Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  Kett looked over the list names of again. Without looking up, he asked quietly, “What if I can’t do this?”

  No laugh came this time, only a silence into which candles burned. When Kett looked up, Stulten stared without emotion. “You already know the answer to this, Kett Valan. But I will tell you that the rendering of your spirit is a pain you cannot imagine. And beyond that—” He paused dramatically. “—it unmakes you. Whatever hopes or beliefs you have of a life after this life … forget them. The essence of what you are is stripped away, and you are returned to the void shapeless, nameless. You cease, Kett Valan, to be.”

  Stulten let his words hang in the air before adding, “And if you think you can suffer this, then consider your children.”

  Kett stared, disbelieving, and shook his head.

  “Quite so,” Stulten affirmed. “But there’s another path for you. And as unsettling as it may be, if you succeed, you’ll find prominence here. Trust me when I tell you, things are going to change.” The old Jinaal tapped something on his desk that looked like a star chart.

  “Think about where you want to be standing when it comes,” Stulten said. “Think about where you want your children to be standing. You, Kett Valan, have the chance not only to be on the right side of this old quarrel, but to stand with distinction. Because the truth of it is this: We really do want the same thing. We want to live where we decide. We want to undo the unfairness that sent us here so long ago. These are things everyone inside the Bourne should agree on, should work together to change. The difference between us is only that we are no longer patient or gentle in how we do that work. This is what you will learn; it is what you will help us do.”

  “Then the rumors are true,” Kett said, getting to his true purpose in giving himself to the Quiet. “You’ve found a way out of the Bourne.”

  Stulten eyed him closely. “We believe so.”

  “A way to bring down the barrier.” Kett’s voice sounded very nearly reverential, despite his effort to show no interest.

  “Or open a way through, anyway.” Stulten smiled with some satisfaction. “Now that you’re given, there’s no harm in sharing some of our plans. After all, you’re part of that now.” He took a deep breath, his eyes becoming distant. “For ages we’ve discounted the stories of the labraetates, the songmakers said to keep the barrier strong from somewhere deep in the Eastlands. I’m proud to say I’ve helped amend that notion. More evidence that we’re not what we were.”

  Understanding bloomed in Kett’s mind as he thought of all the humans brought into the Bourne. “You’re trying to breed one.”

  The Jinaal laughed without any hint of mockery. “Well of course. But that’s not even the better part of our efforts with the humans. We’ll talk of that some other time. But our plans,” he said with gentle correction, “don’t hinge on successfully breeding a labraetates. I’m not sure we could train one if we did. The Mors took that knowledge with them when they fled the Bourne, the selfish bastards.”

  The final piece of it locked in place. “You’re bringing one here. From the south.”

  “And that plan is under way. But before you’re a part of it, we have this work for you to do.” He indicated the parchment in Kett’s hands. “It will prove you to us, while it also brings the Inveterae firmly in line.”

  Stulten then reached into a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a dark chain necklace bearing the signet of the Sedgel, the Quiet leadership ranks. He handed it across to Kett, then nodded and waved a dismissive hand.

  Kett looked down at the small medallion: an inverted letter V—a fulcrum—and atop it a line. He knew the symbol, an archaic emblem for a balance scale. The line in it did not tilt or lean. It meant equanimity, fairness. He might debate that. He might argue the Sedgel weren’t fair or balanced at all. In fact, the symbol was better described as indifference. But whatever he or they thought it meant, it marked him as given until they either branded or scarred the same signet into his skin.

  Balroath took Kett by the arm and led him out of the small office. He’d thought his heart a stony place, hardened by a life inside the Bourne, subjected to countless indignities. But this …

  He followed Balroath blindly, as his mind and heart raced. He hoped there was yet stonier ground in his soul, as he stared down at the list of names.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The Smith King

  No mystery there. Jaales Relothian was a smith before he was a king. Good one, too. Brought every smith and tinker worth a damn to Ir-Caul and started his gearworks. Real war.

  —Excised from an interview with an Ir-Caul gearsmith for the Biography of Kings, intended as a work of slander by pacificists

  Sutter and Mira rode another seven days. Every moment he wasn’t on his horse, he practiced with his Sedagin blade. It had become an obsession. He rested only when they rode or slept. The overland stretches held some respite for him. More than friends around a table, more even than a long road traveled in silent company, an open endless field could rest a man.

  Near meridian of the seventh day, they passed from a leafless wood, and far ahead saw Ir-Caul rise on the plains like great bones jutting up from the land. White spires and immense towers stabbed at the sky. Even at a distance they seemed old, their whiteness perhaps wrought by the bleach of sun and time. Sutter imagined the city having lain dormant in the earth, and being slowly excavated, over the ages, by the sweeping winds that scoured the long plain.

  As they approached, they encountered no market or tents outside the city walls. The perimeter lay deserted. There weren’t even travelers to be seen coming in or out.

  What he did see were countless plumes of black smoke rising up into the sky all across the city top. These weren’t from cook fires, or hearths lit for warmth. This was coal smoke. Had to be. He’d never seen so many burning at once. Smith king. Could this city really have so many active smithies?

  They came to a stop at the gate, a sudden silence forming with the ceasing of hooves on the road. Mira made no attempt to knock or hail someone. The silence got to Sutter.

  “Hello!” he called. “Anyone home?” His words echoed across the face of the outer wall, which rose twenty strides and stretched far in both directions.

  Mira shot him a disapproving look. Sutter shrugged. “I don’t get all this ceremony and mystery. We want to go in. We’re no threat to them.”

  Mira shook her head. When she’d returned her attention to the gate, Sutter shook his own head in amused mimicry.

  The groaning sound of massive hinges interrupted him, and he turned to see the gate pushed open wide enough that three men could slip through. They came adorned in badly stained armor—breastplates over shirts of chain. The symbol of a gauntlet balled into a fist on a field of white could be seen on the shields they carried. The lead man held a sword and had suspicion in his eyes.

  They formed a rough line in front of Mira and Sutter. “Why do you make noise at our gate? Are you dullards?”

  Sutter stifled another smile. But the humor faded fast in looking at the lead man and his sword. He knew instinctively that the other wasn’t posturing, nor even threatening. Wrong answers would mean conflict, simple as that.

  “The Sheason Vendanj sent us,” Mira said. “My friend here is from the south. Forgive his ignorance.”

  The sword-bearer looked past them down the road, then both left and right out along the wall. Satisfied that they were alone, the man lowered his blade. “We’ve not heard that name in many years. What does the Sheason want?”

  “He asks that we speak with King Relothian,” Sutter said carefully, having seen some slight distaste in the man’s face when Vendanj’s name was spoken.

  The lead guard cocked an eyebrow. “Is that right? And what business would you have with the king?”

  Sutter dismounted and walked close to the man. They were roughly the same height, but he had no intention of starting a fight. He just wanted to see the man’s eyes when he spoke, gauge his reactions. “That
would be our business.”

  The man stared back flatly. “That so. And mine is to keep the riffraff out of Ir-Caul. Everyone wants to see the king: make complaints, seek mercy, claim privilege. He’s not a counselor for the masses. He’s the king.”

  Sutter saw earnestness in the man’s eyes, no bluff, no bluster. “I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass. But we’ve ridden from Naltus Far, and the ass pains are ours. I’d prefer to be back home, not serving as errand boy for the Sheason. No insult to your king. But Vendanj … he has a way of requesting. Anyway, what we have to say is important enough that King Relothian will want to see us. If I’m wrong, I’ll buy you eight drinks and walk you home.”

  The man looked up at Mira, seeming to gather for the first time that she was Far. Then he looked back at Sutter, and his face softened just noticeably. “I met your Sheason once. He does have a way about him. Very well. Keep yourselves mannered.” He and his men then stepped aside, and the massive left gate swept open. Mira led Sutter inside.

  At the edge of the city, just inside the fortification, a second wall rose. Sutter hadn’t noticed it from beyond the gate. This wall stood a few strides taller, and thicker. From this rampart, countless ballistas appeared ready for use. Men could be seen watching the horizon every ten strides. It all gave Sutter a feeling of dreaded anticipation, though the soldiers didn’t appear uneasy, which only heightened his anxiety—it appeared this city’s routine was war.

  Not much farther inside Ir-Caul, building stone showed pockmarks from siege-assault. Towers and spires stood truncated, as if severed or destroyed by assailing rock.

  As they moved farther into the city, what struck Sutter more than anything he’d already seen were the caskets.

  On every corner a stone casket stood on end, the likeness of a man carved in relief on its face. Torches burned on either side, sending shadows dancing across the road. The more of these they passed, the more Sutter believed these weren’t permanent caskets, but new ones, new deaths. Which led him to conclude that the custom here in Ir-Caul was to put their dead on display. Perhaps to honor them. Perhaps as a reminder.

  And the men were all clad in various accoutrements of war. The only exceptions were the merchants. Not a single beggar or urchin crawled in the streets or alleys. Sutter didn’t get the feeling this was due to charity, as much as the fact that people here had a purpose or they moved on.

  And perhaps because the entire city seemed to revolve around its military, they’d yet to see an inn. Sutter hoped to find a room, and get some decent sleep before calling on the king. But sleep would have to wait. It didn’t seem Ir-Caul often had visitors.

  They wound through the streets until they came to a magnificent building Sutter guessed must be the palace. Another thick wall protected the structure, this one the height of just two men. Along its circumference, men-at-arms stood watch, some talking to each other as their eyes scrutinized passersby.

  Before Sutter could ask, one of the soldiers came forward from the inner gate and took his horse by the reins. “I’ll lead you in.”

  Sutter didn’t protest, and the man stepped lively, conducting them to a stable yard and directing them to dismount. “Your horses will be cleaned and fed,” the man said, then motioned for them to follow, as he got moving again.

  Past an unremarkable door at the base of the palace he guided them, then through half-lit stairwells and halls, where in the stillness their boots sounded loud on the stone. The decorations on the walls were all of a sort: weapons, armor, paintings depicting battle or men in full war dress. None of these things appeared ceremonial or celebratory. The implements of war were all nicked and stained; the images brutal and specific as if historical and not imaginative; and the portraits of men weren’t solemn or glorious, they showed gaunt faces, haunted eyes, and ugly scars. These were the commemorations of real lives, placed in plain sight as real reminders.

  Feels like a damn crypt.

  Farther on, they began to encounter other soldiers, whose hard gazes followed them.

  Sutter muttered, “Happy bunch.”

  Mira seemed unaffected by the scrutiny or morbid décor. Sutter reflexively gripped his Sedagin blade more tightly.

  When she saw him do this, she put a hand on his sword arm and leaned close to whisper, “You’ve improved. In fact, I’m impressed with your blade work. I’ve never seen anyone take to the Latae fight dances as you have. But don’t be rash. Not here.”

  Their guide then stepped in front of a door and turned to them. “You’ll hope you haven’t misused the Sheason’s name. And don’t assume it makes you well received.”

  Sutter stared with frustration at the man who then pulled the door open, admitting them to an inner chamber. Don’t assume it makes you well received?

  Sutter’s question slipped away as he looked into Ir-Caul’s throne room. All the relics and ossuaries they’d seen thus far seemed like intimations of what stood at the far end of this hall.

  He steeled himself and went in, Mira at his side.

  The room was empty of people, leaving him with the impression that the king wanted to talk to them alone. Rectangular stone caskets, like those on the street, lay near the walls, a single bowl of oil feeding a lit wick atop each. On the wall above these tombs, weapons had been mounted. The variety suggested that each entombed man had a penchant for a different instrument of war. And far above, in the heights of the chamber, windows allowed the late hues of sunset to illuminate the eastern wall in patterns of russet light.

  The caskets, the weapons, all of it focused toward the room’s far end, where three stone steps rose to a platform on which sat a great throne composed entirely of bones.

  Sutter couldn’t remember ever seeing the bones of a dead man. But to his untrained eye, they were the bones of men.

  The great chair had been erected with care, the curve and shape of its hundreds of parts fitted together like a puzzle. It gleamed dully in the light of braziers that burned on either side. It horrified him, and at the same time taught him something about this warrior nation—they revered their dead. At least that was the impression it left on him.

  Yet, it chilled him to look at the throne. And it took him a moment to understand why: it was the casual acquaintance with death. He thought he now understood why Vendanj would want Alon’Itol’s support at Convocation. But it also felt like there was more to their coming here than requesting an alliance.

  They’ve forgotten who they are.

  From behind the Throne of Bones, a giant of a man stepped out and gazed down at them. “Only a fool uses the name Vendanj to call on this throne.”

  Over his long, oiled hair, the barrel-chested man wore a thick crown of tarnished steel. Its prongs were fashioned in the same gauntlet emblem they’d seen throughout the city. And names had been engraved upon it. While not an ornamental piece of jewelry, it nevertheless answered the question: This was King Jaales Relothian. The smith king.

  Mira prepared to speak, but Sutter placed a hand on her shoulder and stepped forward. “The Sheason is your enemy, then?” he asked.

  From the depths of his great chest the king bellowed laughter. “Gods, no. There’s real salt in Vendanj. But I wouldn’t call him a friend, either. Does he even have friends?” The king laughed again.

  “He knows Vendanj, all right,” Sutter said quietly to Mira. Then he spoke once more to the king. “He was called south by the regent of Vohnce to a Convocation of Seats.”

  The king came around the Throne of Bones and descended one step of the throne platform. He appraised each of them. “One boy, scarcely old enough to cut his beard, and a Far, come out of the east, arrive at Ir-Caul with the name of Sheason Vendanj on their lips, and talking of Convocation.” He pointed at them. Laughed loudly from his chest. “You, my friends, are on a fool’s errand.”

  “You know why we’re here, then,” Sutter said, his voice strident in the hall.

  King Relothian looked down at them. “My young friend. I know why you think the Sheas
on sent you here: to petition that I take my seat in the Hall of Convocation. I received my shrike from the regent, as did all those like me who sit in dry rooms and make talk their only weapon. The bird was tasty.”

  More laughter escaped the king’s heavily bearded face.

  Perhaps because he was tired, or mocked, or both, Sutter strode forward, placing one foot defiantly on the bottom stair of the throne platform.

  “It’s not actually taking your seat that brings us here. We know you’d never arrive in time. Convocation may already be done.” Sutter made sure the smith king was looking at him when he clarified, “It’s pledging support to Convocation. Being a part of it.”

  “I know what it means,” Relothian replied in a low, cautioning tone, though still wearing a faint smile.

  “I don’t think you understand what’s at stake.” Sutter pulled his other foot up, standing fully now on the lowest step. “Or the sacrifices made just so that we could come here to be laughed at. It’s vulgar of you to mock us. What king does that?”

  The man’s smile faltered, replaced by a heavy glare that showed scars across his brow that Sutter hadn’t noticed before. He studied Sutter for several moments.

  “For a Sedagin, you’re young to be so far from home.” He pointed at Sutter’s blade. “Let me see it.”

  Panic ripped through him, but Sutter kept his composure and drew the blade. He’d barely gotten it out of the sheath, when the king spoke.

  “You weren’t born Sedagin, were you?” Relothian’s gaze was locked on Sutter’s sword hand.

  Sutter couldn’t find anything to say, so he just stared and waited.

  The king gave a soft laugh. “Your grip is wrong for a Sedagin who grew up learning the longblade technique.”