Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  The king took them from Sutter’s hand and looked each over carefully, turning them with a smith’s familiarity. Then he fixed his stern gaze on Sutter again. “What does this have to do with my sister?”

  “Do you know where the ore comes from, sire, that makes your blade so superior to mine?” Sutter asked with some indignation, again ignoring the king’s question about Yenola. “And do you know how you’re paying for it?”

  Mira noted worried looks on more than a few of those near the king. It was the look of men and women conceiving defensive lies to hide their guilt.

  Relothian didn’t answer, waiting.

  Sutter nodded, not in satisfaction, but from a kind of sadness Mira hadn’t seen in him before. He looked back at the boy, whose hand he still held tight. “Go ahead,” he urged gently.

  The king turned his attention to the child, and knelt, looking the boy eye to eye. “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Mikel, sire. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  A genuine smile touched the king’s face.

  “The child will have been instructed to tell you lies,” Thalia said. “Please, Jaales, don’t let this pageant go on a moment longer. It degrades you. It degrades us all.”

  “Shame,” said the young woman on Sutter’s right, her voice low and angry. “It’s not the child that degrades us.”

  The king paid no mind to the exchange, focusing on the boy as Sutter did. “Tell me what your friend here means, Mikel.”

  The lad looked up at Sutter, who gave him a reassuring nod, after which the boy returned his attention to the king and started to speak. He talked about life in the orphanage, the way the garden didn’t grow, how hungry the children were all the time. He talked about how afraid the boys and girls were to go to sleep, worried each night that they might be awakened and offered a pair of shoes and taken by soldiers for a walk. And he told of how he’d overheard the men who came to take the children away whispering secrets about where the children went, who they were turned over to, and what they were used for.

  Relothian’s face went first pale with shock and then red with anger, though he listened patiently and silently as the lad talked about his friends. Friends who ordinarily would have been happy to have a pair of shoes, but feared the gift, since they knew it meant they would be marched at dark hour beyond the gates of Ir-Caul and sent north on a barge into the Pall. Payment for ore to fight the war with Nallan.

  Mira’s heart ached hearing it, knowing what it was like to believe you would die young. But unlike Mira in her own childhood, this boy had no protector. The very men who were supposed to defend him had used him, betrayed him. A child. Mira seethed, placing her hands on her blades.

  Sutter raised a hand toward her, wordlessly begging her patience.

  When the child had finished speaking, the king’s eyes remained on him for a very long time. A kind of serenity had seemed to get into him. The boy stared back, unspeaking. Finally, Relothian asked but one question. “I need your word that this is true, Mikel. Not a story you’ve been asked or threatened to tell. But the truth, you understand? I will protect you no matter what. You can trust me.”

  The boy’s eyes became glassy with tears as he replied simply, “Help us.”

  The king stared back at the lad, his face like that of a father who has disappointed his child and knows the child won’t ever forget. But Relothian’s expression changed quickly, and he replied in a deep voice, with a king’s command, “There will be no more walks, Mikel.”

  King Relothian stood, put a large roughened hand on the boy’s head, and said to his nearest attendant, “A new pair of shoes for every orphan in Ir-Caul before you sleep.” He then looked around, selectively calling forward a dozen of his private guard—men, Mira guessed, that had Relothian’s highest trust. “A guard will be posted, day and night, on every orphanage. Every child will be counted, their names taken. I will visit these houses myself. A missing child will go badly for the man assigned to him. Go.”

  The king turned to the man holding Mira. “Release her.”

  As Relothian turned, Thalia spoke. “Surely you aren’t going to believe these lies about your own house? It is preposterous, Jaales. The child is distressed, and we should help him. But it’s a fancy born of deprivation. A way to make sense of abandonment and disease. Think hard, my king. It doesn’t make sense. Who would do this?” She paused briefly, looked at Sutter and Mira, then added, “And remember who sent these two.”

  The king beckoned a general whose face had been ruined by more than one enemy blade. Mira sensed that this man would sooner put his knife through his own heart than betray his king.

  “Send the men to their beds, Caldwell,” Relothian said. “They’ve earned the rest. Then bring your most trusted and meet us in the throne hall.”

  The scar-faced general went immediately, and the sound of countless boots echoed across the parade yard, the men returning to their garrisons. With the setting of the sun, the world had turned a shade of blue. Through growing darkness, Relothian motioned for his coterie to follow.

  “You will all join me,” he said. “We’ll talk in the company of the Throne of Bones, where our ancestors will witness what truth and lies there are.”

  The boy, Mikel, was escorted by another man Relothian clearly trusted. Yenola fell in beside Sutter. And Sutter shared a look with Mira that she couldn’t quite put words to. But whatever it was, and whatever lay in store for them at the Throne of Bones, Mira guessed that the violence in Ir-Caul hadn’t yet truly begun. Nor had they accomplished what they came here to do. Far from it. They’d learned the army of Alon’Itol had multiple masters, an ignorant king, and corruption in its ruling house. They were further than ever from the help they’d come to solicit. And Mira’s time was running out.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  Old and Young

  There are limitations. First, each Sheason’s measure of Will is different. Next, each Resonance you cause depletes it for a time. And some Resonances require much. But past all this, there is the Talendraal. It’s not Will. It’s a metal that seems to imbue its bearer with immunity.

  —From a sequence of Sheason lectures that includes conservation of energy and using the environment to cripple the enemy, copies of which may have been sold by disavowed Sheason

  Through the darkened passageways of Solath Mahnus they sped, their footfalls louder than Vendanj would have liked. It couldn’t be helped. Twice they encountered Roth’s men. Vendanj closed the leaguemen’s throats with a minor act of Will, and dropped them unconscious as they hurried past. Down several sets of stairs and long corridors they ran, toward the Sodality’s strong room.

  When they turned right down the last hall, braziers burned, lighting the way past several doors to where two leagueman stood guarding another door. He’s alive, Vendanj thought. Else, why would the League still be here?

  He raised a hand to silence these two leagueman. Before he could, at the far end of the hall, Braethen suddenly appeared between them. The sodalist stumbled, nearly falling, but righted himself quickly.

  The first guard never saw the harsh blow coming, as Braethen slammed the blunt steel pommel of his blade against the back of the man’s skull. The other had begun to turn at the crumpling sound of his comrade falling when Braethen performed the same move, this time landing it upside the leagueman’s jaw, knocking him out cold.

  As Vendanj closed the distance between him and Braethen, the sodalist himself crumpled to the floor, much the way his two victims just had. When Vendanj reached the three bodies, he nodded with satisfaction. But he didn’t pause, instead stepping over the sodalist and pushing the door open in one fluid motion.

  Inside, he stopped short, his hand still on the door latch.

  There stood Roth, one hand gathering Artixan’s robe in a fist to hold him, the other bearing a sword. Losol’s blade.

  “It was a matter of time, wasn’t it?” Roth said. “Come in, shut the door, and put down the crossbar. We’ll want some privacy
as we come to an understanding.”

  Vendanj slowly closed the door and lowered the batten to secure the portal. When he turned back around he nearly stumbled over one of two fallen Sheason—men who’d obviously been here to try to protect Artixan. A charge still hung in the air from their efforts to render the Will, efforts which had obviously failed against the Talendraal Roth carried. Farther to the left lay two more bodies, a couple of Van Steward’s men and sodalists—likewise dead from their attempt to defend Artixan.

  Losol, the Ascendant’s trained dog, stood on the other side of Artixan’s chamber, holding a blade of his own, bloodlust in his eyes.

  “We understand one another well enough, Roth.” Vendanj caught the weary eyes of Artixan, who was still spent from drawing the Will to help Helaina. His friend would be no help in his own rescue.

  “No, I don’t think we do,” Roth countered. “I’m the law now. Or I will be when the sun rises. But even now, both you and Artixan are condemned by virtue of the Civilization Order.”

  “It’s an immoral law,” Vendanj replied. “I don’t recognize its authority.”

  The Ascendant laughed. “You’re lecturing me on morality? From what I understand, your own order deems you an outlaw. It would seem you keep only your own council. I call such men criminals who recognize no authority but their own.”

  “As do I,” Vendanj said with thick insinuation.

  Roth grinned rather genuinely. “Clever. But under my rule, there’s no tolerance for the lawless.”

  “What crime has Artixan committed? Belonging to an order? Drawing breath? There’s madness in you, Roth, if this is how you intend to deal justice.”

  Roth smiled. “More cleverness. But to govern, to lead, a man must make unpleasant choices. You understand this. You’re simply playing word games with me. Buying yourself a little time to conceive some plan.”

  Vendanj shifted his attention to Losol. “What’s your part in this?” he asked. “Why do you stand behind a warmonger?”

  From the half shadow where he stood, Losol smiled and said nothing.

  “The world has changed, Vendanj,” Roth said, drawing his attention again. “We’re letting go of that part of our past which hinders us from reaching forward. Between you and me, there was a time—recently even—that your kind served an important purpose. Not you, in particular, since you observe no oath but your own. But the Sheason, certainly. It gives me no real pleasure to dispense with an entire order. It will make me unpopular with many of those I must lead and care for.”

  Roth’s smooth tone sharpened. “But as a child must cease to suckle at its mother’s teat, and find its own food, so must we stop relying on superstition that makes men indolent and dependent and silly. Wasn’t this the design of your imaginary gods from the beginning?”

  Vendanj glanced at Artixan, who looked ready to collapse. He needed to be quick when he wrought the Will here. He didn’t know what unknown attributes Roth’s weapon possessed. At a minimum, he’d seen it cancel his efforts to render. But perhaps the blade had a limit. He would need to be clever and precise.

  He tried to catch Artixan’s eye. Reassure him. But the elder Sheason was panic-blind. Vendanj also tried to calm himself. His dear friend was a quick moment from murder.

  “Then you are now a god?” Vendanj asked. “Or how would you have me understand your designs, Ascendant?”

  “Take care, Sheason,” Roth warned. “I have a bargain for you to consider, but your tongue may ruin it for you yet.”

  Vendanj scarcely heard the leagueman now parading as a regent. “Your Leadership,” he said, stepping nearer with implied threat, “I think you’ve only substituted your own creed for the beliefs you seek to kill. You’re building an empire on the backs of men who fell bloodied and dead this very day in the streets you claim to protect.” Vendanj pointed slowly at Roth. “You are worse than those you seek to replace. And I won’t allow it.”

  An easy laugh rolled from Roth’s lips. “You stew because your time has come to an end. And you resort to the logic of a hypocrite. How many have died to protect your way of life? How many of them do you mourn? Or do you see them as a necessary sacrifice to bring about the change you seek?” Roth paused, his eyes dancing but serious. “In this, Vendanj, we are the same. But we are stagnating. Why else do we dream of vast lands filled with dark enemies? It’s because we only recognize brotherhood when we march against the Quiet.” His serious eyes stopped dancing, and fixed on Vendanj. “Either these are the deepest and oldest truths, or they are ignorance and fear of something foreign.”

  Putting the blade closer to Artixan’s throat, Roth spoke again, this time with a quiet, foreboding resolve. “Either way, I will be the one to put an end to them.”

  Vendanj remained quiet, thinking of the right instance of Will to use. As he was considering his move, the door behind him shattered inward and Grant leapt into the room.

  Roth smiled. “Why, Denolan SeFeery, good of you to join us.”

  Grant took a step forward. Roth raised the sword high against Artixan’s neck, and Grant stopped.

  Vendanj clenched his teeth. He had to focus. One render. Kill the bastard. The thought itself caused lamps in the room to gutter. A glint of doubt passed over Roth’s face. But it was brief, before his own countenance set like a mask of iron, and he spoke chilling words that Vendanj would never forget.

  “For the crime of inhibiting the people’s own self-reliance, and inviting belief in the irrational, in the … arcane, which does not promote civility, I claim your life.” Roth held Vendanj’s gaze as he set his blade against the wrinkled skin of Artixan’s exposed neck and pulled.

  Artixan’s eyes widened at the intrusion of steel opening his flesh. Blood gushed immediately as the old man’s hands went futilely to his neck to stanch the flow.

  Vendanj tried to freeze every liquid in Roth’s body, stop his movements. The rush of Will broke like a wave around the Ascendant and his Talendraal blade, allowing him to complete the slow, deathly pull of an edge across Artixan’s throat. The elder Sheason dropped to the carpeted floor of this private chamber, clutching at his neck.

  Grant started forward, sword in hand. But before he reached Roth, Losol took a position between him and the Ascendant. The war leader wore a look of satisfaction, as though anticipating a worthy opponent.

  Behind Losol, Roth said, “We can have this contest now. Or, Vendanj, you could spend this time trying to save your old friend. Which will it be?”

  “Grant,” Vendanj called, “help me.”

  They circled left, allowing the murderous pair to move right, Roth holding his weapon out as a defense against another rendering. The war leader’s eyes showed a hint of remorse—for the delayed battle. But they gave way, circling around to stand in front of the door, blocking it and having a ready escape of their own. Vendanj and Grant dropped to their knees beside Artixan.

  Vendanj took a small wooden box from his inner pocket. “Put two sprigs from this on his tongue,” he said to Grant, handing him the box. Then he put his own hands over the old man’s bloodied fingers as they gripped his opened throat. Grant placed two sprigs from the wooden case in Artixan’s mouth. Vendanj called the Will.

  He focused all his energy into this rendering. He grew desperate, sensing life ebbing beneath his fingers. His body warmed, the transfer of his Forda rushing down his arms and through his hands into the dying man. His friend. Dear dead gods, no!

  It might have been an hour or a few moments. He had no idea. Time lost all meaning. He only became aware of his surroundings again when a hand settled on his shoulder. “Vendanj.” It was Grant, beside him. “He’s gone.”

  Vendanj’s eyes cleared, the intensity of his act of Will having blinded him in those moments. Beneath his hands, he saw the still form of a man and mentor he had loved and esteemed for most of his life. A man who’d been a father to him when no one else would.

  His mind flew back to memories of his wife, who’d likewise died while he was near,
unable to help her. With that thought in his mind, he rose. Grant came to his feet beside him.

  “It gave me no pleasure,” Roth said. “But to get where we must go, I won’t flinch.”

  The Ascendant’s words might have been mocking. Or earnest. Or both. Vendanj didn’t care. He was done with words. Silently he stared, focusing his energy on a thought. A subtle suggestion.

  The Sheason is beaten. Overwhelmed with grief. This he did to soften Roth’s guard. And to it he added a simple slowing. Of the man’s heart. A beat less. Then two. Fatigue would overcome him by degrees. He would sink to his knees, too weak to use his blade anymore. He would lie helpless before Vendanj, who would then decide the man’s end.

  He made no gesture. No utterance. He simply commanded Roth’s heart to slow. He watched as the man slumped, ever so slightly. He watched the look of focus ebb from his face. He watched the man’s grip on his strange sword relax.

  Vendanj never moved. Never blinked. Never made a sound. And he did not rush. A slowing.

  When Roth’s chin dipped, as a man’s does when he’s fighting sleep, he jerked. The sudden movement brought fresh life to his eyes. For just a half moment. But it was enough. With what appeared a heavy arm, he raised his sword. His features pinched with new anger. Vendanj’s rendering had been nullified by the Talendraal.

  “You’re clever,” Roth said, taking a step forward.

  Vendanj still said nothing, trying to prepare another act of Will, trying to resonate with Roth simultaneously this time, rather than across space. But he was so weary. Grant circled away from him, to give Roth a point of distraction. Losol stepped out, mirroring Grant.

  Roth turned the sword back and forth between them. A taunt.

  When his body bristled with the energy, Vendanj stepped into the attack and thrust his arms at Roth. A force of Will shot from his hands and arms and chest like an unstoppable tide. The attack again broke around the Ascendant’s blade, but the impact knocked him on his ass.