Seeds of Betrayal: Book 2 of the Winds of the Forelands Tetralogy

by DAVID B. COE

  It’s possible that he had other powers. Mists and winds, perhaps others. There were seven Qirsi standing among his dead. Three he had killed in their sleep, the others he had taken in the back. None of them had seen him coming. And in all these cases he knew what powers they possessed before he approached them. How was he supposed to fight Grinsa when he wasn’t certain what magic the man wielded? It was suicide. But Brienne was right. Like Lord Tavis of Curgh, who was already hunting the land for the lady’s killer, Cadel couldn’t keep himself from trying.

  “You see?” the wraith said. “You’re more like my lord than you care to admit.”

  “Perhaps,” Cadel said. “But if he finds me, I’ll still have to kill him.”

  “Have you ever fought a man who was intent on vengeance?” she asked.

  He considered this for some time. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t suppose I have.”

  She nodded sagely, as if death had given her wisdom beyond her years. “I see.”

  A number of the other wraiths laughed appreciatively.

  Cadel heard the city bells ringing in the distance. It was too early yet for the midnight tolling. This had to be the gate closing. The night was just starting, and already he was weary.

  “Perhaps you wish to sleep?” Brienne asked, sounding as innocent as a babe.

  He merely shook his head, as the wraiths leered at him hungrily. Few of the living ever slept on Pitch Night in Bian’s Turn. The dead could not touch a man to kill him, but there was nothing to keep them from huddling so close to his sleeping form that the slightest movement on his part—a mere gesture in the throes of some horrible dream—might send him to the god’s realm.

  “Well,” Brienne said, “you won’t touch me, and you won’t sleep.” She flickered like a candle once again so that she stood before him as she had when she first appeared, scarred and half naked. “How do you propose we pass the rest of the night?”

  “You could leave me,” Cadel said. “Grant me peace and silence.”

  The ghost smiled. “Why would we want to do that?”

  The other wraiths came closer, crowding around him like eager buyers in a marketplace pressing to see some wares. Cadel held himself still, closing his eyes and readying himself for what he knew would come next. It was said to be common—something that all the wraiths did on this night. It even had a name: the Excoriation. Usually it began immediately, with nightfall and the appearance of the first wraiths. But tonight had been different, perhaps because of Brienne. Not that it mattered. This night’s Excoriation, like all of them, would last for hours.

  They all began to shout at him, berating him for what he had done, not only to them, but to their loved ones. Their voices buffeted him like storm winds on the Scabbard coast, the din they created making his head pound. Yet, perhaps due to some power the wraiths possessed, or through some trick of the god who had sent them, Cadel could hear each of them. Brienne upbraided him for Tavis’s suffering in the days after her death, when her father tortured him in Kentigern’s prison. Chago told him of the tears shed by his son and wife in the few days since his death in the Great Forest. Eben blamed him for his mother’s descent into madness and his father’s suicide. On and on they went, and Cadel had no choice but to stand and listen.

  Most of it he had heard before—the lament of the dead did not change much over the years—but that did little to make the night pass faster. They would continue this until dawn, as they did every year. Telling him all that they had dreamed of doing with their lives, of that which he had denied them with his blade, his garrote, or his poisons. If they ran out of things to say, they merely started over, forcing him to hear every word again. But he didn’t have to look at them anymore; at least he didn’t have to see Brienne.

  He stood motionless, save for his trembling hands and the twitching muscles in his legs. He felt sweat running down his face, making his skin itch. But he dared not move, even to wipe his brow. He didn’t have to open his eyes to sense how close the wraiths had gathered around him. His skin prickled at the mere thought of it. He could almost feel their breath stirring his hair, though he knew this was impossible.

  There was nothing for him to do but endure their abuse and cling to the knowledge that dawn had to come eventually. He tried to occupy his mind with song, but their voices drowned out his own. He called forth an image of Jedrek, who had come to him as a friend earlier in this turn, on the Night of Two Moons. But the dead would not allow him any diversions. Their words demanded his attention, and he hadn’t the strength to resist them.

  He could not have guessed the time—if the midnight bells rang, he didn’t hear them. But after what seemed a lifetime, Cadel realized that the voices had stopped. Slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes. Brienne stood before him looking young and sad, despite her bloody wounds. The rest of the glowing figures had vanished.

  “It’ll be dawn soon,” she said, her voice low. “The others left me to see you to the end.”

  Cadel didn’t know what to say. His dead had never done this for one of their own before. Just as they had never waited to begin the Excoriation. In his mind, he saw once more how they had parted to let her come forward when this night began. Even the wraiths could see how special she was, how undeserving of this fate. What have I done?

  “You said earlier that you only have to face me once in a year, that you feared the Qirsi more because they were a part of your world.”

  Cadel nodded. “I remember.”

  “I believe this will be the only time in your life when you will have to face me in this way. By this time next year, I expect you’ll be dead and we’ll be together in the Deceiver’s realm.”

  He felt a chill run through his body, as if some unseen ghost had run a cold finger down his spine.

  “Is that prophecy, my lady,” he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady, “or an idle attempt to frighten me?”

  The ghost shrugged. “I’m merely telling you what I think. You can make of it whatever you will.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I hope you’re wrong.”

  “I will. It’s the only forgiveness you’ll ever have from me.”

  “And still it may be more than I deserve.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It may be.”

  In the next instant she was gone, and the first silver light of dawn touched the stained-glass window at the farthest end of the shrine. Cadel closed his eyes briefly, reaching out a hand to steady himself against the nearest wall, and taking a long, ragged breath. The dawn bells tolled in the city, the sound drifting among the stone pillars of the sanctuary with the morning devotions of Bian’s clerics. It was time for Cadel to be leaving.

  He straightened and began walking toward the main doors of the shrine. Before he could reach them, however, he found himself standing before the prioress.

  “I heard you cry out once or twice,” she said. “It was a difficult night?”

  The assassin gave a wan smile. “Yes.”

  “More difficult than most?”

  “More difficult than all that have come before.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope our sanctuary brought you some comfort.”

  “It did, Mother Prioress. I wouldn’t have wanted to endure last night anywhere else.”

  A smile touched her lips and was gone. “That’s kind of you to say.”

  She turned away and Cadel started toward the doors once more.

  “If last night was so difficult,” she said, stopping him, “it may be time you considered a new profession. Much of what the god teaches us can only be gleaned through patience and contemplation. But on occasion, his lessons are as clear as the new day.”

  He gazed at her briefly, then nodded. “Thank you, Mother Prioress.”

  She smiled again, but Cadel could see in her eyes that she had little hope he would heed her words.

  He left the shrine as quickly as he could. He had much to do, he told himself. Lord Tavis was hunting the Forelands
for him, and Cadel himself had quarry to pursue. And before he could turn his mind to any of that, he wished to pay a visit to a tavern in Dantrielle. It was called the Red Boar, and it was there, nearly eighteen years before, that he had first met Jedrek. He could only hope that this visit would bring him such good fortune.

  In any case, he had no more time to waste in Solkara.

  Or so he wanted to believe. He knew, however, that the truth lay elsewhere. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the sanctuary, to rid himself of the memory of the previous night, to be sure, but also to get away from the half-blind prioress who seemed to see him so plainly.

  Chapter Three

  Orvinti, Aneira, Bohdan’s Moon waxing

  The four dukes raised their goblets, the shifting flames in the hearth reflected on the polished silver.

  “To Chago,” Brall said. “May Bian grant him a place of honor and may the Underrealm shine with his light.”

  “To Chago,” the others said as one.

  They sipped the wine, then settled back in their seats, Brall still holding his cup so that it balanced on the arm of his chair.

  Another gust of wind made the shutters rattle and stirred the tapestries hanging on his walls. He loved to see the hills covered with snow, Lake Orvinti shimmering with their reflection. But judging from the winds that already blew down from the Scabbard, this year’s freeze was going to be harsher than most.

  Fortunately, the growing turns had been generous. His people wouldn’t starve, and there was plenty of food and wine to share with his guests. Such company was a rare luxury this time of year, and though he regretted the circumstances that had brought the other men to western Aneira, he was glad to have them in his castle just the same. Most dukes chose not to travel in the colder turns; usually they spent the waxing of Bohdan’s Turn preparing for the god’s festival on the Night of Two Moons.

  Had it not been for Chago’s death and the funeral in Bistari two days earlier, Brall too would have been busy with the celebration. As it was, he had been eager to return to Orvinti. Storms struck the Hills of Shanae every year around this time, and the last thing Brall needed was to be blocked from his castle so close to Bohdan’s Night. So, after Chago’s funeral, when Pazice insisted that he invite the dukes back to Orvinti, he was more than happy to comply. Most refused, as he knew they would. It would have taken many of them farther from their homes and at least a few of them—the duke of Rassor came to mind—didn’t like him very much.

  Those who did come, Ansis, Bertin, and Tebeo, were friends and allies of both Bistari and Orvinti. To the extent that any duke in Aneira trusted another, they trusted each other. It almost seemed to Brall that the god had granted him an extra gift this turn: for this one night, he was surrounded by friends.

  “It was a good service,” Ansis said, his pale eyes fixed on the fire.

  Bertin shook his head. “It was a load of dung, just as I knew it would be from the start. Maybe if Carden had allowed Chago’s prelate to preside, there would have been a measure of truth in it. But with the king’s prelate controlling everything…” He shook his head a second time, a look of disgust on his square face. A moment later he drained his wine, then held out his goblet so that one of Brall’s servants could pour him more.

  Ansis frowned, looking even younger than usual. “I just meant that it seemed to do Ria and Silbron some good to hear so many people speak of Chago so fondly.” He glanced at Brall and then at Tebeo, as if pleading with them to agree.

  “I was surprised that the king allowed me to speak,” Tebeo said. “I didn’t expect that, not after I sided with Chago in their dispute over the road fees.”

  “He wouldn’t allow me to speak,” Bertin said, raising his cup again. He had consumed a good deal of wine this day. “And he refused Tounstrel’s request, too. He couldn’t very well keep all of us silent.”

  Brall cast a look at the duke of Noltierre. “I’m sure he was tempted to try.”

  Bertin grinned and nodded. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

  “Even Carden wouldn’t have gone that far,” Tebeo said. “He might have considered it, but he knows better.”

  “He didn’t hesitate to have poor Chago killed,” Bertin said. “Why would he care about the rest?”

  Ansis sat forward. “Precisely because he had Chago killed. He couldn’t silence all of us without making himself look guilty.”

  “Don’t be an idiot!” Bertin said, rolling his eyes. “He had the man garroted. He wanted us to know who was responsible. It was intended as a warning to others who’d be as bold in opposing him as Chago was.”

  Ansis chewed his lip briefly. “Is that what you think, Tebeo?”

  The duke of Dantrielle looked at Brall before answering. With Chago gone, the two of them represented the greatest threat to Carden’s rule. Bertin hated the king more than either of them, as did Vidor of Tounstrel, but neither Noltierre nor Tounstrel was counted among the kingdom’s more powerful houses. Kett, like Noltierre, was at best a middle-tier house, and even had it been more, Ansis’s youth would have kept him from exerting much influence within the court. Until recently Mertesse had wielded a good deal of power. Its army was considered one of the finest in the land, and its treasury rivaled that of Bistari and Orvinti. But the dukes of Mertesse had allied themselves with House Solkara long ago, and with Rouel’s death during the siege at Kentigern several turns back, the dukedom had passed to Rowan, an unproven and unimpressive youth.

  Among the great houses, only Solkara, Orvinti, and Dantrielle were still led by men of experience. Surely it had not escaped the king’s notice that both Brall and Tebeo had, at one time or another, sided with Chago in taking issue with his decrees.

  All of which made Tebeo’s answer to Ansis’s question that much more significant. Though he was among friends in the privacy of Brall’s quarters, the duke would have to choose his words with care. Still, even knowing this, Brall was surprised by Tebeo’s reply.

  “I might have seen it as a warning,” he said, “had I believed that Carden was responsible.”

  Bertin nearly choked on a mouthful of wine. “What? ‘Had you believed—’? You mean you don’t?”

  “I’m not as certain of it as you are.”

  “You saw his body before they lit the pyre! Good as he was, the embalmer couldn’t hide the marks on Chago’s neck. And as if that wasn’t enough, the captain of Bistari’s guard told me that they found a broken strap in Chago’s hand bearing the Solkaran crest.”

  “I heard that as well,” Tebeo said.

  “So isn’t it clear to you what happened?”

  “I think,” Brall said, “that Tebeo finds it a bit too clear.” He faced the duke. “Is that right?”

  Tebeo nodded. “Precisely.” He rubbed a hand across his brow, staring at his wine as if searching the goblet for the correct words.

  Of all of them, Tebeo looked least like a powerful noble. He was short and portly, with a kind, round face and large dark eyes. Pazice had once remarked that he resembled an alemaster more than he did a duke. But Brall, who had never been shy about complimenting himself on his own intelligence and foresight, thought Tebeo the wisest leader in Aneira.

  “In all likelihood you’re right, Bertin,” the duke said at last. “Vidor showed me the message Chago sent to him and I understand that you and Ansis received similar ones. I’m certain that Carden heard about them as well. Chago made no secret of how angry he was about the fees; I have no doubt that he would have challenged the king openly at the first opportunity. And knowing what I do of Carden, I’m also certain that he would have found Chago’s defiance galling. No king is above murder, ours least of all.” He paused, shaking his head slowly.

  “Then what?” Bertin asked.

  Tebeo took a breath. “We’ve all heard talk of the conspiracy. I’ve even heard some say that Qirsi were behind the unrest in Eibithar.”

  Bertin snorted. “The Eibitharians are animals. They don’t need any help butcher
ing themselves.”

  “Perhaps not. But coming so quickly on the heels of their troubles, this just strikes me as…odd. They say it was Chago’s first minister who found him. That makes me wonder as well.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Noltierre said. “Carden’s reek is all over Chago’s body, and you’re trying to blame the white-hairs.” Bertin turned to Brall. “And what about you, Orvinti? Does Tebeo speak for you as well?”

  Brall sipped his wine, not quite certain how to answer. He shared Tebeo’s suspicions, but he wasn’t ready yet to give them voice. He would have been happy to pass the night in silence, allowing the duke of Dantrielle to carry the burden of this discussion. But more than that, he was troubled by the extent to which he found himself fearing the Qirsi. His own first minister had been with him for six years—not a long time, but enough to have nurtured a good deal of trust on his part. Fetnalla had offered him wise counsel since coming to Orvinti. As a younger man he had thought it impossible that he would ever consider any Qirsi a friend, but in recent years he had come to see the minister that way, as had the duchess. He didn’t think it in her nature to betray him. Until the last few days, however, he would have said the same thing of Peshkal, Chago’s first minister.

  “Well?” Bertin prodded.

  “I’m not certain what I think,” Brall finally answered. “It appears that this was the king’s doing, and we all know that Chago gave House Solkara reason enough to want him dead.”

  “But?”

  Brall turned toward the voice. Ansis was eyeing him closely, looking young still, but not frightened as Brall might have expected.

  “But I also agree with Tebeo that it all seems a bit too easy.”

  “What of the garroting?” Bertin asked. “What of the scrap of leather in Chago’s hand?”

  “That scrap of leather is part of what bothers me. Had Chago really pulled it off the murderer’s belt or baldric, wouldn’t the other man have noticed? Wouldn’t he have retrieved it?”