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

by DAVID B. COE

  “He seems a difficult man,” Brall said.

  “Where his ambitions are concerned, he’s ruthless. You shouldn’t doubt for a moment that he’ll do anything he feels is necessary to gain the throne.”

  “Nor should he doubt that we’ll oppose him with all the might at our disposal in order to protect the queen and the king’s heir,” Brall said. “I hope you’ll make that clear to him.”

  Numar gave a chagrined smile. “It was Carden and Grigor who first called me the Fool, Lord Orvinti. I’m afraid my eldest brother has little regard for anything I tell him. But I will try.” He hesitated, though only for an instant. “I also wanted to say that if by some chance Grigor does agree to the queen’s proposition, you should all remain diligent in your protection of the girl. To be honest, I think Grigor a poor choice for her regent.”

  “We agree,” Tebeo said. “But the queen seems to feel that she has no choice in the matter. A lord from another house would refuse to become entangled in the affairs of the Solkarans, fearing for his life.”

  Numar nodded. “She may be right.”

  “What about you, Lord Renbrere?” Brall asked. “Would you be willing to serve as regent for the girl?”

  A strange look came into the man’s eyes and then was gone. “If it was the only way to preserve the Solkaran Supremacy, then yes, I would. But I’m afraid my brother would find the idea of me as regent even more distasteful than he would a regent from another house.”

  “Your brother’s preferences in this matter are of little concern to us,” Tebeo said. “I’m asking you about yours. If the Council supports the queen, we may find it necessary to suggest someone other than Grigor as our choice for regent.”

  “Let me think on it, Lord Dantrielle. You do me a great honor even to suggest this. But I must decide if I’m ready to break with my brother publicly.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  They stood a moment in silence. Then Numar offered a small bow. “Thank you, my lords. We’ll speak again soon.”

  He hurried back to Henthas’s side, just as Grigor stepped past the dukes a second time.

  Once the older brother had gone by, Tebeo looked at Brall, raising an eyebrow. “We might have just found a way to avoid war.”

  The feast finally ended late in the day with a last prayer offered by the prelate. Later that night, the Council was to meet in the king’s presence chamber with Grigor and Chofya, but for a time at least, Fetnalla had nothing to do. Usually, she and Evanthya would have taken such an opportunity to steal away together, to bed perhaps, or at least to enjoy a walk on the castle grounds. But Evanthya walked out of the great hall with her duke, leaving Fetnalla with Brall.

  “I’ll be in my quarters if you need me,” the duke said, starting away from her. “I’ll expect you to meet me there shortly before the Council is to meet.”

  Fetnalla nodded, but Brall didn’t bother to look at her. “Yes, my lord,” she called to him.

  He raised a hand in a vague gesture of acknowledgment, but he didn’t turn or slow his gait. In a moment, she was alone.

  The minister would herself have liked to leave, but with Brall having just walked away from her, and Evanthya before him, she felt foolish doing so, as if all those remaining in the hall would notice how they had left her. She was almost ashamed of how grateful she was when Pronjed approached her.

  “First Minister,” he said, the look on his bony face even more grave than usual. “I’m glad I found you.”

  “Yes, Archminister. How can I help you?”

  “I saw your duke leaving without you and I wanted to make certain that you would be accompanying him to the meeting of the Council later tonight.”

  Fetnalla nodded. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

  “And will your friend as well? Dantrielle’s first minister?”

  She swallowed, feeling her chest tighten. What have I done? “I assume she will be. Why?”

  “You need to ask?” he said with a frown. “She speaks of civil war as if it were inevitable, as if it were something to be anticipated and enjoyed.”

  “Evanthya doesn’t seek war, Archminister. And I assure you, no one abhors killing more than she.”

  “One wouldn’t know it to listen to her.”

  “She’s a brilliant woman who serves her duke well. She may not want war, but she’s wise enough to understand that we may have no choice in this instance.”

  “You must think very highly of her.”

  Fetnalla looked away. “I do.”

  “I would think so, since she’s already convinced you to fight Grigor as well.”

  “Evanthya has convinced me of nothing,” she said sharply. Such pride. “At least not yet,” she added, dropping her gaze once more. “She’s merely made me see that we can’t rule out war, just because it strikes us as distasteful.”

  “It’s more than that!” Pronjed said with a fervor Fetnalla had never seen in him before. “War will be the ruin of us all, of Aneira itself. I’m certain of it.” This time it was the archminister’s turn to avert his eyes, his lips pressed thin. “You must help me find another way. Please.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Archminister. I don’t want war. Truly I don’t. But wouldn’t we be fools to rule it out entirely? Doesn’t that weaken us in our discussions with Lord Solkara?”

  Pronjed opened his mouth, rage in his pale eyes. Then he seemed to stop himself, though clearly it took an effort. “Yes,” he finally said. “I guess you’re right.” He looked over his shoulder at Chofya. “I should return to the queen. Thank you, First Minister.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He spun away from her in a manner that told her he was still angry, and returned to the queen’s table. After standing where she was for another moment or two, Fetnalla left the hall and hurried back to her chamber. She was lonely and would have preferred to walk the gardens, or better yet the marketplace. But with alliances being formed and broken all around her, and Grigor collecting supporters as a quartermaster gathers weapons, she felt safer in the solitude of her room.

  The time passed slowly, and Fetnalla was ready well before she began to hear voices of the other dukes and their ministers in the corridor outside her room. Still, when she stepped out of her chamber and over to Brall’s door, Tebeo and Evanthya were already there, and Brall was frowning at her as if she were hours late.

  “At last,” he said, striding past her into the hallway.

  Fetnalla cast a quick look at Evanthya, who offered a sympathetic smile. She smiled in return, feeling her face redden slightly. She shouldn’t have let the woman see how much a simple smile could please her, but just then she didn’t care. Pride be damned, she wanted her love back.

  Most of the dukes had already arrived by the time Brall, Tebeo, and the two ministers reached the chamber. A servant was pouring Sanbiri red into goblets on a small table by the door while the nobles and their Qirsi took seats at a second, larger table in the center of the room. Grigor and Chofya were already sitting, one at either end of the table, their goblets already filled and resting before them. The queen sat with Pronjed, but Grigor was alone. Henthas and Numar were nowhere to be seen. Apparently, the duke of Solkara did not wish to have his brothers speaking for him on this night.

  After several moments, the queen stood, lifting her wineglass. Grigor stood also, as did the others in the room. Servants brought the wine to the table, so that soon all were holding their goblets for a toast.

  “Welcome, all of you,” Chofya said. “I know it’s been a long, wearying day, and I’m grateful to you for coming here tonight. Our kingdom has been without a leader for too long. The time has come for us to decide this matter once and for all. Let us hope that we can find the wisdom to keep Aneira at peace with herself.”

  Grigor nodded, a thin smile on his lips. “Well said, Your Highness. But I would add that we must also keep Aneira strong, so that we do not invite challenge from our neighbors, particularly the kingdom to our north.”

&nb
sp; Several of the dukes nodded their approval. This promised to be a difficult night for the queen.

  Chofya gave a low sigh. “It seems we can’t even agree on a toast, Lord Solkara. Shall we drink simply to our realm then?”

  The duke nodded. “Agreed. To Aneira.”

  “To Aneira,” the dukes and ministers repeated.

  Fetnalla took a sip of wine, then belatedly glanced toward Evanthya, who was watching her, still holding her glass. They had done this for several years, sharing a private silent toast whenever they attended such events together. Fetnalla smiled and raised her glass a second time.

  Even as she did, however, she became aware of a queer sensation in her throat. She heard a strangled cry come from the queen, and then another from one of the dukes. Brall, who had started to sit, lurched back to his feet, staggered backward, and began to retch. But all Fetnalla could do was stare at Evanthya. The feeling in her throat was spreading down through her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe.

  Evanthya was gaping at her, hands trembling until her wine started to spill. Aware suddenly of the goblet she was holding, Evanthya threw it away, as if it had abruptly become too hot to hold.

  Fetnalla felt her stomach heave.

  “Evanthya?” she called. Or tried to. The name came out as softly as a sigh.

  Still Evanthya seemed to hear her. And as Fetnalla convulsed, vomiting violently onto the table, her love was at her side, her slender hands gripping Fetnalla’s shoulders.

  All around them was turmoil and panic. Shouts of “See to the queen!” and “Someone help my lord!” filled the chamber. Fetnalla sensed people running to and fro all about them, but all she could do was stare at Evanthya’s face. Her chest burned like a smith’s forge and she struggled to draw breath.

  “Evanthya,” she whispered.

  There were tears on Evanthya’s face and a wild look in her eyes, such as a horse gets on a stormy night. “Yes, love. Yes. I’m here.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know. Be still now. Someone’s gone to fetch the surgeon.”

  Fetnalla nodded, and with an effort, she tried to gaze around the chamber. Several dukes were on the floor, as was Chofya. Servants were screaming to each other, terror on their faces. She could hear people vomiting, and she felt her own stomach rise again.

  Turning the other way, she saw Grigor still standing at the end of the table, his face ashen, his dark eyes as wide as a frightened child’s.

  Fetnalla raised a hand, the effort almost more than she could bear, and pointed at him.

  “You did this,” she mouthed, unable to make a sound.

  The duke shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice quavering. “No, I swear.”

  She wanted to call him a liar. She wanted to scream at him. But instead she felt herself convulse again. And as consciousness began to slip away from her, like a memory or a dream, she felt Evanthya’s arms easing her down to the floor.

  “Where’s the surgeon?” Evanthya screamed again, through the tears running down her face.

  No one answered, of course. Everyone who hadn’t been poisoned was seeing to someone who had. All of the servants had escaped harm, saved by their low station. A few of the ministers had waited for their dukes to drink before doing so themselves, and thus had been spared as well. Pronjed appeared to be fine, and though this raised Evanthya’s suspicions, she was hardly in a position to make accusations.

  Still, she felt certain that Fetnalla had spoken for all of them when she accused Grigor. Pronjed had barked an order to the castle guards, and four of them now stood around the duke of Solkara, swords drawn and pressed against his back and chest.

  Fetnalla was still breathing, but barely, the rise and fall of her chest nearly imperceptible in the torchlight. Tebeo was on his back as well, but still conscious. He had taken but a small sip of the wine and had been in the process of swallowing when the queen cried out. He managed to cough up most of what he drank, and had emptied his stomach of the rest. If any of those who had taken the wine were to survive, the duke would be one of them. Evanthya had gone to his side after laying Fetnalla on the floor, but he had waved her away.

  “I’ll be fine, First Minister,” he had whispered. “Tend to the others. Tend to Brall and Fetnalla.”

  Brall had collapsed to the floor some time before and had not moved since. One of the servants was laying wet cloths on his brow, but Evanthya feared the worst.

  At last, the master surgeon burst into the room, followed by a number of his assistants, an older man who had to be the castle herbmaster, and several Qirsi. Let them be healers, Evanthya prayed silently, knowing that Carden had no Qirsi healers in the castle, but hoping that at least one of the gods might hear her.

  The master surgeon hurried to the queen, but the other surgeons and the Qirsi began to move among those lying on the chamber floor. One of them, a young Qirsi wearing ministerial robes, knelt beside Evanthya and looked down at Fetnalla.

  “Are you a healer?”

  “Not by trade, but I have the power. How is she?”

  “She’s having trouble breathing. She’s barely moved in some time.” Evanthya started to say more, but then began to cry.

  “All right,” he said. “Let me see what I can do.”

  She made room for the man and watched as he closed his eyes and laid his hands on Fetnalla’s chest and stomach.

  One of the Eandi surgeons was kneeling beside Brall, a deep frown on his face. But he wasn’t giving up on the duke, and Evanthya took that as a good sign.

  “What was it?” the master surgeon called out.

  Looking up, Evanthya saw the herbmaster sniffing at one of the goblets. “I can’t be certain,” the old man said. “But if I had to guess, I’d say it was oleander.”

  “Oleander? That doesn’t even grow here. You’d have to go south of Noltierre to find any in Aneira.”

  “Not today, you wouldn’t,” Evanthya heard herself say.

  Both men stared at her.

  “The funeral. It was all over the great hall and the cloister.”

  The herbmaster nodded. “Of course.”

  Oleander was also known as Bian’s Rose because it was used so often in funeral settings for kings and queens. Despite its noxious qualities, it was a beautiful shrub that remained green throughout the year and could be made to bloom even during the snows if taken inside and cared for properly.

  “In that case, herbmaster,” the surgeon said, “bring me all the pink madder you have. That may be the only way to keep the palsy from their lungs.”

  The old man nodded and rushed away. The surgeon turned to one of the servants. “Bring tea. Uulranni, if you have it. Otherwise Caerissan will do. Make it strong and make a lot of it.”

  This man too offered a quick nod and then left to do the surgeon’s bidding.

  Evanthya turned back to the young Qirsi healer kneeling beside Fetnalla. “Is she going to…?” She stopped, unsure of what she wanted to say, and almost afraid to hear his reply to any question she might ask.

  He shook his head, his eyes still closed. “I don’t know yet. A healer’s touch only goes so deep. She’ll probably need the madder and tea, just like the others.”

  Evanthya began to nod, then stopped herself, realizing that he couldn’t see her anyway. As she continued to kneel there, watching the healer, Pronjed walked past her to where Grigor still stood, surrounded by the guards.

  The duke of Solkara’s face had regained little of its color, but he held himself straight-backed and proud, as befitted a man seeking the throne.

  “You honestly believed you could do this and go unpunished?” Pronjed said, stopping just beside him. “You thought you could poison the queen?”

  “I’ve poisoned no one,” Grigor said, gazing straight ahead.

  “Come now, Lord Solkara. You want us to believe that you came through this ordeal unharmed by sheer good fortune?”

  He did turn at that, a sneer on his fine features. “You’re fi
ne, Archminister.” He gestured at Evanthya. “So is she. Several Qirsi survived this,” he went on, looking around the chamber. “I don’t hear you accusing them.”

  “None of the Qirsi in this room seek to take the throne from the queen and her child. None of us has sworn to defy this council.”

  “Perhaps not, but all of us know of the conspiracy. And all of us know that poison in the weapon of a Qirsi. An Eandi uses his sword and his strength. I have no need for magic and potions.”

  Evanthya saw at least one of the guards waver.

  “Hold your place!” Pronjed commanded, seeing it as well. “You serve the queen, not this man!” He lifted Grigor’s goblet and sniffed it. Then he held it out to the duke. “Drink this.”

  “Are you mad?” the surgeon said from across the room. “I’ve already got more patients than I can handle. I won’t allow you to poison another man, no matter what you think he’s done.”

  A cold smile touched Pronjed’s lips. “He won’t be poisoned, you fool. That’s the whole point. There is no poison in this cup.”

  “Then you drink it,” Grigor said.

  Pronjed raised an eyebrow. “Very well.” Throwing back his head, he drained the goblet, wiped a drop of wine from the corner of his mouth, and returned the cup to the table. “You see?” he said. “No poison.”

  “How did you know?” the surgeon asked, his voice low.

  Pronjed didn’t take his eyes off the duke. “I saw him drink with the others just after the toast.” He stared at Grigor briefly. “Tell me, Lord Solkara. You’re so convinced that a Qirsi is behind this. Are you willing to drink from my cup as I just have from yours?” He gestured toward Evanthya. “Will you drink from this woman’s, or from any of the others meant for Qirsi lips?”

  Grigor swallowed and looked away. “No,” he whispered.

  “I see.”

  “But I’m telling you,” the duke said a moment later, raising his eyes again, “I didn’t poison anyone. I had no need. A majority of the Council was prepared to support me.”