Trial of Intentions (52 page)

The old man's composure had returned, the hint of a smile beneath his beard. “I did. Go on, Braethen. I like your wit.”

“My father taught me that among those who follow the Author's Way, there are some whose gift is counterfeiting. It's a skill that comes not only in the stroke of a pen to imitate another author, but in his expressions and choice of words. It's as though this forger
is
the author.”

“Then we'll find this imposter,” Van Steward said with quiet anger. “And we'll have his confession to conspiring with the Ascendant. To murder. And treason.”

Braethen hadn't looked away from Artixan. “It's worse than that. Or it would be to my father,” Braethen clarified. “It might suggest something he talked to me about once or twice. Sometimes, his work … sometimes it became a burden. Not like field harrowing or well digging. But still a burden. And there were a few times, when he'd been through a full carafe of sour mash, that he talked about a sect of authors who'd given themselves to confabulation—”

“Isn't that what all authors do—”

“Stories meant only to disrupt and darken,” Braethen hurried on. “Words that would give life to chaos and mistrust and fear. He called it propaganda. He called it the indictment of the innocent.”

“Like providing evidence that the Sheason would have a motive for killing E'Sau before he could turn the Sodality against them.” Helaina sickened at the sound of her own words.

Braethen turned his eyes back to her. “And they're happy to intimidate us, too.” He showed them the poem in his father's book.

Helaina promised to dispatch a band of men to watchsafe over Braethen's father. A look of genuine gratitude filled the young man's face, but dropped away quickly, as something seemed to occur to him.

“I think this proves that this sect of authors is real. And that the League has recruited them. Dead gods,” Braethen muttered, “the sect
is
real. The power of an artful lie. It's probably been happening for a while now, and we just haven't seen it.”

Helaina chilled at his words. But her anger fast burned away that chill. She might be in her twilight years, but she was thinking clearly. And standing in the presence of a close, dead friend, she knew what Roth would do next.
He'll seek control of Convocation.
And the thought made her fear for more than her own life's end.

My move, then.

She turned to Grant. “I suspect tomorrow holds more League surprises for us at Convocation. We may need your unusual brand of diplomacy.”

Grant's face slowly spread into a lopsided grin.

 

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

A Private Audience

There's credible evidence that warring cultures also excel at carnal pleasures. What is less certain is which precedes the other.

—
A Study of Cultural Appetites, Volume 2, the Northern Kingdoms—Practical Research

I
n the russet hues of dusk, Sutter stood on a large balcony outside his room, practicing with his Sedagin blade. An easy stillness lay over Ir-Caul, the streets empty, leaving a calm upon the city. In the cool evening air, looking out at fiery western skies, Sutter made slow, deliberate motions with his weapon, the exercise more meditation than combat training.

They'd retired without even taking supper. The rather Spartan quarters—no decoration save a broken pole-arm hung upon the wall—suited him fine. He was exhausted physically from so many long days and short nights, but his mind raced with questions after their introduction to King Relothian. The king had seen that he wasn't a true Sedagin, which had darkened Sutter's mood, reminding him of the many Far who'd died because of his inexperienced swordwork. He'd hoped running his sword drills would relax him.…

On his quiet balcony, he methodically rehearsed the maneuvers Mira had taught him. In the midst of his drills he considered a kind of strength in his father—the man who'd raised him, not the one who'd sired him—in working a plot of land day after day to yield up a crop to feed a few mouths. And the man did it without complaint, without ever expressing the need to do or be more than what he was.

Sutter gave a sad smile, recognizing that he hadn't that same strength of character. Mostly, it made him grateful. Despite the bad joke of it, his years there had grounded him in what he thought of as the
right
things—loyalty, honesty, the ethic of work, suffering well.

He lowered his sword and stared into the past. He saw a bitter winter. The kind where the smallest pebble or dirt clod had frozen to the ground. He saw his father's skin steaming in the deep cold, as he tore at the rock-hard soil beneath the pear tree behind their home. He saw himself pick up a shovel to try to help with his own weaker arms. He saw the form of his little sister lying beneath their best blanket, dead from winter fever. She was four. He saw redness in his father's eyes, and maybe gratitude for the chance to swing a pick to release his anger and sorrow. He saw Renae laid in the cold, hard ground, and his da linger to say a prayer, unwilling yet to throw back the dirt.

The grief swelled inside him again, and Sutter raised his sword with renewed determination. As he completed a quick stroke with his longblade, a shoe scuffed the floor behind him. He froze. Looking out toward the horizon, he tightened his grip on his sword, his heart drumming. He imagined Quietgiven behind him, some beast, perhaps a tracker, having stolen its way into his room.

He whirled, bringing his blade around in a deadly arc. As he swung, he caught the image of a blue chiffon chemise, and pulled back his blade. He narrowly avoided cutting a woman, who stood looking at him with wide eyes.

Sutter growled, mostly from his fear that he'd almost attacked a woman of Relothian's court.

“What do you want?” he blurted, realizing as he spoke that he could see through the sheer fabric of her garment. She wore nothing beneath. Her hair—a deep auburn color—hung in slow waves to the tops of her breasts. And her fair skin made green eyes and brown freckles brighter.

“I am Yenola, King Relothian's sister. I've come to be sure you're comfortable.” She bowed in a stately way, but the look in her eyes seemed less formal, more …
suggestive
. “You are Sedagin,” she said, her voice carrying the hint of a question.

Sutter looked down at his blade and the unique glove on his right hand. He raised both, smiling, his heart returning to a normal rhythm after the brief scare. “Sure looks like it, doesn't it. But no, these were gifts.”

The woman's eyebrows rose. “The Sedagin made a gift to you of their blade and glove? How did you earn these honors?”

Sutter thought, then smiled again. “I surrendered a dance with a beautiful woman.”

Yenola returned his smile, a bemused confusion lightly knitting her brow. “Of course a woman would be at the heart of it. Are you bound to this woman?”

“Not to hear her tell it,” Sutter replied, finally sheathing his blade.

The woman exuded the kind of serenity Sutter associated with royalty. She'd likely never had to dig a root. And she showed neither offense nor seductiveness when Sutter's eyes stole glances at her supple form. He gathered the impression that her being seen this way wasn't indecent for either of them. Still, from a sense of propriety, he turned to look back toward the distant line of mountains to avoid embarrassing himself.

She stepped close, her arm brushing his own, as she joined him in looking out from his balcony. “Keep your secret,” she said.

“It isn't a secret,” Sutter replied. “She and I simply haven't made any commitment to one another.”

“Not the woman, your relationship to the Sedagin. It's assumed that you were born to the Right Arm of the Promise.”

Sutter turned to her, questions rising in his mind. Relothian hadn't revealed why he thought Vendanj had sent them. And if Sutter's experience proved anything, it was that when someone delayed the sharing of information, it usually wasn't good news. Or they didn't know.

“Is that why you came? You thought I was Sedagin?” Looking at her gown, Sutter guessed at the purpose of her visit, but didn't say as much.

“Of course that's why I came. Does that offend you?” Her voice never became agitated or incredulous.

More importantly, Sutter could see that she didn't condescend to him.

“I guess not,” he said. “It's more of a compliment, really, isn't it?”

The king didn't tell her.

“I would think so,” Yenola replied. “It's the only reason you were admitted through the gate. Not even the Far woman would have moved the tower to allow you to pass.” Unexpectedly, she took his hand, running her own over his fingers and palm. “So, your secret … You're not a born fighter, but you've the good use of your hands. How is that?”

Sutter didn't feel any shame to say, “I've spent a lot of years playing in the dirt.”

The woman offered him a gracious smile that warmed him. Without her actually saying so, he knew that it pleased her to learn this about him.

“How did a farmer find himself on the Teheale dancing and earning esteem enough to be taken into the Sedagin family?” Yenola didn't let go of his hand, her touch soft and inviting. So much so that it took Sutter a few moments to register the implications of her question.

“Taken into the Sedagin family? What does that mean?” He momentarily forgot that this beautiful woman was nearly naked.

“I will tell you, and then you will owe me a favor. Bargain?” Her smile became uneven, one side of her mouth crooking up mischievously.

“Fair enough.”

“It's really quite simple. This blade,” she grabbed the handle of his sword with her free hand and gently shook it, “is considered by the Sedagin an extension of their body. They're never separated from it once they begin to learn its use. They take extreme care in the crafting of each one. And no lowlander is ever to bear their blade, unless he's made a part of their family.”

“And the glove?” Sutter asked, holding up his right hand.

“Much the same,” Yenola replied. “And it marks you as one of theirs. In some places, like Ir-Caul, it's a sign that earns you consideration you wouldn't otherwise enjoy. In other places, you'd do well to remove it; it would provoke anger or draw those who wish to test themselves against you.”

Sutter looked at the strange glove on his hand with new appreciation and concern. “All I did was remind a man that who a woman dances with is her decision.”

“If you think about it, you made him remember more than proper manners.” She gave him a thoughtful look, still smiling. “You may not have been born on the High Plains, but they consider you one of them. Which means
we
consider you one of them. That's the only reason the king agreed to speak with you.”

The woman must have seen the question still in Sutter's eyes. She laughed as she asked, “Do you know where you are?”

“What do you mean? I'm in Ir-Caul.” Sutter looked up and around at the city.

“Alon'Itol's northern border is the Pall. Beyond it lies the Bourne itself. And to the west is Nallan.…” She trailed off, seeming to weigh whether she needed to say more about that place.

Sutter had heard of the Nallan Kingdom, but remembered little about it, except that its own western border ran onto the Darkling Plains. But something in the way she'd used the name—
Nallan
—led Sutter to believe she didn't speak of mere facts.

Again, Yenola showed an astute read of Sutter's understanding. “I'll leave the king to speak more of our western neighbor. For now, and for you, the thing to understand—and use to your advantage—is that our gates are closed except to known friends.”

“We used Vendanj's name,” he said, hoping to understand more about the Sheason's relationship with Relothian.

Her beautiful mischievous smile came again. “Anyone could have used the Sheason's name to call on us. And I don't know that Vendanj truly
has
friends. As for the city of Ir-Caul, and for my brother and his generals, we may owe the Sheason a debt of gratitude. But how he earned it has made his name a curse here. I wouldn't use it again.”

“That's just lovely,” Sutter said. “The leper of Ir-Caul sends us here to do his bidding.” He looked back at Yenola. “Why are your gates closed?”

A look of genuine surprise rose on her face. “Sutter”—it was the first time she'd spoken his name—“we're at war.” She then led him by the hand back inside his room and to his bed.

*   *   *

Sutter awoke early. He hadn't slept much; he had Yenola to thank for that. But the night of lovemaking had refreshed him in a way a night of sleep never had. He'd never lain with a woman. He spared a long look at her lying beside him, wrapped in the sheets of his bed. She stirred, and opened her eyes, kissing him as naturally as if they'd known each other for years.

“Can't sleep?” she asked.

“I guess I'm used to an early start.”

She sighed deeply, contentedly. “What you told me about your words with the king. I've not heard anyone speak to him like that. Not a stranger, anyway. I wish I'd been there.”

“I'm told I'm too brash,” Sutter said, smiling through the dark of morning.

Yenola kissed him again, and this time there was some meaning to it. Sutter admitted to himself that his own inexperience with women left him completely unable to decipher the kiss.

“You should talk to the king again,” she said, her words sounding like thoughts spoken aloud so that she might hear them and weigh their practicality. She seemed to arrive at a decision, her gaze focusing. “Most nights, the king sleeps on the roof. He listens better there.”

“The roof?”