Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  In the darkened hall, Grant half-smiled that none of them denied having spies deployed in neighboring nations.

  “I’ll be returning to Naltus,” said Elan. “I have work to do at home. And I won’t sit at Roth’s Convocation.”

  Grant nodded. He didn’t think even Roth would push the Far. Not at this time, anyway. Taking another inventory of support, he noted that all here tonight had spoken, save Queen Valstone. But though she’d been silent, her eyes were alive with thought.

  “Ela?” Grant asked with a leading tone. He’d known her well in years gone by, when she’d come often to Helaina’s court. “We’ve not heard from you. But there’s always something on your mind.”

  She waved a hand. “I’m just thinking that one of us should go further with Roth. Get close. Embrace his ambition as their own.”

  “Are you volunteering?” he said, his smile full now.

  “Reyal’Te is known as a champion of civility. Not the League’s brand of it. But more genteel, shall we say. It wouldn’t be suspicious for me to be the one to do it.”

  Grant liked the idea, but knew the risks. “Just be careful.”

  “Oh, please. I deal with confabulators better than Roth in my pastry kitchen.” She laughed easily, and many around the table joined her.

  As laughter was tapering off, Palon spoke, his face still screwed up tight. “I need to tell you something.” His voice was small. “I need to tell you all something.”

  Grant leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “You have our attention.”

  In the dark and silence of the Convocation hall, he related the account of Roth’s visit to his home the night before.

  On his right, Grant heard Vendanj whisper, “My last god…”

  “All I could think about,” Palon explained, “was the lives of those I’d just sworn to serve. Their families. I’m so sorry.…”

  “You must renounce it,” Chraestus said, no judgment in his voice.

  “No,” Grant said immediately. “At least not formally. It would put your people in danger. And the Sheason are already dead. Let’s not ignore their sacrifice.”

  “What are you thinking?” Danis was nodding as though he already knew.

  “Palon stands in a unique position. He’s made a difficult choice as the new leader of the Sodality in Vohnce. Roth fancies himself a self-made man … ascendant. He admires the difficult choice.” Grant pointed to the sodalist. “Palon can get close to Roth as a result. Earn his trust. We’ll make use of that.”

  Palon was shaking his head absently. Grant understood the gesture—not a denial of the request, but self-condemnation.

  “Listen to me, Palon.” Grant gathered the man’s attention. “I don’t agree with what you did. I doubt anyone here does. But don’t waste the opportunity we now have by wallowing in self-loathing. There’s a good path from here. Take it.”

  The young man stared back at him. There was a moment of disbelief. But while they shared that moment, something hardened in Palon’s eyes. It was a look Grant knew from so many wards in the Scar, from those who survived that place well. He nodded satisfaction back at the man.

  But that hard look had another quality. Concern. Palon’s jaw clenched.

  “What is it?” Grant asked.

  “Early this evening, I received a note telling me Artixan had survived the assassinations. That he’d be in today’s safe chamber. I sent a few men.…”

  The Sodality kept a strong room for consultation, which moved every day. Rarely the same place twice. It had become a method for securely sharing information since the Civilization Order had been instituted. The room was also where a Sheason was kept if there was any threat to his life.

  “There’s something more?” Grant pressed.

  “Just before coming here, Roth came to me, wanted to know where today’s safe chamber was.” Palon stared at Grant with distress in his face. “He’s been sweeping the city for any hidden Sheason.”

  Vendanj was already running for the door. “Where?!”

  Braethen raced beside the Sheason.

  Palon shouted to them the location of the day’s strong room—right there in Solath Mahnus. Grant told Palon to stay put, and raced after Braethen and Vendanj through the darkened Convocation hall.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  No Grey Country

  The traditional belief of Alon’Itol kings is that they will one day meet every man, woman, and child that dies during their reign, and have to make an accounting to them.

  —From the Register of Devotions, an index of avowals recently stolen from the Cathedral of Bastulen

  Strong westerly sun shone across the concourse in dusky gold and auburn hues as thousands of Ir-Caul men marched over the parade yard. Mira watched solemnly as rows of twenty moved in processional fashion, having left vacant spots where their dead comrades had walked. It looked like an endless, awful smile that had lost too many teeth.

  They were returning from a broad sweep to the north and west. Rumor had arrived ahead of the army that they’d never reached the battlefront, and that many—too many—had fallen in the attempt.

  The men needed no drum or caller to mark time for their measured steps. Nor did they stomp or make a show of their uniform lines and cadence. They simply moved past the mezzanine where the king and his generals looked on, unspeaking. It seemed a silent ceremony, one of mutual respect: soldiers for their monarch, and Relothian for his fighting men.

  Just beyond the marching column, other men drove teams of muscled work-horses that pulled their war machines. The creak and roll of axles and wheels over the yard stone echoed flatly around them. Many of the gearworks rose high against westering sun, casting long shadows that slowly passed over the king and his coterie. Some of the great trebuchets and catapults had been ruined, making their shadows appear like strange, twisted creatures as they stretched toward them. Near these, men with tool belts walked like healers watching over ailing friends. Field gearsmiths, no doubt.

  As the procession continued, Mira saw many men who had likewise been crippled. Some limped, and some were assisted by comrades or conveyed on stretchers—legs and arms lost or rendered useless. She grew angry, recalling the conversation she’d overheard in the king’s sister’s chicken coop: Perhaps they know we’ve been filling the traveling army with loyalists.

  Mira had a suspicion that the corruption of Relothian’s house was responsible for deliberate tactical failures in matters of war. Which would also mean that men were dying in battle because their generals were purposely making bad decisions. Getting rid of loyalists. Staring out over the returning army—so many lost, so many wounded—she thought about her own decimated people. She couldn’t remain silent any longer.

  Mira stood up from her seat far to the king’s left. She swept past him, speaking loud enough for all to hear: “Come with me.” She caught sight of Thalia, Relothian’s sister, and her escort, General Marston. She’d recognized their voices—from the chicken coop—when they’d all gathered earlier this hour for the return of this Ir-Caul brigade. They rose at her invitation. Good, let’s make some accusations.

  She stepped fast down two sets of stone stairs and out onto the broad parade yard, where she waited for the king and the rest to catch up.

  “Stop them,” she said to Relothian when he came up beside her.

  Relothian turned on her. “I don’t suffer indignity on one of our oldest and proudest traditions. Tell me what this is about.”

  Mira stepped within arm’s reach of the passing battalion. She reached out and grabbed one of the footmen, yanking him from the march and hauling him around to face the king.

  The men broke ranks and began to draw their swords. The king held up his hand, and gestured for them to continue their ceremonial procession. “If you don’t have good reason for this, Far, you’ll never leave this yard.”

  She stared back at the king evenly, her own anger an easy match for his indignation. Still, she had taken a great gamble on her assumpti
ons.

  She eyed the man she’d pulled from the marching line. “You’ve lost many men from this brigade. Nearly one in three. Tell us how.”

  The man didn’t look at her, instead staring directly at his king. “Sire, I’d rather not. I don’t complain. I’m proud to serve.…” The footman trailed off, his voice thick with emotion.

  “What’s your name?” Relothian asked softly, showing a tenderness she’d not heard from him before.

  “Lian, sire.” The man never averted his gaze from the king’s eyes.

  “Lian, it’s your duty to be honest. You have my pardon for anything you say.” The king put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  At Relothian’s touch, the footman slumped a little, as if already bearing a great weight. But he then seemed to gird himself up, and stood straighter, always looking into the king’s face.

  “Sire, eight days ago at dawn we came to the Gallem Valley. Low clouds there. Silent as a grave.” Lian stopped, appearing to consider what to say next. “We went in at the narrow end, sire, where the hills are steep on both sides.

  “There was no sign of Nallan, but the men didn’t want to travel by way of the narrow end of Gallem, sire. We’d be too spread out, too open if you take my meaning.”

  She guessed they all knew where this story led. But like nightmares in which you know you are dreaming and can only wait and watch as the horror finds you, the account of the attack began to unfold.

  A voice interrupted the story. “My king, must we have recounted the losses of war when we should be celebrating the living who return to us in honor.”

  Mira shot a look to her right and found the king’s sister, Thalia, stepping closer.

  “I think we can forgive the Far. She doesn’t understand our traditions. No doubt she’s moved by the sight of such valor. We all are. But let us not make these men relive such atrocities.”

  Mira didn’t wait for the king to reply. “My lady, you’re right. I am moved at the sight of these men. But not for valor’s sake. I will have Lian’s story.”

  The king looked at his sister, whose brow knitted in disapproval—and concern, Mira thought. Then Relothian turned hard eyes on Mira again. “You’ve no more allowances from me, Far. We will have Lian’s words here and now. You will hope what he says doesn’t condemn you.”

  The man then looked at Mira for the first time, his eyes lit with a spark of hope. “You’re a Far,” he whispered.

  Mira took the man’s hand in the welcome grip of friendship. “Spare nothing,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Then Lian’s head snapped back around to face the king. His jaw flexed as he prepared to speak. “Sire, the men didn’t want to enter the narrow valley. Men loyal to the throne advised the captains, and were lashed for it. We went in. Marched quietly for several hours. Watched the steep hills on both sides. Soon, the low clouds made it impossible to see.”

  He paused, taking a long, slow breath. “Deep inside the pass, the hills came alive. Out of the fogs, every kind of weapon: arrows, spears, knives, rocks. The crash of drums filled the air. It was hard to think or hear. By the time we got ourselves to cover, Nallan men pounded out of the hills on every side. Up the trail behind us. Down the path ahead of us. It’s a miracle we lost only one in three, sire. We owe that to the iron will of Ir-Caul men, and nothing else. But my king…”

  “Don’t hold back,” Relothian urged.

  “We should never’ve gone that way. ’Twas foolish. If I didn’t know better, I would say—”

  “You were led like lambs to slaughter,” the king finished. “This is poor leadership. You have my apologies, Lian. I won’t let this pass.”

  Mira gathered Relothian’s attention. “It’s not poor leadership. It’s contagion in your court.”

  “Watch your tongue!” The king took a menacing step toward her.

  Mira didn’t yield, but instead met the king halfway, looking up into his glowering eyes. “More than this,” she said. “It’s contagion in your house.”

  Relothian seized Mira by the shirt, nearly lifting her from the ground. Weeks ago, she never would have allowed it. But she hadn’t been able to react in time to stop him. She still managed to draw one sword as he pulled her face a finger’s breadth from his own.

  “Take back your words,” he demanded icily. The king’s closest guards drew their weapons and surrounded them.

  Mira waited to retaliate. She didn’t wish to harm the king. She also wasn’t sure she could do much before his men cut her down.

  “You must listen,” she demanded, maintaining her composure. Softly, she added, “Please.”

  The simple plea changed the look on Relothian’s face.

  Far back against the mezzanine wall she saw the soldier she’d paid to keep an egg-gatherer company until she beckoned them. Those men were now being ushered away, and Mira knew Thalia had intercepted Mira’s ploy to expose her plots.

  “Stop them.” She pointed at the soldiers and her informant.

  “You there! Hold!” the king shouted. The soldiers abruptly stopped. Then he looked into Mira’s face, and spoke just above a whisper. “Tell me what this is about.”

  Mira nodded toward the two men who’d almost been escorted from the parade yard. “Have them brought to you.”

  “Those men,” he said to the nearest guard. “Bring them here. Now.”

  “This is outrageous, Jaales,” Thalia protested. “They breed lies. I won’t stand for it!”

  A moment later, the soldiers returned, escorting a simple farmhand Mira had met lately in the company of chickens. She gave the old man a firm look and said, “Tell him.”

  As the man shared countless stories of secrets and private meetings held in his chicken coop, Mira realized the military parade had stopped. Men with blood-soaked bandages, a few with missing limbs, and others with grit on their faces so heavy that they looked like pageant wagon players, all had begun to gather around on the immense parade yard. No one spoke as the old man offered in his wizened voice the secrets of scandal.

  The man finished by repeating what he’d said to Mira. “Don’t let them get away with it.”

  Mira told what she had heard that day, as well.

  Relothian’s face fell slack and pale, even in the warm tones of sunset. She imagined him thinking of the countless men who had died, the many processions he’d watched here under westering suns that came with many gaps where men should have marched. When Mira finished recounting what she’d overheard in the chicken coop, a horrible silence fell across a place reserved for honor and pride.

  Into the stillness, she heard a soft word of disbelief from the king. “No.”

  She turned her head and watched as Relothian went to his sister. General Marston came up beside them.

  “Your Majesty, your wisdom is sharp to see through this plot.” The general narrowed a hawkish look at Mira. “How else do you explain a Far arriving with these fantastic lies? Or a boy pretending to be Sedagin, come to curry favor on the strength of an old bond between us and the Right Arm? They’re spies or inveiglers, sire. Let me execute them for suggesting such disgrace in your own house.”

  Relothian’s expression slowly changed, as though he was becoming confident that he had escaped some coup. The touch of his sister’s hand seemed to reaffirm his sense of purpose and direction. “Remove them,” he said with an uncertain tone.

  Two guards seized Mira. And a small squad began to take her and the chicken farmer from the parade yard, as the sun dipped fully beneath the western rim. A moment later, another voice pierced the twilight. “Let them go!”

  Into their midst rushed Sutter, with a finely dressed woman and a boy in tow.

  Seeing his other sister with Sutter, Relothian raised an arm and his men stopped. Sutter flashed Mira a look both reassuring and grievous. Then the rootdigger looked around him, assessing the situation.

  After a moment, he took the young boy by the hand and approached Relothian. “I told you I’m not Sedagin,” he began. “What I di
dn’t tell you is my true bloodline.” Sutter looked down at the boy with him. “I was born to parents who had no use of me. Pageant wagon folk. A farmer saved me from them and took me in. He gave me a bed and family, and taught me to appreciate soil—”

  Relothian interrupted sharply, “The only thing I want to know about you is your relationship to my sister.” The king pointed to Yenola. “If you’ve shamed her, your death will not be quick.”

  Sutter never looked away from the youth at his side, as if his courage and resolve rested in the child. “Your fields yield no crop,” Sutter said. “The soil has a bitter taste. Roots won’t take to it. You must have a healthy trade with distant farmlands to feed your men.”

  “Yenola,” Relothian said, with rising anger, “tell me what this is about. Now. I won’t suffer fools or liars a moment longer.”

  The lovely young girl returned the king’s cross stare with a look of faint defiance and resignation. It made Mira think of the way a woman looks when she’s reconsidering her loyalties. Instead of responding to Relothian, she came to stand at Sutter’s side, opposite the child.

  The smith king’s jaw fell. Only a notch, but visibly for that.

  Sutter hadn’t looked away from the boy, a steadfast intensity in his face. Mira had never seen such determination in the young Hollows man. And yet, she noted some compassion there, too, like the look of a protective parent.

  “King Relothian, do you know what robs your soil of the richness it needs to yield its fruits? No, you don’t,” Sutter said immediately, disallowing a reply and breaching every form of etiquette. “It’s the very war you fight. It’s the smelting ore you use to fire your steel, that fills the sky with smoke from a hundred forges.”

  It was then that Sutter looked up at the king, his countenance hard. The revelation brought surprised looks to the faces of many, including the king.

  “But that’s no crime. Soldiers and smiths wouldn’t know the smoke from their forges might taint the air and soil.” Sutter reached into his pocket, pulled free two dark rocks, and held them out toward Relothian. “The ores you trade for to get your steel, and melt it down.”