Seeds of Betrayal (35 page)

“He does seem a more reasonable man,” Tebeo said. “And not at all the dullard we’ve been led to believe he was.”

Chofya shook her head. “Grigor wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Evanthya said. She felt all of them watching her, even Fetnalla, but she kept her gaze fixed on the queen and hoped that her voice would remain steady. “But why should we care what Grigor thinks? He’s willing to defy the Council, he treats you and all those around him with contempt, and he obviously cares for nothing but his own ambitions. He doesn’t deserve your concern.”

“He’s a powerful man, First Minister,” the queen said. “If we anger him, we risk war.”

“He’s intent on war already, Your Highness. If you truly wish to put your daughter on the throne, you’ll have to defeat Grigor first.”

“I’m afraid my first minister may be right,” Tebeo said. “In which case all turns on the Council. It’s not enough that you win the support of a majority of Aneira’s dukes. You need enough of them with you to defeat Grigor in battle.”

Brail drew his sword. “You’ll have my blade, Your Highness.”

“And mine,” Tebeo said, raising his weapon as well.

The queen managed a smile. “My thanks to you both.”

Evanthya looked at Fetnalla, and found the minister already staring back at her, an apology in her eyes. When she next glanced at Pronjed, however, she saw something quite different. He was staring at her as well, his face deathly pale and his eyes filled with rage.

Gngor was walking so fast his brothers could barely keep pace with him. He said nothing, fearing that others might hear-he knew that once he loosed his ire he would be unable to control it.

He led them out of the castle to a remote and deserted corner of the gardens, which had long since turned brown. Only then, when he was certain that he was beyond the sight and hearing of all in the castle, did he whirl toward his youngest brother, his short sword drawn.

“I should kill you here and now!” he said, laying the blade along the side of Numar’s neck. “How dare you oppose me in front of Chofya and her little dukes!”

“I didn’t oppose you, brother,” Numar said, looking and sounding maddeningly calm. “I merely tried to point out that the castle is large enough to accommodate both you and the queen.”

“There was more to it than that!”

“Yes, there was. I also tried to make you see that by angering the Council, you invite rebellion. Strong as our house may be, we cannot stand against all the dukedoms of Aneira. You may be the oldest, Grigor, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stand by and let you ruin House Solkara in your pursuit of the throne.”

“I’ve warned you once, brother. Don’t get in my way, or I’ll destroy you.”

Numar smiled. Even with the sword still at his throat, he actually smiled. “I’m not afraid of you, Grigor.” He glanced at Henthas. “I’m not even afraid of the two of you together. You need to convince the Council that you can be trusted with the kingdom. If you kill me, you’ll be undermining all that you’ve worked for.”

Grigor glared at him a moment longer before lowering his sword and grinning.

“You may be right, Numar,” he said, sheathing the blade again. “But that only protects you now. Once I’m king, there won’t be anyone in the Forelands who can save you, and there won’t be anywhere you can hide.”

Numar gave a small shrug, the smile still on his lips. “Then I’ll just have to see to it that you never take the throne.”

The funeral of King Carden the Third began with the tolling of the dawn bells on the eighth day of Bohdan’s waning. Nobles from across the land crowded into the wards of Castle Solkara to watch as the king’s body was carried forth from the castle cloister, set upon an ornate golden cart, and pulled toward the city streets by four white Caenssan steeds.

As the cart passed through the castle gates, beginning its long winding procession through the streets of Solkara, the nobles fell in step behind, like soldiers following their king to war. Out of the castle they walked, and into streets that were lined six deep on both sides for as far as the eye could see. Fetnalla saw few tears on the faces of those braving the cold to watch the procession; Carden had been feared, perhaps respected, but he was never loved. Mostly, she thought she read apprehension in the sunken eyes and begrimed faces of Solkara’s people. One didn’t have to be a duke or minister to understand that the kingdom faced a time of profound uncertainty. A prolonged struggle for the crown seemed imminent, war seemed likely. And though the people in the city streets might not have known precisely what was coming, or even the names of those most likely to shape their futures, they appeared to be steeling themselves for the worst.

The procession moved slowly, stopped more than once by mourners placing dried flowers in the path of Carden’s cart and bards standing in the lane to sing an elegy that they hoped would bring them fame and the good grace of Aneira’s ruling family. It was late in the morning, almost midday, before Carden’s final journey ended where it began, at the base of the castle’s cloister tower.

As the last of the nobles entered the castle ward once more, eight Solkaran soldiers in full battle raiment lifted the pallet holding the king’s body and bore it into the castle’s great hall. Inside, Solkara’s prelate led the kingdom’s most powerful men and women in prayer for their fallen leader. When the ceremonies ended, Garden was carried back out to the ward and placed upon a great pyre. Chofya and her daughter stepped forward, each bearing a lighted torch which they tossed onto the mountain of wood. Grigor, Henthas, and Numar followed, and finally the eight surviving dukes added their torches to the blaze. Soon the fire raged like a storm, warming the entire courtyard, bathing the stone walls with its yellow glow, and claiming the body of the dead king in a maelstrom of flame and smoke.

A feast followed the funeral, as was customary, but the mood in the hall seemed even more glum than one might have expected. Great platters of food sat uneaten on the tables as dukes and marquesses gathered in small groups around the periphery of the great chamber, speaking in hushed tones and eyeing rival nobles warily.

Tebeo and Brail stood together, as they always seemed to do under such circumstances, watching the rest, concern etched on both their faces. Usually, Fetnalla would have taken some comfort in having Evanthya nearby, but they had barely spoken since their fight several nights before. They stood as far as possible from one another; they didn’t even allow their eyes to meet.

Fetnalla knew that she had been wrong. Evanthya had every right to disagree with her. Had it not been for Brail’s persistent distrust of everything she did and said, she never would have reacted as she did. But having lost her temper, having dismissed Evanthya with such cold disdain, Fetnalla didn’t know how to heal the rift she had created. She had always been stubborn. Her mother had told her so in her youth, and Evanthya had done the same in the beds they shared. Now that willfulness and pride had cost her the one love she had ever known.

“Do you see how Gngor moves from one cluster of nobles to the next?” Brail asked quietly. “Before the night is over, he may have won over all the houses he needs to claim the throne.”

“Perhaps we should be doing the same,” Tebeo said.

“To what end? We have nothing to offer, no reason to make them listen to us.”

“We speak for the queen and her daughter. Isn’t that reason enough?

Brail shook his head. “It’s the queen’s place to speak for herself. And instead she sits with Kalyi, drying the child’s tears.”

“Isn’t that what she should be doing, Lord Orvinti?” Evanthya asked. “Wouldn’t you expect the same of your duchess, were this your funeral?”

Brail eyed her briefly, then nodded, looking away. “Yes. I suppose I would.”

Grigor did not bother to speak with the dukes of Orvinti and Dantnelle, no doubt knowing that their loyalties lay firmly with the queen. Fetnalla noticed as well that he didn’t circle the room in the company of his brothers. Henthas and Numar stood at the far end of the hall, watching Grigor, but keeping themselves apart from all the nobles. At least for a time. After Grigor stepped past Brail and Tebeo, an icy smile on his lips, Numar left his middle brother and approached the dukes.

“A word, my lords?” he said quietly, his gaze flicking from one of them to the other.

“Of course, Lord Renbrere,” Tebeo answered.

Numar glanced over his shoulder, as if making certain that Grigor wouldn’t hear him. “I wish to apologize for my brother’s behavior during our conversation the other day. His disrespect for the Council and his indifference to your concerns was inexcusable.”

“He seems a difficult man,” Brail 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,” Brail 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?” Brail 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 Gngor 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 Brail, 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 Brail.

“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 Brail 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 Brail 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? Dantnelle’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 distaste-fill.”

“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?”