Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  He took only a few wrong turns before finding the narrow alley that led to the rear entrance of the Sodality manor. The frenetic hum of the city faded behind him as he found the locked gate. He climbed the fence and crossed a small inner court, set around with chairs, to the door.

  He knocked softly and waited. Nothing. The windows were dark, but they’d been dark the last time he’d visited here. Since the Civilization Order, the Sodality had been forced to maintain a low profile, assuming their every move was watched, scrutinized.

  After several moments, Braethen simply tried the latch. The door opened. He found it slightly odd, believing they’d observe simple precautions like a locked door. But he slipped inside and quietly closed the door before turning to view the kitchen.

  No lingering smells of supper hung on the air. All was still and quiet. Everything appeared in order, properly placed. And yet Braethen had the feeling something was wrong. Tonight, there should have been lighted lamps, evening talk, sodalists reading and studying, especially with Convocation under way. But as Braethen moved through the first story of the large house, he found the sitting room and small library as dark and empty as the kitchen.

  He quietly walked the entire ground floor, and came to the base of a stairway. Looking up into shadows, he hesitated. As a boy, he’d been afraid of the dark. Bad afraid. Maybe because he’d read so many of his father’s books about evil lurking unseen. He smiled, defying the old fear, and began to climb the steps. Though he did place his feet at the far side of each step, near the wall, to try to avoid creaking stairs.

  Slowly he climbed into deeper darkness. He reached the second story, where heavy drapes hung over windows, blocking ambient light from the street and sky beyond. Panic grew inside his mind. He tried to reason through it; he wasn’t a child anymore, afraid of the dark. There were real fears in his life now.

  Logic didn’t help.

  As quietly as he could, he drew his sword. Then he began to creep down the hall, peering into rooms whose doors all stood open. As his eyes fully adjusted to the gloom, he recognized these rooms as personal quarters for sodalists: beds and drawers and writing desks. Braethen passed another small reading area, two large bookshelves standing like silent sentinels, forgotten in the shadows.

  Relief filled him when he’d fully searched the second floor. And found nothing. He then came to another set of stairs rising to the third and last story. Smiling didn’t work this time. He stood there, paralyzed.

  What little light shone around window drapes only seemed to make the darkness more complete. His tried to rationalize his feelings, convince himself of his foolishness. But he’d seen too many living nightmares since leaving the Hollows not to be apprehensive. His heart drummed—a warning, urging him to flee. The heavy silence seemed unnatural. Perhaps the manor was empty precisely because of this heavy silence. Wise sodalists had run from what he could only describe as a density of dread. It compacted the very air he breathed.

  Sweat beaded and ran down his cheeks; perspiration slickened his grip on his sword. He panted, finding it hard to fill his lungs.

  And still … he began to climb.

  The stairs beneath him groaned twice as he ascended into another layer of darkness. The sound of it seemed loud in the silence. If someone or something lay in wait, they’d know now that he was coming. He paused at the last step and looked down a long hall identical to the one he’d just searched. Doors stood open, like black gaping maws on either side of the corridor.

  Looking the other way, Braethen saw more doors and rooms, equally still and abandoned.

  Could they all be at some event together? I’m jumping at shadows. Calm yourself!

  Chastizing himself didn’t help. His heart raced faster, and he switched his blade to his other hand long enough to wipe dry his palm and the weapon’s handle. On a table close by rested another lamp. He thought to light it, wondering if light could dispel the dread that gripped him. But that would truly alert whatever was here, and he’d need both his hands if he encountered an intruder. He hoped the darkness concealed him as much as it did anything else.

  He smiled nervously, thinking how like so many author’s tales this was: foolhardy adventurers going into the lair of a beast, testing themselves against unseen adversaries, reluctantly challenging the darkness. But he wondered then if maybe authors told such tales because there was a truth about the dark and men’s fear of it—about the kinds of things that preferred not to be seen.

  Sword in hand, he crept door to door, peering in, expecting some sudden, violent encounter. His arms and legs ached from the constant tension of preparing to fight.

  At the end of one hall, he looked into a room and caught the movement of a shape just a few feet away. His legs weakened, but he reacted swiftly, swinging his sword. The shadowy figure did likewise. Braethen put all his strength into his stroke, hoping to beat the other back with the first blow.

  A half second later his blade struck something and the sound of shattering glass exploded in the silence. Shards fell over his hands and clattered to the floor. He realized he’d caught sight of his own reflection in a darkened mirror. He might have laughed but for the pounding in his chest.

  He whirled around. If something lay in wait, there could be no disguising his presence now. But by hells, I won’t be scared off. He started down the hall to examine the other side of the third floor.

  The far end of the corridor ended at yet another open door. This last room was larger than all the rest; it had to be the quarters of the First Sodalist. In one corner, high-back chairs hunkered around a hearth, in another corner stood a large chest of drawers, and in yet another a private set of bookshelves.

  In the last quadrant of the great room a four-post bed stood in the shadows. Of all the cots and mattresses he’d seen thus far, only this one seemed disturbed. The shadows made it difficult to see clearly, and Braethen ventured in, his sword held out in front of him.

  As he approached the bed, he thought he saw a shape lying there, motionless. Sleeping? He crept closer, straining to see through the darkness. When he’d come within a stride, he lowered his sword. The bed was empty. The coverlet had been rolled back and the pillows displaced, appearing from a distance like a sleeping man.

  Braethen turned and surveyed the room. The entire manor appeared empty. The tightness in his chest eased, and he took a deep breath. But he didn’t sheathe his sword. Not yet. He began walking the rest of the room, to be thorough. As he went, his mind finally relaxed enough to frame the question he’d come here to ask: Was he on the right side of the schism that had torn the Sheason Order in two?

  As he came around the nearest chair, he saw him. Slumped into its high-back embrace, E’Sau sat dead, a knife protruding from his neck. In the shadows, dark blood stained the man’s shirt a deep shade of black.

  Braethen fought the urge to cry for help. The First Sodalist was beyond the assistance of a physic blackcoat. And in these times of rumor, Braethen knew that being found alone here, a virtual stranger, would make him a prime suspect in the man’s murder.

  Why would someone kill the First Sodalist? Staring at the lifeless shape, he struggled with the senselessness of E’Sau’s death, the injustice. Then he noticed something lying in the dead man’s lap, his lifeless fingers curled around the object. He knelt and leaned close. A book. With care, Braethen gently pulled the tome from the man’s hands. He turned back the cover, but darkness made it impossible to read the book’s title. Braethen backed away to the nearest window and drew aside the curtains.

  Despite the light of the stars and a bright moon, true dread crept inside him for the first time that night. His heart began again to pound in his chest. It was his father’s book: The Seamster’s Needle.

  Is this just awful coincidence? Braethen wondered. Or had E’Sau expected Braethen to come? Maybe someone or something had placed the book in the man’s hands. A sign or message to him. This last thought resonated with the most truth.

  When the shock of
it abated, Braethen returned his eyes to the page, and noted blemishes there—it was the same book Vendanj had given him.

  After wandering the raucous streets of Recityv, and ascending through the dreadful shadows of the sodalist manor, and finding E’Sau dead with Braethen’s father’s stories in his hand … after it all, the most frightful moment came in a scrawled bit of verse below his father’s name:

  A bloody treasure you now hold,

  Earned rightfully and willfully,

  By following, with actions bold,

  A man who will not see.

  But patient are the rest who wait

  To know if you will learn,

  And find the courage that will turn

  To peace what now is hate.

  For boys will come to manhood

  And wonder if they could

  Follow paths that they might change

  If they but understood

  That death is just a consequence,

  An easy thing, a recompense,

  Of parents who may learn death’s sense,

  Which comes they know not whence.

  Braethen looked up and, staring at the night skies through the dead sodalist’s window, began to understand the poem’s message. A threat. On his father’s life.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  An Illicit Diarist

  The Dimnians are a thinking people, but still knew civil war once. Over a book. The ideas in it were said to be contagion. Well beyond thought riddles. No extant copies are known. The book was also, apparently, unattributed.

  —Drawn from The Conspiracy of Words, anonymous

  Whenever Helaina was awakened after dark hour, she knew the news was bad. This summons came on the first night of Convocation, making her dread that the two things were related. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the message came on the lips of her once-husband—the man had a way of being at the center of dire events.

  She hastened to get dressed, her arthritic fingers fighting with the buttons of her gown. The task was none the easier with Grant waiting just outside the door for her to finish. She could feel the man’s impatience. Finally, exasperated, he came in, as though he knew what was causing the delay. He gently pushed her hands away and began to fasten the buttons up the side of the garment.

  “This isn’t proper,” she said. Even to herself, her voice wasn’t convincing.

  “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” And though he didn’t dawdle in the effort, he added, “And I don’t believe there was ever an official annulment of the wedding. So, according to the law, I’m committing no crime.”

  “Precisely the kind of bedchamber talk a lady likes to hear,” Helaina replied.

  As though he hadn’t heard, Grant commented, “You’re well preserved.”

  She looked at him, shaking her head. “Your charm is boundless. Why have you wakened me?”

  “We shouldn’t discuss it here.” Grant fastened the last button.

  “Tell me where we’re going?” she insisted.

  Grant leaned in. His warm breath caressed her ear when he whispered, “To see your First Sodalist.”

  She drew back, looking a question at him: Why a late night visit to see E’Sau? But the man offered no answer. Helaina leaned back toward him, putting her own lips near to her estranged husband’s ear this time.

  “Summon Artixan and Van Steward to join us.” She lingered a moment, enjoying being so near the man again. After all these years, the scent of him still aroused her.

  From a sense of propriety, she pulled herself away. He looked at her and said softly, “I already have. I’m afraid, my lady, you are as predictable today as you were twenty years ago.”

  He smiled then, the lines of weather and sun around his eyes and mouth making him, to her mind, the handsomer. It was infuriating that he possessed such raw magnetism, while simultaneously proving to be so objectionable. She remembered that his passion and obstinacy had been no small part of his appeal when she’d first met him.

  They made their way out of Solath Mahnus without drawing any attention to themselves. Much of that had to do with her Emerit guards making the way clear. And by the time they’d walked the streets of her city and arrived at the residence of the First Sodalist, both Artixan and her general were there, standing with Vendanj’s young sodalist. None of them spoke as they followed Braethen inside.

  Helaina prepared herself for a meeting with E’Sau. There’d likely been some development in the rift that divided the Sheason. The First Sodalist had been good about keeping her apprised of the rising tension, since it could potentially affect Convocation.

  When she entered E’Sau’s room, and rounded the chairs set before the hearth, her heart sank. Her trusted friend had been murdered, the weapon still protruding from his neck. A lamp set on a table between the hearthside chairs lit the awful sight, showing pallor in E’Sau’s skin and coagulated blood across his neck and chest.

  They held a collective silence as they viewed the grisly scene, internalizing what they were seeing, honoring the loss. And for her part—though she hated that her mind went so fast to it—she considered the implications for her Council and Convocation.

  Helaina spoke first. “Who did this?”

  Braethen answered, speaking in the reverential tones one uses at a barrow yard. “I didn’t see who did it. After Convocation, I came here to talk with E’Sau. The manor was empty, no lamps were lit, and all the inner doors had been opened. This is where I found him. I went back to Solath Mahnus and waited for Grant. I didn’t trust the news to anyone else.”

  Helaina nodded. “In the future, you may trust any of us here.”

  Braethen nodded in return.

  Artixan stepped forward and knelt before the dead sodalist. “You were a good friend. Rest now. Others will carry the mantle you bore so well.” The Sheason then put his hand over E’Sau’s, as though bidding the sodalist farewell. Still kneeling there, Artixan’s voice changed, an edge replacing the thoughtful remorse. “This isn’t random. No house thief came here sniffing for coin. And it doesn’t feel like revenge. E’Sau had enemies—my enemies—but the object of their scorn was me, not him.”

  Van Steward offered an angry sigh. “It’s not really a mystery, is it? Who profits most from E’Sau’s death?” Her general proceeded to answer his own question. “E’Sau’s vote always aligned with Artixan’s—not from compulsion, but from oneness of mind. And Artixan’s vote typically supports the regent for much the same reason. There are important matters to be decided soon, and some recent decisions that Roth may call to be voted on again. It will take time for the Sodality to name E’Sau’s successor. Meanwhile, the balance of votes shifts in Roth’s favor.”

  “The Sodality will move fast to replace E’Sau,” Artixan assured them.

  “It’s more than the High Council,” Grant reminded them. “It’s also Convocation. Losing E’Sau, we lose a vote on both.”

  Grant looked directly at Helaina. “You’ve lost a strong voice for bringing rulers together a third time. Whoever replaces E’Sau won’t have the same credibility, simply because he’ll be new and untested.”

  Anger blossomed in the pit of her stomach. “If Roth is responsible for this, I’ll have him executed this very day. Justice won’t be cheated. E’Sau’s death will not be made a matter of politics.”

  A shocked and horrified whisper from Braethen interrupted them, “Dead gods.”

  The sodalist crept to one side of the chair and bent down, inspecting the dagger sticking out of E’Sau’s neck. He then turned to Artixan, who still knelt on the floor.

  “You should look at this,” Braethen said to the Sheason.

  Artixan stood and shuffled to one side, inclining toward the weapon. Helaina watched as some revelation stole into her friend’s face. Without waiting to hear what they saw there, she stepped forward to look for herself. On the flat, round end of the dagger handle, graven on the steel, was the three-ring emblem of the Sheason Order. The implication was obvious. Apparentl
y, removing E’Sau from the balance of power wasn’t enough for her enemies.

  Grant seemed to have no need to inspect it for himself. “The three-ring knife is mostly ceremonial, but it’s manufactured individually for each man or woman taken into the order. There’ll be a hunt for the renderer who has lost his knife, but the real hunt isn’t about one man. That’s plain enough.”

  Van Steward spoke, his voice loud and resonant. “We’ll find the one responsible. This very hour I will mobilize—”

  “We’ve already started that process,” came a voice from the hallway. Roth entered the room, followed by Jermond Pleades, First Counselor at the Court of Judicature. “Your men are welcome to join the League in pursuit of justice on this matter, General.”

  Helaina adopted a more formal posture and stepped between the Ascendant and Artixan, knowing emotions would be running high. “And how did you know to start such a search so fast, Roth?”

  A smile so faint that Helaina wasn’t sure she’d seen it at all crossed Roth’s lips. “Rather simply. E’Sau and his second-in-command, Sodalist Urieh Palon, were scheduled to meet with Counsel Pleades and myself directly following Convocation today. Palon arrived as scheduled, and we spoke idly, waiting on E’Sau. Eventually, the three of us came here, thinking the First Sodalist had perhaps forgotten our appointment. To our dismay, we found this brutal scene. We went directly to inform his family, and bring them here to verify—”

  A small woman pushed past Roth. Her honey-gold hair was coiled in a bun, her expression a griever’s frown. She drew after her two children.

  Shameless bastard even brought the children. This wasn’t verification of the dead. This was waging the war of public opinion.

  “Artixan?” E’Sau’s widow spoke his name with a pleading voice. Tell me it’s not so. Make it not so, that tone said. They knew each other, of course. Artixan and E’Sau were as close as she and Artixan were.