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

by DAVID B. COE

  Seeing Brall, Pronjed, and the soldiers gathered in the middle of the courtyard, the queen hurried toward them, concern knotting her brow.

  “Your Highness,” the archminister said gravely, bowing low.

  The others did the same.

  “We grieve with you, Your Highness,” he went on a moment later, “as does all of Aneira. We have lost a great man and glorious king.”

  “Thank you, Archminister,” the queen said, her voice even.

  Brall stepped forward and knelt before her. “Your Highness, I don’t know how to express to you how sorry I am for your loss, and how much I regret my role in this tragedy.”

  Chofya stared at him, clearly puzzled. “Your role, Brall? Carden did this to himself.”

  “With the dagger I gave him.”

  She actually managed a smile, looking more beautiful in that moment than Fetnalla had ever seen her.

  “He wore a blade on his belt as well, Brall. If the one hadn’t been at hand, he would have used the other. Now please stand. Your obeisance isn’t necessary.”

  The duke stood slowly. “You are kind, Your Highness. The kingdom is fortunate to have you.”

  She glanced around at the soldiers, her eyes coming to rest at last on Pronjed. “Why are all these guards here, Archminister?”

  “The king is dead, Your Highness, and Lord Orvinti and his company were preparing to leave Solkara. I wished to speak with them before they did.”

  “Do you intend to take them as prisoners?”

  Pronjed’s eyes darted briefly to the duke before returning to Chofya’s face. “No, Your Highness. But the duke was the last man to see the king alive.”

  “I thought a servant brought the king wine after the duke returned to his quarters.”

  “Well yes, but—”

  “So you don’t believe the duke is guilty of any crime.”

  The Qirsi’s face reddened. “No, Your Highness.”

  “Then dismiss these men.”

  “I must object, Your Highness,” the archminister said, his voice rising. “Even if your husband was alive when the duke left him, Lord Orvinti was the last person to speak with the king before he killed himself. I think we ought to know what he said that might have caused His Majesty to do this.”

  “I don’t believe the king killed himself because of anything the duke said.”

  “But you don’t know that for certain.”

  The queen straightened. “I don’t wish to discuss this in front of Carden’s men, Archminister. Please send them away.”

  Pronjed nodded reluctantly, then commanded the captain to dismiss the guards. As the men slowly dispersed, a wind knifed through the courtyard, making Chofya shiver.

  “Perhaps we should discuss this in the castle, Your Highness,” Brall said. “You should be by a fire.”

  The queen shook her head. “I don’t want to go in there.”

  They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, still waiting for the soldiers to leave the courtyard. Fetnalla kept her eyes fixed on the queen, but she was conscious of Pronjed standing beside her, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of a short sword. She had known the archminister for nearly six years, and in all that time, she had never once felt at ease in his company. In part, this was because of his position. She might have been first minister in Orvinti, but he was the most powerful Qirsi in the kingdom, and he carried himself like a man acutely aware of his own importance. But more than that, he struck her as having more in common with Eandi nobles than any man or woman of her race she had ever known. Her mother would have said that he had a warrior’s heart. Like a young Eandi court lad new to his power, Pronjed always seemed to be eager for a fight, be it with another minister, another Aneiran house, or another kingdom. Most Qirsi in the courts of dukes and kings in the Forelands found themselves tempering the aggression of those they served. Pronjed, she was certain, had fueled it. It might have been why Carden chose him as archminister, but Fetnalla couldn’t help but think that he was a man to be feared, a man whose fundamental instincts were at odds with the needs of the kingdom.

  “You may have heard, Lord Orvinti,” the queen began, when the four of them were alone in the castle ward, “that the castle’s master surgeon was garroted yesterday.”

  Brall’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “My husband ordered it. At the time I didn’t understand why he had done it, except to guess that the surgeon had given the king cause to grieve. There’s an old expression: ‘When a Solkaran grieves, others will as well.’”

  “Was the king dying, Your Highness?” Fetnalla asked.

  The queen let out a brittle, desperate laugh that chilled Fetnalla as much as the wind.

  “It would seem so, wouldn’t it? Carden and I barely spoke after the surgeon was killed, but how else am I to explain all this?”

  Brall shook his head. “But to take his own life…”

  “My husband was a proud man, Lord Orvinti. Too proud to allow himself to grow weak and frail at so young an age. I think he decided it was better to choose the time of his own death than to linger while the kingdom watched him fade.”

  “You truly think that he’d kill himself?” Pronjed asked.

  “You surprise me, Archminister,” Chofya said. “You knew the king nearly as well as I. All he did was driven by his pride and his belief in his own power. Without those, he would have been lost. It may not have been your solution or mine, and perhaps if he hadn’t drunk so much wine, he would have thought better of it. But that was Carden, for better or for worse. I’d be lying if I said I could have expected him to…to do what he did. But I’d also be lying if I told you that I was astonished by it.” She looked at Brall again. “This was not your doing, Lord Orvinti. Neither your blade nor your words killed my husband. Be at ease, and mourn with the rest of us.”

  The duke bowed his head. “You have shown me nothing but kindness since I arrived here, Your Highness. I am your humble servant. If there is anything I can do on your behalf, you need only name it and consider it done.”

  “My thanks, Brall. As it happens, there is something.”

  “Your Highness?”

  “Perhaps we can speak of it later,” she said. “For now, I have a funeral to see to, and messages to dispatch to the other dukes. Worst of all, I have to try to explain to Kalyi what’s happened.” She paused briefly, staring back at the castle, her expression pained. Then, as if remembering the rest of them, she looked at Brall again. “You and your company are free to remain here until the funeral. As our guests, of course,” she added, with a sidelong glance at the archminister.

  “Thank you, Your Highness. With your permission, I’ll send word of…of what’s happened to my duchess and have her inform the other nobles of my dukedom.”

  Chofya nodded absently, as if her thoughts had already turned to other matters. “Yes, Brall, that will be fine. We’ll speak again later.”

  She turned to Pronjed, giving the impression that their conversation had ended.

  Brall led his company a short distance from the queen and archminister and looked at his soldiers, his brow furrowing as it often did when he was thinking. “Return our mounts to the stables,” he said at last. “Then report to the captain of the king’s guard. Tell him that your duke has placed you under his command for the next few days, to be used as he sees fit. You’re to consider an order from him as coming from me. Do you understand?”

  The senior man among the Orvinti guards nodded. “Yes, my lord.” The soldiers bowed to him, before leading the horses back to the stables.

  “What about me, my lord?” Fetnalla asked, fearing for just an instant that he might assign her to Pronjed.

  “I want you with me,” the duke said, much to her relief. “We have a good deal to discuss.”

  “Very well. You wish to return to your chamber.”

  Brall hesitated. “My father used to say that no conversation was ever private in a castle. Why don’t we walk?” He gestured toward a stone path and they follow
ed it through the central ward to a smaller courtyard, which held the castle gardens. Nothing grew there now, of course, and the pools had been emptied in anticipation of the snows, but the courtyard was empty, and sheltered from the fiercer winds.

  Fetnalla watched her duke, waiting for him to speak, but for a long time, he merely stood by one of the dry stone pools, seemingly lost in thought. She guessed that he was still shaken by news of the king’s death, but when he finally spoke, he surprised her with the direction his musings had taken.

  “Something about this bothers me,” he said, his voice low, as if he had forgotten she was even there.

  “My lord?”

  He looked up at her. “The time for games has passed. Aneira’s king is dead, as is its most powerful duke. I can’t spend my days wondering what to share with you and what to hide. I have to know right now, can I trust you?”

  She felt as though he had kicked her in the chest. “You have to ask?”

  “Yes,” he said. “In these times, every noble in the land has to ask. Are you a part of this conspiracy I’ve heard so much about?”

  Fetnalla wanted to cry, but she refused to let him see how much he’d hurt her. She would have liked to rail at him for doubting her, or better yet, to just leave her life in Orvinti, never to return. She and Evanthya could go to Caerisse or Sanbira and find a noble who wished to employ both of them.

  Instead, mustering what pride she could, the minister met his gaze and said, “No, I’ve no part in the conspiracy. I have served you as well as I could for six years, and will for as many more as you’ll have me.”

  “I want to believe you,” he said.

  “Then do. What cause have I given you to doubt me?”

  The duke shrugged. “You’re Qirsi.”

  “And you’re an Eandi noble. Does that mean you’re just like the king, or Mertesse, or the dukes of Eibithar? Not every Qirsi is a traitor.”

  “Some are.”

  “Yes. And some nobles are tyrants.”

  “It’s not the same. A tyrant makes himself known with every act. He’s easy to spot. A traitor is more insidious, and therefore more dangerous.”

  She started to argue the point, then stopped. Thinking of it from the perspective of an Eandi and a duke, she had to concede that this was probably true. “I’m not a traitor,” she said after a brief pause. “But if you don’t believe me, you should find another Qirsi to serve as your first minister.”

  Brall looked away and shook his head. “I’m not certain that would solve anything.”

  This she understood as well. Until the conspiracy was defeated—or until it succeeded—every Qirsi in the Forelands would be viewed with even more mistrust than usual, whether or not it was deserved. The duke had little choice but to keep her as his minister.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you meant before when you said something was bothering you,” she said, as if coaxing an answer from a reluctant child.

  His eyes met hers for an instant and darted away. “It’s probably nothing. I don’t know what to believe anymore, even when it should be obvious.”

  “Just because I’m not part of the conspiracy, that doesn’t mean it’s not real, or that it can’t strike here in Aneira.”

  “Do you think it has?”

  Fetnalla hesitated. She didn’t know anything for certain, and she and Evanthya had agreed that they should do nothing to alarm their dukes until they had more information. But if she wanted Brall to trust her, she had to start confiding in him.

  “I fear so, yes,” she admitted.

  “Chago?”

  The minister nodded.

  “Tebeo and I think so as well.”

  Her eyes widened at that, and she wondered if Evanthya had already spoken of this with her duke.

  “And now you think the king has fallen victim to it as well?” she asked.

  Brall rubbed a hand across his brow. “I don’t know. I find it hard to believe that he’d take his own life.”

  “The queen believes it.”

  “Yes,” the duke said. “And so does the archminister. I’m probably just being foolish. But even if he was dying, why would he do this so soon, before he had the chance to name a successor? As it is, he’s placed the very future of the kingdom at risk. It makes no sense.”

  “Much as I agree with you, my lord, I must also say that such a death would be difficult to fabricate. If he did take his own life with a blade, there would be blood on his hands, his clothes, his knife. There are far easier ways to hide a murder, my lord, even for a skilled assassin.”

  “You’re right. But when I spoke with him last night, he didn’t seem like a man who was about to kill himself. Talk of the conspiracy had him worried, and clearly something was troubling him. I even went so far as to ask if he was well.”

  “What did he say?”

  Brall shook his head. “Very little. And having spoken with the queen, I now understand why. But still…” He shook his head a second time.

  “My lord?”

  The duke smiled thinly. “You’ll think me a fool.” He took a breath and then said, “He threatened me.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe that’s too strong a word. It was more a warning than a threat. But he told me never to come to him unannounced again. Why would a man who intended to take his own life as soon as I left him bother with something like that?”

  It seemed so small a matter as to not merit consideration. She would have expected the king to comment on Brall’s sudden appearance at the city gates—his pride would have demanded no less. Yet, she had no answer for the duke’s question. It did strike her as odd that a man intent on killing himself would concern himself with matters of propriety.

  “You think I’m making too much of it,” the duke said, watching her closely.

  “I agree that’s it odd,” she said slowly. “But I don’t think that this one comment is enough to prove anything.”

  “You’re probably right. But tell me this: given what we know of his death, is there any way that Qirsi magic might have killed him?”

  After all that had passed between them since their departure from Orvinti, Fetnalla could not help but hear an accusation in the question. Immediately, she shook her head. “No, my lord. None at all.”

  The duke frowned. “I see.”

  But already, the minister’s mind had moved beyond this first response, the direction of her thoughts turning her stomach to stone. For there was a way. It was one of the rarer magics, possessed by Weavers and only a few of the most powerful Qirsi. Those who did wield it almost never admitted as much, not only because it often made them objects of fear, but also because if a would-be victim knew of it, he or she would be less likely to fall prey to its powers. Still, the duke had asked only if there was any way magic had killed Carden, and indeed there was.

  “Actually, my lord,” she said quietly, “I spoke too quickly.” She looked away, so as not to see how his eyes narrowed. “There is one magic that we call ‘mind-bending.’ A Qirsi possessing such power might have been able to do this.”

  “Mind-bending,” he repeated, his voice thick.

  “It allows the person who wields it to control the mind of another, though only for a moment or two.” Fetnalla swallowed, knowing how he would respond to what she had to say next. “We also call it delusion magic because it allows one Qirsi to lie to another without fear of discovery. But long ago my people learned that with your people, this magic could do more. It could actually twist the Eandi mind, so that those upon whom it was used could be controlled, instructed to do the Qirsi’s bidding.”

  The duke had paled and he appeared to be holding himself still, as if fearing what she might say next. “So a Qirsi couldn’t have done this to another Qirsi. Only to one of us.”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Do you have this power?” It wasn’t an accusation; she could tell. He was simply afraid of her, of what she was, and of what else she might be. In a way, it was worse.
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  “No, I don’t. And it’s hard to know who does,” she added, anticipating his next question. “If one Qirsi knows that another has delusion magic, she can guard herself against it. The Qirsi usually tell as few people as possible what powers we possess, but this one in particularly must be kept secret to be effective.”

  “I see,” he said dully. “So you could be lying to me.”

  This was too much. “I’m not!”

  “But you could be! Don’t you see, Fetnalla? I have no way of knowing for certain, particularly now that I know of this mind-bending power. Even if you were using this magic on me, I wouldn’t know, would I?”

  She conceded the point with a single shake of her head. “But your king would have,” she said. “A lie we can hide. But if someone took control of his mind long enough to make him pick up the dagger and thrust it into his own chest, he would have known. He just would have been powerless to help himself. It also would have had to be someone he knew, someone he would allow to get close. This power won’t work from a distance.”

  “Pronjed,” the duke whispered. “It had to be Pronjed.”

  “We don’t know that, my lord. The king had other ministers. Besides, this is all conjecture. We know nothing for certain, and it would be dangerous to accuse the archminister before we do.”

  The duke stared at her, until she feared that he would accuse her of some new crime. Instead, he said the one thing she couldn’t deny. “You’re afraid of him.”

  “Deeply, my lord. As we all should be if he truly did this.”

  It was well past midday before someone finally removed the king’s body from the great hall. Pronjed ordered soldiers to do it early in the morning, but the queen, at the urging of the damned prelate, insisted on having priests and priestesses of Ean bear him from the hall to the castle cloister. Of course, they had their morning devotions to see to first, and then they had to pray over the body for a time. All of which made it impossible for the servants to begin cleaning the table of the king’s blood until just a short time before the ringing of the prior’s bell.