Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  From the corner of his eye, Kett looked up at Stulten. “You’re arrogant to think you know yourselves better than those who confined you here.” He swallowed hard. “And as for my people, I suspect it isn’t our exodus you want to avoid, but open rebellion.”

  Stulten laughed deep and long. “And why would you think that?”

  Without hesitation, Kett answered. “Because many of us were created equal to Quiet races. We’re not weak like those south of the Pall.”

  Stulten’s face slackened, and he gestured back toward his manor. Promptly a familiar form came out, pulling tethers lashed to the small wrists of Marckol and Neliera, his children.

  He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t seem to breathe. And it would have frightened his little ones, anyway. But in his mind, he cried out, No! No. And suddenly he was reliving his tribunal—which now seemed so long ago—when Saleema had been struck down.

  Grief and worry throbbed inside him at the sight of his small ones, and what he imagined lay in store for them. Their pleading eyes fell on him as they approached. And he looked up at their captor, realizing suddenly who led his bound children … the Bar’dyn Praefect Lliothan.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  What Steel Can Do

  Some believe Ir-Caul is where—after Palamon fought Jo’ha’nel—the last few men and women settled. They also believe it’s why every child there learns the use of a blade, even still.

  —Belonging to an apendix of uncataloged sword techniques and labled “unfriendly” or “unwilling” by the chronicler commissioned of the League to inventory known combat sytles

  The grunts and strains of a physical contest grew louder as Sutter emerged from a long tunnel onto the king’s practice field. To the west of the castle, a broad stretch of land lay enclosed by a high fieldstone wall. Along the perimeter, various outbuildings stood: a forge, a stable, an armory, and what looked like quarters for trainers who lived to do nothing more than teach battle. In the strong afternoon sun, Sutter could see King Relothian refining his combat skills.

  Three attackers worked at the king. It quickly became apparent that this was no idle exercise. A savage intensity lived in the faces of those trying to defeat him. More than this, the men—all of them—were bleeding from various cuts to face and hands and arms. It didn’t surprise Sutter to see that in Ir-Caul, the training imitated real battle. It did surprise him to see the king wielding a sword … and a forge hammer.

  Smith king.

  The men were all sweating heavily from exertion. Even those watching were ripe at the armpits, as if they rested from a previous round of drills. They watched intently, seeming to silently root for one of their brothers to best Relothian.

  The yard held spots of grass. But dirt dominated the area, kicked up into low clouds of dust that coated the men’s faces with grit. Trails of sweat streaked down their cheeks, giving them the vague look of painted-face troupers from a pageant wagon doing the droll threshes—a comic set of plays that took whips and slapsticks as their main props.

  Sutter came to the edge of the practice field and stopped. His presence drew a few questioning looks from the armored men seated and standing here and there around the current contest. He paid them no mind. He meant to know who’d tried to kill him.

  The king caught sight of Sutter, and redoubled his efforts with the three men encircling him. In a matter of seconds he’d disarmed two of them, and put the third on the ground with a body-throw. He brought his sword up to the man’s cheek and gave him a slight gouge that drew bright red blood in a small runnel.

  The men at the edges of the field beat the blunt ends of spears on the ground or their sword handles against their shields in applause. The defeated trio stood together and bowed to the king, who did likewise, before they departed the field in different directions.

  Breathing hard, Relothian made his way straight for Sutter. His gait suggested a purpose more than welcome, and he still held his hammer in one hand. Sutter held his ground.

  “You don’t belong here,” Relothian said, drawing near. “You’re a guest in my keep, but you’re not a warrior in my army. Leave the way you came.”

  Sutter ignored the command, but kept his voice low enough—for now—that the king’s men wouldn’t hear him. “I’ll go once you’ve told me why you betrayed my confidence.”

  The king’s anger faltered, momentarily broken by Sutter’s insolence. Then firmness returned to his face. “If you’re making an accusation, then make it. But be careful, boy, this king doesn’t betray a confidence.” Relothian rotated the hammer in his hand.

  “Then tell me how one of your men came into my room last night, trying to kill me and take the sigil I showed only you.” Sutter stepped closer to the king, realizing how close he’d come to death in that attack. If not for Mira, he’d be dead.

  Again the king’s face showed a momentary hesitation, his gaze shifting from Sutter’s eyes to his neck, which had purpled from the attack. Then the hardened resolve returned again—a leathery look that belonged to smiths who’d spent long hours near a forge. “You and I had no confidence or bargain for silence. The pendant you wear may bring danger to my people. I shared that information with my advisors. We had to decide what to do about your being here at all.”

  A grim smile grew on Sutter’s lips—an expression that surprised him. “This is how a man becomes king, then, with careful words and betrayal?”

  “Hold your tongue,” Relothian said, his voice both soft and menacing, “or I will show you how I became king.”

  The man raised his hammer. Sutter didn’t back down. “If you needed to share secrets you knew were meant for your ears alone, you should have told me. Your loose lips nearly got me killed.”

  Relothian’s hard glare remained unchanged. “We live in perilous times. Now, is this why you interrupted my training, or is there something else?”

  Sutter cast his gaze at the king’s training companions, who eyed him expectantly. He knew what he must do, and doubt filled him. But then he remembered the dark plain of shale. He remembered thousands of dead Far, many of whom had died saving him. His inexpert use of his Sedagin blade had sent many to their final earth. He’d vowed not to let that happen again. Vowed to be worthy of the sword he carried.

  He frowned back at the king. “There’s rot in your city. And you’re blind to it.”

  The king grabbed Sutter’s tunic and threw him toward the center of the yard as easily as he might a doll. “You’ll defend those words,” Relothian said, stepping toward him.

  Sutter pulled his blade from its sheath. This was mad. But he was mad. “Before we begin, I’ll have your word that if I best you, you’ll hear me out.”

  The king laughed.

  Sutter shook his head. “It doesn’t have to be this way. Let me take you and show you. There are things you need to understand.”

  “Your insult needs an answer.” Relothian raised his sword and hammer, a kind of grimacing smile on his lips. Before Sutter could do more than raise his sword defensively, the king was on him, shoving him to the ground.

  Relothian raised his blade. Sutter rolled, steel striking the dirt where his chest had been a mere second before. It rang out in the battle yard with a metallic ting. Unable to gain his feet, Sutter rolled again, sensing a second blow. And again the blade bit the ground where he’d just been.

  He pushed himself up in time to ward off the third blow, blocking it with his own weapon. The ring of steel came brighter and sharper this time, his blade chipping where it was struck by the king’s own.

  Sutter reared to strike. Before he could, Relothian brought his hammer down in a brutal stroke at Sutter’s left arm. He just had time to whip away, using an evasive Latae dance move. He backpedaled to gain control.

  Relothian followed, and swung again. This time, Sutter parried the strike, and slipped his blade in under Relothian’s outstretched arm, piercing his upper left thigh. Another Latae figure. The king made no sound, and came on undaunted as blood dar
kened his trousers. As Sutter pressed forward, the king whipped his hammer around, knocking Sutter’s blade out of the way, and following with a powerful strike that cut deep into Sutter’s left arm.

  The slicing metal sent bright shocks of pain through his flesh. Warm blood began to flow down his sleeve. Every movement brought terrific burn, but he managed to raise his Sedagin blade to ward off another hammer attack.

  The metal edge of his Sedagin blade chipped again, and the force of Relothian’s blow sent him to the ground a second time. He blindly thrust his blade upward, just as another arcing attack came down at him. This time, the king’s sword sundered the Sedagin blade in two.

  Sutter stared at the cleanly severed steel, shocked and saddened over the ruined gift. The king likewise stared down at the stump of the Sedagin blade. The only sound in the training yard was their labored breathing. Sutter looked up at the sword in the other’s hand.

  What metal could cut straight through Sedagin steel?

  Then Relothian’s eyes focused again on Sutter, and the hard anger returned. Before the king could rear back to strike again, Sutter tossed the truncated sword aside and grabbed the king’s sword arm. He pulled Relothian forward, lifting his feet into the man’s gut and thrusting out hard with his legs—another Far Latae maneuver. Relothian went sailing, landing heavily in the dirt behind him.

  Sutter grabbed his broken blade and rolled onto his knees just as Relothian gained his feet and took one charging step with his upraised hammer.

  The king skidded to a stop, dirt and dust flying into the air. A look of confusion lit his face.

  “You’re mad!” Relothian shouted. “Would you die just to have me join a crowd of politicians in Recityv? Those farmers know nothing of war or the threat beyond the Pall. We’re defending ourselves well enough without the help of glad-handers, boy! A Sedagin would appreciate this, and leave us in peace.”

  Sutter frowned in anger and frustration, and fought to catch his breath. “I’m not Sedagin!”

  The king’s brow wrinkled with impatience. “Yes, I know the sword wasn’t originally—”

  “I’m a rootdigger,” Sutter shouted. In the long pause that followed, his frustration released him and he laughed at the look in the king’s eyes.

  The laughter disarmed Relothian, who looked confused and wary.

  “And, my lord,” Sutter said, nodding, “your court and army are not what you think. Take it from a working man.”

  Relothian’s expression moved from confusion to wonder. Sutter guessed that a man who started life as a smith might appreciate one who started life digging roots. After several long moments, the king’s own breathing returned to normal. He lowered his sword. “Show me.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  A Better Parabola

  If we ever get the mirror shape just right, I’m convinced our skyglass will peer beyond space and give us a look into the past.

  —Lore ascribed to Jahnes Plerek on the very same night he invented the first reflecting skyglass; though, regardless if it’s true or not, it did give rise to theoretical models on the nature of light

  Tahn’s Succession team had been preparing ceaselessly for their first argument—a tough one, with the College of Physics. He knew they all needed a night to relax and think about something besides Continuity and Resonance. And, maybe more than that, they needed, for an evening, to leave behind the things they’d been finding as proofs for their argument. They weren’t easy things to learn. Or believe. After a warm meal of pheasant and roasted potatoes, Tahn led them to the place he remembered most for getting away from other cares: Snellens, a lens and mirror shop at the edge of the Grove.

  He ducked through the door, and immediately heard the rhythmic sound of circular movement. It was like listening to a familiar tune. Shem, the shop owner, could polish a lens or mirror all day with minimal breaks. The man seemed never to tire. Tahn smiled. He loved this place. As much as he enjoyed the higher-minded problems of charting stars and making suppositions, he liked every bit as well the chance to sit with Shem and polish a mirror.

  He made a small laugh in the dimly lit front of the shop, and led his Succession team through a second door. They emerged into a broad, well-lit workshop filled with all the instruments needed to make a lens or mirror. Neatly in their place were Shem’s toolbench, buckets of grit, a box of Ebon white sand, cooling posts, pots of agent and coating metal. All of it had been situated relative to a small kiln in the corner, where Shem fired his own glass parabolas preparatory to them receiving their metal coat. The air hung with the scent of pine—pitch used for polishing. Tahn also smelled the speculum—a copper, tin, and arsenic mixture that comprised one type of metal layer used to make a mirror.

  He took it all in at a glance as Shem looked up, his well-lined face smiling. The mirror-maker never stopped polishing the mirror in his lap.

  “Gnomon!” He nodded with his head for Tahn to come closer. “You’re a reflection of your younger you. Grab a pad.”

  Tahn sat opposite his old friend, took up a mirror pad, applied a dollop of pitch, and began polishing the opposite side of the mirror in Shem’s lap.

  “You’re still using speculum?” Tahn asked, as though a day hadn’t passed since his last visit to this place.

  “Oh, I’ve got new alloys, and silver’s popular. But some of the older star-fellows like the older reflections.” His grin widened. “What’s a mirror man to do? I just have to moderate the arsenic. It lends a shine, but not worth dying for.”

  “No, probably not,” Tahn agreed with a grin.

  Without any introduction, Shem spoke to Tahn’s Succession team. “You may not know that Gnomon here is responsible for the single most important discovery in Grove history. In my time, anyway. And maybe in a handful of centuries.” He smiled with the joke of it, and held his tongue to heighten their anticipation.

  Tahn looked up at Rithy and his new friends, shaking his head in mock embarrassment.

  “Pine tar,” Shem finally said, sharing the mystery’s answer. He pointed at the bowl of pitch beside him. “Was a good admixture before. But Gnomon made it better. Poured oil and resin and what-all into a bowl, then went out and tapped a piñon pine for something to give it some viscosity and grit. Mirrors got twice as bright, by my eyes.”

  Tahn continued to polish, already losing himself in the steady rhythm of brightening the metal mirror. “I’ll be famous for sap,” he added.

  To her credit, Rithy made none of the obvious jokes.

  “Several mirrors need rubbing,” Shem said, indicating benches around his shop. “You can see how it’s done. Have a rub.”

  Tahn smiled in good humor. “Give it a try,” he encouraged. “Work the metal in small circular motions. It’s relaxing.”

  His friends all sat and began to polish various shapes of glass, each bearing a metal coating. With the proper amount of polishing, they’d become Snellens skyglass mirrors—best in the Grove. For several minutes, all that could be heard was the sound of pitch pads going around. Shem put an end to that.

  “Now I won’t diminish Gnomon’s pine tar discovery. Truth be told, it’s helped me fetch a fine return on my lenses.” Shem often referred to all his skyglass work as “lens work.” But he also sometimes called it “snellens,” like the name of his shop, which was his own mirror joke—a palindrome with “lens” reflected backward at its beginning. “But did you know he’s responsible for the new parabola?”

  Rithy looked over at Tahn, who hunched his shoulders. He’d never bothered to share this, even when he’d lived here in the Grove.

  “Ayuh,” Shem went on, continuing to polish. “Got fussin’ over the shape of it. Said his own skyglass had blurry spots. I let him have a mirror cast to play with. Next thing I know, he shapes it out a bit here and there, changing the curvature. Then he runs some hot glass into it, molds his parabolic mirror, coats it with silver, drops it into his skyglass frame, marches onto the east plain, and discovers the three-year comet. You named it
Tamara, didn’t you, Gnomon?”

  Tahn nodded, memories of different kinds colliding in his mind. But like an astronomer with a good parabola mirror, he was seeing clearly now. The deaths of friends were part of that. He relaxed even more into the fondness of being in Shem’s shop, polishing. The smell of mirror metal, pitch, linseed oil, burning tallow … he’d missed this place a hell of a lot.

  “I’d forgotten you found Tamara,” Rithy said. Tahn heard admiration in her voice.

  “A bit of luck,” he said dismissively.

  “No such thing,” Shem countered.

  They fell into a spate of quiet polishing. And from the looks on his Succession team’s faces, he thought he’d picked just the right thing to help them clear their minds before the actual arguments began.

  But the feeling soured when three young philosophers stepped into the room.

  “We’re closed,” Shem said, hardly acknowledging the newcomers.

  “I can see that,” said the first philosopher, “by all the visitors you’re entertaining.” The sarcasm was subtle, but accusational.

  Shem looked up. “I don’t need to stand up, do I?” Shem’s tone carried the right amount of threat. He was older, but his arms were like iron. Everyone knew it.

  “No, no. Keep your seat.” It was Darius, appearing from behind his two philosopher brethren. He stepped farther into the room, surveying the Succession team. “We just wanted to share a few words, then we’ll be going.” Darius smiled.

  Tahn noted that beneath the philosophy college insignia, in the same subtle threading, the emblem of the League lay embroidered on his overcloak.

  “I overheard a bit of your conversation,” Darius finally said. “Pine tar, was it?”

  Tahn nodded, not the least embarrassed. “Clever, don’t you think?”