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

by DAVID B. COE

  “Neither of us was very forthcoming, and I apologize for my part in that. But I want you to know, I do accept that we’re allies of sorts and I hope you find your singer eventually.”

  “Thank you, Minister. Gods keep you and your duke safe.”

  Still she didn’t leave.

  “That first morning, when you followed me to this tavern, you made a point of asking the innkeeper about the singer in a way that allowed me to overhear. Why?”

  Grinsa shrugged, a small smile on his lips. “I shouldn’t have to explain to you what it means to be a gleaner. I saw you walking the streets of Solkara in your ministerial robes. I saw you enter a tavern in the early morning when you should have been enjoying the hospitality of the queen. It seemed clear to me that you were a person I needed to meet.”

  She appeared to weigh this. After some time she nodded. Her eyes strayed to Tavis and she seemed to consider saying something. But in the end she merely offered a small smile and walked away.

  Tavis and the gleaner remained at their table, silently watching her go. Even after she left the tavern, they didn’t speak, choosing instead to eat their food and drink their wine.

  Only when they had left a few silvers on the table and stepped back out into the street did Grinsa say, “Well, it seems there’s no longer anything holding us in Solkara.”

  “Are you serious?”

  The Qirsi glanced at him. “I expected you’d be relieved.”

  “I suppose I am. I’m just surprised.”

  “The singer isn’t here, and even if the person Evanthya wants dead is, no assassin would attempt a murder in the royal city, not after all that’s happened.”

  “All we need to do is retrieve our things from the inn and buy some food, and we can be on our way.”

  He stood scanning the marketplace for a moment, as if trying to decide from which of the peddlers to buy their stores.

  An instant later, however, his eyes widened. “Demons and fire!”

  “What is it?”

  Grinsa started striding away so quickly that Tavis nearly had to run to keep pace with him.

  “What is it?” he asked again, his voice rising.

  “It’s Shurik.”

  “Shurik? Here? Are you certain?”

  But the gleaner didn’t answer.

  Tavis heard a horse neigh and looking toward the sound, saw a beast rearing, kicking out with its front legs. A thin Qirsi man struggled to calm the animal, but his gaze kept flitting toward Grinsa and Tavis. It took the boy a moment, but he did recognize the man. Kentigern’s first minister, the one who betrayed Aindreas to the duke of Mertesse.

  There was terror in the man’s pale eyes, and he looked about the marketplace as if seeking shelter or aid. But nothing could have prepared the young lord for what he did next.

  “Guards!” he shouted suddenly, pointing a bony finger at Tavis and the gleaner. “Soldiers of Solkara! That man is an Eibitharian lord, come to kill our queen! Arrest him!”

  Grinsa froze in midstride. “This way!” he said, pushing Tavis to the left and leading him through a knot of peddlers, carts, and buyers.

  There hadn’t been any guards nearby, and though Tavis could still hear Shurik shouting for help, he saw no uniforms.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, struggling to keep up with the tall Qirsi.

  “We haven’t time to make it to the sanctuary. But the south gate isn’t far. Perhaps we can make the wood before word spreads to the guards on the city wall.”

  They reached the edge of the marketplace, crossed a small lane, and cut across a common plot where sheep and goats huddled together against the cold, chewing the brown grasses. Tavis still heard cries, and an instant later a bell began to toll.

  He could see the gate now, an arched opening in the grey wall surrounding the city. But with the sound of the bell, several soldiers had gathered there, swords drawn. A few seconds later, the bell at this gate began to ring as well.

  “Damn him!” Grinsa said, stopping and looking around.

  The guards at this gate wouldn’t know why the bells were ringing, or for whom they should be looking, but they weren’t likely to allow anyone to leave the city.

  “Stay close to me,” the gleaner said. “Take hold of my cloak.”

  Almost before the words had left his lips, ghostly white tendrils of mist began to rise from the ground, swirling around them like Bian’s wraiths until Tavis could see nothing of the wall or the soldiers.

  Tavis grasped the man’s riding cloak, and the two of them started forward. He could only assume that they were making their way to the gate—the soldiers’ voices were growing louder—but he kept silent and allowed the gleaner to lead him.

  Grinsa drew his dagger, and Tavis did the same. Seeing this, the gleaner stopped, leaned close, and whispered, “Only as a last resort. I’d rather get through without them knowing we’ve passed.”

  Tavis nodded, and the two of them walked on.

  After a few moments, Tavis felt a slight breeze brush past his cheek, stirring the mist, and thinning it for just an instant. They were at the gate. Four soldiers had positioned themselves in the opening, swords drawn, their eyes wide as they attempted to see through the cloud.

  “There!” one of them cried, pointing his blade at Grinsa and Tavis.

  The wind died away and the mist closed around them again, hiding the men from view. Grinsa whispered a curse. And then Tavis heard a strange sound, or rather, four of them in quick succession. The shattering of steel.

  “Hit them low,” Grinsa said quietly, his voice taut.

  He rushed forward and Tavis did the same, lowering his shoulder as he did. Suddenly a guard loomed before him, tall and muscular, and far bigger than Tavis. In a fair fight, Tavis wouldn’t have had a chance. But the man was gaping at the useless hilt of his sword. He didn’t even see Tavis until it was too late. The young lord crashed into the man’s chest, driving him to the ground. Tavis stumbled for an instant, but kept his balance and ran. Grinsa was beside him, still drawing mist from the earth, and now summoning a wind that howled like a demon. Tavis felt the air moving past him, but it didn’t slow him. Somehow, the gleaner had managed to raise a gale and then shield the two of them from it.

  “That should slow them!” the Qirsi shouted over the roar of his tempest. “Follow me to the wood!”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Away from Solkara.”

  Tavis rolled his eyes. “Of course. But then where?”

  Grinsa didn’t hesitate. “North, to Mertesse. I want to be there when Shurik returns.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Thorald, Eibithar

  Marston had hoped to reach his father’s castle in Thorald long before the end of the waning. Indeed, he had promised his wife and children that he would be back in Shanstead by Pitch Night. That now seemed unlikely. The ride from Kentigern to Thorald measured nearly a hundred leagues and would have taken the company from Shanstead nearly half a turn even in the best weather. The return of the snows slowed them as they crossed the Moorlands, as did the rising of a cold north wind as they forded Binthar’s Wash. As the waning progressed, Marston feared that they would not ford the Thorald River until Qirsar’s Turn began, and with it the new year.

  Entering the North Wood, however, they found the forest roads muddy but passable, and they were able to quicken their pace. For the next four days, Marston pushed the men and their mounts, resting only when absolutely necessary and riding well into the night by the weak glow of the two moons. They came within sight of Thorald’s famed walls and double moat the day before Pitch Night. Most of the celebrations were over by then. Marston had long since missed Bohdan’s Night, the Night of Two Moons in the god’s turn, when family and friends exchanged gifts and shared in great feasts. But at least he and his men would not be abroad on the last night of the waning.

  As the Pitch Night legends went, Bohdan’s Turn offered little to fear. Pitch Night in the god’s turn was a night of quiet c
ontemplation after the festivities of the turn. But even the bravest of men preferred to be safely housed on any night when neither moon shone.

  After leaving the mounts with the castle’s stablemaster, and making certain that his men were given rooms on the east corridor, where the castle’s guests were always lodged, Marston walked across the upper ward to his father’s quarters. A light snow fell on the brown grasses and empty gardens of the ward, and a cold wind blew over the castle’s ramparts, carrying the scent of Amon’s Ocean and the ghostly cry of a single gull.

  Usually, Marston would have brought Xivled, his Qirsi minister, to such a meeting. But Aindreas had insisted that Xiv be excluded from their conversation in Kentigern, and though the man had been uncompromising in his condemnation of the king, and unreasonable in the demands he placed on Thorald, Marston thought it best to honor his demand for privacy, even here. He also hadn’t seen his father in some time, and given how quickly the illness was spreading through Tobbar’s body, there was part of him that feared seeing the duke again. Best that he be alone.

  As it happened, he had also asked Xiv to attend to another matter while they were in Thorald, one that needed to be addressed discreetly.

  Entering the tower at the north corner of the ward, Marston hesitated, unsure as to whether to go to Tobbar’s presence hall or his chambers.

  “He’s in his bedchambers, my lord,” one of the guards said, his voice low.

  Marston turned to the man. “Is he worse, then?”

  The guard stared at him for a moment before lowering his gaze and nodding.

  Marston took a breath, his stomach tightening. I’m not ready to be duke. I’m not ready to lose my father. “I see. Thank you.”

  He climbed the stairs to the upper corridor and walked quickly to his father’s chambers. Marston and his brother had been raised in Shanstead; his father only came to Thorald seven and half years before when Filib the Elder, duke of Thorald and next in line after old Aylyn to be king, was killed in a hunting accident. Marston and Chalton hadn’t even been of Fating age then, but the duke’s son, Filib the Younger, needed a regent, and since he was then heir to the throne, his needs outweighed those of Tobbar’s sons. Tobbar returned to Shanstead quite often during the next several years, but still Marston felt that he had been robbed of his father. His resentment of his cousin Filib festered like an untreated wound until he found himself lying in his bed in the dark of night, wishing for the boy’s death.

  By the time Filib was killed, several years later—everyone assumed at the time that his death came at the hands of common road thieves—Marston had outgrown his childish jealousies. He was seventeen by then, past his Fating. He had assumed the thaneship in Shanstead and so had come to understand the workings of the Eandi courts and the demands placed by the Rules of Ascension upon all the major houses, but especially Thorald.

  Still, those nights he had spent cursing Filib’s name haunted him, and he couldn’t help but feel some guilt about the boy’s death. To this day, walking through the corridors of Thorald Castle disturbed him. Despite the Thorald blood flowing in his veins, despite the many years his father had lived here, this fortress had never been his home. He would be duke before long. Chalton would take the thaneship and Marston would move to Thorald. But he doubted that he would ever feel comfortable in this place. His heart lay in Shanstead.

  Pausing in front of his father’s door to take a long breath and offer a quick prayer to Ean, Marston knocked.

  “Come in!” Tobbar’s voice sounded strong, giving the thane some hope.

  He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. A fire burned brightly in the hearth and the windows were shuttered, making the chamber far too warm for Marston’s liking. But Tobbar was seated by a low table, rather than lying in bed, a small scroll in his hands. His face appeared far too thin and pale, the round ruddy cheeks Marston remembered from just a year ago nothing more than a memory. But his grey eyes sparkled with the glow of the fire, and a smile lit his face. He even managed to stand as Marston crossed the chamber to embrace him.

  “I expected you days ago,” the duke said, releasing his son and waving a bony hand at a nearby chair.

  Marston pulled the chair over next to his father’s and sat.

  “I know. If the snows had held off for another half turn, we would have been here sooner. As it was we were lucky to make it here when we did.”

  He glanced around the chamber and was pleased to see that his father was alone, save for a pair of servants. Usually his first minister was with him. Enid ja Kovar had served Tobbar for several years now, and though his father still trusted her, even with all the rumors of Qirsi betrayal spreading across the Forelands, Marston did not. As his doubts about Filib the Younger’s death mounted, he had begun to question whether the minister might have been involved in the young lord’s murder. Tobbar rejected the notion, and had grown angry the last time Marston raised the matter. But the thane still preferred to avoid her. At this point, he distrusted most Qirsi. Xiv was the son of his father’s first Qirsi advisor. The two of them had spent much of their youth together. Had he not agreed to serve as Marston’s minister, the thane would have none at all. As it was, he did not plan to take on more ministers when he became duke, though most dukes had several underministers in addition to their first ministers. He had little doubt that as word of the Qirsi conspiracy continued to spread, more and more Eandi nobles would follow his example.

  “Tell me of your visit with Kentigern.”

  Marston gave a wan smile. “I’m afraid it wasn’t much of a visit. I was there only one night before he as much as ordered me from his castle.”

  Tobbar’s eyes widened. “What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing that you wouldn’t have, Father. I promise you.”

  The duke looked away, his expression troubled. “I believe you. Tell me what happened.”

  Marston described his conversation with Aindreas, making certain not to leave out any details, not even those he knew would displease his father.

  “You shouldn’t have brought up Brienne’s murder,” Tobbar said when he had finished, shaking his head and staring at the fire.

  “I didn’t bring it up, Father. Aindreas did. We could hardly expect him not to. It lies at the root of everything.”

  Tobbar faced him, his eyes bright and angry. “But to tie it to the conspiracy. Demons and fire, Marston! What were you thinking?”

  “His first minister betrayed him less than a turn after the girl’s death, Father! You may be willing to accept that the two had nothing to do with each other, but I can’t. The conspiracy is real, and it has been for longer than any of us—”

  “We’re not going to have this conversation right now!”

  “It has been for longer than any of us want to admit!”

  “I won’t listen to this again!”

  “Damn your stubbornness, Father! You have to listen!”

  The duke was glaring at him, his cheeks looking unnaturally flushed, and his chest rising and falling rapidly, as if just arguing the point demanded too great an effort.

  “Nobles are dying, Father,” he went on a moment later, his voice lower. “Eandi nobles. Not just in Eibithar, but all through the Forelands. I know that Aindreas’s Qirsi betrayed him to the Aneirans, but even with the minister weakening Kentigern’s gates, an assault on the tor could have only hoped to succeed with the duke away, fighting with the Curgh army.”

  “Maybe the Qirsi was in league with the Aneirans for a long time, but only arranged the siege after Brienne’s murder. Maybe he was taking advantage of an opportunity.”

  “You know as well as I that a siege of that size requires more planning than that. Aindreas’s minister didn’t take advantage of an opportunity, he created one.”

  “Have the Qirsi done anything like this in the other kingdoms?” Tobbar asked. “It’s one thing to assassinate a noble, but have they killed other young girls and implicated their paramours?”

  “N
ot that I’ve heard of. But,” Marston added quickly, “they have killed nobles and made it seem the work of court rivals or thieves. I’m sure they’ve even tried to disguise their handiwork by making a murder seem to be nothing more than an accident.”

  Tobbar narrowed his eyes. “Is that what you think has happened here in Thorald?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know anymore. All I can say is that Eibithar has been on a path to civil war for some time now, longer than any of us realized at first. It began with that incident in Galdasten all those years ago, at the Feast. When Uncle Filib was killed, and Filib the Younger after him, it ensured that grandfather’s death would give the crown to Javan of Curgh. And Brienne’s death made it likely that Javan’s ascension would bring war.”

  “And you believe this was all the work of the conspiracy? The incident in Galdasten? My brother’s death? Your cousin’s?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “What happened in Galdasten was nothing more or less than the act of a madman, a villager who had lost his wife to an illness, and his son to the pestilence.”

  “That may be so. But the rest—”

  “The elder Filib was thrown by his mount. Had he landed one fourspan to the right or left of that stone, he would have survived. You think the Qirsi did that as well?”

  “There’s a magic known as the language of beasts—”

  “His swordmaster was with him!” Tobbar said, his voice rising. “He saw the mount rear! There wasn’t a white-hair within a league of them!”

  He should have known better than to pursue this matter. Each time he and his father spoke of the conspiracy, it came to this. Tobbar refused to accept that his Qirsi could be involved, and Marston remained just as adamant in his refusal to believe that all the events of the past few years were unrelated. With his father weakened by illness, he should have let the discussion end, but his fears, and perhaps his pride, wouldn’t allow it.

  “Nobody witnessed Filib the Younger’s death,” he said. “Will you at least allow that there may have been more to his murder than we first thought?”