Trial of Intentions (102 page)

“But that isn't really the reason, is it?” the king said, quietly questioning himself. “I would be no king if I couldn't suffer some dissent.”

Still touching the assemblage of bones, Relothian raised his eyes again to Sutter. “Did Vendanj tell you how I came to wear the crown of Alon'Itol? How any man comes to wear it?”

Sutter shook his head.

“We pay no respect to bloodlines,” the king announced loudly. “The right to rule from this throne is won on the battlefield. One king dies. Another is chosen from among the ranks. One who is believed to possess skill in combat and cunning in politics. The right choice is usually obvious. Each generation breeds its own heir. But the origin of that heir … it isn't manors with stable hands, or families who can afford tutors and trainers. No, more often our kings come from the small places of Alon'Itol, villages that have little more to offer their children than a place in the king's army.” He paused. “I was a company smith.”

Sutter looked over at Thalia, and understood the worry he now saw on her face. Relothian wasn't an old family name or bloodline. It had been established with the smith king's rise to the throne through the realm's military. Any plot she had for her brother's successor would have carefully laid plans that Sutter and Mira threatened to upset.

“That's why I prefer the cold air and hard stone of my rooftop to a feather mattress,” he said, reminding Sutter of their predawn meeting. “I wear a king's crown, but I came by it from the scratch of a straw bed—the best a smith could afford.” He smiled fondly. “That and many years with nothing but a footman's wool wrap, as I lay amidst rock and scrub.”

Then the king's expression darkened. “If there's a contagion in my court, it won't be the first time.” Relothian straightened, and came menacingly toward Sutter, stepping down with one foot on the first stair of the throne platform. “In the north of Alon'Itol, near where the rivers Tolin and Cantle separate, there was a town, Telamon. Not an important place. It grew no great crop, quarried no useful stone. There was no particular reason that anyone should want to go there. It had a dock for river trade; but it was used mostly as a place to moor when the sun went down. Rivermen rarely left their barges, and pushed back into the current before light.

“But for the most part Telamon was filled with good people. People who never complained about the weather or passed an unkind word that wasn't deserved. A place of heavy coats and heavy beards to ward off the chill. A place where strong drink didn't make men mean.”

Again the king stopped, his eyes glassy with memory and regret. What did this have to do with Vendanj? The feeling grew inside Sutter that maybe he didn't want to know.

“Telamon,” Relothian said with languor, “was the home of my father, and mother, and sisters. It was
my
home until I stepped onto a barge and floated south into the ranks of the army.” The king lifted his arms to his sides, palms up. “This is where I landed after so many years.”

Sutter nodded, and pushed forward despite the dread in his gut. “And Vendanj?”

Relothian's face went slack. “A year after he came here, the Sheason disappeared from my court for several days. He said he had things to tend to. I thought nothing of it. Even enjoyed his absence; I breathed easier when he wasn't around.” Again the king's eyes took a glassy, faraway look. “When he returned, he told me that the Quiet had infested a town in the north. He said they'd been using it to transport women and children upriver to their own dark purpose. He said that the Quiet had taken root there. That there was no way to save the town. He said he'd burned it down, all of it, killing everyone. He told me he was sorry.…”

“Telamon,” Sutter said with reverence, his gut tightening.

Then the king's face changed, as though he'd drawn some connection between then and now. He looked past Sutter to Yenola. “Come,” he said, motioning her forward.

Relothian's younger sister approached the throne.

“Did you see any of what the boy claims?” The king's voice sounded strangely hopeful.

“No,” she replied. “But I don't believe the boy is lying, or deceived by his own fancies.”

Sutter leaned forward, and spoke softly. “A friend of mine was attacked by Bar'dyn. They took her unborn child. Later, she and a small boy were captured by a highwayman who tried to sell them to Quietgiven.” He paused to let that much settle in. “The orphan's story you heard today isn't a delusion. It's not even an isolated example of what's going on. Whatever you feel toward Vendanj—and I'm no great admirer, myself—don't let it cloud your thinking. He burned Telamon to try and stop what's happening. Do you really need more evidence? Your army and your city's children are being sent into the hands of your enemies by people close to you. How many empty beds will it take before you see the truth?”

“Careful, boy, I am yet the king.” Relothian's threat sounded hollow, as his thoughts seemed still far away.

“Then act like a king!” Sutter demanded. “You told me we didn't really know why Vendanj sent us here. You said he knew you would never take your seat at Convocation. I'll go farther. I'll say he doesn't
want
you to take your seat there! You would infect it as surely as your own court and kingdom are infected. Why did he send us, then? Tell us. Then we will hate him together! Or are you still a fool in the dark, as you were when he murdered your parents?”

Relothian dropped down another step and grasped Sutter's neck in an iron grip. “I should crush your throat.”

The man had a smith's clench. Sutter couldn't breathe, but returned the king's violent glare, daring Relothian to kill him.

Behind him, the ring of a blade being drawn rose in his ears. “Take your hand off him or you're going to lose it.” Mira was suddenly beside them.

Around the room, countless scabbards were emptied. The sound of steel being drawn filling the air like sibilant applause.

“The ‘boy' and I might both die,” she said. “But not before you go to your own earth.”

Relothian held on for several more moments, then let him go. Sutter wasted no time. He climbed past the king to stand in front of the Throne of Bones. “You are
all
guilty,” he cried out, sweeping his arm in accusation. “You connive in chicken coops. You fail to question the poor judgment of your generals. You barter with the lives of the fatherless!”

Sutter looked around the room, feeling a bounty of indignation. “Even if this boy Mikel is lying, you're guilty. Because what else do you fight for if not to preserve his childhood? You march to battle but have forgotten the
reason
for war. It's not the glory of your parade yard, or the manors you live in, or even the reverence you show for dead kings.” Sutter slammed a fist down on the arm of the throne, rattling the bones.

Relothian spun around toward him. “You disrespect our fathers!” He pointed at the throne. “And what are
you,
boy? Messenger? Sedagin?… Rootdigger. And bearing the mark of the Draethmorte!” The king's gaze narrowed, questioning.

“He's Quietgiven,” Thalia broke in, her voice shrill and accusing. “It makes sense now. The plot is his. How clever to turn it on us, and make us believe that House Relothian would betray its king. Take him!”

More than a dozen men moved fast on Sutter, their weapons drawn. Mira took a few quick steps to get to his side.

The king's narrow, confused stare remained fixed on Sutter as the leaders of his army flowed around him toward the throne. In the last seconds before their swords met, Yenola slipped between Sutter and the encroaching mob.

“It's true!” she screamed. “Thalia and General Marston have conspired to dethrone my brother. Most of Marston's generals are part of their scheme. Even I…” She shifted to look at Sutter. “I came to you at their bidding, to learn who you were, what you were here for.” She lowered her eyes. “I'm sorry, Sutter. But the children … I didn't know about that.”

Distaste and anger filled him. He'd shared her bed. Been duped by her artful lovemaking.

Yenola didn't linger on the revelation, and turned back to the men poised to seize them. “They told me that we could have peace with Nallan. But they said the king was too mired in his war. Too enamored of his gearsmiths to see new ways. And so they prepared to replace him.”

Through the sword-bearing soldiers, the king slowly made his way toward his youngest sister. The look in his eyes spoke of a broken heart, and of sorrow for the deaths of countless footmen and children that his trusted friends and family had caused.

The heavy silence in the room fell over them all, until Thalia spoke again, her voice almost conciliatory. “Brother, you're no longer fit to be king. I don't think you really even want to be king anymore. Your perceptions of Nallan are misguided. Step down. Leave the throne to another. We can sue for peace. And your smiths can still be useful.”

The king turned. He held a pose of dignified wrath, glaring. When he spoke, he spoke not to Thalia, but to the whole room.

“Those here who would side with my sister and her bastard lover stand with her now. Those who are true to me stand close.” They were the words of a king, and Sutter's skin tingled when he heard them.

One by one, men either turned and fell in beside Thalia and Marston or came to the steps of the throne. The sound of boots on the polished granite floor struck Sutter as far too polite for the decisions of fealty that were being made. And when silence retook the room, the imbalance clearly disappointed the king. The general with the ruined face stood near the throne, him and the men he'd brought with him. Beside them, there also stood a short, wiry man who wore a leather toolbelt. Sutter guessed this was Gear Master Mick that Mira had told him about. The gearsmith lifted a hammer and used it to salute Sutter, then winked at him while wearing a lopsided grin.

Still, they were severely outnumbered, Thalia with forty swords at her command. A dark, thin smile spread on her lips.

“Yenola, you always did choose the wrong man. But no matter, your overused box has served its purpose.” She gave a dismissive laugh as one might over the antics of a mindless bitch in heat. “Caldwell, I could have guessed you and your little band would choose to die defending some vague sense of honor. If that's your choice, so be it.” Then her tone became softer, more earnest. She looked directly at Relothian, her brother. “I give you one last chance to save the lives still sworn to you. Have you any wisdom left?”

The king, instead of answering, turned to Sutter, looking intently from one eye to the other. “Why did you come here?” he whispered.

Sutter looked back, having no good answer. He understood better now that Relothian would never have joined Convocation at Vendanj's entreaty; it was an insult to even ask. Yet the Sheason had sent them here. Why? Had he known of the conspiracies in the court? Could he have known how dire the conflict with Nallan had become? What of the children?

The questions spun in his head as he sought to answer the king before the man committed his friends to a hopeless fight. He looked at Yenola, whose eyes were wet with tears—a sister who'd now betrayed both her siblings in their effort to rule. Sutter then looked at the Throne of Bones. It occurred to him again that he'd never seen the king seated in the gruesome chair. Sutter had come to view it as nothing more than a symbol. Part of him even imagined that sitting there would be a crime of disrespect.

He then remembered something about Tahn's pendant he carried.
It's a glyph.… It stands for fraternity. Family … connection and familial bonds that cannot be undone or unwritten.

Sutter looked back at the king. “I think this is why.”

He pulled the pendant from his pocket and took two steps to the throne. Before any could protest, he sat carefully into the midst of bones fitted together from hundreds of dead kings.

The people there have forgotten who they are. Make them remember. The glyph will help.
Sutter remembered Vendanj's words, almost like a prayer, and placed the sigil directly on the arm of the chair.

The moment he did, the throne began to thrum beneath and around him. The old bones twisted and wove. Yenola and the dozen men still loyal to the king backed away, awe and terror in their faces. Only Relothian did not move, his face beaming with a strange glint of hope. Sutter put his hand over the glyph to keep it from slipping to the floor, and braced himself in the throne.

Then the entire floor and room began to thrum, as if it were a vibrating string. Sutter could see doubt spreading on Thalia's face; her coconspirator, General Marston, looked like a man who'd seen a god and was desperate to repent.

A soft white light began to emanate from the bones, and Sutter could hear distant voices, as though they spoke across a great gulf. The sounds rushed in and around his ears, causing a wind that licked at his hair then passed out to touch all those in the chamber. Men and women shielded their eyes and ears, raising their hands against the flurry.

Feeling the throne move and change beneath him, Sutter tried to see what was happening. The light made it all but impossible. The thrum grew louder, like two great trees being ground against each other to produce a deep vibratory note.

Then in an instant, the light and sound vanished. Men and women lowered their arms and stared toward Sutter, marveling. He now sat not on countless individual bones, but on a single, unified bone mass. A smooth white throne fit for a king.

Far from ornate, the changed seat showed a simple elegance. Gently curving lines gave it a royal quality it had lacked before.

When Sutter looked up again, almost everyone had gone to one knee, heads bowed toward him. Some few yet stood, wearing expressions of fear and surprise and wonder.