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

by DAVID B. COE

  She regarded him a moment before nodding.

  “What about the boy who tended my mount?”

  “Grandson. He lives with my daughter and her husband in the house out back.”

  “You’ve no husband?”

  “Did once,” she said, still chewing. “He’s dead now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Shouldn’t be. If he was here, you’d still be looking for a place to sleep.” She cackled, her mouth wide so that he could see her yellow, broken teeth. “Used to grow flax. I made our clothes myself and sold the rest at market in Mertesse. But then he died, and I couldn’t work the land myself. So I opened the inn. Do a good business, too. There aren’t many places between here and Solkara. If that’s where you’re going, you’ll have a hard time finding food this good before you’re inside the walls.”

  Though he was loath to admit it, Shurik had little doubt that she was right. Once more, he wondered if he had been foolish to think he could make this journey during the snows. He was about to ask her if she could give him the names of any other inns as comfortable as hers between here and the royal city. Before he could, however, there was a hard knock at the door.

  The woman clicked her tongue once, then stood, hobbled to the door, and pulled it open.

  A man stood there, gripping the doorframe as if it was all he could do to stay on his feet. Snow clung to his cloak and ice hung from his eyebrows and half-grown beard. His cheeks and brow were as red as the Eandi moon. It almost seemed that the frigid wind had burned his skin as might a planting sun. He was plainly dressed, except for the sash that hung across his chest, which was red, black, and gold. The colors of Solkara. The man was a messenger.

  “Get the door,” the woman said to Shurik as she helped the messenger to an empty chair. “I’ll get you some food and make up a spare bed,” she told the man. “We haven’t much room, but we’ll be all right.”

  The Solkaran shook his head. “I can’t stay,” he said, his voice ragged. “Just some food. Then I’ll be on my way.” He looked from the woman to Shurik. “How far is it to Mertesse?”

  “Three leagues,” Shurik said.

  The woman frowned. “It’s closer to two.”

  “You’ve a message?” Shurik asked, unable to mask his concern.

  “For Lady Mertesse,” the man said, “the duke’s mother.”

  “Has something happened?”

  The man just stared at him, saying nothing.

  “I’m one of the duke’s underministers.” Under the circumstances it seemed a small lie, and a necessary one. “I’ve just come from Mertesse this morning.”

  “You wear no robes.”

  “I’ve been riding all day. You think a minister wears his robes on horseback in this weather?”

  Still the Solkaran didn’t look convinced.

  “Rowan journeyed to Solkara with his first minister, Yaella ja Banvel, and a company of thirty men.” His voice shook as he spoke Yaella’s name, but he pressed on, hoping neither of them would notice. “He rode a large bay with white on its nose and rump. Now, tell me what’s happened.”

  The man looked at him a moment longer. “After the funeral, the queen and the king’s brothers met with the Council of Dukes. Grigor, the eldest, poisoned the wine.”

  “Demons and fire!” Shurik breathed, suddenly feeling unsteady on his feet.

  He heard the innkeeper utter another prayer.

  “How long ago?” he asked, his voice flat.

  “Two nights,” the messenger said.

  Two nights. Solkaran messengers usually rode faster than that. Perhaps the snow had slowed him, and no doubt there had been much confusion in the castle. Chances were, he hadn’t left right away.

  “The duke of Mertesse lives,” the man said, as if he thought Shurik should have asked already. “He remains weak, though.”

  “What of the queen?” the woman asked.

  “She lives as well, but only just. When I left it was too soon to say if she would survive.”

  “The first minister, is she all right?”

  The messenger looked at Shurik again. “You mean of Mertesse? I’m sorry. I have no news of her. Only the duke and queen. I know that several ministers died, as did the dukes of Tounstrel and Noltierre.”

  “Gods save us all,” the woman said. “What’s to be done with the brother?”

  “He’s a traitor to the kingdom. He’ll be hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

  Shurik gazed toward the door. He longed to ride for Solkara, though he could still hear the wind buffeting the house and snow clawing at the wooden shutters like some taloned beast. Yaella might be dead. At the very least she had been poisoned. He should have been with her.

  The innkeeper had gone to the kitchen to bring food for the messenger. Shurik wasn’t hungry anymore, nor was he tired, though he knew he would have to sleep soon so that he could ride south with first light.

  “Are they letting people in and out of the city?” he asked the man.

  “They have their murderer. They have no need to lock the gates.”

  Of course. The guards wouldn’t bother even a Qirsi traitor. In spite of his concern for Yaella, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if the Weaver had been behind this as well. It sounded so much like something he would do.

  “The castle might be another matter,” the messenger went on a moment later. “Though if you’re one of Mertesse’s ministers, I’m certain they’ll let you in.”

  Shurik nodded. It would be a problem, but one that was best dealt with in Solkara. For now, he needed only to ride.

  “Have the boy saddle my mount at dawn,” he told the woman as she returned from the kitchen. “Instead of that breakfast you promised, you’ll have to pack me some bread and cheese.”

  “All right. I might have some salted meat, as well.”

  He started up the stairs. “That would be fine. My thanks.” He looked at the messenger. “Ride well, Solkara. I’m grateful for the tidings.”

  “Ean guard you, Minister,” the man said.

  Shurik felt his pulse quicken. Minister. If the duke or his mother learned of this, he’d never be able to return to Mertesse. For now, though, that seemed the least of his concerns.

  He slept poorly. It was still dark when he awoke to the keening of the frigid wind and the pounding of his heart. He should have been tired, but he felt restless and eager to be riding again.

  Dressing quickly and closing his satchel, the Qirsi descended the stairs expecting to find a pouch of food on the dining table. Instead he found the innkeeper waiting for him, with the food she had promised and a piece of fresh bread covered with melted butter. Shurik wondered if she had slept at all.

  “I still wake early, even though we haven’t farmed in years,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “The old ways die hard, especially when you’ve lived as long as I have.”

  “You have my thanks,” Shurik said, pulling out his pouch of money and offering her five qinde more.

  The woman shook her head and grinned. “I asked too much for the room. We both know it. See to your duke and that minister you were asking about.”

  He bowed to her and saw her blush in the candlelight. “Again, my lady, you have my thanks.”

  He put the food in his satchel, ate the bread without bothering to sit, and stepped out into the storm.

  Neither the wind nor the snow had abated during the night. Indeed, the snow seemed heavier than it had when Shurik reached the inn the day before. Still, the boy was standing in front of the inn with Shurik’s mount, waiting for him much as his grandmother had. The child looked cold and small in the murky grey light as he handed the Qirsi the reins. Shurik gave him the five qinde.

  Swinging himself onto the mount, he steered the horse to the edge of the road. He paused there long enough to remind himself of which way he had come the day before, then started south toward Solkara.

  The wind cut through his cloak and clothes like a scythe through young grain, and the snow s
tung his eyes and cheeks until he had little choice but to cover his face with a tippet and trust that his horse would keep to the road. He didn’t drive the mount too hard, but neither did he take much time to rest along the way. When he was hungry, he reached back into his satchel and ate in the saddle. When he needed to drink, he stopped only long enough to eat some of the newly fallen snow and to allow his mount to do the same. The muscles in his back and legs were screaming for a respite by midday, but Shurik rode on, drawing on strength he hadn’t known he possessed. Late in the day, the snow finally slackened, though not the wind. Still he didn’t stop. The Great Forest of Aneira loomed before him like a dark mist, and he swore silently that he wouldn’t stop until he had entered the wood and found a village in which to pass the night.

  He reached the great trees of the forest just as daylight began to wane. Even with their limbs bare, the trees offered shelter from the wind, and without the gale, the air didn’t feel nearly as cold. Shurik was so relieved to be out of the worst of the storm that he continued past the first village he encountered. When it grew too dark to see, he raised his dagger and summoned to its blade a small, bright flame by which to ride. Coming at last to a second village, he dismounted, leading his horse on foot past a few modest shops and a small, empty marketplace. He soon found a small inn, rented a room, and, after a supper that left him longing for the food of the old woman, climbed the stairs to his room. His mind was still filled with thoughts of Yaella, but after riding the entire day, he fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as he lay down.

  The next two days went much as this one had. Shurik rode from dawn to nightfall, stopping only briefly, and finding a small village in which to rest at the end of each day. The skies remained a somber grey, but this far south, the snows gave way to a frigid, soaking rain that left him even more miserable than had the snow. Still, by the time he stopped on that fourth night in a small town by the banks of the Kett, Shurik hardly noticed. He was less than two leagues from the walls of Solkara. He would have ridden through the Weaver’s fire to reach Yaella’s side.

  He awoke early again the next day and followed the river road to the Solkara bridge. Crossing over the roiling waters of the Kett, Shurik soon came to the east gate of the royal city. The guards there let him through without so much as a question. In fact, they barely looked at him. Glancing around, Shurik saw that there were a great many of his people in the city, more than one might usually find in even the southernmost cities of the Forelands. It took him several moments to realize why.

  In his single-minded haste to find Yaella, he had lost track of the days. Tonight would be Pitch Night, the last night not only of this turn, but of the year as well. Tomorrow began the turn of Qirsar, god of magic and creator of the Qirsi. Few cities in the Forelands honored Qirsar with a sanctuary—Adlana in Caerisse, Listaal and Prentarlo in Sanbira, and Olfan in Wethyrn—but on the first day of Qirsar’s turn, Qirsi flocked to whatever sanctuaries they could, to pay homage to all the gods, and to Qirsar in particular. A Qirsi hoping to slip unnoticed into one of the kingdom’s walled cities could not choose to do so on a better day. Truly the gods were with him.

  Shurik rode through the marketplace, but soon decided that a Qirsi on horseback was more likely to draw someone’s attention than one on foot. There was a good chance that Grinsa was here, not to mention the company of soldiers who had ridden with Yaella and Rowan to the king’s funeral. He had already taken a terrible risk by coming here. He might be able to convince his duke that he had left Mertesse only after hearing of the poisoning, but he hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. Glancing about to see if anyone was watching, he dismounted and led the horse the rest of the way to the castle.

  He found a smithy just outside the castle walls and offered the man seven qinde to shoe the beast. The horse probably didn’t need to be reshod, but this way Shurik could leave the animal with the smith and enter the castle alone.

  As he expected, the guards at the castle’s outer gate stopped him before he even reached the wicket door.

  “Where do you think you’re going, white-hair?” one of them asked.

  Shurik briefly considered saying that he had been summoned by the castle’s master healer, but he remembered at the last moment that Carden had no Qirsi healers. He shivered at the thought. Let her be alive.

  Instead, he told the man the truth.

  “I’ve come to see one of the ministers who was poisoned. Her name is Yaella ja Banvel; she’s first minister to the duke of Mertesse.”

  The guard eyed him closely, looking doubtful. “And who are you?”

  “I’m her brother.” The truth had its limits, and “I’m her lover” wasn’t likely to get him through the gate.

  The man stood there another moment, considering this. “I’ll have to speak with my captain,” he finally said.

  Shurik nodded. “That’s fine. Just hurry, please. I’m…concerned for her.”

  The guard stepped away from the wicket gate, disappearing from view. The other guards remained there, watching Shurik but saying nothing. After what seemed an eternity, the first man returned.

  “All right,” he said. “You can go to her. But if you have any weapons you have to leave them here with me.”

  “What good will that do?” one of the other men asked. “He’s a sorcerer.”

  “That’s what the captain told me to do,” the man said with a shrug. “Talk to him if you don’t like it.”

  Shurik handed the guard his dagger. “Where is she?”

  “All the ministers who survived the poisoning are in the chambers on the north side of the inner keep. If she’s alive she’d be there.”

  The Qirsi swallowed, feeling his hands start to tremble. He hurried through the gate, to the north end of the castle, and climbed the tower stairs two steps at a time. He was badly winded when he reached the upper corridor, but he didn’t stop to rest. Finding the nearest guard, he asked where Yaella could be found. Not surprisingly, the man couldn’t answer.

  “I know they’re ministers and all,” he said, “but I don’t know one Qirsi from another.”

  “Well, have you seen the duke of Mertesse up here?”

  “He came up here earlier today.” He pointed to one of the doors. “He was in there for a while.”

  Shurik turned, not even bothering to thank the man, and strode to the door. He hesitated a moment, wondering if he should knock. But in the end, he merely opened the door quietly and stepped into the chamber.

  She was lying on the bed, her eyes closed, her skin so white she might well have been dead, her lips pale and dry. Her face looked far thinner than it usually did, and her hands, which were resting at her sides, appeared tiny and frail, like those of a small child. Shurik walked carefully to the chair by the side of her bed and gazed down at her, relieved to see her chest rising and falling.

  The chair creaked when he sat, and she stirred, turning toward the sound.

  When she saw him, she smiled, her eyes widening.

  “What are you doing here?” she said, her voice barely more than a breath of wind.

  “I came to see you, of course. How are you feeling?”

  “Weak still, but better than I was.” She sat up.

  Shurik shook his head. “You should be lying down, Yaella.”

  “It’s been six days since the poisoning. You really think this is the first time I’ve sat up?”

  Her voice sounded stronger now. It occurred to Shurik that he had probably woken her from a sound sleep.

  Yaella frowned. “You shouldn’t be here. If the duke finds you—”

  “If the duke finds me I’ll tell him I rode south upon hearing of what had happened. He may be angry, but I don’t very much care. I wanted to make certain you were all right.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, which felt cool and smooth against his lips.

  She smiled again. “I’m grateful. Truly. But now you need to get back to Mertesse.”

  Shurik looked away. “I’m not going back to Merte
sse, at least not for some time.”

  “What?” He heard the shock in her voice and could imagine the way she was looking at him, a pained expression in those deep yellow eyes.

  “I had already left Mertesse when I encountered the messenger sent from Solkara. The Weaver came to me just after you and the duke left the castle, and instructed me to find the Revel gleaner, the one who I thought might be a Weaver himself.”

  “Why does he want you?” she asked dully.

  “Because I know this man. I know what he looks like, and I’m the one person, aside from you, who knows that he might be a Weaver. I guess our Weaver has finally realized how important I am.” He chanced a look at her and made himself grin.

  Yaella’s expression didn’t change. “If he really is a Weaver, he’s just as dangerous as our Weaver. You could be killed.”

  “I’m only supposed to find him.” If you have the opportunity to kill him, you may. That seemed unlikely. If all went as Shurik hoped, Grinsa would never see him, and all he would have to do was wait for his next dream of the Weaver and tell the man where the gleaner could be found.

  “Where do you think he is?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he were here, in Solkara. But I don’t plan to begin my search for another few days. For now, I only care about sitting with you and seeing to it that you recover fully from this.”

  She nodded, taking his hand.

  “Do you think Grigor did this to you?” he asked her after a brief silence.

  Yaella shrugged. “I don’t know. The archminister seems to think so, as does my duke.”

  “How is your duke?”

  “He’s fine. It helps to be young and strong.”

  And Eandi. Neither of them had to say it; Shurik knew they were both thinking it.

  “What of the queen?”

  “She’ll live, but the poison was very nearly too much for her.”

  He nodded, still thinking about Grigor. “Do you think it’s possible that the Weaver was responsible for this?”

  She stared at him for several moments. “I’ve been asking myself the same question.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know, Shurik. The poison killed more Qirsi than it did Eandi, but they were all ministers. I don’t know if the Weaver would care that he was killing them.”