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

by DAVID B. COE

  “You know better.”

  “You can tell me,” he said, his eyes widening. “You’re the only one who knows what really happened.” He turned in his chair and took her other hand as well. “It was the boy, wasn’t it? They’re lying about this woman.”

  Brienne shook her head, her expression grim. She looked even more lovely than he had remembered.

  “You misjudged him, Father. From the beginning.”

  “No!”

  She nodded.

  Aindreas dropped her hands and stood, spinning away from the table to pace the stone floor. “I refuse to believe any of this! The message, this woman, even you. It’s all an illusion. Kearney is doing all of this to trick me. He wishes only to rule the realm. He doesn’t care about honor, about truth!”

  He turned to face her once more, but already the image had begun to vanish, growing thin and misshapen, the last wisps of smoke from an extinguished candle.

  “Brienne!” he cried out. “I didn’t mean it! I know you wouldn’t deceive me! Please stay!”

  But it was too late. A servant stood near the table, gaping at the duke, eyes wide with fright.

  “Go to Kearney, Father!” The voice seemed to come from a great distance, as if it were the final breath of thunder from a retreating storm. “Save yourself. Save Kentigern.”

  Aindreas felt tears burning his cheeks. “Brienne,” he said once more, a whisper. Long before now, he should have sought her wraith out at the Sanctuary of Bian. He should have asked her who had killed her. She could have told him and put all his doubts to rest. But for too long he had been so certain that he felt no need to ask. And then his doubts had begun to grow, and he had come to fear her answer. Now it was too late.

  He drained his goblet of wine, then threw it against the wall so that it shattered, scattering shards of clay across the floor. The servant bent to clean the mess, joined a moment later by a second boy. Aindreas paid them little notice. He wasn’t about to go to Kearney, not after all that had passed between them in recent turns. Even if Javan’s boy wasn’t guilty—impossible!—Glyndwr and Curgh had made it clear that they couldn’t be trusted, that their contempt for him, for all of Kentigern, overrode their sense of justice.

  But there was another he could find, one who could tell him how this had happened.

  One of the servants straightened, facing the duke as if it took all his courage to do so. He was a yellow-haired boy whose eyes flicked nervously from the duke to his companion, who still cleaned up the broken goblet.

  “A—are you well, my lord?”

  “I’m fine,” Aindreas said. He snatched the parchment from the table before striding toward the door. “Go to the stablemaster, boy. Tell him to have my mount saddled and ready. I ride within the hour.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Aindreas was in the corridor before he had finished. He walked first to his chambers, where he retrieved his sword and dagger, fastening them to his belt. He thought briefly of Ioanna and knew a moment of regret. She would be expecting him. But he was in no state to lie with her this night, and if he took the time to tell her so, she would demand an explanation, which he couldn’t possibly give. Not about this.

  As an afterthought, he took a pouch of gold from a drawer in his writing table. Finding the woman wouldn’t be easy. It might well take a bribe or two.

  He left his chamber and made his way to the inner ward. The night was clear but cold, and for just an instant he considered returning for his riding cloak. Then he thought better of it and walked on to the stables.

  The stablemaster himself had come down to see to Aindreas’s horse, as was appropriate.

  “My lord,” he said, bowing. “Your mount awaits.”

  “Good.” Taking his reins from the man, the duke hesitated. The stablemaster was nearly as tall as Aindreas, though not nearly so large. Still . . .

  “You have a cloak?” Aindreas demanded.

  The man blinked. “Yes, my lord, I do.”

  “Give it here.”

  He opened his mouth, closed it again. “It’s but a simple wrap, my lord. It’s hardly worthy—”

  “I don’t give a damn what it looks like! Give it here. I’ll return it to you before the night ends.” Better it shouldn’t look like a noble’s cape. Many within the city would recognize him no matter what he wore, at least during the day. Few men in the realm were as large as Aindreas or rode as great a horse. But beyond the city walls, this plain cloak might fool a few and keep word of his late-night ride from spreading through the dukedom.

  The man bowed and quickly retrieved his cloak from where it hung on a nail just inside the stable.

  “You may keep it, my lord. I’d be honored if you did.”

  They were all so afraid of him. Had he used such a heavy hand over the years?

  “As I said, I’ll return it before first light. My thanks, stablemaster.”

  He threw the cloak over his shoulders and swung himself onto his great black mount. He snapped the reins and the beast started forward. The soldiers at the castle gates called greetings to him as he rode past, but Aindreas offered no response.

  Only when he started down the winding lane toward the city did Aindreas remember that the Revel was in Kentigern. Even this late, the city streets would be choked with people, and with the dancers, musicians, and peddlers who traveled with the festival. He almost turned back, thinking to ride through the castle and use the Tarbin gate, which was still being repaired. Instead, he took the quickest route out of Kentigern, keeping his head low as he rode past the guards at the city gate. It seemed that at least one of the men recognized him, but Aindreas didn’t slow his mount. Already, he was thinking of where he might find the woman he sought.

  Her name was Jastanne ja Triln. She was a Qirsi merchant and the captain of a ship, the White Erne. Indeed, the one time they met, she told him that she was usually on her vessel. “If you need to find me,” she said that night in his quarters, “just look for the Erne.” She also told him that she expected them to communicate solely through written messages. She wouldn’t be pleased to see him.

  If she saw him at all. Riding away from the city walls, Aindreas realized that she could be anywhere in the Forelands, “from Rawsyn Bay to the Bronze Inlet,” as she had put it. The chances of her being in the quays of the Tarbin were so remote that he actually reined his mount to a halt. After a moment, however, he rode on. He had already left Kentigern. It was but a small matter to continue on to the river. If her ship wasn’t there, he would return to the castle. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too late to seek out the duchess after all.

  He rode westward for nearly a league and then turned south toward the river. The Tarbin was the boundary between Aneira and Eibithar and had been crossed many times by the armies of Mertesse and Kentigern. But here, west of the cities and their soldiers, the river became a place for trade, not war. Merchants from both realms traded with the sea captains who sailed up the river from the Scabbard, haggling over prices rather than borders, and counting their successes in gold rather than blood. “Kings must have their wars,” it was often said, “and merchants must have their gold.” Nowhere was this more true than on the banks of the Tarbin.

  Long before he reached the river, Aindreas could see torches burning brightly on the quays, and as he drew nearer, he heard music and laughter. He couldn’t begin to guess the time, though he thought it must be well past gate closing in Kentigern. But in the port, the night was just beginning.

  Qirsi ships tended to dock near the end of the pier, although not by choice. The nearer landings were the more desirable, offering as they did easier access to the roads leading to Kentigern city and the smaller villages that lay nearby. These the rivermaster held for Eandi ships.

  Aindreas halted his mount a short distance from the closest of the piers, tying the beast to a tree and covering the remaining ground on foot. The duke lowered his gaze as he walked, keeping the cloak tight about his shoulders and throwing the hood over his head. Had a
nyone been watching for him, they would have recognized Aindreas instantly. But he was aided by the foolishness of what he was doing. No one would have thought to look for him, and so no one noticed him.

  Reaching the first quay, he passed a group of men carrying jugs of ale.

  “I’m looking for the White Erne,” he said, not bothering to stop or look at them.

  “Go to the end of the third pier,” one of the men answered. “I believe she arrived last night.”

  He could scarcely believe his good fortune. Managing a quick thank-you, he hurried on. He turned onto the third quay, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. There were three ships close to the shore—all captained by Eandi, no doubt—and a single ship at the end of the pier. The Erne. No one seemed to take note of him as he walked past the Eandi ships, but before he was halfway to the Erne, three Qirsi men blocked his path.

  “What do you want, Eandi?” asked one of them, a lanky, narrowfaced man with white hair that hung loose to his shoulders and bright yellow eyes that glimmered like gold rounds in die torch fire.

  “I’m going to that ship there. The White Erne.”

  The Qirsi grinned, though the expression in those golden eyes didn’t change. “I had guessed that much. It was either the Erne, or you fancied yourself a fish.” His grin widened. “Or perhaps a whale.”

  The other two laughed, low and menacing. Aindreas noticed that they had unsheathed their blades.

  “I see you carry a sword, Eandi,” the man said, stepping closer to him. Aindreas had the distinct impression that the man had expected him, that he knew exactly who Aindreas was, and that he wasn’t the least bit frightened of him. “You don’t intend to use it on any of us, do you?”

  The duke would have liked to pull the weapon from its scabbard and cleave this impertinent white-hair in two. Instead, he opened his hands, keeping his gaze fixed on the Qirsi.

  “Not at all, friend. I merely wish a word with the Erne’s captain.”

  “Her captain,” the Qirsi repeated, glancing back at his companions. “She’s a busy woman, and she hasn’t much patience for Eandi whales interrupting her evening meal.”

  Aindreas placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, no longer caring what magic this man might possess, or how far word of his visit to the Erne might travel. “And I haven’t much patience for any man who insults me in my realm. Now tell her Aindreas, duke of Kentigern has come to speak with her, or I’ll have your head on a pike before dawn.”

  The man didn’t flinch, nor did the duke’s threat wipe the grin from his face. But after a moment he nodded, and turned back toward the ship. The other two remained, blades still in hand.

  Aindreas had thought she might keep him waiting, but only a minute or two later, the first man returned and with a quick gesture, beckoned Aindreas to the Qirsi vessel.

  It was a larger ship than the duke had expected, with a mainmast nearly twenty fourspans tall and a wide, sturdy hull that appeared hardy enough to weather even the worst storms of the snows and early planting season. There were perhaps a dozen men on the deck and Aindreas had no doubt that the Erne’s crew numbered at least twice that many. All this under a captain whom he remembered looking as frail as a reed and as young as Affery.

  The Qirsi men led him onto the ship and down into the hold, which was ample and clean and smelled slightly of pipeweed and brine. As they neared the bow belowdecks, they came to a small oaken door. The Qirsi knocked, and in response to the summons from within, indicated to Aindreas that he should enter.

  Ducking his head to step through the doorway, Aindreas entered a small chamber, well lit by several oil lamps. It was obviously designed for a Qirsi—it seemed to the duke that his own frame took up most of the room—but it was equally clear that it offered all the comfort a sea captain could want. The walls and floors were made of a dark, polished wood, and a small bed stood in the far corner. Beside it, at a small writing table made of a lighter wood, sat Jastanne, a taunting smile on her lips. Her hair was tied back from her face, and her eyes were an even deeper gold than those of the man on the pier. She was prettier than Aindreas recalled, though no less youthful in her appearance.

  “Lord Kentigern,” she said, not bothering to stand. “I hadn’t thought to see you again, at least not so soon.”

  “Really? I had the impression that your men were expecting me.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You’re perceptive. I dreamed three nights ago that you would come, and so, yes, my men were prepared.” She held a sea chart in her lap, and now she placed it on the table so that the parchment curled up into a loose cylinder. Then she gestured toward the bed. “Please sit. I’d offer you a chair . . .” She trailed off, shrugging.

  Aindreas understood. None of the chairs in the chamber was big enough to hold him. He smiled thinly and sat on the bed.

  “When I said I hadn’t thought to see you again,” she went on, “I was referring to our conversation three turns ago, when I told you that I wished only to communicate in writing.”

  “I remember,” he said.

  “Then why have you come?”

  “Because I felt it necessary. You may command the obedience of the Qirsi in your movement, Captain. But I’m a duke. I don’t answer to anyone unless I so choose.”

  “Including your king.”

  “Yes, including my king.”

  “I see.” She eyed him for a some time, her expression revealing nothing of her thoughts. “You don’t look well, Lord Kentigern,” she said at last. There was no concern in her tone, no sympathy. She might as well have been commenting on the prevailing winds.

  “I’m well enough.”

  “Then perhaps you should tell me why you’re here. I’m certain that you’re no more eager to prolong this encounter than I am.”

  He faltered, unsure of how to proceed. For better or worse, he had cast his lot with the conspiracy. He had even been so foolish as to sign a pledge to that effect—a token of his good faith, the Qirsi had called it at the time. Now it was a noose around his throat. Their failure would bring with it his downfall and the disgrace of his house. But while he had little choice but to help them, he needed first to know the truth. If their deceit ran as deep as he feared, he would have to find some way to undo all that he had wrought with his own betrayal.

  “Very well,” he began. “I’ve received a message from Kearney. In it he claims to have evidence that the conspiracy was responsible for my daughter’s murder.”

  The woman shrugged. “This is nothing new. Glyndwr and Curgh have been telling you much the same thing since Lady Brienne’s death. Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what makes this message so different that you’d ride all the way here?”

  “This time he says he’s captured a member of your conspiracy, a woman who acknowledges her involvement in the murder.”

  Jastanne sat forward, the blood draining from her cheeks. For the first time since he met her, she looked truly frightened. “Did he tell you her name?”

  Aindreas shook his head.

  “Did you bring the message with you?”

  He pulled it from his cloak and handed it to her. Watching her read the note by the light of the lamp beside her, seeing how appalled she was by these tidings, the duke found himself sifting through his memory of their previous encounter. At no time had she denied that the Qirsi ordered Brienne’s death, because he never asked. No matter the truth, this woman hadn’t lied to him. Aside from Shurik, whose treachery lay at the root of all that had happened since, no one had. Not Javan, not Kearney, not the white-hairs. He had done this to himself.

  “Is it possible that this is a deception?” she asked at last, handing the parchment back to him.

  “You tell me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was the conspiracy responsible for my daughter’s murder?”

  She hesitated. It was only for an instant, but that was long enough. “This seems a strange time to ask, Lord Kentigern
. You’re one of us now.”

  “I want an answer, damn you!”

  “I have none to offer. I don’t know who killed your daughter.”

  “You’re lying! The first time we met you claimed to be one of the leaders of your conspiracy.”

  “I am. But this is a vast movement, Lord Kentigern, and its success depends in part upon secrecy. Even its leaders don’t know everything. That way, if one of us is captured and tortured, he or she will not reveal enough to jeopardize the Cause. Surely you can understand that.”

  There was a certain logic to what she said, but still he doubted her word.

  “Do you think the king could be lying to you?” she asked again.

  “No. Not that he’s not capable of it, but this isn’t how he’d go about doing it. This woman exists, and I have little choice but to believe that she had a hand in my daughter’s murder.”

  Jastanne just stared at him, as if appraising a rival captain’s ship. “That puts you in an awkward position, doesn’t it? You sought an alliance with the movement believing that Tavis of Curgh was the killer, and that Kearney, in offering asylum to the boy and taking the throne with Javan’s consent, was an enemy of Kentigern. Now, I would imagine, you see the Qirsi as your enemy. What do you intend to do?”

  Aindreas looked away. “What can I do?”

  “Very little. I suppose that’s my point.”

  He faced her again, longing once more to draw his blade. “Meaning what?”

  “You pledged yourself to this movement, Lord Kentigern. You did so in writing, on parchment bearing your mark and seal. If you turn on us now, if you seek revenge for what you believe was our complicity in Lady Brienne’s murder, we’ll destroy you and your family. You’ll gain nothing, and lose all. You understand that?”

  Of course he did. Truth be told, he had known it that first night, only moments after signing the paper and watching the Qirsi he had tortured—what was his name?—carry it from the chamber. They had defeated him, made him their slave, and he had forged the manacles himself.