that at least some of those beyond the gate would hear him.

  He strode toward the mob, not allowing them to get too close. “Go. Spread the news. I will see to the rest.” After some initial hesitation, they went, exiting the courtyard in a loose pack. He wanted the city to know. And one citizen, in particular.

  Grant turned and addressed Helaina’s Emerit guards, who still stood nearby. “Get word to every Convocation seat holder: The League has murdered Helaina. Tell them Roth will likely assume the regent’s place, but that he will never speak for the Second Promise.”

  One of the Emerit moved to go around Grant, get to his regent. Grant stepped into his path. “You’re the senior man.”

  The other nodded. “Crawford. And you’re no longer Emerit,” the man said, with no particular judgment in his voice.

  Grant didn’t bother establishing a pecking order. “Has Helaina kept an accounting of who at Convocation leans her way?” “Accounting” was the Emerit term for gathering information on someone, by any and all means.

  “You know I can’t answer that.” Crawford shifted to look at Helaina, then back to Grant. “But to any Emerit, past or present, it’s a silly question.”

  Grant kept from smiling for the second time in as many minutes. “Get to them. Every one. Don’t be seen. Gather them in the Hall of Convocation at dark hour. No lamps. No candles. Escort them in at varying times, and by the rear entry hall. No discussion until I arrive.”

  The man seemed to weigh the set of instructions, holding an even gaze on Grant. “You will honor what she was trying to do?”

  “That was my thought.” Grant extended a hand, which Crawford received in the Emerit grip. “Now, how many men do you have in or near this courtyard right now?”

  “The regent fell.” It seemed at first to be all the answer the man thought necessary. When Grant didn’t reply, he added, “Fourteen.”

  “Take your two closest men with you when you go. Signal the rest to come in close and be seen. I’ll need their show of strength.”

  Crawford didn’t hesitate before making a subtle hand signal that only an Emerit would catch. Within moments, several Emerit materialized in the courtyard as if from nowhere.

  “They’ll do as you ask,” Crawford said.

  Then he and two of his men left, blending into the world around them and disappearing fast. As Crawford himself passed through the gate at the Wall of Remembrance, Roth and Losol entered, striding directly for the regent.

  Right on time. The one citizen Grant had wanted to see, and had known would come fast to verify Helaina’s death.

  “Here comes Roth,” he said, loud enough only for Artixan to hear. The elder Sheason did something more in his ministrations over Helaina, then sat back, sighing with some exasperation and grief. Good showmanship.

  Before the Ascendant got too close, Grant spoke softly to Vendanj, who had just sat Braethen down against a near wall. “Don’t provoke him. I’ll take care of this.”

  Roth and Losol slowed to a stop a few paces away.

  “Come to pay your respects? You’re a decent murderer to do it.” Grant lent his words an edge of ready violence.

  “It is a shame,” Roth began. “Rest assured I will find the man responsible and hold him accountable.”

  “Even when you find him wearing League browns? I doubt it.” Grant looked down at Helaina.

  “You blacken this moment by politicking over the body of a woman so well regarded.” Roth’s smile was only in his eyes, but it was there.

  “I blacken this moment, do I? Interesting. As I imagine your respects are really just to confirm her death. Am I right? Your tender farewell is to be sure you can safely take hold of the regent’s seat.”

  “It’s procedural,” Roth replied. “Her death must be verified.”

  It was true, and precisely what Grant had counted on. Especially from Roth. “Maybe with two Sheason, a sodalist, twelve Emerit, and myself, we have enough procedure to put an end to you and your dog.”

  “That would be my preference,” Vendanj said, his face grim with anger.

  Behind Vendanj, Braethen got to his feet and came to stand beside him.

  Roth waved a dismissive hand. “I would have thought you’d seen enough of my friend here to think twice about that. And an astute man would know that if I’d followed you here to do anything but verify the regent’s death, I’d have come with more help.” He made another dismissive gesture. “Besides, Helaina would want the city to move on with strong leadership. You know that’s true.”

  “No arrogance on your part in that,” Braethen mocked. “League politics seems to be: ‘Give the people what they think they need, not what they truly need.’”

  Roth turned toward Braethen. “You’ve recently lost your leader, as well, haven’t you? Dangerous company you keep.” Then he looked back at Grant. “Are we going to have sharp banter all morning? Or can I see to my duty as acting regent? I won’t make any promises about what comes next.” He eyed both Vendanj and Artixan. “But I’ll promise to withdraw peacefully after saying my own good-byes to Helaina.”

  “The regent’s seat is filled by votes, you’ll remember. Helaina’s death guarantees you nothing.” Grant looked over his shoulder, not at Helaina but at Artixan, who nodded. “Have your graver’s moment,” he said, and stepped aside.

  Roth settled to one knee beside her. He made a nice show of looking sad and thoughtful. He placed a hand on her wrist in a tender gesture, establishing a physical connection as he said his farewells. Grant knew the man was feeling for a pulse. Losol had positioned himself closer to the body, as well. But he seemed more intent on watching Grant and the others during Roth’s inspection than in making an inspection of his own.

  The moment became long. Grant could only hope that Artixan had managed some artful piece of rendering.

  The Ascendant remained hunched over Helaina for an uncomfortable amount of time. At one point he drew out a knife and eased it under her nose, watching its polished flat side for the fogging of breath.

  Finally, he stood back up. “I’ll arrange for a ceremony befitting her life and station.”

  Grant shook his head. “That’s my responsibility.”

  “You’re not a citizen here,” Roth reminded him. “And it’s only right that the Council see to the disposition of her affairs.”

  “Check your records,” Grant countered. “I’m her husband. If you want to take it to Judicature, fine with me. I’ll wager the law still grants first rights to family, even over friends of state.”

  It was an unassailable legal position, and Roth’s silence was the bristling kind—he knew he’d lost this niggling point. It would have been his chance to pretend great sorrow and leverage his false esteem in front of Recityv to raise his own image.

  Grant sensed that Roth hated losing a battle of position as much as one of bone and steel—maybe more. So he softened it for him. “She wanted a small ceremony. Something modest. Nothing that would … excite people.”

  “Very well. I’ll trust your decorum,” Roth said, and bowed gracefully, insultingly.

  Before taking his leave, he gave both Artixan and Vendanj long looks. “These two are criminals. The new law is clear on what to do about them.”

  Grant looked first at the two Sheason, then at Braethen, then at the twelve Emerit now standing in clear sight. Finally, he turned his gaze back to Roth and raised his eyebrows.

  “I see. A numbers game.” Roth smiled. “I could summon twice as many with a single call.”

  “And what of your promise to withdraw?” Grant laughed mockingly. “Forgive me,
I forgot who I was talking to.”

  Surprisingly, Roth laughed with him. “As did I, a man who betrayed this fine dead woman, and—if my memory isn’t failing—is also criminally back in Recityv. Wasn’t the standing order death, if you ever returned here?”

  Grant ignored that. “You’d need to triple us, don’t you think? Or are the Emerit softer than I remember? And let’s assume you do just that. You might kill us all.” He paused for effect. “But not before you’re dead, too.” Grant then stepped close to the Ascendant, and spoke conspiratorially. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you trust these two criminals to me. I’ll see they’re rightly punished. And that way, you can maintain your dignity as you march the hell out of my sight.”

  Roth smiled. It looked genuine, too. He seemed to be enjoying their game. With a slight nod, he turned and left. His dog, Losol, gave them each a warning look before following.

  Grant waited until the courtyard had cleared, then turned to Vendanj and Braethen. “Get to A’Garlen. Bring him back here as quickly as you can. Watch that you’re not followed. Artixan and I will see to Helaina. We’ll be in the narrow room.”

  Vendanj was nodding, but watching Artixan as the older Sheason reversed some rendering action he’d performed just before Roth arrived. Vendanj’s face showed instant understanding, and he left immediately, the sodalist at his side.

  Grant knelt again near Helaina. Word of her death would spread. Many, too, had seen her fall after being shot with the arrow. Good, he thought.

  He slid his arms beneath her, whispering as he did so, “Keep your body limp.”

  She was light to carry. And together, he and Artixan moved quickly out of the courtyard and into the halls of Solath Mahnus. Within the cool confines of Recityv’s ruling courts, the activity was frenetic. Many, moving past them, lifted their hands to their mouths in shock and horror. Others looked furtively at them. Still others grew solemn, bowing their heads as they moved on to their own private tasks.