Bonds of Vengeance: Book 3 of Winds of the Forelands (Winds of the Forelands Tetralogy)

by DAVID B. COE

  “Tell me about the discussions among the dukes and duchesses.”

  “Actually,” she said, “we had the first today.” Seeing his puzzled look, she explained, “Norinde and Brugaosa were in no hurry to reach Yserne. They only arrived this morning.”

  “I see. And what was said when they met with the others?”

  “Very little, really. The queen and your duchess have convinced many of the duchesses that the conspiracy was behind the attempt on Lady Curlinte’s life, but the dukes are reluctant to take any action. I believe they fear any steps that will further strengthen the Matriarchy.”

  He weighed this briefly. None of it came as a surprise, though he had thought that the discussions would have progressed beyond this by now. “Thank you, Archminister.”

  She nodded and turned away. A moment later he followed her back to the front of the hall, where the queen and Diani were seated.

  The duchess barely acknowledged the minister as he took his seat beside her father, and for the duration of the meal, she spoke not a word to him, even leaving it to Sertio to inform him of the discussion planned for the following morning in the queen’s chamber.

  He returned to his quarters after the feast, but only long enough to convince Diani and Sertio that he had retired for the night. After waiting for some time, he ventured from the room, following the twists and turns of the castle corridors to a tower on the far side of the courtyard. There he waited, watching.

  He saw nothing that first night, and hurried back to his chamber just before dawn, taking care not to be seen.

  The day’s discussion among the dukes and duchesses went much as Abeni had said the first day went. Clearly the queen wished to forge an alliance between Sanbira and her neighbors to the west and north, but the dukes resisted, and Olesya seemed reluctant to push the matter too far. Diani still said little to Kreazur, though on two occasions, when one of the duchesses made reference to something that had happened before her mother’s death, she looked to him for an explanation.

  Together, the nobles and their ministers took a more modest evening meal in the queen’s hall, before returning to their quarters for the night. Once again, Kreazur crept from his room when all was quiet, and once again he saw nothing before being forced back to his room by the coming of the dawn.

  Still, he resolved to repeat his vigil until he found what he sought. His duchess had made a terrible mistake in placing the minister and the other Qirsi in Curlinte’s prison tower, but Kreazur had no doubt that she was right in assuming that conspiracy gold had paid her would-be assassins. At first he had guessed, as she did, that Castle Curlinte housed a traitor. As he sat in the tower, however, awaiting his release, listening to the grumbling of the other Qirsi, a new thought entered his mind. That thought, rather than any sense of duty to the duchess, was what had drawn him to Yserne. And on the third night, his suspicions were confirmed.

  He heard the door to her chamber open and close, watched as she stepped furtively to the tower stairs, and followed only when he could no longer hear her feet on the stone steps. She left the castle by way of a sally port near the north gate, one that was so well hidden he almost missed it in the dim corridors. As far as Kreazur could tell, no guards saw either of them leave.

  He followed at a distance as she wound her way through the darkened streets of Yserne city to a small tavern in the northwest corner, near the Sanctuary of Elined. She didn’t enter the tavern, but instead waited just outside the entrance. At the tolling of the midnight bells, a man emerged and the two of them walked a short distance down the narrow byway.

  Kreazur followed cautiously, drawing only as near to them as necessary to hear their conversation.

  “. . . It’s your gold,” the man was saying. “But it seems a waste of a hundred and fifty qinde if you ask me.”

  “First of all,” the archminister said, “it’s the movement’s gold, not mine. Second, it’s not a waste at all. Lady Curlinte is proving far more valuable as the victim of a failed assassination than she ever would as a corpse. And third, it won’t be one hundred and fifty.”

  “But we agreed—”

  “I paid you seventy-five, with the agreement being that you would be paid the rest when the duchess was dead.”

  “Yes, but now—”

  “Now I’m telling you not to kill her. Be grateful I haven’t demanded that you return the first seventy-five.”

  The man swore loudly. “Suppose it serves me right for doing business with you white-hairs.”

  “We white-hairs will soon be the only employers you and your kind are likely to find in the Forelands.” She paused, then added, “Wouldn’t you agree, First Minister?” This last she called out loudly. Kreazur felt his heart begin to pound. Was she speaking to some unseen ally, or to him?

  “Come now, Kreazur. You didn’t really think you could follow me through my castle and my city without being detected, did you?”

  Whispering an oath of his own, the minister stepped from the shadows in which he had tried to conceal himself.

  Seeing him, Abeni smiled. “Does it please you to know that I’ve spared the life of your duchess?”

  “It disappoints me greatly to know that I was right about you.”

  “Even now?” She tilted her head to the side, the smile lingering on her attractive face. “Do you know what the duchess did to him?” she asked the assassin. “After the first attempts on her life, she placed him in the castle prison. Her own first minister. Not only that but she imprisoned all the Qirsi in Castle Curlinte. And still he clings stubbornly to obsolete notions of loyalty and court etiquette.”

  The assassin, a large, dark-haired man, leered at him, but said nothing.

  “She’s done so much harm to her Qirsi that the movement has decided we want her alive. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  “It tells me that your movement grows desperate. I think the real reason you’ve called off your hired blade is that the attacks of the conspiracy have grown clumsy and obvious. The attempt on the duchess fooled no one. All it’s done is convince the queen that the Qirsi must be opposed with the full power of the realm. You’re movement is failing even as we speak.”

  “Don’t be a fool! We are the future of the Forelands, and our victory is far closer than you think.” She paused, and when she spoke again, it was in a softer tone. “But you can be a part of that, Kreazur.”

  “If your movement is so strong, why do you need me?”

  “We don’t. I’m offering you a last chance at redemption. You can join us now, this very night. Or you can die.”

  The assassin looked at her, though Abeni kept her eyes on the first minister.

  “You’d like to earn the rest of that gold, wouldn’t you?” she asked. She didn’t bother waiting for a reply. “Don’t make me kill you, Kreazur. Your duchess doesn’t trust you anymore. She never will again. Wouldn’t it be better to join us, to cast your fate with your own people?”

  “I’m not a traitor.”

  Her eyes narrowed at that, the smile finally vanishing. “There are those who would beg to differ. You serve an Eandi noble who treats the Qirsi in her castle like animals. I believe I speak for many of us when I say that you’re the worst kind of traitor. You hide your treachery behind empty claims of fealty and honor.”

  “Just as you’re doing now, Archminister?”

  “This man will kill you. All I need to do is give the command.”

  “Then give it. I’ll take my chances with your assassin. And I promise you, I’ll prevail.” Kreazur wasn’t nearly as confident of this as he sounded. He could raise a mist and slip away, and given the man’s size, he felt reasonably certain that he could outrun him. But his other powers—gleaning and language of beasts—were useless to him here. And he didn’t know if he could make it all the way back to the castle, running the entire time, and maintaining his mists. As a younger man he might have, but he was nearly thirty-seven now, old for a Qirsi.

  She took a step toward him. “
I don’t want to give such a command, Kreazur. Don’t you see? I want your help.”

  “No. You want to keep me from exposing you to the queen. That’s all that matters to you now. And there’s little you can do about it.”

  “You think they’ll take your word over mine?” She laughed. “Your own duchess doesn’t even trust you. How can you hope to convince any of the others?”

  It was a fair point. His only hope was to beat her back to the castle. He began to back away slowly, preparing to summon a mist.

  The assassin pulled a large knife from his belt.

  “No!” the archminister said quickly. “Not here. I have another idea.”

  Kreazur spun away, intending to run. But before he could take a step, pain exploded in his leg, white hot, as if the assassin had hacked through the bone with a sword. The first minister collapsed to the ground, clutching his thigh. Neither Abeni nor the man beside her had moved. Only as an afterthought did Kreazur realize that he had heard a strange noise, like the snapping of a dry tree limb.

  “You didn’t know that I was a shaper, did you?” the archminister asked, stepping to where he lay.

  An instant later, new agony. His arm, and this time there could be no mistaking the sound of shattering bone. He cried out, clutching the mangled limb to his chest.

  Abeni squatted beside him. “I gave you a chance, but you refused me. And now you’re going to die, just as I promised.”

  “They’ll learn of what you’ve done,” he gasped through gritted teeth.

  “No, they won’t. They’ll find you near here, dead in an alley, your neck broken along with your arm and your leg. There will be an empty coin pouch beside you and two gold rounds under your body where the men who killed you wouldn’t have thought to look. It will take them a bit of time to sort it all out, but the queen’s archminister will be quite helpful in that regard.” She smiled, though only for a moment. “You see, this part of the city is infamous for attracting brigands and assassins. Just the sort of place a traitor would come to hire a new blade to kill his duchess. Just the sort of place a traitor might die, offering too little gold to the wrong men.”

  She glanced back at the assassin. “You’ll take him elsewhere, to a place they won’t think to look for a day or two. Make it look convincing.”

  “Is he . . .” The man faltered briefly. “As long as he’s alive, he has his magic, doesn’t he?”

  Abeni looked down at him again. “Yes, but that’s not a problem.”

  Again, the cracking of bone. Then blackness.

  Chapter

  Sixteen

  Kentigern, Eibithar

  “What does it say?”

  Aindreas could scarcely hear her for the windstorm howling in his head. His hand had begun to tremble and he gripped the scroll with his other as well. But even with both hands on the parchment, he couldn’t hold it steady.

  “Aindreas, what does it say?”

  The duke looked up. His wife was staring at him from across the table, concern creasing her brow. Her face appeared fuller than it had at any time since the previous growing season, her brown eyes clearer, less sunken. Her cheeks were pallid still, but tinged with pink, rather than the sickly, sallow hue that had suffused her skin since Brienne’s death. It had taken the better part of a year, but he finally had his wife back. Earlier this very day, he had even heard her singing with Affery, their surviving daughter. He wasn’t about to drive her back into her solitude and the grief bordering on madness that had consumed her mind for so long.

  “Well?” Ioanna demanded again.

  “It’s nothing. A missive from Kearney, a waste of good parchment.”

  A turn ago she might have left it at that. Aindreas took it as another sign of her recovery that she didn’t this day.

  “What does he say?” Her expression hardened noticeably at the mention of the king’s name.

  “Nothing of importance.”

  “A message from the king, delivered to the one man in all Eibithar who has most cause to hate him. And you want me to believe that it says nothing of importance?”

  “Please, wife, peace! It needn’t concern you.” He took a breath, knowing this wouldn’t appease her. Before Brienne’s murder, she had been interested in all matters of state, and truth be told, as likely to offer him sound advice as any Qirsi minister who had ever stalked the corridors of Kentigern Castle. “He seeks a parley,” he added after a moment.

  “A parley,” she repeated. “And is it the mere thought of meeting with our king that makes your hands shake so?”

  “My hands shake with rage, madam. Though whether at our king or at my meddlesome wife, I can’t say just now.”

  Ioanna smiled at that. “What does he wish to discuss?”

  Aindreas stared at the parchment again, the neat letters making him wish that he hadn’t eaten any of this meal. What have I done? Kearney wasn’t actually requesting a parley so much as ordering him to Audun’s Castle. But it was the king’s stated reason for doing so that had conjured this storm that roared in his heart and head. “He wishes to speak of Kentigern’s grievances against the throne.” He said this officiously, as if repeating it from the message.

  “For how long does he propose you meet? Anything less than a full turn would be inadequate to the task.” She shook her head, so that her golden curls flew. “The time for parleys is long past. You should tell him that if he wishes to address our grievances, he should simply abdicate and be done with it.”

  He grinned. She was indeed a splendid woman, a credit to their house. Even as he thought this, however, he felt his chest tightening, as if the Deceiver had taken hold of his heart. Looking past his wife, he saw Brienne standing in the doorway, shaking her head slowly, a sad smile on her lovely face. He squeezed his eyes shut for just an instant. When he looked again, she was gone.

  “I suppose Javan will be there as well,” Ioanna said. “Curgh keeps the king on a short leash.”

  She had been mourning for so long, lost to the world, that she couldn’t have known such a thing for herself. These were his own words coming back to taunt him, those he had spoken to her in their darkened bedchamber as she lay in a stupor, too aggrieved, he had thought, even to hear him.

  “No doubt,” he murmured.

  “What will you tell him?”

  “I’ll refuse, of course.” What choice do I have?

  “Refusing a king is no small matter. Are you ready to face the royal army?”

  No, but there’s nothing else I can do. I’ve led Kentigern down a path from which there are no turns. “I don’t think it will come to that.”

  He hated lying to her, but the truth was too appalling, too humiliating.

  “I always know when you’re keeping the truth from me, Aindreas. You know that, and yet you still persist in these lies.”

  “I spent all of the harvest and the snows protecting you,” he said, grateful for the opportunity to speak the truth. “I’m finding it’s a habit that’s not easily broken.”

  She nodded, even managing a smile. “So there is more to the message than you’ve told me.”

  “Yes.”

  He expected that she would demand to know what it was, but instead she stood, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “I hope that soon you can find it in your heart to speak to me of such things as you used to. But I won’t press the matter. Do what you must, my lord duke, and guard the pride of our house.” She walked to the door of the great hall, then paused, glancing back at him, the look in her dark eyes almost shy. “It’s been some time since we lay together as husband and wife. But if you still desire me in that way . . .” She shrugged, the small smile still on her lips.

  “I do,” he said, his voice suddenly rough. In truth he had never thought to share a bed with her again, so far had she gone after Brienne’s murder. Just her words had stoked a fire within him he thought had long since died.

  She smiled again, deeper this time. “I’ll be waiting for you in my bedchambers.”

&nbs
p; When she was gone, the duke closed his eyes, tightening his fist around the parchment as if it were Tavis of Curgh’s neck.

  But the boy didn’t do it. Kearney’s message didn’t say as much. It didn’t point out that Aindreas had pushed the realm to the brink of civil war for no reason at all. It didn’t have to. All that and more was implied in what he had written.

  The note was short and direct, the language plain, almost pungent.

  We hold in the prison tower of Audun’s Castle a woman who admits complicity in the murder of your daughter. She is a member of the Qirsi conspiracy and claims that Brienne’s assassination was intended to foment civil war among the houses of Eibithar.

  You will ride to the City of Kings at once so that you might question this woman yourself and discuss her revelations with the realm’s other lords and me. Your failure to do so will be considered an act of treason and will provoke an appropriate response.

  That was all, save for Kearney’s signature and the royal seal.

  He wanted to dismiss it as a trick, an attempt by Glyndwr and Curgh to draw him to the City of Kings so that they might imprison him, perhaps even kill him. But he knew better. If they wished to lure him to Audun’s Castle, they would have done so with offers of reconciliation, promises of belated justice for Kentigern. They wouldn’t have resorted to threats and such a bold claim.

  No, this woman was real. She might have been lying, though for the life of him Aindreas couldn’t imagine why anyone, even a Qirsi, would tell such a tale.

  He felt something brush his shoulder, and looking up, saw Brienne standing beside him. Aindreas reached for her hand and smiled. Her fingers were so tiny and delicate, like a child’s.

  “Your mother looks well, doesn’t she?” he asked.

  The girl nodded, a smile lighting her face.

  “When you died, I thought I’d lost her as well. But it seems she’s come back to me.”

  “You have to tell her.”

  Aindreas shuddered. “It would kill her.”

  “She must know the truth.”

  He frowned. “The truth? What does this message tell us of the truth? Glyndwr and Curgh have lied to us before. They may well be lying again.”