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

by DAVID B. COE

  “What do you mean? He has other powers?”

  “Yes. Mists and winds, shaping, healing.” He didn’t dare tell his friend more than that. As it was, he had probably said more than Grinsa would have liked, though he wasn’t telling Xaver any more than the gleaner himself had revealed during their escape from Solkara several turns back, and during Cresenne’s difficult labor in Glyndwr.

  Xaver lowered his gaze, chewing his lip as he so often did. After some time he nodded, as if convinced at last that Grinsa was a worthy travel companion for Tavis.

  “How’s your arm, Stinger?”

  Xaver put his hand to the scar, rubbing it slowly, as if the question itself had rekindled his pain. “It’s fine. I rarely even think about it anymore.”

  Tavis wasn’t certain he believed that, but it wasn’t a matter he wished to pursue.

  “And I trust my father’s treating you well?”

  “Yes, very.”

  Tavis wanted to ask more, but he didn’t have to. It seemed that his friend still knew him better than anyone else.

  “He misses you, Tavis. He doesn’t say so, but I can tell. Whenever he asks my father to join him for a meal or a ride, he asks me as well. It’s as if having me with him is the next best thing to having you.”

  The young lord wanted to believe this, but he and his father had been at odds for too many years. “He probably just knows that your father wants you there. After Kentigern, Hagan hardly let you out of sight.”

  Xaver smiled at the memory. Hagan MarCullet had been in Curgh when Brienne died, and had ridden with the duchess to face Aindreas’s army, knowing that if Curgh’s army was defeated, Xaver, Javan, and Fotir would probably be executed.

  “That’s true,” he admitted. “But the duke isn’t doing all this for my father. He often asks me if I’ve had word from you, or if I have any idea of where in the Forelands you might be.”

  Tavis could think of a thousand reasons for this—maybe it was a way for his father to make conversation with Xaver; perhaps he sought information to mollify Tavis’s mother, who would have asked similar questions of the duke with some frequency; or perhaps he was merely curious. “Does he speak much of the crown?” he asked, eager to change the subject.

  “Tavis—”

  “It’s all right, Stinger. I’m just asking. I expect he wishes every day that he were king.”

  “He’s never said anything about it in front of me, not that he would. But I think you’re wrong about him, Tavis. He always speaks well of Kearney, of the need to protect Glyndwr’s hold on the throne. I think he’s made peace with all that happened in Kentigern.”

  “You didn’t see the way he looked at Cresenne yesterday.”

  Xaver shrugged. “So he blames her, and the conspiracy. But that doesn’t mean that he blames you as well. You were as much a victim of her actions as he. More, really. I’m amazed that you don’t hate her.”

  “Who says I don’t?”

  “You’ve hardly spoken of her, except to tell me what she did and that she was Grinsa’s lover.”

  “That’s all that matters now,” Tavis said, surprised by how little rage he felt. “Even if I did hate her, even if I wanted to exact a measure of revenge, I couldn’t. Grinsa wouldn’t allow it.” He kicked at the grass, squinting in the early morning sun. “To be honest, I can’t bring myself to be angry with her. I know that she hired the man who killed Brienne, but I also know that she’s confessed her crimes to the king. Without her, Kearney would still have his doubts about my innocence. For all I know, my father would as well.”

  Xaver started to object, but Tavis raised a hand stopping him. “Forget I said it. The point is, she’s trying to mend some of the damage she’s done. I’m grateful to her.”

  “Well, you’re more forgiving than I would be.”

  “If Qirsi and Eandi can’t forgive each other, we’re doomed,” he said, surprising himself a second time. It was something the gleaner might have told him.

  Xaver looked at him for a long time, a slight smile on his lips. “You have changed, Tavis. I can see it. I think you’ll make a fine duke someday.”

  He merely nodded. The young lord had been thinking for some time now that his life was on an unknown path, one that neither he nor even the gleaner had anticipated. He couldn’t say where it was leading, but he no longer believed that he’d ever be duke of Curgh.

  Bells began to toll in the distance, beginning at the north gate, the Moorlands gate as it was known in the City of Kings. Soon all the bells in the city were pealing, as if presaging the beginning of a siege. In the center of the courtyard, Gershon Trasker shouted a command, and the king’s soldiers began to line up by the far gate.

  Tavis looked at Xaver, who was already watching him, seeming to gauge the young lord’s reaction.

  “That’s probably Shanstead,” Xaver said. “Your father thought he would be the first to arrive.”

  “How many are supposed to arrive today?”

  “In addition to the thane? Only one or two. Lathrop, and possibly Shamus.”

  Only two. That was more than enough. Tavis still remembered how the other dukes had looked at him during Kearney’s investiture. Aindreas had convinced all of them that he was a butcher, a demon more deserving of torture and death than the mercy of exile.

  “You can prove your innocence now, Tavis. You’ve been waiting for this since the last growing.”

  “I’m not convinced that they’ll believe her, Stinger. She’s a Qirsi traitor. Aindreas will say that she’d confess to anything to save herself and her child. He’ll say that Kearney is so desperate to justify his actions on my behalf that he’d gladly believe her lies. And many of them will agree. Galdasten, Sussyn, Rennach. Before this turn is over, a majority of the dukes may be calling for both Cresenne and me to be hanged.”

  “I think you give the dukes too little credit.”

  “I hope so,” Tavis said. “I’ve never been so eager to be wrong.”

  “We should go to the gate. Your father will want us there. From what I gather, Marston is already convinced that the Qirsi killed Brienne. He’s an ally.”

  Tavis tried to smile. Failed. “You go. I’ll wait for him in the castle.”

  Xaver frowned, but then nodded and, gripping Tavis’s arm briefly, walked away.

  Watching Xaver leave, Tavis wished that he could have shared his friend’s faith in the judgement of Eibithar’s dukes. He knew he should have been pleased. If Shanstead really was with them, and could convince his father, the duke of Thorald, of Tavis’s innocence, there was indeed cause for hope.

  Yet as he listened to the city bells, Tavis heard in their ringing not the promise of salvation or the herald of peace but rather the stubborn insistence of a call to arms, and the grim repetition of a dirge.

  Chapter

  Twenty

  Gershon’s father, a fine soldier in his own right, had often said that a man could grow old and die watching nobles say hello. Standing in the shadow of Audun’s Castle, watching Kearney greet Marston of Shanstead, the swordmaster had to agree. The ceremony welcoming the thane to the royal city seemed to drag on for an eternity, until, unable to stand it any longer, Gershon muttered a bit too loudly, “Imagine if the duke himself had come.”

  One of his soldiers snickered and the king gave them a look that would have melted steel.

  It was nearly time for the ringing of the prior’s bells before Marston’s company was in the castle and the thane and king were able to talk. Still Gershon sensed that the younger man was reluctant to speak freely, as if he feared that their conversation would be overheard by enemies of the realm, though the only ones in the chamber with them were the archminister, Marston’s minister, Gershon, and a pair of servants. For some time, Marston and Kearney continued to trade pleasantries, discussing the severity of the snows that had just ended and their hopes for a mild growing season.

  Only when the king asked after Marston’s father did the swordmaster have the impression that the
y were approaching matters that truly concerned the thane.

  “My father sends his respects, my liege,” the young man said, looking grave. “He would have liked to make the journey himself, and he instructed me to thank you for your invitation and to apologize for his absence.” The man gave a wan smile. “It seems my father thinks me a poor substitute.”

  The king shook his head, offering a sympathetic grin. “I doubt that. But I hope you’ll tell him that he was missed, and that we look forward to making him a guest at Audun’s Castle when he can make the journey.”

  “I will, my liege.” But there was a catch in Marston’s voice, the briefest of hesitations when he spoke, which told Gershon that Tobbar of Thorald would never again set foot in the City of Kings.

  Apparently Kearney heard it as well. “He shows no improvement?”

  Marston sat straighter, as if gathering himself. Gershon had only met Tobbar once or twice, most recently at Kearney’s investiture, when he had already begun to grow thin and weak with the illness that had kept him from this journey. He could see so much of the duke in his son’s ruddy face. The penetrating grey eyes and noble straight nose, the kindness that seemed to linger in even the saddest of smiles. Aside from the years, there was little to separate father from son.

  “Forgive me for being blunt, my liege, but my father is dying. The healers have told us for some time now that his illness lurks too deep for their magic and their herbs. They ease his pain as much as they can, but they’ve long since given up on trying to cure him.”

  Kearney looked pained. “I’m sorry, Lord Shanstead. Your father is a fine man who has led his house with wisdom and compassion under the most difficult of circumstances. Bian, it is said, has a jealous heart, and he steals the brightest jewels so that his realm will glitter. Our world will be darker for his passing.”

  Marston looked away, his jaw tightening. “Yes, my liege. Thank you.”

  “You sent a message during the snows, in which you wrote of the treachery of your father’s first minister.”

  The thane faced Kearney again, though not before casting a wary look at Keziah. “I did, my liege.”

  “It’s all right, Lord Shanstead. I’ve already spoken of your message with all my ministers as well as with Gershon.”

  Marston didn’t look pleased, but he nodded. “Of course, my liege.”

  “Perhaps you should tell me more about what happened.”

  Still appearing uncomfortable, Shanstead told them how his suspicions of Enid ja Kovar had grown over the preceding year, and of how his own minister agreed to act the part of an embittered servant who wished to join the Qirsi conspiracy. After listening to the man rail against the thane, Enid offered to help him join her cause, at which point Marston’s minister left her, related to the thane all that had been said, and accompanied Marston to Tobbar’s chamber, where he repeated his account.

  “As you might expect,” Marston said, “my father was reluctant to believe him at first. Enid had served the House of Thorald for more than six years, and the duke had never thought to question her loyalty. When we summoned her to his chambers, she denied it, accusing Xiv here of fabricating the tale.”

  Gershon looked for a moment at the thane’s minister, who was sitting quietly in the far corner of the chamber, his gaze fixed on his lord. Unlike most Qirsi, he wore his white hair short, so that at first glance he appeared to have none at all.

  “I proposed that we search her chamber for gold, knowing that the conspiracy pays its servants well. She refused, of course. That was when my father knew she had to be lying. When the duke said as much to Enid, she admitted everything, calling him the foulest names and making it clear to all that her charm and wit had only served to conceal a black heart.”

  “Did you learn anything from her?”

  “No, my liege. She took her own life before we could question her. She remained loyal to her cause to the very end.”

  “This must have come as a blow to your father.”

  Marston nodded. “It did, my liege, in more ways than you may think. Enid came to Thorald shortly after the death of Filib the Elder. For years we assumed that the murder of Filib the Younger was the work of thieves who had come to Thorald with the Revel. My father and I now believe that his death may actually have been the work of assassins hired by the first minister.”

  Gershon sat forward. “Demons and fire! Do you have evidence of this?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “It makes a good deal of sense, Your Majesty,” Keziah said. “Galdasten had been removed from the Order of Ascension several years before, and Filib’s death removed Thorald, thus making Curgh and Kentigern the two leading houses in the land.”

  Kearney looked incredulous. “Are you suggesting that the conspiracy was already planning Brienne’s murder when Filib died?”

  “Not exactly. I doubt they could have foreseen all the circumstances that led to Brienne’s death. But if they wished to use the Rules of Ascension to push the land toward civil war, it would have made sense for them to eliminate as many of the major houses as possible from the order. They would find it far easier to turn events to their purposes if they only had to concern themselves with two or three houses rather than four or five.”

  “My pardon, my liege,” Marston said, looking from Kearney to Keziah. “But you speak of Brienne’s murder being the work of the Qirsi with such certainty. Are you convinced that this woman you hold in your dungeon is telling the truth?”

  “I am, Lord Shanstead, though you should know that she’s in the prison tower, not the dungeon.”

  “But why, my liege?”

  “She has a newborn babe and despite what she’s done in the past, she’s cooperating with us now. I saw fit to show her a measure of mercy.”

  Marston didn’t look at all pleased, but he seemed to know better than to argue the point further. “She can offer proof that the conspiracy had Kentigern’s daughter killed?”

  “She claims to be the one who planned the murder and hired the assassin.”

  Marston’s eyebrows went up. “Then you can prove Lord Tavis’s innocence.”

  “We can.”

  “Does Lord Kentigern know of this? Is he coming here?”

  Kearney glanced at Gershon, who couldn’t keep the frown from his face. “Lord Kentigern has yet to reply to my summons,” the king said at last. “I don’t hold out much hope that he will.”

  “But surely the others . . .” The younger man trailed off, a plea on his face.

  “We haven’t yet heard from Galdasten, Sussyn, or Eardley.”

  “Damn,” Marston said, shaking his head.

  “Javan arrived yesterday,” the king told him, as if this were consolation, “and we expect Lathrop before nightfall.”

  “Yes, but they were allies already. We need the other houses.”

  Kearney gave a wan smile. “I know.”

  “Forgive me, my liege. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “No apology is necessary, Marston. I share your frustration.”

  Marston glanced at his minister, who stared back at him for a moment, then nodded.

  “Archminister,” the Qirsi said. “May I have a word with you?”

  Keziah faltered, looking toward the king.

  “It’s all right,” he said.

  She forced a smile and led Shanstead’s minister from the chamber, leaving the king, with Gershon and Marston.

  “You wish to speak without the ministers present?” Gershon asked, eyes narrowing.

  The thane looked weary and young in the dim light of the chamber, and though he was eyeing the swordmaster, he addressed himself to the king. “Again, my liege, forgive my presumption. I’ve found, in discussing such matters with my father, that it’s easier to speak freely when there are no Qirsi listening to the conversation.”

  “Do you doubt your minister, Lord Shanstead?”

  Marston took a breath. “No, my liege.”

  “So it’s my archminister whose l
oyalty you question.”

  The thane winced and Gershon had to keep himself from smiling, even as he sympathized with the man. It was one thing to speak so with one’s father, even when he was duke of a major house. But it was quite another to raise the matter with a king.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t handled this very well, my liege.”

  “It’s all right, Marston. You may speak, though you should understand that I’ve known Keziah for a long time. I daresay I know her as well as any man in the realm. She’s no traitor.”

  “Of course, my liege. In that case I’ll say no more, save to ask you if you’ve noticed anything unusual in her behavior.”

  This time it was Kearney’s turn to falter, and abruptly there was no longer anything amusing about their conversation.

  The king looked at Gershon, who had little choice but to say, “She has been acting oddly since Paegar’s death.”

  “Paegar?” the thane asked.

  “One of my underministers. He fell in his chamber, striking his head on the edge of the hearth. He and the archminister were close, and after his death she . . . changed. She grew defiant and embittered. I finally had to threaten to have her removed from the castle permanently. Since then, she’s been more like herself.”

  “If I may ask, my liege, were she and this Paegar lovers?”

  “No,” Kearney said, a bit too quickly.

  “I see. You say that he fell in his chamber.”

  “I know how it sounds, Lord Shanstead, but the door was locked from within. It was an accident, albeit a strange one.”

  Gershon wanted desperately to leave it at that, but he knew that he couldn’t, that the archminister would have been the first to tell him so. The swordmaster had long questioned the wisdom of what she was doing and he feared for her life, but he had also sworn to help her in this endeavor. To keep silent now, after she had worked so hard to draw the attention of the conspiracy’s Weaver, made no sense at all.

  He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Gershon?”

  “It’s probably nothing, Your Majesty. Merely something the surgeon said the day we found Paegar’s body. I gave it little thought at the time. As you say, the door was locked from within. But after what happened last night to the woman . . .” He shrugged.