“Deliah, I’m so sorry.” He stepped past the body, putting himself between her and E’Sau. “There’s no need for you to see this. Don’t remember him this way.”
“Artixan,” Roth interjected with a reverence Helaina knew to her bones was an affectation, “this is a serious matter. She needs to verify—”
The look Artixan gave Roth was heavy and hateful. “Ascendant, I knew and loved this man like a brother. It is E’Sau. And this woman,” his throat thickened with emotion, “is my friend. I would spare her.…”
Deliah rushed forward into Artixan’s arms, and buried her face in his chest. She sobbed, as behind her the two children stood near Roth’s legs with wet cheeks. Seeing them, Artixan motioned for Roth to step back, and gently drew Deliah to her children. There, he slowly knelt, taking them all into his embrace. After a long while, he pulled back enough to speak to them.
“Let me tell you what I believe.” He gave them a reassuring smile through eyes glassy with his own tears. “I believe there’s a good place reserved for good people. A place they go to after this world, where they wait with great anticipation for the day their loved ones join them.” He placed a hand alongside the older child’s face. “That’s where your father is, Alon. And until your time comes to see him again, you have me to help you.”
Their mother reached out and wiped her children’s eyes, a brave smile on her face.
“That’s the promise he and I made to one another,” said Artixan. “And I keep my promises.”
They fell silent again for a while, sharing a series of hugs.
“Now,” Artixan finally said. “There’s some work for me to do. We have some justice to see to. And when I’m through here, I’ll come and look in on you.”
Van Steward gave a hand signal, and two men came into view. Escorts.
“He loved you,” Deliah said to Artixan. “We all do.”
He seemed momentarily incapable of words. “And I you. Anything you need.”
She gave him a parting embrace, and gathered her small ones on her way down the hall, past Roth and the first counselor.
When the door below was heard to shut, Artixan’s face changed visibly. Helaina could feel the man’s anger. “How dare you use Deliah and her family as an opinion ploy.”
“It was poor judgment on my part,” Roth conceded with a politician’s regret. “I’m sorry. I seem to compulsorily return to procedure in times like this.”
“That’s a load of horseshit,” Grant said. “You apologize after the fact, but still hope the news of it spreads. Builds public sentiment.”
“I assure you nothing could be further from the truth,” said Roth.
“And careful of you, Ascendant, to take the company of one sodalist while you have another killed.” Artixan had squared his shoulders to the man.
Roth showed Artixan a sympathetic expression. “My friend, you and I have had our differences, but I would never endeavor to do what you imply. I understand your need to assign blame, and, knowing your grief, don’t hold it against you. But please refrain from pursuing this line of thinking. I’m your greatest ally in this, and we should get started, since it would seem someone in your order is the culprit. And I would assume you’d want to know who this person is and expulse him from your ranks.”
Van Steward stepped near to Helaina’s side, seeming to likewise want to create a barrier between the men. “One day, Staned, I will cut out your crafty tongue.”
The Ascendant didn’t even bother to acknowledge the general’s comment. “My lady,” he began, addressing Helaina, “I think I can add some light of understanding to what has happened here.” He beckoned the first counselor forward, who she noticed now carried a book in his hands. “The topic of the meeting E’Sau set with us, but to which he never, unfortunately, arrived, was the schism in the Sheason Order. While we hadn’t yet spoken of it in depth, he suggested to me that he feared the rift had grown so bitter as to be a threat to the safety of the people and his own order.”
“Take care, Ascendant, not to defame this man,” Artixan said, his voice strained.
“I would do no such thing,” Roth replied, his voice a model of sincerity. “But, apparently, the infighting has become so severe that E’Sau’s own sodality was at a loss as to how to continue to serve.”
“What do you mean?” Artixan asked, the threat clear in his voice.
“I mean that he realized he had to decide which side of this Sheason schism his people would support.” Roth showed them all a sympathetic expression, as one who might appreciate the difficulties of leadership. “But as an advocate of civility and a keeper of the law, the First Sodalist had intended to unify his followers behind those Sheason who had renounced their arcane practices.”
“How do you know this?” Helaina asked. “You said yourself that he hadn’t spoken deeply about it.”
Counsel Pleades stepped closer. “When we came here earlier this evening with Sodalist Palon, and found E’Sau dead, we conducted an initial search for evidence. We, of course, found the three-ring emblem of the Sheason on the murder weapon, but we also found this.” He raised the book in his hands. “It is the First Sodalist’s personal journal. In it, he goes into some depth about his fears for the Sheason Order, for his own followers, and for the people both orders are meant to serve.”
Helaina looked at the diary, then to Roth’s face, scrutinizing the man for any momentary hint of duplicity or falsehood. The Ascendant maintained an immaculate façade of regret and officiousness.
Roth wasn’t finished. “And I’m afraid he even provides a list of names of those Sheason whose radical behavior he fears most. It would seem, my lady, that the schism is deeper than we thought, and that most Sheason have chosen a path contrary to the law.” Roth paused dramatically before saying, “They are now not only a threat to civil peace, but to your work at Convocation.”
Helaina leveled a wrathful stare on the man. “And how is that, Ascendant Staned?”
“My dear lady,” the man replied, “it’s simple. The Sheason defy the Civilization Order, and in doing so, mock your own decree. They undermine the authority and respect you need to possess if other nations are to commit themselves to your cause.”
“A cause, I might remind you, Ascendant, that you don’t believe in,” Helaina said.
“I don’t deny it, my lady. But I, for one, respect our differences. And more importantly, I respect your office. I would be remiss as a member of your Council if I didn’t advise you as I do now.”
“Where is Sodalist Palon?” Artixan inquired.
“We took Palon back to the League house; the man is distraught,” the first counselor answered. “We’ve made him as comfortable as possible, while we set in motion an investigation of this matter. Artixan”—Counsel Pleades looked at Helaina’s closest friend—“this is a serious indictment. And … your name is written on these pages.”
Bastard! She wanted nothing more than to exercise the power of her office to excise—with prejudice!—the poisonous element of her ruling council. Iron fist in a velvet glove. She prepared to loose a savage tirade on Roth when the young sodalist, Braethen, cut in. “May I see the diary?”
The first counselor looked momentarily hesitant before handing the book over. For several moments the room was quiet while Braethen looked through the last pages of the journal. An expression of focused concentration impressed her with some new hope. The young man then handed the volume back to the first counselor.
“I assume,” Braethen said rather indifferently, “that as part of your investigation, First Counsel”—Helaina smiled inside that the young sodalist addressed Pleades and not Roth—“you will verify the authenticity of those entries in the diary that make these claims about the Sheason.”
Counsel Pleades showed a look of momentary confusion, as though such had not occurred to him. Helaina noted, too, that when the young sodalist asked his question, he was not looking at Pleades, but Roth. At this, a thin smile did cross her face.
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br /> Then the counselor gathered himself. “We will be thorough,” he replied.
“Are you suggesting that these entries were not made by E’Sau?” Roth asked, glaring at Braethen with incredulity.
“I am suggesting you be … thorough,” Braethen returned.
Grant laughed openly, drawing a sharp look from Roth.
Braethen continued. “These pages aren’t consistent with what I know about the man, and I’m guessing those who knew him better would say the same.”
“I think, my young man, that this is precisely the point. E’Sau’s secret conflict was what to do about his concerns. They were worries he kept private, until reaching out to me. A meeting that it would appear someone had great motivation he never attend.”
Van Steward had grown impatient with the discussion. “My men will be paired with every leagueman and counselor assigned to investigate this matter. Nothing happens unless we’re present. Is that understood?”
“I would have it no other way,” Roth agreed. “Thank you, General.”
Then Roth and Pleades exited the room, leaving them again in the company of her murdered friend. Grant put a reassuring hand on Helaina’s arm, and spoke over her shoulder.
“What have you waited for the Ascendant to leave to tell us, Sodalist?” her husband asked.
Braethen looked over at them, drawn, it seemed, from his own inner reasonings. “If Counsel Pleades does as we’ve asked, and checks the authenticity of those diary entries, he won’t find any inconsistencies of penmanship or ink or paper or style. They’ll seem in every regard the writing of E’Sau.”
“Grand news,” Grant said.
“But I didn’t ask the question because I believed he’d find anything.” Braethen shifted his eyes to look at Artixan. “I asked to gauge the Ascendant’s reaction to the request. I could be wrong, but I thought I saw an instant of doubt in his eyes.”
Helaina turned to her old friend. “Did you see this, too?” she asked Artixan.
The old man’s composure had returned, the hint of a smile beneath his beard. “I did. Go on, Braethen. I like your wit.”
“My father taught me that among those who follow the Author’s Way, there are some whose gift is counterfeiting. It’s a skill that comes not only in the stroke of a pen to imitate another author, but in his expressions and choice of words. It’s as though this forger is the author.”
“Then we’ll find this imposter,” Van Steward said with quiet anger. “And we’ll have his confession to conspiring with the Ascendant. To murder. And treason.”
Braethen hadn’t looked away from Artixan. “It’s worse than that. Or it would be to my father,” Braethen clarified. “It might suggest something he talked to me about once or twice. Sometimes, his work … sometimes it became a burden. Not like field harrowing or well digging. But still a burden. And there were a few times, when he’d been through a full carafe of sour mash, that he talked about a sect of authors who’d given themselves to confabulation—”
“Isn’t that what all authors do—”
“Stories meant only to disrupt and darken,” Braethen hurried on. “Words that would give life to chaos and mistrust and fear. He called it propaganda. He called it the indictment of the innocent.”
“Like providing evidence that the Sheason would have a motive for killing E’Sau before he could turn the Sodality against them.” Helaina sickened at the sound of her own words.
Braethen turned his eyes back to her. “And they’re happy to intimidate us, too.” He showed them the poem in his father’s book.
Helaina promised to dispatch a band of men to watchsafe over Braethen’s father. A look of genuine gratitude filled the young man’s face, but dropped away quickly, as something seemed to occur to him.
“I think this proves that this sect of authors is real. And that the League has recruited them. Dead gods,” Braethen muttered, “the sect is real. The power of an artful lie. It’s probably been happening for a while now, and we just haven’t seen it.”
Helaina chilled at his words. But her anger fast burned away that chill. She might be in her twilight years, but she was thinking clearly. And standing in the presence of a close, dead friend, she knew what Roth would do next. He’ll seek control of Convocation. And the thought made her fear for more than her own life’s end.
My move, then.
She turned to Grant. “I suspect tomorrow holds more League surprises for us at Convocation. We may need your unusual brand of diplomacy.”
Grant’s face slowly spread into a lopsided grin.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
A Private Audience
There’s credible evidence that warring cultures also excel at carnal pleasures. What is less certain is which precedes the other.
—A Study of Cultural Appetites, Volume 2, the Northern Kingdoms—Practical Research
In the russet hues of dusk, Sutter stood on a large balcony outside his room, practicing with his Sedagin blade. An easy stillness lay over Ir-Caul, the streets empty, leaving a calm upon the city. In the cool evening air, looking out at fiery western skies, Sutter made slow, deliberate motions with his weapon, the exercise more meditation than combat training.
They’d retired without even taking supper. The rather Spartan quarters—no decoration save a broken pole-arm hung upon the wall—suited him fine. He was exhausted physically from so many long days and short nights, but his mind raced with questions after their introduction to King Relothian. The king had seen that he wasn’t a true Sedagin, which had darkened Sutter’s mood, reminding him of the many Far who’d died because of his inexperienced swordwork. He’d hoped running his sword drills would relax him.…
On his quiet balcony, he methodically rehearsed the maneuvers Mira had taught him. In the midst of his drills he considered a kind of strength in his father—the man who’d raised him, not the one who’d sired him—in working a plot of land day after day to yield up a crop to feed a few mouths. And the man did it without complaint, without ever expressing the need to do or be more than what he was.
Sutter gave a sad smile, recognizing that he hadn’t that same strength of character. Mostly, it made him grateful. Despite the bad joke of it, his years there had grounded him in what he thought of as the right things—loyalty, honesty, the ethic of work, suffering well.
He lowered his sword and stared into the past. He saw a bitter winter. The kind where the smallest pebble or dirt clod had frozen to the ground. He saw his father’s skin steaming in the deep cold, as he tore at the rock-hard soil beneath the pear tree behind their home. He saw himself pick up a shovel to try to help with his own weaker arms. He saw the form of his little sister lying beneath their best blanket, dead from winter fever. She was four. He saw redness in his father’s eyes, and maybe gratitude for the chance to swing a pick to release his anger and sorrow. He saw Renae laid in the cold, hard ground, and his da linger to say a prayer, unwilling yet to throw back the dirt.
The grief swelled inside him again, and Sutter raised his sword with renewed determination. As he completed a quick stroke with his longblade, a shoe scuffed the floor behind him. He froze. Looking out toward the horizon, he tightened his grip on his sword, his heart drumming. He imagined Quietgiven behind him, some beast, perhaps a tracker, having stolen its way into his room.
He whirled, bringing his blade around in a deadly arc. As he swung, he caught the image of a blue chiffon chemise, and pulled back his blade. He narrowly avoided cutting a woman, who stood looking at him with wide eyes.
Sutter growled, mostly from his fear that he’d almost attacked a woman of Relothian’s court.
“What do you want?” he blurted, realizing as he spoke that he could see through the sheer fabric of her garment. She wore nothing beneath. Her hair—a deep auburn color—hung in slow waves to the tops of her breasts. And her fair skin made green eyes and brown freckles brighter.
“I am Yenola, King Relothian’s sister. I’ve come to be sure you’re comfortable.” She bowe
d in a stately way, but the look in her eyes seemed less formal, more … suggestive. “You are Sedagin,” she said, her voice carrying the hint of a question.
Sutter looked down at his blade and the unique glove on his right hand. He raised both, smiling, his heart returning to a normal rhythm after the brief scare. “Sure looks like it, doesn’t it. But no, these were gifts.”
The woman’s eyebrows rose. “The Sedagin made a gift to you of their blade and glove? How did you earn these honors?”
Sutter thought, then smiled again. “I surrendered a dance with a beautiful woman.”
Yenola returned his smile, a bemused confusion lightly knitting her brow. “Of course a woman would be at the heart of it. Are you bound to this woman?”
“Not to hear her tell it,” Sutter replied, finally sheathing his blade.
The woman exuded the kind of serenity Sutter associated with royalty. She’d likely never had to dig a root. And she showed neither offense nor seductiveness when Sutter’s eyes stole glances at her supple form. He gathered the impression that her being seen this way wasn’t indecent for either of them. Still, from a sense of propriety, he turned to look back toward the distant line of mountains to avoid embarrassing himself.
She stepped close, her arm brushing his own, as she joined him in looking out from his balcony. “Keep your secret,” she said.
“It isn’t a secret,” Sutter replied. “She and I simply haven’t made any commitment to one another.”
“Not the woman, your relationship to the Sedagin. It’s assumed that you were born to the Right Arm of the Promise.”
Sutter turned to her, questions rising in his mind. Relothian hadn’t revealed why he thought Vendanj had sent them. And if Sutter’s experience proved anything, it was that when someone delayed the sharing of information, it usually wasn’t good news. Or they didn’t know.
“Is that why you came? You thought I was Sedagin?” Looking at her gown, Sutter guessed at the purpose of her visit, but didn’t say as much.
“Of course that’s why I came. Does that offend you?” Her voice never became agitated or incredulous.
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