Trial of Intentions (72 page)

They were greeted by the soft mourning cry of a new widow, who held her husband in her lap. Helaina thought her heart would break when she saw a young girl peeking out from behind a doorway at the far end of the room. Tears wet the girl's face. The child had learned too young—and without reason—the loss of her father. Artixan knelt, offering some words over the broken body of one from his own fraternity, and then shared a look of regret and resolve with the dead man's wife. He put a hand over hers and spoke something low Helaina couldn't quite make out. Instead, she heard the mumbling curse of her general, who moved back into the street and began shouting new commands to his lieutenants.

A few moments later, Artixan was up, and together they went out, climbed into their saddles, and went hard to the next house several streets deeper into Recityv. They arrived just as two leaguemen emerged, their weapons bloody, their brows wet with sweat. They looked up as Helaina and the other riders bore down on them. This time, Artixan was robbed of the chance to take his revenge, as Van Steward and one of his men pushed their mounts faster and rode the two leaguemen under. Two others from Van Steward's contingent leapt off their horses and finished the job.

Inside the house the leaguemen had just exited, there were hysterical cries that echoed out onto the street and brought neighbors from their doorsteps. Or was it the commotion and death of the leaguemen? Or both? Helaina looked around as chaos broke out in her city—distant cries, the panic of rushing feet, angry shouts.

Artixan went quickly into this second house. The cries stopped. When he emerged, there was a gravity in his face that Helaina had never seen. It was the quiet countenance of vengeance. A terrible face to see on her friend.

Riding from house to house was pointless. She was of no use in that effort anyway. She had to think past the slaughter of innocent Sheason. She had to imagine Roth's next move—the man would have anticipated her reactions, he would have planned and prepared each detail carefully. But so had she. He'd surprised her with the sudden escalation of the Civilization Order. It seemed a bit reckless to her. But every good politician was a bit reckless.

And while thinking past the deaths of friends and servants struck her as irreverent, she had to move quickly. But not haphazardly. She slowed her mind, absently rubbing her rheumatic hands, which had begun to cramp painfully from managing the reins.

She could get to her councilors, reason with those who had voted and witnessed to an enlargement of the Civilization Order. She knew she could turn back the law. But by the time she did it would be too late. This had been a coordinated massacre, everything happening nearly at once.

She began to feel the awful weight of the events surrounding her. Perhaps Roth had been right. Perhaps she was too old and should have stepped down—yielded the regent's seat not to him, but to a younger leader who might have prevented this slaughter. She would accept responsibility for allowing it to occur. But not today.

As she rubbed her crippled fingers, she began to see a way through. She needed to exercise some control amidst this mindlessness.
Balance
. She needed to restore balance. It was the root of her strength, just as it had been in her youth when she'd been the pride of her father's merchant house.

She still had Van Steward and his army as her right arm. But the Sheason had provided the unspoken power and threat that had kept Roth in check. With the order's power so totally impoverished, Roth might ignore formalities like Councils and Convocations and votes. Besides, she couldn't establish civility between factions who would now be sworn, open enemies. Peace would have to come another way. Before all those she loved were dead. Before her city burned to ash.

She looked down at Van Steward, who had just started to speak, when a distant roar went up. A crowd or mob. They all turned to look in the direction of the great plaza several streets over. Voices echoed along storefronts and cobbled roads around them.

Van Steward turned questioning eyes on her.

She gave a private signal to one of her Emerit guards, who nodded and raced ahead. As soon as her friends had mounted again, she took hold of her reins and kicked her mount, racing toward the tumult.

*   *   *

Roth sat atop his gelding, carefully selected for its color—the chestnut brown of the League. On his right, likewise sitting on his own mount, was Losol, his new leader of war. They had taken position at the east entrance of Solath Mahnus. On each side, the Wall of Remembrance stretched out. And before them, the great plaza had begun to fill with herded Sheason.

It had all gone as planned. The moment he'd handed Helaina the change to the Civilization Order, Losol had raised his left arm—a signal that had set off a coordinated effort to rid Recityv of the arcane arts of the Sheason. Striking fast and all at once, they would allow no time for Van Steward or the Sodality or the Sheason themselves to respond. Roth did regret that there would be innocent children left heartsick at the loss of loved ones—he knew that pain—but you must sometimes cut to heal, he reminded himself. And as Ascendant, he couldn't afford a weak resolve.

There was a better day ahead for men once they found their way beyond the superstitions of the past, and tackled their problems carefully, logically. The enemy was not truly the ghouls and gods that lived in story; the enemy was empty coffers when food was needed and the idea that one's ills could be remedied with a simple touch. Education and discussion had failed to achieve the necessary change. History would record that Ascendant Roth Staned showed unnatural courage to lift men to a new consciousness, even if it came by the loss of life.

And the last act of today's historic effort would come here. While some of the cleansing had taken place in the bedchambers and homes of the Sheason, the important part would happen on the great central plaza of Recityv. He'd directed his men to usher the rest to this place. Along the way, citizens' and onlookers' curiosity would rise. And they'd follow.

As Roth looked around now, he nodded to himself. Indeed they had. As dozens of Sheason were herded into the center of the plaza, the periphery filled with hundreds of Recityv men and women and children. Soon it would be thousands. A low babble rose, words shared behind the backs of hands or close to the ear of a neighbor. His men, some with blood on their hands and arms, firmly held a perimeter, allowing through only other leaguemen who escorted more Sheason to the center of the square—Sheason, accompanied by sodalists.

This was regrettable. He hadn't given Palon time to share with his order what he'd done. Men and women of the Sodality were still protecting Sheason. Many of them would die doing so. But it was an acceptable loss.

There wasn't much time before Van Steward would arrive in force. But Roth breathed deep, savoring this moment. The air was crisp, the sun full now in the eastern sky ahead. The rays of light struck his face and warmed him, though most of the plaza lay yet in cool morning shadow.

The scrutiny of those gathered for Convocation would come. He'd been losing his argument there, and the seat holders would likely see the escalation of the Civilization Order as a political maneuver. They'd accuse him of trying to control not just the Recityv High Council, but Convocation, as well. That couldn't be helped. The time was now. He didn't look forward to what was about to happen. But he was eager for what lay on the other side of it all. This was the boldest move he'd made so far to give his vision life. He'd see it through.

When it seemed most had been gathered, he raised his hands to quiet the crowd.
Indeed thousands.
“There is doubt and fear in your hearts,” he called, his voice echoing across the throng. “That is to be expected. Since what we do today is not trivial or easy. Today, the Civilization Order has new strength, and requires more from us. The Order of Sheason has been condemned, commanded to be executed. It is the vote of the High Council, made thoughtfully and in consideration of what is best for Recityv, for Vohnce.”

Some murmuring arose. Roth waited until it died back down.

“I take no pleasure in enforcing this law,” he continued, lending his voice a touch of regret. “Death is not the means by which I would seek civility. But we've wasted countless words trying to bring rational, needful things to you. We've tried to stop the foolish, uneducated rumors of this Quiet and their aim to enslave and destroy. If we ever find truth in this, then we'll approach the problem responsibly and with real force. But we will
not
call on myths and the dangerous practices of those who seek to deceive or control.”

One of the Sheason cried out. “This is shameless! You know these people. They've only ever tried to
help
you.” The appeal had been directed at the crowd, but Roth took it personally.

“You see,” he said, looking around the great square, “even now they would rather lie than admit the truth.”

He paused, knowing that eventually these remaining Sheason would strike back. They would seek first to persuade their captors to let them free. But then they would do as all animals do, and fight to survive. So, even here, his actions would need to be swift.

The Sheason who had called out came forward then—Ketrine Solas, the Randeur's daughter. It was poetic in a way he hadn't dared hope.

Drawing near Roth, she said, “You claim to want what is best for the people, and yet you condemn our efforts, even when we leave the Will out of it. This is madness. Where is the regent? Let us hear from her and her Council that what you do is lawful. Before another sword is raised!”

He stared down thoughtfully at her, knowing that in her case he needn't fear rendering. “My dear, appeals are done. We've been patient with your kind since the order was first passed, and men like Vendanj continue to demonstrate that it wasn't enough. Really, we have no choice.”

She glared up at him. “If you do this, or even attempt it, you'll wake my father's anger. Do you want to risk putting him on Vendanj's side?”

Roth laughed behind his gloved fist. “I have it on good authority that these two will never share a pie.”

“Good authority?”

“Out of House Storalaith, Helaina's house, as it happens,” Roth said, taking some satisfaction in sharing it with her. “Seems we common folk are rather resourceful, doesn't it? And the real value of a Storalaith is not in ruling but in information trading.”

Ketrine's eyes turned plaintive. “Let me take them away from here. We'll leave this very moment. There's no need to kill them.”

But there is.

“Oh,” Roth said, pulling her letter of endorsement from his inner pocket. “And thank you for this. It should make rounding up Sheason in other cities a
cleaner
matter, before we execute the order.”

Her face twisted in rage and horror. “You bastard!”

At a small hand signal from Roth, Losol moved his horse forward, circling Ketrine, who did not move or flinch, but stood steadfast as Losol circled her, twice around. Then, while at the young woman's back, he silently drew his sword and hewed her head clean off. It rolled backward toward her fellow Sheason, silencing the crowd.

As the headless body slumped to the ground, Losol lifted his chin and declared. “We
are
the law. We do the will of your ruling Council, and we will not suffer a single insurgent.” He pointed his blade at the headless body. “The consequence of defiance.”

A powerful sense of certainty and calm settled over Roth. So different from the tentativeness he'd known as a boy. He kept the satisfaction off his face as he focused his attention on the several dozen remaining Sheason. He could see horror and anger in their expressions. The time was now. A public display of the new Civilization Order—the entire reason for driving these Sheason to a public place—was necessary. It would make his resolve clear. And the tale of it would spread, grow. Some would hear of it on the road. Others would read it in the pages of authors. It began here in a morning of cleansing, but would move beyond Recityv. The days ahead filled him with deeper purpose and pride.

This time, he wouldn't raise an arm to cue his men—too much warning in it. Instead, by design, when he raised his eyes to the sky … it began. He liked the many ironies of this signal.

From vantage points atop buildings surrounding the plaza, expert archers began to rain down arrows. The penned Sheason dropped quickly to the cobbled stone. Sodalists, too. The air whistled with the flight of shafts and feathers. Shadows darted in the morning rays of light. Cries of pain and surprise rose up, as did sounds of horror and shock from thousands of onlookers.

The arrows continued to fly, shot with expertise, few missing their marks. Some of the Sheason raised their hands to some profane use, only to be struck by a deadly point before they could do anything more.

The sight of death didn't particularly please Roth; the face of it left him feeling empty, even when he knew it was justified. Bitter bile filled his throat, and the nature of his cause and war overcame him.

Well-intentioned men and women would die. Those few who knew him, and for whom he cared, would misunderstand him, label him a monster and traitor—no better, perhaps, than the illusions he fought to destroy. His effort to elevate men beyond the need to steal or beg or rely on anything but their
own
best effort would require more brutality. So be it.

As Sheason fell, a cry rose up behind Roth. He turned to see Vendanj rushing from the doors of Solath Mahnus.

*   *   *

Even as Vendanj raced toward the gate where Roth and his warmonger sat in their saddles … he knew he was too late. The air rang with the vibrations of bowstrings and the slip of arrows toward men and women sworn to the same oath he'd taken. They fell in waves as their bodies became little more than targets for archers firing from rooftops. They'd been caught unaware, probably in a mild state of shock and panic.