Trial of Intentions (78 page)

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Darkness gave way to light, and Braethen returned from a time in history. In the space of a few short breaths, the world of the Placing became the plaza. But the Blade of Seasons had carried him into the past. It had been more than a vision. It had been
going there.
It left him unsettled, as the present moment crystallized into the satisfied expression of Vendanj, who had come to carry him from the fray that raged around him on the plaza.

The images of the Placing, though, weren't so easily left behind. And on his neck, he still felt the pain of a brand forming an incomplete circle.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

New Alliances

Anything may be written upon. Anything.

—Statement made by an author witness during his demonstration of Seriphic glyphs at the first Succession on Continuity

G
rant caught Helaina as she fell from the Wall of Remembrance, an arrow in her chest. Her eyes were closed, her body limp. He laid her gently on the ground as Artixan rushed to her other side, his wrinkled face taut with concern. Behind them, the sound of running footsteps could be heard, and Grant looked around to find a mob of Recityv guards and attendants hurrying toward them to assist the fallen regent.

Grant took hold of Helaina's left hand, and with his free hand, placed his fingers on her neck, feeling for a heartbeat. Nothing. He repositioned his fingers higher, and relaxed. His own heart raced with emotions he'd not felt in a long time. He'd always assumed that a reconciliation would come for them. That he or she would admit to being wrong where Tahn was concerned. That they'd recapture the feelings of the past. Now, he might not ever get to tell her. The swell of grief made it momentarily difficult to concentrate on his task.

Before he could regain his focus, the hand he'd placed inside his own gave a quick squeeze. Then again.
A ruse!
Somehow, she'd arranged this deception. It took a great deal of effort to keep the smile of relief and admiration off his face.
Crafty woman. No wonder I love her.

Immediately, he could see the benefits of her gambit. They had to maintain the hoax. Grant gave Artixan a knowing look, and the man's brows went up in quick acknowledgment. The Sheason then made a show of putting his hands on her chest and speaking more loudly than he otherwise would have.

Grant leaned down close to her ear. “Lie still,” he said. “Don't open your eyes. Keep your chest and belly as motionless as possible.”

Then he stood and turned to the mob of attendants closing in. “The regent is dead,” he announced. “The regent is dead!” he said again, yelling this time with mock grief and anger. When those racing toward them heard it, they slowed, dumbstruck. “The regent is dead!” Grant cried out a third time, making sure that at least some of those beyond the gate would hear him.

He strode toward the mob, not allowing them to get too close. “Go. Spread the news. I will see to the rest.” After some initial hesitation, they went, exiting the courtyard in a loose pack. He wanted the city to know. And one citizen, in particular.

Grant turned and addressed Helaina's Emerit guards, who still stood nearby. “Get word to every Convocation seat holder: The League has murdered Helaina. Tell them Roth will likely assume the regent's place, but that he will never speak for the Second Promise.”

One of the Emerit moved to go around Grant, get to his regent. Grant stepped into his path. “You're the senior man.”

The other nodded. “Crawford. And you're no longer Emerit,” the man said, with no particular judgment in his voice.

Grant didn't bother establishing a pecking order. “Has Helaina kept an
accounting
of who at Convocation leans her way?” “Accounting” was the Emerit term for gathering information on someone, by any and all means.

“You know I can't answer that.” Crawford shifted to look at Helaina, then back to Grant. “But to any Emerit, past or present, it's a silly question.”

Grant kept from smiling for the second time in as many minutes. “Get to them. Every one. Don't be seen. Gather them in the Hall of Convocation at dark hour. No lamps. No candles. Escort them in at varying times, and by the rear entry hall. No discussion until I arrive.”

The man seemed to weigh the set of instructions, holding an even gaze on Grant. “You will honor what she was trying to do?”

“That was my thought.” Grant extended a hand, which Crawford received in the Emerit grip. “Now, how many men do you have in or near this courtyard right now?”

“The regent fell.” It seemed at first to be all the answer the man thought necessary. When Grant didn't reply, he added, “Fourteen.”

“Take your two closest men with you when you go. Signal the rest to come in close and be seen. I'll need their show of strength.”

Crawford didn't hesitate before making a subtle hand signal that only an Emerit would catch. Within moments, several Emerit materialized in the courtyard as if from nowhere.

“They'll do as you ask,” Crawford said.

Then he and two of his men left, blending into the world around them and disappearing fast. As Crawford himself passed through the gate at the Wall of Remembrance, Roth and Losol entered, striding directly for the regent.

Right on time.
The one citizen Grant had wanted to see, and had known would come fast to verify Helaina's death.

“Here comes Roth,” he said, loud enough only for Artixan to hear. The elder Sheason did something more in his ministrations over Helaina, then sat back, sighing with some exasperation and grief.
Good showmanship.

Before the Ascendant got too close, Grant spoke softly to Vendanj, who had just sat Braethen down against a near wall. “Don't provoke him. I'll take care of this.”

Roth and Losol slowed to a stop a few paces away.

“Come to pay your respects? You're a decent murderer to do it.” Grant lent his words an edge of ready violence.

“It is a shame,” Roth began. “Rest assured I will find the man responsible and hold him accountable.”

“Even when you find him wearing League browns? I doubt it.” Grant looked down at Helaina.

“You blacken this moment by politicking over the body of a woman so well regarded.” Roth's smile was only in his eyes, but it was there.

“I blacken this moment, do I? Interesting. As I imagine your respects are really just to confirm her death. Am I right? Your tender farewell is to be sure you can safely take hold of the regent's seat.”

“It's procedural,” Roth replied. “Her death must be verified.”

It was true, and precisely what Grant had counted on. Especially from Roth. “Maybe with two Sheason, a sodalist, twelve Emerit, and myself, we have enough
procedure
to put an end to you and your dog.”

“That would be my preference,” Vendanj said, his face grim with anger.

Behind Vendanj, Braethen got to his feet and came to stand beside him.

Roth waved a dismissive hand. “I would have thought you'd seen enough of my friend here to think twice about that. And an astute man would know that if I'd followed you here to do anything but verify the regent's death, I'd have come with more help.” He made another dismissive gesture. “Besides, Helaina would want the city to move on with strong leadership. You know that's true.”

“No arrogance on your part in that,” Braethen mocked. “League politics seems to be: ‘Give the people what they think they need, not what they truly need.'”

Roth turned toward Braethen. “You've recently lost your leader, as well, haven't you? Dangerous company you keep.” Then he looked back at Grant. “Are we going to have sharp banter all morning? Or can I see to my duty as acting regent? I won't make any promises about what comes next.” He eyed both Vendanj and Artixan. “But I'll promise to withdraw peacefully after saying my own good-byes to Helaina.”

“The regent's seat is filled by votes, you'll remember. Helaina's death guarantees you nothing.” Grant looked over his shoulder, not at Helaina but at Artixan, who nodded. “Have your graver's moment,” he said, and stepped aside.

Roth settled to one knee beside her. He made a nice show of looking sad and thoughtful. He placed a hand on her wrist in a tender gesture, establishing a physical connection as he said his farewells. Grant knew the man was feeling for a pulse. Losol had positioned himself closer to the body, as well. But he seemed more intent on watching Grant and the others during Roth's inspection than in making an inspection of his own.

The moment became long. Grant could only hope that Artixan had managed some artful piece of rendering.

The Ascendant remained hunched over Helaina for an uncomfortable amount of time. At one point he drew out a knife and eased it under her nose, watching its polished flat side for the fogging of breath.

Finally, he stood back up. “I'll arrange for a ceremony befitting her life and station.”

Grant shook his head. “That's
my
responsibility.”

“You're not a citizen here,” Roth reminded him. “And it's only right that the Council see to the disposition of her affairs.”

“Check your records,” Grant countered. “I'm her husband. If you want to take it to Judicature, fine with me. I'll wager the law still grants first rights to family, even over friends of state.”

It was an unassailable legal position, and Roth's silence was the bristling kind—he knew he'd lost this niggling point. It would have been his chance to pretend great sorrow and leverage his false esteem in front of Recityv to raise his own image.

Grant sensed that Roth hated losing a battle of position as much as one of bone and steel—maybe more. So he softened it for him. “She wanted a small ceremony. Something modest. Nothing that would … excite people.”

“Very well. I'll trust your decorum,” Roth said, and bowed gracefully, insultingly.

Before taking his leave, he gave both Artixan and Vendanj long looks. “These two are criminals. The new law is clear on what to do about them.”

Grant looked first at the two Sheason, then at Braethen, then at the twelve Emerit now standing in clear sight. Finally, he turned his gaze back to Roth and raised his eyebrows.

“I see. A numbers game.” Roth smiled. “I could summon twice as many with a single call.”

“And what of your promise to withdraw?” Grant laughed mockingly. “Forgive me, I forgot who I was talking to.”

Surprisingly, Roth laughed with him. “As did I, a man who betrayed this fine dead woman, and—if my memory isn't failing—is also criminally back in Recityv. Wasn't the standing order death, if you ever returned here?”

Grant ignored that. “You'd need to triple us, don't you think? Or are the Emerit softer than I remember? And let's assume you do just that. You might kill us all.” He paused for effect. “But not before you're dead, too.” Grant then stepped close to the Ascendant, and spoke conspiratorially. “I'll tell you what. Why don't you trust these two criminals to me. I'll see they're rightly punished. And that way, you can maintain your dignity as you march the hell out of my sight.”

Roth smiled. It looked genuine, too. He seemed to be enjoying their game. With a slight nod, he turned and left. His dog, Losol, gave them each a warning look before following.

Grant waited until the courtyard had cleared, then turned to Vendanj and Braethen. “Get to A'Garlen. Bring him back here as quickly as you can. Watch that you're not followed. Artixan and I will see to Helaina. We'll be in the narrow room.”

Vendanj was nodding, but watching Artixan as the older Sheason reversed some rendering action he'd performed just before Roth arrived. Vendanj's face showed instant understanding, and he left immediately, the sodalist at his side.

Grant knelt again near Helaina. Word of her death would spread. Many, too, had seen her fall after being shot with the arrow.
Good,
he thought.

He slid his arms beneath her, whispering as he did so, “Keep your body limp.”

She was light to carry. And together, he and Artixan moved quickly out of the courtyard and into the halls of Solath Mahnus. Within the cool confines of Recityv's ruling courts, the activity was frenetic. Many, moving past them, lifted their hands to their mouths in shock and horror. Others looked furtively at them. Still others grew solemn, bowing their heads as they moved on to their own private tasks.

Tumult reigned, but Grant paid it no mind, leading Artixan into hallways less traveled. In a quiet part of the palace, tucked in amid the servants' quarters, he entered a dingy, vacant room. He angled to the left wall and fingered a release behind a decrepit closet. The closet swung out, and Grant led Artixan into a long, narrow room with no other entrance and no windows. After laying Helaina on the bed, he closed the secret portal, lit a lamp, and returned to her side.

“Can you hear me?” he asked.

Helaina nodded almost imperceptibly.

“You can open your eyes,” he said.

When Helaina did so, his emotions surged—admiration, gladness, love. He regretted again his many years of exile.

Her face, on the other hand, twisted with pain. She clasped her hands and began to rub them.

“Are you all right?”

“My bones hurt,” she said, and shook her fingers.

“How long have you been planning this?” he asked, shaking his head and smiling.

“About twenty years,” she said, and gave a small laugh. She pulled the arrow free from her chest. “Banded leather with an iron backplate, and sewn with fifty small pouches filled with sheep's blood.”

“It was my design, remember?” Grant replied.

“I liked the idea of the irony, should you return from exile with revenge on your mind.” She dropped the arrow on the floor. “And it only works if my archer doesn't miss. Which he never does.” She smiled.