Trial of Intentions (76 page)

“Listen to me!” she yelled. “I command you to stop!”

Her words didn't rise above the tumult. “Artixan,” she said.

The Sheason extended a palm toward her, and she called out again. This time, her words echoed loud, like a deep brass horn. A few heads turned, but went back to the fray almost immediately.

“Will you die over nothing?” she asked angrily. “You fight because you're afraid, but you're afraid of the wrong thing! We must not be divided!”

Her words rang out again like a clarion trumpet, piercing the din. But still the fighting raged. Never had she lost control like this.

“Enough!” she cried out. “You kill neighbors and friends, when our cause is a common one!”

The sound of her voice fell across buildings facing the great plaza, across thousands locked in conflict, across the bodies of dozens of executed Sheason, across a growing number of dead. But ultimately it fell useless.

She'd stayed a step ahead of Roth. But this. She hadn't anticipated that he'd try this. He was inviting the wrath of the entire Sheason Order. But he wouldn't do that if he didn't feel prepared.
What defense does he possess?
The thought caused a cold shiver deep in her bones.

She'd believed her authority as regent could stem this tide before it washed her city under. Now, she believed all might be lost. But for one thought, she might have broken down and wept.

For what might be the last time, she raised her arm, the regent sign for silence.

Then, in a dreamlike moment, she heard the sound of a bowstring being released, a deep pluck followed by a low whistle. Her eye caught a sliver of movement, and then a sharp pain struck her body. She looked down and found an arrow buried in the center of her chest.

As she tumbled back, a series of images swept through her vision: her people at war with themselves; Sheason lying dead across the great square; women and children trying to escape the danger of the crowd, the grand architecture of granite-stone edifices facing the great plaza, and blue sky.…

A weightless moment followed in which she seemed to float, looking up now at tree limbs carving intricate patterns in the vault of heaven overhead. Vaguely, she knew she must soon strike the hard stone of the inner courtyard below, but didn't fear it. Perhaps her time was done, after all. If so, she might have liked to see Tahn before going to her earth. To hold him the way a mother would. She might have liked to tell Grant that even though she'd had to banish him, and couldn't understand his fanatic observance of old principles, she respected him more than any man she knew. That she might even still love him.

Darkness came to her eyes before she felt anything more. And even then, it seemed more like strong arms catching her than a hard impact on cobbled stone. But she was too far down a black funnel to be sure.

 

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

In the Company of Eggbirds

The pole-star glyph isn't inherently corrupt. Quite the opposite, in fact. And many believe it to be first among symbols. But to try and “possess” it is like trying to claim a part of the sky for your own. Madness.

—
The Dimensionality and Consequent Relationship Between Glyphs and Matter, Primary Text in Semiotics and Symbols,
by Examplar Susforth

T
o avoid drawing suspicion, Mira didn't ask anyone for directions to the residence of the Relothian House. Nor was it necessary. The manors in Ir-Caul flew their family colors the way a tanner displays a cleanly cured hide from the eaves of his cottage. Sitting in her bedchamber that morning, she'd noted the bold lion crest embroidered on a vibrant scarlet coverlet; the same escutcheon and heraldry as everywhere else in the king's palace—a lion on scarlet belonged to the Relothian family.

In less than an hour's time on the streets of Ir-Caul, she'd found an impressive smooth-stone manor with banners of the Relothian lion hanging from the eaves on either side of a great porch. The stately mansion sat amidst several of equal grandeur, each similarly displaying a coat of arms, but flying their colors beneath the Relothian crest. Only this great house bore the single shield.

Her plan was simple.

She'd always believed that secrets were the only real power men had. But men were bad with that power, because they were bad at keeping secrets. Divulging hidden knowledge, she thought, made men feel superior to those who hadn't secrets of their own. Relothian folk, she guessed, were no different. So, her plan was to steal her way into the company of the king's family. And listen.

Checking the streets, Mira found an opportunity to slip unseen over the wall to the south of the house and drop quietly into the large enclosed gardens. To her surprise, she found the outbuildings and grounds of the city estate rather rustic: a woodblock for chopping wood, a chicken coop, an overgrown hedgerow garden. Amidst the oddly farmlike yard, a fountain statue and basin stood dry, its stony flesh patched with dead, blackened lichen.

Mira crept along the base of the manor, looking and listening for signs of movement. She'd nearly reached the rear entrance when the sound of footsteps approached. She scrambled to the chicken coop and got inside just before the rear manor doors were pulled wide. A man led a woman by the hand down a few stone steps and across the uneven lawn, directly toward her.

She whirled, quickly surveying the coop. Chickens clucked and stirred at her haste, chaff rising thick into the air from the flutter of fowl wings and her own shuffling steps. There was little room to hide, but she opted to duck in behind a wall of wood boxes where the chickens laid their eggs. If anyone came far enough inside the shed, she'd be in plain view. She'd just drawn her swords when the door opened again and the man and woman stepped inside. Then the door closed, leaving them all in the musty dimness.

Over the sound of clucking hens, the strangers began quietly to speak. Mira caught herself smiling at the sound of conspiratorial whispers offered in the company of chickens.

“Who are these strangers? What do they want with the king?” the man asked.

“Don't panic. It's ugly and makes you foolish,” the woman replied. She cleared her throat and sniffed. “They're little more than messengers. Someone thinks a personal plea will succeed, where the regent's request failed cycles ago. They'll be leaving soon. The king is sufficiently convinced that his only duty is to his war with Nallan.”

“I think you're overconfident,” the man said. “Why would they send a Far and a Sedagin? Her kind hasn't been seen outside the shale in ages. They may have suspicions. Perhaps they know we've been filling the traveling army with loyalists.”

“Then they will test those suspicious and find them wanting. Or, these messengers will go
missing,
and the king's attention will be drawn back to important matters. Are you prepared to make that so?”

The man didn't reply, and began to pace the small coop. He cocked his head back slightly, and stared upward as he passed directly in front of Mira. She remained perfectly still in the shadows, ready. The man wore a tabard, richly embroidered with the Relothian lion, white on a red field. Chaff and a few feathers clung to his recently oiled boots. His wavy, golden hair touched his shoulders. He reached the wall, pivoted, and walked back, passing before Mira again.

“Already, the boy has spoken to the king a second time.” The man paused. “Relothian may listen. The Sedagin doesn't have the practiced words of a politician. He's crossed borders without a military escort. The personal risk will impress the king the more he thinks about it. But more than any of this, the lad bears an emblem no man should hold.”

“What emblem?” the woman asked.

In the quiet of the coop, the man spoke as if sharing an omen. “Draethmorte.”

Silence stretched for several moments. The feeling in the coop tightened. Even the birds seemed to quiet with the mention of the Quietgiven name.

“Are you sure?” the woman finally asked.

“The king has seen it. He confided this news to us at war council. He believes it speaks well of the regent's chances at Convocation. He may join her if these messengers aren't dealt with.” The man's boot leather creaked as he shifted his stance. “Which is why I sent Delos to take care of the Sedagin, and bring the sigil to me.”

The woman made a soft, feminine sound of approval. “I should have more confidence in you,” she said. The sound of a kiss came and was lost in the noise of the clucking birds. “When you have this sigil, bring it to me. We may leverage it to hasten our trade.”

Another kiss, this one longer, louder. “The crown will dress your head nicely, but it's your mind that I love.”

“It's the seat beside the throne that you covet,” the man answered, and Mira heard the sound of his hands rustling through the folds of her dress. “But,” he added, “as long as your maiden box is mine…”

The woman made a seductive sound, in which Mira found more humor, mostly because of the place and company it kept—high romance had here in the stench and impertinence of eggbirds. Though some of her mirth grew from understanding that this was an affectation. The man's hands hadn't coaxed this sound from the woman, as he no doubt assumed. Any woman could hear the difference.

The man was a dolt. If these conspirators succeeded in displacing Relothian from the throne, this aspiring king would be dead as soon as his queen could devise the plot. She'd then ascend the throne herself.

But she left all that alone. It was the woman's words that bothered her:…
leverage it to hasten our trade.

“We need to consider what comes next,” the man said. “The lad
is
Sedagin. The Right Arm of the Promise won't like hearing of his death. They'll want answers.”

The woman laughed. “While you were planning his death, I asked Yenola to become acquainted with this boy. I've learned he's not truly Sedagin. He bears their sword and glove, but they're little more than gifts. And he's taken more interest in my sister than in being a Recityv envoy to the king.”

The man made an appreciative sound deep in his throat. “Still, his Sedagin emblems will mean something to the king. As for the Far, her presence gives their entreaties credibility. She won't be easy to kill.”

“But you'll find a way, with both of them,” the woman said. “I have faith in you.”

Mira sat in the shadows of the coop and listened as the man and woman worked at each other like rutting pigs, until the sighs of climax faded beneath the sound of distressed chickens. Then, the coop door opened and shut, leaving her alone again with a choir of clucking eggbirds.

She sat a moment, reflecting on what she'd learned. This deception meant Ir-Caul, even all of Alon'Itol, had been compromised so deeply that it might be useless for Relothian to join a Convocation army.

When she thought it safe, she began to stand. Just then, the door opened again. Lighter, less confident steps shuffled slowly from one chicken box to the next. The delicate sound of eggshells clicking against one another rose as someone collected eggs into a basket.

Mira crouched, ready should this new stranger try to raise a call of alarm. When the old man shuffled around the wall of chicken boxes, he caught sight of her and stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't yell or try to run. He just stared, one hand holding a wicker basket, the other hand holding an egg. Mira thought for a moment that he might try to throw it at her. He didn't. He just remained there, frozen in place.

Eventually she stood, the floorboard beneath her groaning slightly. The birds had quieted some, the coop mostly still. Sunlight fell through a few windows and the cracks where planks had stretched or yawed with time and weather. In the shafts of light, the chaff lazed.

Mira didn't like the thought of needing to kill an old man. He would try to yell with his feeble voice, showing loyalty to his duplicitous masters, and she'd have to cut him down. Just an old man collecting eggs. Once more the feeling in the old chicken coop drew taut, but this time with nuances Mira hated to consider.

Then the man spoke, softly, meaningfully. “Don't let them get away with it,” he said. He turned with his basket of eggs and left the coop with his shuffling steps. Sometime later, Mira followed, racing to find Sutter, taking with her the image and memory of the old man, whose entreaty had the sound of both hope and hopelessness.

*   *   *

Blinding light flooded the room. Sutter could see only a silhouette rushing in, a blade in each hand.

The figure went past him, swords descending in vicious arcs toward his attacker.

The glee in his assailant's throat shifted to surprise, and one great arm brought around the heavy mace toward the sword-bearer that Sutter could now see was Mira.

She got her swords up in time to block the blow, but the force of it slammed her against the thick headboard. She quickly caught her balance, and thrust both her swords into the man's throat. A strangled, gurgling sound bubbled up from the other's gaping maw, as he sliced his own hand trying to remove Mira's blades from his neck.

A moment later, Sutter's attacker fell back onto the bed, his hands still clenched tightly: one around Mira's sword, the other around the Draethmorte's pendant.

Sutter and Mira stood, catching their breath, each massaging their own wounds.

When the large man on Sutter's bed had taken his last breath, they shared a worried look in the light from the door. Sutter had only told one man of the pendant—the king. What did this mean?

Mira went and shut the door. When she returned, she didn't light the bed table lamp, but sat on the edge of the bed. Sutter did the same, and took the sigil from the hand of the dead assassin. With his thumb and finger, he pinched the floating disk at the center of the charm, and spun the outer circle—it spun quickly, smoothly.