David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

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.