by DAVID B. COE
Henthas faced him again. “Both are major houses. If she can win Bistari over, you’ll have no chance at all.”
“I just told you—”
“She’s not Solkaran. Not by birth, anyway. Her father held land in a barony near Tounstrel. It may be that Vidor will back her for that reason alone. And with all his father’s old allies backing the queen, the new duke of Bistari—the boy-duke, as you call him—might very well do the same.”
It was a point worth considering.
“Even without Bistari,” Henthas went on, “she has Solkara’s army, along with Tebeo’s and Brall’s. You can’t fight such a force and hope to win. I know that Renbrere is strong for a marquessate, but it’s not that strong.”
Grigor frowned. “You don’t really expect the army of Solkara to follow her, do you? Not if they know that I’ve laid claim to the crown.”
Henthas smiled darkly and shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to say one way or the other. Who knows what goes through a soldier’s mind when his kingdom is divided? It does raise interesting possibilities though, doesn’t it?”
The man was enjoying himself far too much for Grigor’s taste. The duke turned to his other brother, who was watching them both with interest, though he had kept his silence.
“And what do you think of all this?” Grigor asked.
Numar stared back at him impassively, absently running a finger around the rim of his goblet. “Do you really care?”
“Enough to have asked.”
The younger man shrugged, his brown eyes flicking toward Chofya for just an instant. “I think you’re both misjudging her.”
Henthas raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Do you?”
“You’re thinking of her as you would another noble, a duke or a marquess.”
“She is queen, Numar,” Grigor said. “She may not have been born to a noble family, but she’s been in the courts now for a good many years.”
“No doubt. But I believe she’s a mother before she’s a noble. That’s where her ambitions lie.”
Grigor sat forward. “With the daughter?”
“You live up to your name, brother,” Henthas said, shaking his head. “The girl can’t yet rule. Chofya would have little choice but to name one of us as regent. Probably Grigor.”
Numar appeared to ignore Henthas, keeping his brown eyes fixed on Grigor instead.
Grigor said nothing, though he didn’t look away either. Numar was right. A regency for the girl made far more sense than a direct challenge from the queen. Chofya had no real claim on the throne, but as Carden’s only child, Kalyi did. Mertesse, Rassor, and some of the others might be reluctant to accept a queen under any circumstances, but for those who distrusted the men of Solkara, the child would seem preferable to both Grigor and a protracted struggle to establish a new supremacy.
“Do you know this for certain?” Grigor asked, his voice low.
Numar shook his head. “It’s just a guess.”
Grigor nodded, a thin smile touching his lips and vanishing. “A good one, I’d say. Do you think she already has Tebeo and Brall?”
“You can’t seriously believe she’d try such a thing,” Henthas said, his voice rising.
Several of the nobles sitting nearby looked over at them. Grigor glared at him. “Quiet down!” He faced Numar once more. “Well?”
“I expect that she has Brall’s support. He’s been in Solkara for several days now. Tebeo only arrived this evening, and this will take some time, even for those who hate you.”
“They all hate me, Numar. You know that as well as anyone.”
His brother sipped some wine, but said nothing.
“And where do you stand?” Grigor asked. “Will you support me or the girl?”
“Does it matter? Either way, no one listens to a fool.”
Grigor frowned. This was definitely not the answer he wanted.
“I would think,” Numar continued a moment later, his voice dropping to a whisper, “that you’d find regency a most attractive proposition. It would give you time to consolidate your power, make pacts with the other houses, and win over the army’s commanders. Eventually, you could have the girl killed and assume the throne with no fear of opposition.”
The duke narrowed his eyes. Such a scheme would have sounded perfectly natural coming from Henthas or himself. But he had never known Numar to think this way.
“Do you really think I’d do such a thing to a mere child, my niece, no less?”
Again the man shrugged, lifting his goblet to his lips once more, and leaving Grigor to wonder if he hoped to be named regent himself.
A regency did have its advantages, most of which Numar had described quite succinctly. Ridding himself of the girl when the time came would present difficulties, but none of them were insuperable. The greatest danger lay in the fact that Chofya herself would remain in the castle with Grigor and the girl, as would Carden’s Qirsi. Even if they chose Grigor as regent, which custom dictated they should, these two would know better than to trust him. Any plan to kill or exile Kalyi would have to make provisions for them as well. Better to claim the throne as his own now.
“I think in this case, Henthas is right,” Grigor said at last. “Aneira isn’t ready for a queen, even if she is Carden’s daughter. In the end, I’m certain that most of the dukes will agree with me.”
Numar nodded and smiled, though the look in his eyes remained grim. “Then you’ve nothing to fear.”
Once more, Grigor wasn’t sure what to make of his younger brother’s words, but before he could say anything more, Carden’s Qirsi approached them, his narrow face looking pale and birdlike in the glow of the torches.
“May I sit with you a moment, my lords?” the minister asked, stopping just beside Numar and hovering over them like a harrier.
“If we had wanted to speak with you, we would have sat with your queen,” Henthas said, not bothering to look up at the man.
Grigor would have liked to laugh aloud. With Henthas nearby, spitting venom at everyone he met, Grigor could appear civil and reasonable without making himself seem weak.
“Please sit, Archminister,” the duke said, waving a hand at an empty chair. “You’ll have to forgive my brother. He’s deeply saddened by Carden’s death, as we all are.”
“Of course, my lord,” the minister said, lowering himself into the seat, his gaze alighting on one brother after another until it came to rest at last on Grigor. “All Aneira suffers as you do. Which is why we need to settle the matter of Carden’s successor as quickly as possible.”
Grigor nodded. “I quite agree. As soon as the other dukes reach Solkara, we should meet with them and make it clear that, even though Carden had no heir, the Solkaran Supremacy will continue.”
The Qirsi licked his thin lips, looking uncomfortable. “Before that happens, Lord Solkara, the queen would like a word with you. A private audience. Tomorrow morning? Just after the ringing of the midmorning bells.”
He looked around the table. “Surely she can’t think that I have anything to hide from my brothers.”
“Of course not, my lord. But it is a matter of some…delicacy.”
Now Grigor was certain that Numar was right. Chofya had to have her mind set on a regency for the girl. What else could she want to discuss with him? If she intended to take the crown herself, she would have been plotting against him, not trying to appease him. The question was, should he speak with her alone, or insist that his brothers join him? Henthas could be of value in such a meeting, but Grigor couldn’t be certain what Numar might do.
“I’m not sure that I see the point in such a conversation,” Grigor finally said. “But she is our queen, and it would be inappropriate for me to refuse her.” He offered a smile to the minister. “Tell Her Highness that I’ll speak with her at her convenience.”
“What?” Henthas said, before the Qirsi could reply. His face had reddened, and there was rage in his dark eyes. “This affects our entire house, not just you! I will not be lef
t out in the corridors of my family’s castle like some child!”
Again, Grigor couldn’t help but be amused and pleased. Had Henthas been wise enough to know how much he was aiding Grigor’s cause, he would surely have shut his mouth.
“In this case, I must agree with my brother,” Numar broke in, his voice so soothing after Henthas’s shrill tones that the archminister merely stared at him, seemingly amazed that a man he knew only as the Fool could sound so sensible. “With Carden dead, the three of us are the only heirs House Solkara has left.” He smiled. “At least the only heirs of age. All of us should be included in any discussions bearing on the future of the Supremacy.”
There was little in Aneiran royal tradition to support such a statement. The eldest son controlled the family’s destiny, and if that son died, the next oldest assumed leadership of the house. It would have been entirely within Grigor’s prerogative to ignore his brothers’ wishes and meet with Chofya alone, particularly since she had requested through her minister that he do so.
But with both Henthas and Numar having voiced their opposition, he couldn’t defy them without weakening himself. If he wanted Chofya and the nobles to fear the Jackals, he couldn’t openly break with Henthas their first night in Solkara. Henthas wouldn’t have thought of this; he had spoken out of pique and wounded pride. But Numar knew just what he was doing. Grigor felt certain of it. The Fool, indeed. Numar was, as far as Grigor could tell, the most dangerous man in the royal city.
He made himself smile as he opened his hands. “As you can see, Archminister, I have little choice in this matter. I’m happy to speak with the queen, but she’ll have to see all of us.”
The Qirsi looked displeased, but he nodded as he stood again. “Very well, my lord. I’ll convey this to the queen.” He turned and walked away.
“You were really going to speak to her without us?” Henthas demanded in a fierce whisper as soon as the minister was gone.
Grigor ignored him, glaring at Numar.
“You look angry, brother,” the man said mildly. “Did I upset your plans?”
“Don’t cross me, Numar. This is no game we’re playing. This is for the crown, and I won’t allow anyone to keep me from claiming it as my own. Not the queen, not our niece, not even you.”
“All I did was ensure that Henthas and I would be party to your conversation with Chofya. Surely you can see how having us there might work to your advantage.”
Grigor glanced at Henthas, who was eyeing him with obvious mistrust.
“You wanted to meet with her alone, didn’t you?” he said. “I want to know why.”
“I was afraid you’d muck it up, Henthas,” Grigor said wearily, “as you muck up everything. I don’t want a war with Chofya, though I’ll fight one if I have to. The last thing I need is you sitting in her presence chamber, insulting the queen and making idle threats.”
“A threat is only idle if the man making it is weak. It seems more likely that you’d be the one to ruin things, with your arrogance and your pride.”
Grigor looked at Numar, who was already watching him, the expression on his youthful face seeming to say, See? If you want to control him, you need me on your side.
“What is it you want?” he asked the younger man.
“I want what’s best for House Solkara,” Numar said. “Just as you do.”
Grigor couldn’t tell if he was being sincere, which scared him a good deal. He felt fairly certain, however, that Numar didn’t honestly believe that he had the family’s best interests at heart.
“And what would that be?”
Numar shrugged. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I want to hear what you and Chofya have to say to each other.”
The feast promised to go on well into the night, but Grigor left the hall a short time later with both brothers just a step behind him. It almost seemed that their mistrust of one another ran so deep that each was unwilling to allow the other two out of his sight. Chofya had seen to it that their quarters were together, and long after he entered his chamber and locked his door, Grigor continued to listen for any sign that either of his brothers was wandering about the castle. Only when he had satisfied himself that they weren’t going anywhere did he lie down to sleep. For some time, however, he lay awake in his bed, staring at the dim shadows cast onto his walls by the low fire in his hearth, and thinking back on what had just happened in the king’s hall.
He realized now that having heard Numar dismissed as a fool for so long, he had begun to believe it himself, though he should have known better. More than that, he had always assumed that Numar did not share his own lust for power and wealth. He couldn’t say why. Wasn’t Numar Tomaz’s son, just as the rest of them were? Perhaps, as the youngest, he had merely been clever enough to know that power would never be his so long as Carden sat on the throne. Now, however, with the king dead and the land teetering on the edge of upheaval, he could allow his ambitions to guide him. Having never tasted true power, Numar might have been even hungrier for it than Grigor, which only served to make him that much more dangerous.
Grigor had threatened his brother tonight. It had been vague to be sure, but a threat nonetheless. But now, lying in the dim orange glow of the dying fire, he wondered if he could really kill his own brother. And for the first time, he wondered if that brother—the youngest, the Fool—was capable of killing him.
They were lying in each other’s arms, their pulses just starting to slow, their breathing still quickened, a fine sheen of sweat on their bodies and faces, when they heard knocking at the door.
Evanthya stared into Fetnalla’s eyes, feeling panic rise in her chest.
“Whose room are we in?” she whispered. “I’ve forgotten.”
Fetnalla grinned, her eyes luminous in the candlelight, and kissed her lightly on the throat. “Yours.”
Evanthya pulled away and sat up. “Who’s there?” she called.
“Your duke.”
The minister sighed with relief. She wasn’t about to open the door, but at least it hadn’t been Brall or one of the other Qirsi ministers staying in the castle.
“Yes, my lord?” she said, quickly pulling on her clothes.
She heard him clear his throat, something he often did in awkward circumstances.
“I wish to speak with you,” he said. “Please come to my chambers as soon…when you can.”
“Yes, my lord. It will just be a moment.”
She turned to look at Fetnalla, who was smiling at her, having made no effort at all to dress. Evanthya frowned.
“You said he knew,” Fetnalla said with a shrug.
“Brall will be looking for you, too. And he doesn’t know.”
She made a sour face. “Maybe it’s time he did,” she said. But she began to put her clothes on as well.
In a few moments they were both dressed, and Evanthya stepped to the door.
“Wait a few moments after I’m gone, then slip out and return to your chambers,” she said, her hand resting on the door handle.
Fetnalla gave a small grin, tilting her head to the side. “Yes, my lord.”
Evanthya smiled and walked back to where Fetnalla stood. Rising to the tips of her toes, she kissed the woman gently on the lips.
“Forgive me.”
“Of course. You always get this way when you leave me to see your duke.”
Evanthya paused, gazing into her eyes. “Do I? I’m sorry.”
Fetnalla kissed her brow. “I’ve grown accustomed to it. I even find it charming in a way.”
They kissed one last time. Then Evanthya left the chamber, walked to Tebeo’s door, and knocked once.
“Come in!” the duke called immediately.
The minister stepped into the duke’s room, finding Tebeo and Brall seated by the hearth, both of them looking glum in the bright glow of a crackling fire.
“I thought Fetnalla was with you,” Brall said, scowling at her.
“She was, my lord. When Lord Dantrielle called for me, she went to
find you, thinking that you might wish to speak with her.” The lie came to her easily. She only hoped that Fetnalla would tell the same story.
Brall nodded and turned to the fire again, leaving Evanthya and Tebeo facing one another.
“You called for me, my lord?”
“Yes, First Minister. You saw what happened in the hall tonight, between the king’s brother and the queen?”
“I did, my lord.”
“Chofya and Grigor are to meet tomorrow morning. The queen wanted a private audience, but Grigor has insisted that his brothers be there as well. The queen, in turn, has asked Lord Orvinti to attend on her behalf, and she’s asked me as well, hoping perhaps that I will support her position.”
“For the regency, my lord?”
The duke of Orvinti turned at that. “You’ve been talking to my first minister.”
Fetnalla had spoken to her of how suspicious Brall had become. Hearing his tone now, seeing the distrust in his pale blue eyes, Evanthya understood that her love had not exaggerated the matter.
“I told you I had, Lord Orvinti. Your first minister guessed that you would enlist my duke in the queen’s cause, and she thought I should be prepared to advise him.”
“And what counsel would you offer?” Tebeo asked.
“Fetnalla seems to feel that any other course will lead to civil war.”
“This one might as well,” Brall told her. “I’m not certain that we wouldn’t be better off handing the throne to Grigor. He won’t make a very good king, but he might be able to keep the peace, albeit through fear and the threat of violence.”
“I thought you supported the queen, Lord Orvinti.”
The duke shrugged. “When Carden died, I gave her my word that I would aid her in any way I could. This is what she asked of me. But I’ve no illusions as to the difficulties a regency presents.” A knock at the door stopped him.
