Trial of Intentions (29 page)

The two men glared their threats at one another across the small space, until Author Garlen picked up his quill and raised his right hand. Without so much as a blink, he began to write upon the air, his hand moving swiftly, surely, as though he saw some parchment that Roth could not.

And while he stood watching, the words the author wrote became slowly visible in midair. A dim yellow at first, tinged at the edge with umber, the words gradually glowed a tad more radiant. They hung there between them, slowly undulating as though stirred by gentle, indoor winds. As Garlen continued to write, his face shone in the unearthly light of his words, which had not just height and width, but also depth. They floated in the air like insubstantial sculptures.

It's true. Written glyphs, on the very air we breathe.

The author's intensity as he wrote spoke of passion and deadly zeal. A moment later, he finished, breathing heavily while staring through the words that glowed faintly between them. Then, Garlen waved his quill and the glyphs ceased to shine, though he could see they were still there. He'd have missed them if he hadn't seen them written, since now they appeared as little more than the slight disturbance of heat rising from a candle.

“Strikes you hagborn, doesn't it?” Garlen grinned. “We don't share it. It's old. Be careful not to awaken it and turn it against you. You wouldn't like the words we'd find for you and your League.”

Roth stood in awe. But quickly composed himself and strode to the author's door. He turned back and looked at the old man, who stood poised with his quill in his hand, ready to write something more that Roth both wanted and did
not
want to see. One thing he knew now for certain, however: Whether or not Garlen and his society joined him, they weren't through with each other.

He smiled at the thought. He now knew better what he was up against.

And what to do about it.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Secrets in a Vault

Who a woman sells to is more telling than what she sells.

—Old merchant proverb

H
elaina fell hard on the vault floor. Sharp pain shot through her head, and she could feel warm blood flowing over her scalp. She struggled with her arthritic joints as she turned over, sure another blow would be following the cowardly first attack from behind. She stared up in shock—Mendel stood with a short, heavy cudgel in his hand.

“Why?” She tried to shout it, thinking to bring help, but her voice sounded weak and thin even in her own ears. She knew it was hopeless anyway—the vault was solid granite, a full stride thick.

She tried to stand, a wave of dizziness tumbling her back to the ground. Mendel circled toward her. She scrambled away from him on her hands and knees, the stone floor hard on her bones. Behind her, she thought she heard Mendel mumble something. Then another blow landed on her upper back, dropping her again. Her chin smacked hard on the stone and she bit her lip. Blood filled her mouth with the taste of iron.

Mendel took hold of her garment and spun her over. Instinctively, she raised her hands to ward off another blow. She was lucky; her wrist took the force of a strike that would have landed in her face. She had the sudden sense that she would die here, now.

Not without a fight!

Before the cudgel fell again, she kicked up as hard as she could, aiming for Mendel's tender parts. One foot flailed wildly, hitting nothing. The other caught him in the thigh, and drove him back. It gave Helaina time to scramble a few strides and look for a weapon. But there was nothing at hand. She had only the long sturdy pin she used to hold up her hair. She pulled the pin out, dropping her white locks to her shoulders, and glared up at her attacker.

Seeing her feeble weapon, Mendel smiled, laughed. Shaking his head, he said simply, “I expected some resistance.”

“You're a fool,” she said.

He looked from her to the cudgel in his hand for a moment, then back. He tapped it against his cheek with enough vigor to redden the right side of his face. “I'll scramble out of the vault. I'll puff and tell Da we were attacked. I'll call in your Emerit dog who stands outside waiting. We'll rush back in to find you lying here. I'll carry you myself to the blackcoat and the Sheason, shouting for their urgency and attention. But it will all be too late.”

Helaina stared bitterly at him. “They'll find you out. And you'll hang.”

“Maybe,” he replied, unconcerned. “But maybe not. If they do, they'll need to do so quickly, since I won't be in the city long.” Then a dark look stole over his face. “And if they learn that it was me who sent you to your final earth and execute me at first sight, I will have died a good death to put your weak, superstitious rule to an end.”

Superstitious rule.
It sounded familiar.

He started forward. His look of concentration chilled her. She clenched the pin in her hand, ready to do as much damage as she could before the cudgel did its work.

As Mendel circled in, her mind raced. Had her father known? Was he part of a plot? What had turned her brother's heart against her? Certainly the Knowledge Law wasn't enough to cause
this
. If she died, what would happen with Convocation? Would anyone step in to lead it?

“My regent,” Mendel said, and leapt.

She raised her pin, stabbing upward with all her strength. The pin bit his flesh. His eyes widened in a look of surprise and increased madness. A moment later his cudgel struck her shoulder. Sharp pain ran down her arm and up her neck. She tried to twist the pin sticking in his side, but her sweaty palm slipped around it.

Then her brother's left hand was on her throat, clenching painfully, cutting off her air. She beat at his wrist. Tried clawing at his eyes. His grip tightened. She tried bucking him off, but he was twice her weight and well muscled. He started to raise his cudgel, holding her in place now for a death blow.

Helaina tried to talk, hoping to appeal to their shared, kinder past. But her words were choked by his viselike hold on her throat. She thrashed, seeing the cudgel reach its pinnacle high above her.

“Good-bye,” said Mendel.

She braced herself, hoping to weather one blow and strike out when it was done.

His eyes widened and his skin went bright red. It didn't look like madness or anger. It looked like the pain of fire.

As her brother fell dead on top of her, a gust of hot air passed across them both. The brief, scorching wind whipped her hair about her face and was gone. Then a scalding hot drop of blood fell from Mendel's mouth and landed on her neck. Her heart pounding, she shoved the lifeless body away and sat up. Standing on the other side of the vault was Artixan, one hand still raised toward her.

“How?” she managed to ask.

Artixan stared back, looking more gaunt than she remembered. “His blood was already hot, my lady. I simply brought it to a boil.”

He crossed the room and knelt beside her, breathing hard and sweating. He was spent, his hands shaking. From his robes he produced a small bag and took out a bit of wet cloth that smelled like sage and balsam. He gently wiped her wounds with the herb rag.

Artixan was her closest friend and confidant. He never pushed her. His contradictions were never biting. He had the uncanny ability to be near when she needed to talk something through, and absent when she wanted privacy. And none of this, she knew, was because he stood in her court. Were she to step down and take up a trade role with House Storalaith—if they'd have her—he'd be the same friend he was today. The kind that when real arguments occurred between them—and they did—they still walked to supper together and spoke of idle things. He was also the man responsible for reviving her child when it came still. Her debts to him were many.

“You know you could be hanged for rendering the Will,” she said, trying to use some levity to quell the racing of her heart. She had come so close.…

“That I could,” Artixan replied. He made a bad job of smiling. Then in an earnest tone he asked, “Are you okay?”

Helaina took several deep breaths. “A bit unsettled. But I'm fine.” Actually, her body hurt like hell. Her joints were screaming. But she said none of that.

Artixan nodded his relief. “You're lying. Eat this.” He handed her a small sprig.

She dutifully ate.

“Good,” he said. “And I won't be healing these.” He touched her lip and the back of her head. “They should remain for others to see. They'll help us implicate and charge those behind this plot.”

She nodded in return, the movement intensifying the pain in her head. “How did you know I was here?”

He gave her an incredulous look.

She managed a weak smile. “Thank you.”

Artixan stood and went around to the other side of her dead brother. He began to search his pockets, even pulling off Mendel's boots. After several moments, he'd produced nothing save a few coins.

“He was careful not to carry much.” Artixan sat back, appearing to consider what next to do. “I should alert the Emerit. Perhaps his coconspirators are close by.”

Helaina noted the closed vault door, and looked a question at her Sheason friend.

“Another rendering offense,” he offered. “I was in a hurry. I couldn't be bothered with doors.”

She turned to the lifeless body between her and Artixan. Anger and grief battled inside her. She hadn't seen her brother in years. They'd never been particularly close. But she loved him in the way you love someone who's part of your past. A good part.

Why?

She began to unlace Mendel's tunic. Even when it was fully undone, she didn't see what she thought she might.

“Your dagger,” she said, holding out her hand without looking up at Artixan.

He handed her his weapon—only ceremonial anymore—and she cut the tunic from laces to hem. She ripped the flaps open, exposing Mendel's muscled chest and the tattoo his remark—
superstitious rule
—had brought to mind.

There, on the man's right side, between his armpit and waist, in black and red ink, stood the insignia of the League. Not all leaguemen had the tattoo, but the devout almost always did. And it would take extreme devotion to attempt what Mendel had risked today.

She looked up at Artixan, whose face shone with dark anger.

“Did you know?”

She shook her head.

“The League must have a standing kill order on you.” Artixan gave his thin smile again. “This is political suicide for Roth.”

Helaina thought, then shook her head again. “He'll create distance between my brother and the League. Documents will surface suggesting he was a fanatic or insane, or that it was a sibling hatred. Other leaguemen will be coached in testimony that Mendel was a loner.” She laughed caustically, immediately sorry as pain shot through her head and lip. “I'll wager that if we investigate, we'll find all manner of letters, too. One will state that he was acting alone, for the good of the order, which Roth will condemn publicly. One will be an official document stating that my brother had been expulsed from the League.”

Silence then stretched between them as they both returned their attention to the symbol on the dead man's body. Artixan interrupted the quiet with a dark thought. “We now know how far Roth will go … your brother won't be the only one looking for his chance at you. Solath Mahnus is rife with leaguemen keeping counsel.”

Her stomach churned with worry. She'd have a hard time being effective if she must always be watching over her shoulder.

After several moments, Artixan again interrupted the silence. “What do you want to do?”

Helaina forced herself to stand. Her head spun for a moment, and she used the bureau to steady herself.

“Take this.” She handed her succession letter to Artixan. “Have a thousand copies made and posted throughout Recityv.” She then pointed to the parchment she'd just handed him. “I want the original placed on display in the Recityv public hall. Encase it in glass and surround it with ten Emerit guards.”

Artixan gave Helaina one last look. “And what of Ascendant Staned?” He sneered the appellation comically.

Feeling once more like the iron fist inside the velvet glove, she said, “I'll deal with him.”

Catching sight again of her brother's League tattoo, a dark suspicion gripped her. She slumped to the receiving desk and leafed through the ledger set there. Page after page, the entries were dominated by the same sales recipient: the League of Civility. Varying names signed for goods sold; often her brother's tightly scrawled signature inked the page.

It left her with a sinking dread, considering the things behind her in the vault, as well as the countless items listed on the pages beneath her fingers.

She might have to ask her father about this. It wasn't a crime to do trade with the League, but selling
information
to them … She wondered if she should lie about her brother to her da. Maybe let him believe his son had died trying to protect her.

She cast a look at Artixan, letting him know he'd have to find a discreet exit. Then she hefted the ledger and said grimly, “Don't let me out.” The door swung open and she went to face her father.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Memorial

When sung properly, a Leiholan song has implications for both the listener and the vocalist. So, exercise caution when singing of mortal matters.

—Lesson in “form and content,” Leiholan studies, first year

W
endra stepped lightly through the corridors of Descant Cathedral; she didn't want to muddle the distant hum of the Song of Suffering that emanated from the very stone of the place. Two young students conducted her solemnly through the half-lit halls. She actively kept herself from singing, she was so excited. She'd recovered from the sickness of the Telling more quickly than the others, and couldn't wait to see Belamae and learn more about Suffering.