Trial of Intentions (85 page)

 

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

The Bourne: Vespers

If we believe the creation stories, then in the same way the benevolent gods failed when they created Inveterae, isn't it possible that Maldea likewise sometimes failed? And if so, what would those creations be like?

—Words spoken by a historian in the company of “low ones” at a Tenendra carnival

K
ett fell naked and trembling on neatly laid black terrace stones that ended overlooking a great chasm. Where his body didn't bleed openly, the blood welled beneath the skin from bruising that ached to the bone. He might have lost the use of one eye, and he could no longer feel the fingers of his left hand. Crashing down hard near the edge of the sheer drop, he thought the bones in his knees had cracked. He rolled onto his back and looked up into a cloud-darkened sky, and even then still hoped he would live to try to lead the Inveterae away from the Bourne. Save his little ones.

As if knowing his heart, the Jinaal Balroath made a sound of contempt and amusement deep in his throat. But Balroath said nothing. This wasn't his interrogation; this moment belonged to Stulten, who Kett could hear slowly approaching from the rear of the manor somewhere behind them.

He had run more days than he could remember, scarcely eating or sleeping, tracking Lliothan. But he'd never caught him. When he'd arrived back at Kael Ronoch, his children were not in the quarters provided for them. Several Bar'dyn had been waiting. They'd brought him here to the far side of Kael Ronoch, to the last residence before the land fell sharply away—no less than five hundred arm-lengths to a black river.

The wind came up the face of the cliff, carrying the scent of wet rock and dead roots. He could also smell the blood of others, which stained the terrace stone around him. But he'd seen no bodies. It wasn't hard to figure out the use the Jinaal had of the cliff so close behind him.

“You disappoint me,” Stulten said, coming near and looking down at Kett. “I would not say I am surprised, but I
am
disappointed. Did you forget you were given? Did you forget we will always know when you betray our heart? Did you forget we will redeem our right to the spirit inside you?”

He
had
forgotten.

“Of course, this time, we didn't need to find you. We knew you would come.”

Marckol and Neliera.

“For a visionary, Kett Valan, you failed to see the real opportunity for your kind.” Stulten shook his head. “That homeland you desire? You'd find that sooner by following us than by separation. Do you see that now?”

“Killing my patrol was by design,” Kett lied. “I was trying to earn the villagers' trust. Make them think I was still one of them, so I could learn their true plans.”

Stulten made an indiscriminate sound deep in his throat and moved past Kett to the edge of the stone-cobbled yard, where he looked out at the great expanse. “The
truth
is, my Inveterae friend, we no longer need your kind. And as most shelah, you underestimate your own acclaim.”

Kett sat partway up at the use of the old term: shelah, the old-tongue word … messiah. “You're mistaken. I'm not shelah. And my people don't see me as one.”

“You are na
ï
ve,” the Jinaal replied. “The murder of your friends was a test, Kett Valan. You knew this. We could certainly have killed these seditionists without your help.” Stulten turned and came to stand over him again. “I had to know if you were truly shelah.”

“I could have told you—”

“Yes, you could have. But it didn't take much to convince you to kill your friends. Don't you see, Kett Valan? As badly as I needed to know, you wanted to prove to
yourself
that you are shelah. Physical pain means nothing, proves nothing. Your willingness to claim the lives of friends … it's magnificent, Kett Valan. A great marvel.”

Stulten looked away again into the wide open space beyond the cliff, lost in his own thoughts. Beneath him, Kett's pain deepened, crawling down into his soul where Stulten's words took hold, hinting at some truth.

He recalled countless stories offered by his own parents in the small hours before sleep, stories that as a child he'd hoped to see made real. They weren't tales of heroes or redeemers, or war or bravery. No, they were simple stories of a brighter shade of grass, ground-fruits that didn't taste of mineral and ash, and of walking free beyond the grey skies of the Bourne.

“I'm not shelah,” he repeated.

Stulten ignored him. Then he squatted down, and spoke more softly. “After all our words and schemes, we want the same thing as Inveterae.” Stulten smiled. An ugly thing to see.

Kett shook his head. “We don't want the same thing. We seek to live
beside
the races south of the Pall, not to dominate or destroy them.”

Stulten's smile turned thin, angry. “You and your kind have cowered in the shadow of the Veil, feeling betrayed. The only difference between us … we don't cower.”

Stulten grew quiet for a few moments, seeming to ponder. “Haven't you truly considered yet, Kett Valan, that we may want nothing more than a homeland that can yield a proper crop?”

He listened, finding it hard to tell whether the Jinaal's words were truth or lie. Perhaps the Quiet's final desire was, indeed, the same as the Inveterae's. Perhaps the way of things had been put out of balance precisely because of the Abandonment, and not because one zealous Maker had overreached himself.

“Do you see now?” Stulten asked. “I gave you a great chance to see beyond the divisions forced on us during the Placing. Your redemption might have been more than the Inveterae houses escaping the Bourne; it might have been seeing done what the gods themselves had abandoned.”

The thoughts swirled maddeningly. Had he been wrong from the very beginning? Had his instinct to be given to the Quiet really instead been a way to try to do what the Framers hadn't been able to do? Perhaps he
had
been too narrow in his hopes, thinking only of his Inveterae family.

He rolled onto his side, testing his strength and the wounds in his body. Excruciating pain shot through his loins and across his skin, but brought with it clarity of mind. Even if all Stulten said was true, a Quiet intrusion into the world of men would be an apocalypse from which it would never recover. Even if the Quiet's intention was to bring forward the finest virtues of the favored southern races, those imprisoned so long in the deeps of the Bourne would be unable to stem their bitterness. Countless men would die. He felt that truth as surely as he felt the fragments of bone shifting under his skin.

From the corner of his eye, Kett looked up at Stulten. “You're arrogant to think you know yourselves better than those who confined you here.” He swallowed hard. “And as for my people, I suspect it isn't our exodus you want to avoid, but open rebellion.”

Stulten laughed deep and long. “And why would you think that?”

Without hesitation, Kett answered. “Because many of us were created equal to Quiet races. We're not weak like those south of the Pall.”

Stulten's face slackened, and he gestured back toward his manor. Promptly a familiar form came out, pulling tethers lashed to the small wrists of Marckol and Neliera, his children.

He wanted to scream, but he couldn't seem to breathe. And it would have frightened his little ones, anyway. But in his mind, he cried out,
No! No.
And suddenly he was reliving his tribunal—which now seemed so long ago—when Saleema had been struck down.

Grief and worry throbbed inside him at the sight of his small ones, and what he imagined lay in store for them. Their pleading eyes fell on him as they approached. And he looked up at their captor, realizing suddenly who led his bound children … the Bar'dyn Praefect Lliothan.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

What Steel Can Do

Some believe Ir-Caul is where—after Palamon fought Jo'ha'nel—the last few men and women settled. They also believe it's why every child there learns the use of a blade, even still.

—Belonging to an apendix of uncataloged sword techniques and labled “unfriendly” or “unwilling” by the chronicler commissioned of the League to inventory known combat sytles

T
he grunts and strains of a physical contest grew louder as Sutter emerged from a long tunnel onto the king's practice field. To the west of the castle, a broad stretch of land lay enclosed by a high fieldstone wall. Along the perimeter, various outbuildings stood: a forge, a stable, an armory, and what looked like quarters for trainers who lived to do nothing more than teach battle. In the strong afternoon sun, Sutter could see King Relothian refining his combat skills.

Three attackers worked at the king. It quickly became apparent that this was no idle exercise. A savage intensity lived in the faces of those trying to defeat him. More than this, the men—all of them—were bleeding from various cuts to face and hands and arms. It didn't surprise Sutter to see that in Ir-Caul, the training imitated real battle. It
did
surprise him to see the king wielding a sword … and a forge hammer.

Smith king.

The men were all sweating heavily from exertion. Even those watching were ripe at the armpits, as if they rested from a previous round of drills. They watched intently, seeming to silently root for one of their brothers to best Relothian.

The yard held spots of grass. But dirt dominated the area, kicked up into low clouds of dust that coated the men's faces with grit. Trails of sweat streaked down their cheeks, giving them the vague look of painted-face troupers from a pageant wagon doing the droll threshes—a comic set of plays that took whips and slapsticks as their main props.

Sutter came to the edge of the practice field and stopped. His presence drew a few questioning looks from the armored men seated and standing here and there around the current contest. He paid them no mind. He meant to know who'd tried to kill him.

The king caught sight of Sutter, and redoubled his efforts with the three men encircling him. In a matter of seconds he'd disarmed two of them, and put the third on the ground with a body-throw. He brought his sword up to the man's cheek and gave him a slight gouge that drew bright red blood in a small runnel.

The men at the edges of the field beat the blunt ends of spears on the ground or their sword handles against their shields in applause. The defeated trio stood together and bowed to the king, who did likewise, before they departed the field in different directions.

Breathing hard, Relothian made his way straight for Sutter. His gait suggested a purpose more than welcome, and he still held his hammer in one hand. Sutter held his ground.

“You don't belong here,” Relothian said, drawing near. “You're a guest in my keep, but you're not a warrior in my army. Leave the way you came.”

Sutter ignored the command, but kept his voice low enough—for now—that the king's men wouldn't hear him. “I'll go once you've told me why you betrayed my confidence.”

The king's anger faltered, momentarily broken by Sutter's insolence. Then firmness returned to his face. “If you're making an accusation, then make it. But be careful, boy, this king doesn't betray a confidence.” Relothian rotated the hammer in his hand.

“Then tell me how one of your men came into my room last night, trying to kill me and take the sigil I showed only you.” Sutter stepped closer to the king, realizing how close he'd come to death in that attack. If not for Mira, he'd be dead.

Again the king's face showed a momentary hesitation, his gaze shifting from Sutter's eyes to his neck, which had purpled from the attack. Then the hardened resolve returned again—a leathery look that belonged to smiths who'd spent long hours near a forge. “You and I had no confidence or bargain for silence. The pendant you wear may bring danger to my people. I shared that information with my advisors. We had to decide what to do about your being here at all.”

A grim smile grew on Sutter's lips—an expression that surprised him. “This is how a man becomes king, then, with careful words and betrayal?”

“Hold your tongue,” Relothian said, his voice both soft and menacing, “or I will
show
you how I became king.”

The man raised his hammer. Sutter didn't back down. “If you needed to share secrets you knew were meant for your ears alone, you should have told me. Your loose lips nearly got me killed.”

Relothian's hard glare remained unchanged. “We live in perilous times. Now, is this why you interrupted my training, or is there something else?”

Sutter cast his gaze at the king's training companions, who eyed him expectantly. He knew what he must do, and doubt filled him. But then he remembered the dark plain of shale. He remembered thousands of dead Far, many of whom had died saving him. His inexpert use of his Sedagin blade had sent many to their final earth. He'd vowed not to let that happen again. Vowed to be worthy of the sword he carried.

He frowned back at the king. “There's rot in your city. And you're blind to it.”

The king grabbed Sutter's tunic and threw him toward the center of the yard as easily as he might a doll. “You'll defend those words,” Relothian said, stepping toward him.

Sutter pulled his blade from its sheath. This was mad. But
he
was mad. “Before we begin, I'll have your word that if I best you, you'll hear me out.”

The king laughed.

Sutter shook his head. “It doesn't have to be this way. Let me take you and show you. There are things you need to understand.”

“Your insult needs an answer.” Relothian raised his sword and hammer, a kind of grimacing smile on his lips. Before Sutter could do more than raise his sword defensively, the king was on him, shoving him to the ground.