Tahn nodded. “Because how would they have known the girl was sick. You said it came on sudden.”
Rolen took a deep breath and let it out slow. “But I knew this already. In healing the child, the poison had revealed much to me. The League had suspected the family of being sympathetic to the Sheason—Leia helped me pass out bread on beggars’ row. Poisoning the child would either prove their suspicions, if the family asked me to heal her; or if they didn’t ask me, and the child would die, proving the family’s loyalty.
“The leagueman asked again who had conspired with me to commit treason by asking me to heal the girl. Leia backed into the corner, her face pale with the realization of her crime.
“The Civilization Order calls for the death not only of the Sheason who renders the Will, but anyone who seeks a Sheason to do so.
“Leia’s father stood. ‘It was me,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t watch my daughter suffer.’
“I could see their suspicion as he took the blame. A horrible silence fell over the room. The girl’s father shared a long look with his wife. A good-bye look.
“He gave his wife and youngest daughter each a kiss on the forehead, and then swept up Leia in a tight embrace. He whispered something in her ear, and left her weeping as the League escorted him and me from the room. As we left, I saw the woman crawl into the corner with her children, thanks and loss in her eyes.
“That very night I came here,” Rolen said, his voice far away. “I’ve stayed precisely because they expected me to escape. If I rendered the Will, took myself out of here, I’d be saying I’m above the strong law.”
The Sheason took several breaths. “Still the snare worked doubly well: confirming distrustful feelings many of the people hold for Sheason, and keeping them preoccupied with small, local strife while greater threats roll toward us.”
When he finished speaking, Rolen backed into his corner and sat, wheezing.
Tahn shook his head and looked up at the door where another guard walked by, momentarily blocking the shaft of light. “But why sentence you to death? The punishment doesn’t seem to fit the crime.”
Rolen laughed quietly. “Because as the League will tell you, a small act of disobedience is the sign of a dangerous man, a man who will eventually undermine civility itself.” His voice echoed with bitter amusement. “Not unlike you.”
Tahn made the mistake of smiling. His cracked and swollen lips stabbed him with pain. “Me. And I haven’t even had my Standing.” He calculated the days in his mind. “It’s tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Rolen’s surprise came gilded with condolence.
“It’s all right,” Tahn said. “My father went to his earth years back. So I didn’t have a First Steward, anyway.”
Though I still wanted to mark the moment.
“Still not the place you must have imagined it would happen,” Rolen offered.
“In a piss hole? No, not really.” Tahn shifted, his bruised ribs needing some relief. “But I’ll get older one way or another. I suppose even prison has no hold on time.”
Filth. Cold. Indifferent rock. Shadow. Raw skin. The unmusical sound of chains. And an unhappy story of a Sheason choosing death. These would be his memories of his Standing.
Rolen crawled toward him in the darkness. The scrape of flesh over the stony floor, accompanied by the dragging of iron-link tethers, got inside Tahn. He raised his hammer scar to his face, to again feel the old familiar comfort. Not much this time.
Then a hand came into the yellow light that fell between him and Rolen. The manacle had rubbed a scar so deep into the man’s skin that beneath it was a thick ring of scabrous flesh. Above the hand floated the blurred edges of the man’s face. A kind face. Tugging at his own chain, and ignoring the burn in his shoulder, Tahn reached for Rolen, and clasped his hand in a pale wash of light from the barred window above.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Sodality and the Blade of Seasons
The Sheason were divided once—when some went into the Bourne with Maldea. We’re only ever at odds with ourselves over one issue: use of the Will.
—From the Cautionary Lecture given to all Sulivon—those training to become Sheason
Braethen’s legs and back ached, his hands throbbed. But all the hours of riding couldn’t steal the wonder of beholding the grandeur of Recityv. A few windows glowed with candles; others, high and dark, caught the long rays of starlight like heavenly winks.
Mira assumed the lead and turned left, following a series of narrow alleys and rear streets where garbage lay clustered outside back doors. Cobbled stone lay slick with the sour runoff of the refuse, a few stinking heaps steaming warmly in the chill air. More than one beggar curled close to these sources of warmth, using the waste as pillow and blanket. Even the stench of offal and human filth seemed not to bother the alley people.
Soon, they passed from the merchant district to a quarter dominated by large homes and inns with stables. Mira reined in at the rear of a multi-story house. A courtyard lay behind a wrought-iron fence that stood twice the height of a man. Into the fence, the ironmonger had worked the sigil of the Sodality.
Braethen’s pulse quickened. Members of his own order. He’d never met one.
Mira swung down from her saddle and scaled the fence. She walked the inner court to the back door, and rapped softly. A moment later the door opened without the accompaniment of a lamp. The fellow followed Mira to the gate, keyed the lock, and motioned them all inside. The man still wore his bedclothes, but didn’t seem discomfited by the intrusion. He locked the gate behind them and jogged to the small stable in one corner of the fenced yard. Again he opened the door and let them in.
When the horses had been tended, the man led them to the house, never speaking, and leaving lights off even once they sat to table in a dining area adjacent to the door. High windows admitted the neutral lunar light, paling the face of their host—a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair and a strong face. The moonlight cast shadows of the others across the table.
“I apologize for the caution of darkness, Vendanj,” the man began. “But we’re watched more closely since Rolen’s arrest.”
Vendanj turned to face the man. “Arrested for what, Malick?”
“The League laid a snare for him.” The man shook his head in disgust. “They poisoned the child of one of their own men. Wanted to test the man, and Rolen, too. See if they’d keep the law. Rolen’s being held in the pits beneath Solath Mahnus. He won’t rescue himself, and waits there to be sentenced.”
“The Civilization Order calls for death,” Mira said.
“Sentence of when to die, not whether to die,” Malick clarified.
Vendanj’s anger was tangible. Mira seemed poised to attempt a rescue that very moment. Grant made an incredulous noise, chuffing air out his nose.
“Catching Rolen has earned the League support among the people,” Malick added. “It doesn’t take much to incite suspicion of a renderer. And a Sheason who breaks the law reinforces the need for that law.”
“Has any appeal been made?” Grant asked.
“The Court of Judicature has voted on it,” Malick said ruefully. “It’s too late.”
“Perhaps not,” Grant replied.
“The leagueman was also convicted of treason. Sentenced to hang.” Malick smiled bitterly.
“I would have liked to have spoken with him,” Vendanj said.
“You still can,” Malick said. “Before he dropped from the gallows, an arrow severed his rope.”
Vendanj sat slowly forward. “By whose hand?”
“Don’t know him.” Malick hunched his shoulders. “The League claims he’s not one of theirs. I believe them. The leagueman was set up to be an example.” He paused, seeming to consider. “I suspect it wasn’t someone from the city.
“Convocation has flooded Recityv with aspirants and countrymen claiming lower seats.” Malick shook his head with mild disgust. “Few real seat holders have arrived. It’ll be weeks before some can mak
e their way here. Meantime, pretenders come in droves, following the scent of fortune and the promise of a name to be earned in war.”
“There’s talk of war?” Vendanj asked.
“War always follows Convocation.” Malick sighed. “But it’s not just politicians who come. You saw them beyond the wall. These men are sent by their mothers, their wives, landfolk who say that in the great stretches between Recityv and Con Laven Flu they’ve seen the Quiet. Men and boys sent here to prepare for war because they want to protect their families.”
Braethen nodded. Over the past few days they’d passed fields where plows had been left in the midst of tilling, empty stock pens. People were fleeing for the protection of cities with walls.
“There are so many, that a writ was issued to restrict who can enter the city.” Malick shook his head again. “Hay forks, crooked staffs, sharpened hoes, old plow horses, and cabbage boots, Vendanj. While inside, the streets teem with scion nobles and charlatans jockeying for a commission to raise their own esteem, the fields fill with unlikely soldiers come to defend their home.”
Malick looked up at Vendanj. “The archer who rescued the leagueman is probably one of these fellows, who managed to slip through the gates. A noble wouldn’t flirt with the law.”
“Where’s this archer who cut him loose?” Grant demanded.
“From what we’ve heard, he’s been thrown in with Rolen—the League’s idea of insult and justice, no doubt. They’ll try it as a high crime—”
“Did this archer act alone?” Mira cut him off.
“He came with another. Both are down in the pits. Don’t know their names. The one is cursed in the streets as simply the Archer. The other—”
“Did he wear a glove?” Mira pressed.
“The glove of the Sedagin,” Malick said, nodding. “Do you know him?”
“We do,” Braethen broke in. “Both of them. They’re friends.” For the first time Malick gave Braethen a long look. “I’m Braethen,” he said, introducing himself and extending a hand toward Malick in the cold light of the moon.
As they clasped hands, Braethen instinctively folded his first finger back into Malick’s palm. At the token, Malick’s jaw dropped visibly. He likewise folded his first finger back, and squeezed Braethen’s hand in an iron grip. “And we are one,” he said.
Malick’s gaze whipped to Vendanj, seeming to seek confirmation.
The Sheason nodded gravely. “And he wears the Blade of Seasons, Malick. I’ve entrusted it to him.”
Malick’s expression turned incredulous. “That so?”
“Perhaps there are things for the two of you to discuss,” Vendanj suggested, then shifted in his seat, seeming to refocus. “The man they call Archer must be set free, both him and his friend.”
Malick nodded as though receiving an assignment. “We could snatch them from the prison. We have friends among the ranks.”
“No,” Grant said, his voice soft but not to be argued with. “This is why you brought me, Vendanj.” He turned on Malick. “Take a message to the Halls at Solath Mahnus. The note will say that justice demands a hearing on the conduct of this Archer. It will say that there’s evidence this leagueman isn’t guilty and was rightly saved from execution. It will claim the law of Preserved Will against any who try to deny the hearing.”
For a long moment, no one spoke.
“Can this Dissent win?” Malick asked, uncertainty thinning his voice.
Grant didn’t answer, but turned a determined look on Vendanj. The Sheason nodded agreement. “Mira, find the convicted leagueman’s family. Bring them here. We’ll need to speak with them before the Dissent.”
Without hesitation, Mira slipped out the back door. Grant’s determined eyes grew distant in the moonlight, as if filled with memory.
“You’ll take the message to the courts yourself, Malick,” Vendanj said, breaking the silence. “I’ll need to speak with Helaina at some point, but we’ll see to this Dissent first. Better to ask her favor as little as possible.”
Malick nodded. “There are rooms upstairs, if you’re ready to rest.” He turned to Braethen. “I’ll stay behind if you’d like.”
Braethen nodded eagerly. “I would, thanks.”
Vendanj and Grant followed a hall deeper into the manor and could be heard ascending the stairs. Braethen turned to face Malick. He’d longed for the day when he might speak with one who shared his ideals. He didn’t know where to begin.
Malick spoke first. “You’re new to the Sodality. That’s plain enough. What would you like to know? First principles? Our history? How to—”
“No offense,” Braethen cut in, “but I’ve probably read every book that describes all that.”
“Use of a blade maybe?” Malick suggested, a bit of condescension in his tone.
Braethen shook his head. “Where I’m from we get some basic instruction. And I’m not going to master swordwork in an evening no matter how good you are with a blade.”
Malick exhaled long and slow. “What then?”
“This Rolen…” Braethen struggled to frame his question. “It seems he’s Sheason, and yet not Sheason—”
“Oh, he’s Sheason, all right,” Malick said with an easy laugh. “What you’re feeling is the division in the Order. Two ways of doing things.”
Braethen made a circular motion with his hand, encouraging Malick to explain.
“Rolen may not like the law hereabouts, but he keeps it.” Malick turned and spat—not, it seemed, a comment on Rolen. “For the most part, anyway,” Malick amended. “He saved that little girl, but he knew he was violating the Civilization Order. His way of serving is to abide by the laws of those he serves. I admire it, even if it drives me shithouse crazy.”
Braethen looked at the ceiling, beyond which Vendanj took his rest. “And what about Vendanj?”
A strange smile spread on Malick’s lips. “Vendanj goes his own way. He’s led only by his conscience. Couldn’t give a good godsdamn for law. He’s as sure as Rolen that the way he serves is the right way to help folk.”
Braethen understood, but it led to a difficult question. “How does the Sodality decide which to stand beside?”
Malick fixed him with a tight gaze. “We stand beside a Sheason, Braethen, no matter how he chooses to serve. That’s our calling. To step into the breach that allows a Sheason the time necessary to make his own sacrifice.”
“What if his intentions are wrong?” Braethen challenged.
“I suppose he would cease to be Sheason, and would be called something darker.”
Braethen nodded to that. “Are there many like Vendanj?”
“If you mean Sheason that follow their own mind, a few. And growing.” Malick scrubbed his face as if to freshen himself. “But if you mean with the same ability, then no. Vendanj … I’ve heard other Sheason marvel at his gift. The authority to render is conferred on those deemed worthy, but it doesn’t come in equal measures. Vendanj understands the blend of Forda I’Forza as naturally as you or I breathe.”
One question remained.
Braethen stared straight at Malick. “And what of this?” He put his palm to the sword on his hip. Malick didn’t follow the movement. It wasn’t necessary. The man’s face looked back, impassive, unreadable. The cords in Braethen’s back and chest tensed.
Malick let a quirky half grin move his lips. “That, my friend, is more than I could tell you … more than I know, myself. It’s got memory in it. I know that. But the blade is a blessing and a threat I don’t really understand. Guard it. Raise it when you must. And learn by it as surely as you have your books.” His eyes seemed to see something through Braethen, past him. “Lasting hell, son, I don’t like your luck.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
A Last Pageant
The great secret is that troupers don’t perform rhea-fols as propaganda or sedition. It’s all a rehearsal for our own lives. We’re terribly unassured.
—From the recorded confession of a convicted pageant wagon own
er
They stared at Sutter, unspeaking, eyes wide as though amazed they could be seen at all. Or perhaps the glossy whites of those eyes were simply the hundred-league stares of the dead.
Mists licked at him, creeping across the stone floor, swirling around their feet. The ethereal creatures stood with yearning expressions like they wanted to talk with Sutter … but could not.
And it was cold. To the bone. Just as it had been on the night he’d seen a spirit from the window in Leagueman Gehone’s house.
Sutter’s heart raced. He pulled at his chains, trying to get further away. He wanted to cry out, but his voice failed. This time, neither Tahn or the leagueman were around to help. And these two … creatures stood staring at him, their wide eyes caught in that eternal look of surprise and need.
Nightmare? Fever dream?
The trembling in his arms and legs grew so violent that his chains began to rattle. The sound of it rose into the deathly scene.
I’m going to die. I’ll never see Da again … tell him thanks.…
It was the chill of the grave. Had to be. He pressed himself into the floor, waiting to die, and heard distantly his own weak moan.
“Sutter.” An intruding voice. “Sutter!”
He stared up into the face of Thalen, at the end of his tether, calling his name. In an instant, something changed. Sutter looked around the cell. The mists were gone. The figures were gone. He gasped a long painful breath, and let out a loud cry.
“He’s having the tremors.” It was one of the scops against the other wall. “Give him some water.”
Thalen took up a bowl and wetted Sutter’s lips.
“He’ll be all right. Have him keep drinking, even the filth they’re providing. It’ll help.” The man spoke with the assurance of a father who’s had sick children.
Long moments passed, and Sutter began to feel normal again. “Thank you,” he managed.
“No thanks necessary, my boy,” the scop said. “Precious little to be done here.” His chain rattled as he waved a hand at the room. “I figure what I can do, I must.”
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