by DAVID B. COE
“Thank you, Weaver. Actually, it was Dantrielle’s first minister who convinced them. I did little more than agree with her.”
“I see. Do you think she can be turned as well?”
Fear gripped her heart. Evanthya would die before she betrayed the land. “No, Weaver. I don’t.”
“You care for her.” A pause, and then, “You’re lovers.”
It shouldn’t have surprised her. He had entered her mind, he was walking in her dreams. Still, she was disturbed by the ease with which he had divined her thoughts. It suddenly seemed that all of her secrets had been laid bare for the world to see. Now, when she could least afford this to be so.
“Yes, Weav—”
Suddenly there was a hand at her throat, unseen but with a grip like steel, as if some black demon from the Underrealm had taken hold of her.
“You continue to close your mind to me,” the Weaver said, his voice even. “You shouldn’t. I’ve paid you well, and I’ve promised you freedom from your duke.” He paused, though only briefly. “You fear for this other minister. You think I’ll hurt her.”
She nodded, clawing uselessly at the skin of her neck.
“Why would I?”
Still he held her, so that she couldn’t answer, and she realized that he was still probing her mind.
Finally the hand released her and she fell to the ground, gasping for breath.
“Why would I?” he demanded again.
“Because she’ll refuse you if you go to her. She still serves her duke—she’d see any other choice as a betrayal. I fear that if you reveal yourself to her, you’ll have to kill her.” And because of what we did to Shurik.
“I see. You understand that if she remains so until the end, I’ll put her to death anyway.”
“Yes, Weaver. In time, I may convince her to join us. But she’s not ready yet.”
“Very well. Do what you can.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
She was awake almost before the words crossed her lips. The chamber was dark, save for the deep orange embers of her fire. She had no idea how much of the night remained. Closing her eyes once more, she lay back on the sweat-soaked pillow, trying to slow her racing pulse.
Not long ago, before she knew that there was a Weaver leading the movement, she would have thought it impossible that she could be lured into what Evanthya still called the conspiracy. Even after Brall first started to spy on her she remained loyal to House Orvinti, despite the pain her duke’s distrust had caused her. But his decision to have her watched was only the beginning. She hadn’t told Evanthya about the rest. She still found it all so humiliating that she couldn’t bring herself to speak the words.
Soon after she first heard the soldiers in the corridor outside her door and noticed servants skulking about near her chamber, she was summoned to the duke’s hall for a conversation with Brall. They spoke of the soldiers’ training and of the duke’s plans to visit the outlying baronies when the thaw began, trifles that hardly warranted discussion. Yet, he kept her in the hall for some time, even going so far as to eat his midday meal with her, something he hadn’t done in nearly a year.
When at last Fetnalla returned to her chamber, she found several of her belongings out of place. It didn’t take her long to realize that her chamber had been searched, that her audience with the duke had been a pretense intended to keep her occupied while his soldiers went through her possessions, no doubt searching for evidence of her treachery.
She was furious, but still she did not contemplate joining the renegades. Rather, she wished only to leave the castle, to put as much distance as possible between herself and Brall. She didn’t mean to leave for good—she merely wished to sit astride her horse, her beloved Zetya, and ride out past Lake Orvinti into the Great Forest. The day was cold and grey, but she didn’t care. She wanted only to ride. Upon reaching the stables, however, she was told that she could not. Her horse was fine. The stablemaster was taking good care of her. But by order of the duke, the minister was not allowed to ride her beyond the castle walls.
Fetnalla wandered away from the stables, unsure of where to go. She was too dumbfounded to speak, too enraged to cry. “I’m a prisoner,” she muttered to herself, the truth of this making her chest ache, as if Brall had struck at her with his sword. She wore no shackles; there were no bars on her door or her window. But the duke had robbed her of her privacy, her freedom, her joy, all in the name of preventing her betrayal.
Instead, he drove her to the conspiracy.
The first time the Weaver walked in her dreams, she knew that she would follow him to the brilliant future he described for her, that she would do whatever he demanded of her. There had been no warning prior to that first night—the gold came later. Fetnalla didn’t even know how the Weaver had known to come to her. Clearly, though, someone with the conspiracy had heard of her duke’s suspicions and had gauged accurately her growing resentment of his distrust. For she was drawn to the movement by far more than just fear of the Weaver and her certainty that he would kill her if she refused him. Dangerous as it was, she found that she wanted to join, to strike a blow against Brall. He already believes I’m a traitor, she thought upon awaking from that first dream. He’s earned my betrayal
She had done little for the movement since then. The Weaver had come to her two other times before this night, and she had told him what she could of Brall’s intentions regarding the coming war with Eibithar. Soon he would ask more of her. Others had killed for the movement, she knew, and perhaps she would as well.
She also knew that eventually the Weaver would learn of her role in Shurik’s death. By then, she hoped to have proven her worth to him, so that he might spare her. But it had never occurred to her until tonight that she would lead him to Evanthya. And Fetnalla knew that unless she managed to turn her love to the cause before that happened, the Weaver might well kill them both.
Chapter
Eleven
Yserne, Sanbira
It was said throughout Sanbira, and even in the other kingdoms by those who had journeyed to the southern realm and found it impossible to deny the truth, that Castle Yserne, seat of the Sanbiri matriarchy, was the most beautiful fortress in all the Forelands. Rising from the base of the Sanbiri Hills, and built of the russet stone mined from their depths, its soaring rounded towers, elaborately detailed ramparts, and gently curving walls seemed more a work of art than a castle. And on days like this one, when the sun shone and the air was still so that the castle’s image was perfectly reflected in the brilliant blue waters of Lake Yserne, it seemed a creation of the gods, as much a part of the landscape as the hills themselves and Shyssir’s Wood to the west. Yet, as history had shown time and again, marked by the failure of sieges launched by the Brugaosans, the Trescarris, and even, centuries before, by the Curlintes, its battlements and the red walls surrounding Yserne city sacrificed nothing for their grace.
Olesya of Sanbira, the fourth queen of that name to rule Sanbira from Castle Yserne, the Lioness of the Hills, as she was known throughout the southern Forelands, had lived in the fortress all her life, nearly half a century now. To this day, she had found no finer structure anywhere, not even in Curtell, where she had gone years before to visit the renowned Imperial Palace of Braedon. Despite its glazed windows and interior fountains, or perhaps because of them, there was something garish about Harel’s palace. Those who built Castle Yserne had both the good sense and good taste to err on the side of simplicity rather than excess.
In recent turns, the queen had found herself looking at the castle through different eyes. Where once she had taken it for granted, accepting Yserne’s beauty and strength with little thought for its creators, she now couldn’t go anywhere in her demesne without admiring the craft that had yielded such a place. Tanqel the First, the second man of Yserne to rule Sanbira, oversaw construction of the castle more than five and a half centuries before, and though he was remembered for his violent temper and bloody reign, Olesya had decided not lo
ng ago that if he could build a castle like this one, there had to be more to the man than cruelty and a quick blade.
Which, she was wise enough to understand, brought her to the core of the matter. How would she be remembered? She had ruled well for twenty-nine years, enjoying one of the longest reigns of any ruler in Sanbiri history, king or queen. She had been wise and fair, tolerating far more from the northern dukes than most reasonable women would have, and striving to maintain peaceful relations with Wethyrn to the north and Caerisse to the west. During her reign, Sanbira had weathered droughts and floods, outbreaks of the pestilence and once, in the earliest days of her rule, a land tremor that devastated the cities of Trescarri, Listaal, and Kinsarta. But in all, hers had been a prosperous reign, and mercifully uneventful.
“Is that how I’m to be remembered, then?” she asked herself aloud, standing before an open window in her chambers. “As the queen who ruled when nothing happened?” She gave a rueful smile. A fine legacy for the Lioness of the Hills.
She had never thought in such terms before Dalvia’s illness. But watching from afar as her dearest friend wasted away, like a wild beast caged against its will, Olesya had been forced to accept that even queens didn’t live forever. She was young yet—merely in her forty-ninth year—but her own mother had died at fifty-one, her father at fifty-three. She felt fine, but so had Dalvia only a turn or two before the illness struck her.
She shuddered, turning away from the window but leaving it open. Diani’s message had made her think this way. She had tried to put Dalvia out of her mind since the funeral. Naturally she had no intention of ending Yserne’s ties to House Curlinte. The alliance between the two families was nearly as old as the Yserne Dynasty, and the army of House Curlinte had fought to protect the matriarchy on many occasions. Olesya was fond of Sertio and loved Diani almost as she did her own children. She merely wished for some time to mourn her friend, to heal the wound Dalvia’s death had left on her heart.
It seemed, however, that Diani needed her, and who was Olesya to deny the girl the comfort or guidance she sought.
The message from Curlinte had been quite vague and brief, nearly to the point of impropriety. It merely stated that she had already left Curlinte and expected to reach the royal city by the twelfth day of the waxing—today. There was no mention of what she wished to discuss, no request for an audience with the queen, a familiarity even Dalvia would not have allowed herself. Perhaps Olesya should have expected this. Diani was still quite young, and she had always been an impetuous child, though no more so than Olesya’s own daughters. Boys, the queen had decided long ago, were easier to raise than girls. She laughed at the thought, wondering if that were as true in patriarchies.
Notwithstanding her desire to have no dealings with House Curlinte for a time, and the inappropriate tone of Diani’s message, Olesya had spared no effort in preparing the castle for the girl’s arrival. It was to be Diani’s first visit to the royal city as duchess in her own right, and custom dictated that she be received as befitted her new title. She would be met at the city gates by a hundred of Yserne’s soldiers, including men bearing the colors of both houses. Heralds would greet her with the Sanbiri anthem and, of course, the queen herself would welcome her to the city, declaring her guestfriend of all the people of Yserne. There would be a feast this night and a sword tournament among the soldiers of the royal army and whatever men Diani brought with her from Curlinte. Musicians would perform at the feast and in the streets of the city, as would tumblers and Qirsi fire conjurers. To the people of the city, it would almost seem that the Festival had arrived early. Diani, the queen was quite certain, would remember this visit for the rest of her days.
No sooner had she formed the thought than Olesya heard bells ringing from the east gate of the city. Diani’s company was approaching the city walls.
The queen wrapped herself in the royal mantle—blue and red, the colors of Yserne—and placed on her brow the silver circlet worn by Yserne’s queens for more than five centuries. Glancing briefly at her image in the large mirror on her sleeping chamber’s far wall, she stepped to the door and pulled it open, only to find Abeni ja Krenta, her archminister, standing in the corridor, her hand poised to knock.
The Qirsi woman raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Some would say you have gleaning power, Your Highness. You anticipate my knock before you hear it.”
Olesya gave an indulgent smile. “I merely heard the same bells you did, Abeni.”
The archminister’s eyebrows went up in feigned innocence. “Were there bells? I didn’t hear them.”
“Come along,” the queen said, still smiling as she started down the corridor. Abeni quickly fell in step beside her, smoothing her ministerial robes with a white hand. “I take it all is ready for Diani’s arrival.”
“Yes, Your Highness. The kitchenmaster is complaining that the cellarmaster has chosen the wrong wine for the feast tonight, but I’ve spoken with them both and made it clear that they’re to have the matter settled before the duchess sets foot in the castle.”
“I imagine they have their swords drawn as we speak.”
Abeni gave a small laugh. “No doubt, Your Highness.”
They emerged from the castle at the base of the queen’s tower and crossed through the vast network of gates and wards that guarded the fortress from would-be invaders. At the outermost gate, they were joined by eight soldiers who arrayed themselves around the queen, the silver hilts of their blades gleaming in the sunlight. From the castle gate, the queen and her escort followed a winding lane down toward the city. It was lined with people who had set aside their chores and business to greet Curlinte’s duchess, and seeing the queen, they cheered loudly.
Before they reached the entrance to the city, Olesya heard the first strains of Sanbiri’s anthem echo off the castle walls. Diani’s company had reached the city gate, and the queen would do the same just as the anthem ended.
Olesya glanced at Abeni and favored her with a smile. “You planned this well, Archminister. You’re to be commended.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. It was nothing.”
As the last strains of the anthem died away, Olesya stepped through the city gate with Abeni just behind her. The soldiers of Yserne stood to the side of the road, their blades raised in salute, their blue-and-red uniforms as bright as new blooms. But Olesya could not take her eyes off the duchess. Diani sat on her great bay, her face white and covered with sweat, though the day was cool. Sertio, her father, was beside her atop a grey stallion, his hand holding her reins. Behind them, all mounted, a company of soldiers waited in silence, twenty strong, a surprisingly large contingent of guards for such a journey. The queen felt her stomach tighten.
“We’ll dispense with the formalities, Archminister,” Olesya said in a low voice.
Abeni nodded. “Of course, Your Highness.”
The queen stepped forward, opening her arms in greeting. “Diani, duchess of Curlinte, we welcome you to Yserne. I name you guest-friend of this house so that all will know that you are under my protection. So long as you remain in this city, the soldiers of Yserne will guard your life as they would my own.”
Diani swung herself off her mount stiffly, and knelt before her. A moment later, Sertio and the Curlinte guards did the same.
“My thanks, Your Highness,” the duchess said, her voice strained. “You do us great honor by welcoming us so.”
“Rise, child. Let me look at you.”
Diani and the men in her company stood and the duchess kept herself utterly still, suffering the queen’s gaze as if she were ashamed of her appearance.
“What’s happened?” Olesya asked. She cast a look at Sertio, whose concern was as obvious as Diani’s weariness. “Is she ill?”
“I’ll tell you everything when we’re safely in the castle,” the duchess said. And as she spoke, her eyes wandered not to the soldiers or the mob of people visible through the gate but rather to Abeni.
Only then did the queen realize
that Diani had come to Yserne without her first minister.
“Of course.” Olesya faced the Qirsi woman. “Perhaps you should return to the castle ahead of us, Archminister. Make certain that our guests’ quarters are ready.”
Abeni was eying the duchess, her expression grim, her cheeks even more pallid than usual. “Yes, Your Highness.” She bowed to Diani. “Welcome to Yserne, my lady.”
Diani said nothing, though she did nod once.
Clearly the duchess was in a good deal of pain, but she walked with the queen back up to the castle, even managing a smile and an occasional wave to the men and women cheering her arrival. She was her mother’s daughter.
Once inside the castle, Diani and Sertio followed the queen back to her chambers, none of them speaking. Only when the door was closed and they were alone did Olesya turn and look at the duchess again.
“Now tell me,” she said. “What’s happened?”
Diani dropped herself into a chair, her eyes closed. She should have waited for leave from the queen to sit, but Olesya was not about to remark on it now.
“There was an attempt on my life.”
“There were two,” her father corrected.
“During your journey here?”
The young woman shook her head. “Near the end of the waning. This is why we came to see you.”
“You were wounded?”
“Yes, but the wounds have healed.”
“They’re not bleeding anymore,” Sertio broke in. “That doesn’t mean that you’re whole again. Three arrows,” he said to the queen. “One in the leg, one in the chest, one in the back. The healer told her to rest.” This last came out as a plea, as if he wanted Olesya to tell Diani to get herself to bed.
“I did rest, Father.”
“Not nearly enough. We shouldn’t have ridden so soon.”
“Her Highness had to know, and we agreed that sending a messenger presented too many risks.”
“Who did this?” the queen asked.
Diani opened her eyes, her gaze clear. “It was made to seem that Edamo ordered the assassination. The archers had their heads shaved, and their arrows were marked blue and yellow.”