Trial of Intentions (97 page)

“Please,” Kett pleaded. There was nothing else left for him to do but beg. And while he didn't expect any pity, he was helpless not to try.

But Stulten didn't even acknowledge him, stepping back to give Kett an unobstructed view and the praefect plenty of room.

“Father,” each of his children whimpered, seeking help from the only source they could.

Their appeal brought new anguish and determination to Kett's heart. Against the excruciating pain, Kett forced himself to stand. He caught the praefect's uncaring gaze, and with all the conviction he could muster, spoke a request.

“Don't do this, Lliothan. There's another way.” He had only the old desire left. It might sound weak to them, but it was all he could think to say. He softened his voice a shade. “What if there were no Veil? Could there not be just … life, day after day, in a place that knows death only after a lifetime of peaceful skies?”

The praefect didn't reply.

“Is there truly malice in you, Lliothan?” Kett continued. “Or could you have been told lies to stir your hatred against an enemy you've never even seen?”

The wind up from the chasm swirled around them with its awful smell and black dust. The praefect's countenance didn't change, and he regarded Kett with icy indifference.

“Kett Valan,” Lliothan finally said, “you've been found guilty of betraying your covenant. The Jinaal have spoken your punishment.”

As the praefect began pulling Kett's son in by his tether, the boy looked in pleading desperation at him. “Father,” he cried.

Kett tried to get to his son, but after a single step his legs simply gave out, his knees unable to support the weight of his body. As Lliothan reeled Marckol closer, Kett pulled himself over the stony courtyard as fast as he could, trying to reach them. It took him only a few moments to realize he would never make it in time.

As he dragged himself forward, he looked into his son's eyes. “I love you, Marckol,” he said. “Don't be afraid. We'll be together soon.”

“Father!” his son screamed as the praefect put one mighty hand around the boy's chest.

Lliothan let go Neliera's tether, and brought his other hand up around Marckol's neck.

“He's a boy, Lliothan. Only eight seasons.” Kett then saw an awful glint in the praefect's eyes. “Remember your oath to me, Lliothan.”
Be swift!

And in that moment, Kett knew the praefect's treachery knew no bounds. He began to squeeze his son's throat, cutting off his cries. Kett could only watch as his son struggled helplessly until a muted snap came from beneath the hand clenching his son's throat. Then Lliothan dropped Marckol, who fell to the hard stones like a doll, not yet dead, convulsing, his throat broken, useless. His boy fought to breathe, his eyes wide, looking plaintively at Kett.

And even as his son fought for his life's breath, Kett screamed, “Run, Neliera!” His daughter did not. She stood frozen in fear, crying. And where could she have run? But he yelled it again, bringing only louder sobs of helplessness from her.

Lliothan took two long steps, grabbed her up, and turned toward Kett again to be sure he witnessed this moment clearly. Neliera didn't struggle, her fear so complete that she could only hope for some rescue. Through her sobs she called to Kett meekly, as if a softer entreaty might earn her his aid. The sound of it seared Kett's soul.

“Lliothan, for the child's sake, swiftly, please,” Kett pleaded.

While looking at him, the praefect performed the same horrific act, crushing his little one's throat just enough that she would gasp and bleed inside, her gullet swelling, her breath slowing.…

Lliothan dropped her beside her brother, where the two lay broken, drawing weak, strangled breaths, their faces pale and frightened. Kett pulled himself toward them, his ruined knees smacking stone edges that he no longer really felt. He reached his children in time to stroke their faces and see the questioning looks.

“Don't be afraid,” he whispered. “You go soon to see your mother. Won't that be a fine thing?”

He no longer knew if he believed his own words, but he spoke them again and again until Marckol and Neliera ceased to breathe, their young, innocent faces motionless, their eyes glazed. He heard only the shrill whistle of the wind coming up over the lip of the chasm. “Receive them, Saleema,” he whispered. “I'm sorry. I failed them.”

He grieved, holding them tight in his arms, feeling an emptiness inside deeper than anything he'd ever known. Then he realized his punishment had just begun. Balroath meant for him to live a long life with the memory of what had just happened. A life that would likewise see the annihilation of his kind.

I won't suffer it,
he decided.

Giving each of his children a last look, he quickly began to roll toward the edge of the courtyard that dropped away into the chasm. By the time either Stulten or Lliothan realized what he was doing, they were too late. Their commands to stop followed him as he tumbled into the open air and fell gratefully down. The black crags of the Bourne and its slate-grey sky turned in his vision as he dropped. He thought of the many losses and horrors that had brought him to this. He found himself impatient in his fall toward a death he deserved and welcomed. His last hope was that the fall would, in fact, kill him.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

Broken Will

Aye, but there are many prisons. One of bars, sure. But also of wit, or the lack thereof. Then expectations—yours and others. And by every silent god, reputation. That one's tight, she is.

—From a written entreaty for relief sent to King Bomaan of So'Dell by a dockworker in the years following the War of the First Promise, when it was said, “all the city's a slum”—required League reading

F
rom his balcony high above the rooftops of Recityv, Ascendant Roth Staned looked down with a heart both heavy and full. Fires burned here and there across the cityscape, where civil unrest and fighting had resulted in arson and accidental infernos. While some of the rebels still fought, others scrambled to control the blazes. Distant shouts could be heard—cries of defiance, orders to comply, and the agonized shriek of the wounded when steel entered flesh.

Then came lulls in the faraway sounds, leaving the blanket of night to cloak the unrest that Roth had forced at the break of day. Though some clashes rose up in pockets, and the fires lifted their smoke in dark streams against the starry night, the tumult that swept Recityv had fallen into relative slumber. For a time, anyway.

It was a victory. One that left him with the sense of completing a path begun a lifetime ago on a wharf in Wanship. He'd scraped by, earning plug-coin for gutting fish.

He'd trodden over estimable things, sanctified things, to bring about a new understanding. He'd have to do so again. He meant to give confidence to every street-laborer. He would be sure every drudge could feel pride in his own contribution to his community, if that drudge just observed the proper civility. It was worth the breakage of estimable things. Sanctified things.

In real ways, conflict, war, would be his catalyst for change. He would continue to work his politics, but he knew sometimes diplomacy failed. The Civilization Order and other maneuvers were part of his social engineering; they'd likely eventuate in full, outright war. And he was preparing.

A door opened into the chamber behind him, and hard boots approached, stopping at the doorway to his balcony. “Your Leadership, I have the accounting.”

“Please,” Roth invited.

The captain strode forward to Roth's side and attempted to hand him a bit of parchment.

“Read it to me,” Roth said.

The captain faltered a moment, then lifted the parchment into the light shining from the chamber behind them, and read.

“Initial and incomplete counts confirm two thousand eight hundred forty leaguemen dead or missing. Only eight of thirteen complements have reported in so far.” The captain licked his lips.

“And how many of our opponents, Captain?” Roth asked, looking to the far, dark horizon where Recityv faded and the night sky began.

“Nearly sixteen hundred recorded deaths from Van Steward's ranks.” The League captain joined Roth in looking out over the ravaged city.

“How many citizens?” Roth braced himself.

“It's hard to say with certainty, Your Leadership. We believe it's best to wait until dawn and then take a proper count—”

“How many?” Roth repeated. “Don't mince words with me.”

The captain settled himself, swallowed. “We think the number is upward of four thousand.”

Roth shut his eyes, a wave of grief sweeping over him. These were the people he had done all this for. The husbands and sons who barked in the streets to make a life for wives and children. Not that some civilian loss wasn't expected, but so many …

“There's more,” the captain said softly, finding the need, it seemed, to be thorough.

Roth waited a moment before nodding for the man to continue.

“There's no easy way to say it, Your Leadership.” He put the parchment away. “The fighting is chaotic, close quarters. Our leaguemen are defending themselves as much as they are rooting out insurgents.” The captain paused, readying his next words. “The nonmilitary dead are not men alone.”

Roth finally looked over at the young captain, anger beginning to simmer inside him.

“Explain,” he said coolly.

Seeming to find some inner strength, the captain said quickly, “Women stand beside men, armed, fighting us. Boys, many years before their Change, likewise raise steel.… They are part of the accounting.”

“You're telling me that we're killing wives and sons.” Roth began to feel and see the blinding white that flashed in his mind when his wrath came upon him.

“I'm telling you that your League is defending itself against every insurgent,” the captain said politically.

Roth looked away into the night again, high above the Recityv rooftops. He'd known death would accompany his plans. But it wasn't how he'd envisioned this change in Recityv rule. These losses could undermine what he sought to establish, tainting the new era he meant to usher in before he'd even begun. There would need to be accountability, but it couldn't belong to the League.

Without turning, Roth issued the orders. “Pull all leaguemen back. Disengage the fighting everywhere. Send word into the streets of a temporary truce. Every pair of hands we have will begin the immediate removal of the dead from the streets of Recityv. Contact their kin when you can. Involve them in where and how they'd like their dead buried. Any we cannot find kin for, take them just outside the city and give them a proper burial. Grave markers, too.”

“Yes, Your Leadership,” the captain replied, and turned to go.

“Captain,” Roth called, stopping the young man in his haste to leave.

“Yes, Your Leadership.”

“Start with the women and children,” Roth added, hating the sound of the words from his own lips. “Take care with them. Be quick, though. By dawn, every fallen Recityv citizen must be buried. Is that understood?”

The captain nodded, his face ashen at the very prospect of the task.

“On your way, send in my Jurshah leaders. They're waiting beyond the door.”

The captain nodded again, and hurried out. Roth composed himself, preparing now to strategize the second part of his plan with his closest fellows.

Presently, Nama Septas, leader of the League's political agenda; Wadov Pir, the League's finance and commerce secretary; leader of justice and defense, Bellial Sornahan; and Tuelin Cill, master of history, all entered Roth's chamber. Last came Losol Moirai, leader of the new war faction, a stern look on his face and blood on his clothes.

Roth took one last look out at the darkened panorama of Recityv, then joined his advisors.

“Nama, what's your assessment of the day's events?” Roth asked.

“I was surprised how easily the regent fell,” Nama said first. “But it makes tomorrow's bid for the regent's seat a simple matter. Convocation, on the other hand, may not be so easy. There are letters of inquiry from several of the seat holders. They expect a reply.”

“Get word to
all
those here for Convocation. Ask them to assemble in the hall at meridian hour.” Roth nodded at his own plan. “By then, we should have the regent's seat secured, and I'll address them as Recityv's new leader.”

Nama nodded with him. “But your challenge is with Van Steward and the Sheason. There'll be some rising sympathy for the Sheason after the public executions, particularly after a day where the dying had no recourse to Sheason arts to heal them.”

Roth had considered all this.

“Van Steward has the right,” Nama went on, “to declare military law when the regent is incapacitated. If he does so before you claim the office, we'll have to either stand down or declare war against him. I don't think the latter would be wise.”

“Because we cannot win?” Bellial asked, a hint of challenge in his voice.

“No,” Nama replied. “Because declaring war on a government will earn us enemies of every nation where we now have a garrison. Kings and councils won't like the suggestion that the League is willing to take control by force. They'll see it as a threat to their own thrones.”

“We need to tread lightly here, gentlemen.” Tuelin Cill, Roth's historian, spoke as he stared into the carpet. “The choices we make will brand us for generations. How the League is perceived here in Recityv, and throughout the known world, could well be decided in the next few hours.” He looked up at Roth. “Your Leadership, I'm not simply talking about how these events will be recorded. I'm talking about whether or not these events will describe a League that exists only in written histories.”