Dawn of Swords (39 page)

The story hit Soleh like a blow to the face. Suddenly, remaining strong in front of Vulfram felt impossible. She pleaded with Karak to give her his aid.

“What was your ruling?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

“Broward and Kristof were executed,” he said. His head hung lower. “I swung the sword, both times.”

“And Lyana?”

At last he met her eye.

“Forced into the Sisters of the Cloth.”

Soleh couldn’t contain her muted cry. Her fingers pressed against her mouth. The thought of her precious Lyana imprisoned in that secretive organization filled her with horror. Worse, she knew of the initiation rites they endured. Lyana would have been stripped naked and then whipped. Whipped by.…

She saw the same horror in Vulfram’s gaze, the lingering guilt and doubt. Soleh suddenly felt so proud of him for containing himself so well. It was astounding that he had made it through such a public spectacle without cracking.

“My dear Vulfram,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her forehead against his broad chest. “I know you think yourself a monster, but you mustn’t. You acted according to your god’s law.”

“You’re right,” he replied, tapping on the pouch attached to his belt. “The punishments were just for the crimes committed. If that were all, I think I would be fine in time, once given chance to grieve. But this…this…I fear all may not be as it appears.”

“What do you mean?”

“Although Karak’s judgment is true, I fear the crimes were not.”

Soleh frowned, confused.

“You said that Lyana confessed?” she asked.

Vulfram reached into his pouch, removing a folded bit of parchment. He handed it to her and she stared at it, unsure of what to do.

“Read it, Mother,” her son said.

“Very well.”

She wandered closer to one of the torches fastened to the wall and unfolded the letter. Her eyes scanned every indistinct word and phrase. It was a note of gratitude sent to Broward Renson, written in a familiar script whose author nevertheless eluded her, but other than that it told her nothing.

“I don’t understand,” she said, holding out the paper. “What is this?”

“Master Bracken Renson found that in his father’s library,” Vulfram said. “A conspiracy is at work in Neldar, and I am the target.”

She looked at the letter again. “What makes you think so?”

“Read the words!” he said with a hint of frustration. “This letter spells it out, albeit in a devious way. The writer wished to disgrace my family, to cause my faith in Karak to waver and plunge me into madness.”

“It seems to have worked,” she said, unable to hold her tongue.

“It has, most brilliantly. By soiling Lyana, then forcing me to punish her…I was broken, Mother. Fully broken. He wants to take it all away…my family, my position, possibly even my life.”

Soleh tugged at her hair. “Vulfram, you are making no sense.
Who
wants this, and why?”

“How is it not obvious?” her son asked. “Don’t you recognize that handwriting? It’s the Highest himself. He wants my position as Lord Commander; he has since the day the king bestowed that honor upon me. I never knew he would sink to such lows.…”

“Vulfram, listen to what you are saying. Clovis is the Highest of Karak and the king’s advisor. Surely he must have had a part in Vaelor’s decision to appoint you?”

Vulfram’s eyes widened, and she could almost see sparks of frenetic energy burst forth from them. He shook his head.

“One would think, but I’ve heard many times that Vaelor chose me to
spite
the Highest, that Clovis demanded leadership only to be denied.”

“Where have you heard this?”

“Men talk, Mother. Fighting men especially.”

Soleh rubbed her cheek. “And men lie. It makes no sense. Why go through with this…conspiracy?” she asked. “Why not simply put a blade in your back and be done with it?”

“Would that it were so easy!” Vulfram said with a laugh. “Should the Lord Commander end up dead in his bed, questions would be asked, especially now that Karak has returned to us. And if questions were asked, then many eyes would turn toward our beloved Highest and his recent dealings.”

“What dealings would those be?”

“Haven.”

“And why would he not wish for any to look deeper?”

“What if his plans for the delta aren’t Karak’s true wishes?”

Soleh shook her head. “You’re being delusional. Karak wishes to teach the deserters a lesson, a lesson that will ring out to all of Neldar. He has told me as much.”

Soleh felt helpless as her son squirmed before her. He was convinced of this conspiracy, she realized, so convinced that her words were nothing but an annoyance for him to brush aside.

“But look at the handwriting! That letter was written by the Highest; I would wager my very soul on it.”

She glanced again at the words on the paper, and now she understood that nagging sense of familiarity she’d felt earlier. The penmanship
did
look very much like Clovis’s, but something was different about it. The letters were too sloped, the
t’
s crossed too elegantly.

“This is
not
Clovis’s handwriting,” she said. “Similar, but penned by a different hand.”

“How can you say that?” Vulfram exclaimed. He snatched the letter from her grasp, crumpling it in his massive fingers. “Look at it!
Look at it!
I’ve read decree after decree written by this man, and the writing is the same!”

Hoping her son wasn’t beyond reasoning just yet, Soleh walked toward the Station of the Guard, the desk used by Captain Gregorian to notate the daily court dockets. Bending to reach the cabinet beneath, she rifled through a stack of documents, pulled out a particular piece of parchment, and placed it atop the desk.

“Come, look,” she said.

Vulfram stepped up to the desk and placed his note directly beside it.

“What am I looking at?” he asked.

“This is one of Clovis’s decrees, written around the same time as your letter. Look at the handwriting, son. Look at it closely.”

Vulfram leaned in, his eyes squinting. Soleh grabbed a torch from the wall and lowered it closer to the desk. She watched as her
son’s appearance shifted, at first rock-jawed and stubborn; then his lips creased in confusion, and finally his shoulders slumped.

“It’s not the same,” he whispered.

“No, it is not,” Soleh replied. “It is comparable, but Clovis had no hand in its making. The author of this note has much more of a flair for style; he or she was a storyteller rather than a simple compiler. But I fear you are right, my son. You
were
being deceived…and it was by yourself.”

Vulfram’s knees gave out. His head struck the edge of the desk. He fell back on his rump, holding the now bleeding spot on his scalp and moaning. Soleh knelt down beside him, taking him in her arms as she had been longing to, rocking him and humming.

“She’s lost,” her son moaned. “I’ll never get her back.”

“Hush now, sweet boy,” she whispered. “All will be all right. Trust in Karak, he will see to that.”

Vulfram didn’t answer. He simply grabbed her arm and sobbed into its crook, soaking her with his warm tears.

It took quite awhile for him to calm down, and when he did, Soleh bid him to return to his room in the Tower Keep. He declined, saying he wished to take a walk to clear his thoughts. A frown on her face, she watched as he stumbled across the anteroom, threw open the tower door, and disappeared from sight. She debated for a moment whether she should go with him but decided against it. His display of weakness notwithstanding, her son was a man, and a man made his own way. Instead, she gave him time to make headway before she exited Tower Justice, climbing into the waiting carriage beside a sleeping Pulo. She didn’t wake him; instead, she used the stillness and silence to think.

As she stared into the night sky and saw Celestia’s star winking down on her, her confidence wavered. What if Clovis
had
penned the letter, altering his writing ever so slightly in case someone recognized it?

“Pulo,” Soleh said, deciding silence was actually the last thing she needed right now. “Take me home.”

The guard stirred in his seat, his eyes fluttering open.

“Of course, Minister,” he said groggily.

On their way to the keep, Soleh decided to tell Vulfram that he was not going to Omnmount to rejoin the army under his command. No, she wanted him here, with her, because she was determined to find out exactly who had written that letter. Whoever it was would be punished, no matter if it were some lowly merchant or the Highest himself.

Come morning, she looked, but Clovis Crestwell was nowhere to be found.

Neither was her god.

C
HAPTER

20

T
he old man with the gray beard circled Patrick, one eye opened larger than the other, studying him as they practiced atop the grassy hill overlooking the fields where the others sparred. The grass was damp, and the air was filled with the sloshing sound of skittering feet. The Temple of the Flesh lurked in the distance like a sleeping giant.

“No, brace yourself. Weight on the back leg. Now turn at the waist. The
waist
. You know what your waist is, right? Keep your shoulders locked, but give yourself room for quick motions. Better. Now relax your wrists ever so slightly. You’re gripping with two hands, you can afford some slack. Lift it over your head, then hold it straight out. Good. Let go with your off hand. No, not your
dominant
hand, the other one. Excellent. Now hold that stance. Steady now. Amazing.”

The graybeard was Corton Ender, a tall man who was long in years but spry of spirit. He seemed genuinely impressed, and Patrick felt honored by his attention. Corton had taken leave of training from Deacon Coldmine’s militia just to oversee his progress. Ender had been an accomplished swordsman in his younger
days, back when he had served as a mercenary for a rich man named Matthew Brennan, though this information meant very little to Patrick. He knew nothing of the east or of the doings of mercenaries. It sounded like an unsavory way to live, although he couldn’t deny that a certain part of him was indeed drawn to the notion, and even excited by it.

“Tilt that majestic thing to the side,” said Corton. “Flex your arm. Now
that
is impressive.”

The wizened old bastard had been truly awed upon his first sight of Winterbone, and he’d wondered openly how Patrick could carry such a large weapon with relative ease given his “condition.” Rather than being offended by the accusation, Patrick had appreciated the old coot’s bluntness. His family always treated him with caution. It felt liberating to be around someone who was honest with him for a change.

Corton pointed at a log that was propped up on a pair of stumps a few feet away.

“If you would, shift the weapon down slowly and place your off hand on its handle, beneath your other hand. Now swing from the legs up. Gather the strength in your calves, and send it up through your thighs. Let it flow through your trunk and expel out your arms, just like you would with a good punch. Bring the weapon down in a wide, sweeping motion, and split that log.”

Patrick followed the instructions, planting his right foot behind him, breathing deliberately in his effort to maintain the balance between his mismatched legs. He arched his back as far as he could. In a single, fluid motion, he cocked his elbows until Winterbone’s pommel was beside his ear, then reversed his momentum, stepping back with his left foot while bringing the sword up over his head in a long, winding arc. When the tip reached its apex, he felt himself lose control of the weapon. Still, it careened downward in a straight line, striking the center of the log. The steel drove through the wood, pulping it, splitting the log in two. Patrick didn’t feel any
resistance when it happened; in fact, the only sensation he
did
feel was a frightening teetering as his body was yanked forward by the weight of the sword. Winterbone’s tip pierced the ground, halting his fall, jarring his wrists. He squinted and gritted his teeth, forearms shaking.

“Well, I’ll be,” said Corton, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed red. “You still have worlds to learn about control, but that’ll come with practice. The strength you have, however…it is truly amazing. That log was oak, almost two feet thick. Normally, it’d take five swings of an axe to halve it.”

“So I did well?”

“Well?” the old man laughed. “I don’t think that word gives justice to what you just did. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was damn near freakish.”

Patrick’s elation dipped. He kicked a foot, pulled Winterbone back from the split log.

“Freakish?” he asked.

Corton stopped staring and shook his head vehemently.

“No, no, I apologize. Not freakish in that way, Mr. DuTaureau. Yes, your body might be…unique…but it seems to have been built for one distinct purpose—to swing that sword. The shortness and unevenness of your legs plays perfectly for the sideways stance that’s required to handle a weapon of that size. Your humped back prevents you from bending too far backward—the bane of the backswing, where a man is at his most vulnerable. And those arms…I’ve never seen a more powerful pair in all my years. You may look odd, son, but when it comes to that sword, you are unfailingly perfect.”

The old man looked downright whimsical. Patrick lifted Winterbone and held it in one hand, beaming. For once, his body was not a subject of ridicule or pity, but of awe and even envy. He tossed the sword from one hand to the other, feeling the weight, the blade’s downward momentum threatening to snap his wrist. But he succeeded in keeping it straight, virtually parallel to the ground,
stretching his tendons near the breaking point. He smiled through clenched teeth.

Corton smiled, shaking his head. “Now you’re just showing off.”

Patrick grinned, ear to ear.

The old man set up another log, and Patrick split that one as well. Corton put up a third, this one larger than the first two, and this time Patrick took several swings to punch through.

“I think we’re done for the day,” Corton said after that last one, and Patrick sheathed the sword. “You’re getting tired and hurrying through what I’ve shown you. Even with all that power, you must have patience and control. Never forget that.”