by DAVID B. COE
Pronjed exhaled through his teeth and straightened. The duke was probably right, though that did little to ease the minister’s frustration with the man. He shouldn’t have spoken to the regent of enemies, nor should he have been encouraging the man to kill the girl-queen. Of course he could say nothing about that part of their discussion, not without making Henthas even more curious about the sources of his information.
Apparently the duke’s thoughts had wandered in a similar direction.
“What else do you know about what Numar and I said to one another?”
“Very little. Perhaps you’d care to tell me more.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“You still think he means to do harm to the queen?”
“I believe it’s possible. Numar wants to be king, and the girl stands in his path.”
“You want to be king, too.”
His face colored. “Yes, I do. But I know that the dukes will never allow such a thing. They’d overthrow the Supremacy before they accepted me as their ruler. That’s why Numar is so dangerous for the girl. They’d believe him innocent of any crime against her. I doubt Chofya will ever believe this, but I’m far more suited to be regent than my brother.”
“Because your reputation is so poor that you could never get away with murdering the child.”
“Precisely.”
Pronjed gave a thin smile. “Such reasoning hardly flatters you, my lord.”
“No,” the man said, “I don’t suppose it does. But you can’t deny that it makes sense.”
It was hard to know just what Henthas had in mind to accomplish with all his machinations. The minister could have used magic to divine his thoughts, just as he had with Numar, but he thought it safer to employ such tactics against only one of them. And though the regent had made the mistake of taking his brother too lightly, Pronjed still considered Numar the more intelligent of the two brothers, and therefore the more dangerous. Thus he had to content himself with gleaning what he could of Henthas’s intentions from his conversations with the man, and from his probing of Numar’s mind.
It seemed that the duke hoped to raise Pronjed’s fears of Numar, claiming that he did so out of concern for the queen, and as a secret ally of Chofya. At the same time, he plotted with the regent, urging him to kill the girl. No doubt he hoped that any attempt on Kalyi’s life would confirm all he had said to Pronjed of Numar’s dark ambitions. If the girl survived, Numar’s disgrace would hand him the regency. If she died, Numar would be executed, and he would claim the throne.
The role he envisioned for Pronjed in all of this was even less apparent. Clearly he needed to have someone else calling Numar a murderer, since no one would trust him to tell the truth. But more than that, he had probably guessed that Numar would attempt to blame him for Kalyi’s death. He needed Pronjed to protect him from his brother.
“So,” Henthas began after a long silence, “do you intend to speak to Chofya of this?”
“She should probably know that the queen’s life is in danger,” Pronjed said. “But if you’d prefer to tell her yourself, I’ll keep silent.”
The duke shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I . . . I don’t think she’d believe any of this coming from me. And then the danger to Kalyi would remain. You should tell her.”
“What if I don’t believe you?”
Henthas frowned. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“Any number of reasons. Your reputation, all that you have to gain from destroying your brother, all that you could gain from killing the queen yourself and making it seem that the regent was responsible. You came to me some time ago, indicating that you would help me keep the girl alive, and telling me that Numar was my enemy. But I’ve seen no evidence of any of this beyond your word.” He opened his hands. “And I’m afraid that doesn’t count for very much.”
Henthas gave that same thin smile again. “What is it you want?”
This had to be handled delicately. The Weaver wanted Solkara weakened as war with Eibithar drew nearer, but Henthas would resist any action that was too obvious. And with relations between the brothers deteriorating, there was no guarantee that Numar would listen to him anyway. Still, Pronjed had to try.
“What do you think of this war your brother is planning with the emperor?”
“If it succeeds, it will strengthen the realm and our house for generations. If it fails, it will probably mean the end of the Supremacy.”
“Do you think it will fail?”
Henthas stared at him, his eyes narrowing. “Perhaps I should ask the same of you, Archminister.”
“I’m not certain I know what you mean.”
“Then allow me to be more explicit. For some time now I’ve wondered when this conspiracy of which we’ve heard so much might strike at House Solkara. Ours is the leading house in the realm, after all, and if the rumors reaching Aneira from throughout the Forelands are to be believed, the Qirsi have been more than willing to strike at other royal houses. I find it impossible to fathom that the conspiracy would ignore us. Which leads to a most obvious question: who is the traitor in our midst?”
Pronjed stood motionless, struggling to ease the pounding of his pulse. He had anticipated such an accusation from Numar—not because he thought the regent knew anything for certain but because it would have served the man’s purposes to raise doubts about Pronjed’s loyalty. But for Henthas to have reasoned it through . . . This was the last thing he had expected.
“Are you asking me if I am this traitor?”
“Would that surprise you?”
“Yes, my lord, it would. I’ve served House Solkara for many years, and no one has ever questioned my loyalty.”
“Nevertheless, I must ask. Are you a traitor?”
The minister let out a short laugh. “How am I to answer? Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t?”
“Probably not. But neither would I have you hanged if you said you were. At least not right away.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’re both traitors, Archminister.”
“I never said—”
“That you were part of the conspiracy? Of course you didn’t. You don’t have to. Even without such an admission, you’re guilty of treason, as am I. We speak openly of defying the regent, of undermining his power. Yes, we do so to save the queen, but it’s still treason. It matters little if you have compounded that betrayal by joining the conspiracy. If one of us decides to betray the other, we’re both dead men.”
Pronjed wasn’t certain what to say. The duke’s accusations left him shaken; the man’s reassurances only confused him.
“You needn’t look so worried, Pronjed. I don’t intend to speak of this to anyone, at least not for a while. Regardless of where your loyalties lie, our interests are the same for now. We both need House Solkara to remain strong and we both need to keep Numar from growing too powerful, which means that we share a desire to keep the queen safe. At some point in the future, our interests will diverge, and I make no promises about what I will and won’t do then. But for now, you have nothing to fear from me.”
“You speak of treason with unsettling ease, my lord. I assure you, I am no traitor. I may speak against the regent, but only because you tell me that he threatens the queen, to whom I owe my allegiance.”
Even the minister could hear how hollow his denials sounded, but he had little choice but to offer them anyway. The duke would expect no less.
“Of course, Archminister,” Henthas said, sounding unconvinced. “You understand, I had to ask.”
“Of course, my lord.” He paused. Then, “Perhaps I should go.”
“Probably.”
He turned toward the door, but the duke spoke his name, stopping him.
“My lord?”
The man was grinning once more, as if he had just won a great victory, looking every bit the jackal. “I trust you’ll never come in here again calling me a fool, or questioning my actions.”
&n
bsp; Pronjed had to stifle a retort. “Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Now get out.”
The archminister stalked from the chamber, gritting his teeth. It would be a pleasure killing the man. Killing them both, actually. The brothers Renbrere.
In good time.
Chapter
Fourteen
She still didn’t want to believe that her father had killed himself. It was a violation of Ean’s doctrines and it be spoke a sadness she wouldn’t even have wished on her uncle, the duke. But Numar had told her that there could be little doubt about how her father died, and she remembered overhearing her mother say much the same thing at the time of her father’s funeral.
Kalyi had hoped, in speaking with the regent, that she might find some proof that her father had been killed, that all of the adults in the castle had been wrong about his death. In the wake of their conversation, she lost all enthusiasm for her “inquiry,” as Numar had called it. How was she to learn what her father had been thinking when he died? If there had been a way to know this, wouldn’t her mother have found it by now?
But as the day wore on, and she dreamed her way through her studies, thinking more about her father than about Aneiran history and the battle tactics of Queen Amnalla the Second, her resolve began to return. She had first decided in the days just after her father’s death to learn all she could about why he had died. It had been the most frightening time of her life. Her uncle Grigor had poisoned her mother and the Council of Dukes, an Eibitharian spy had been spotted in the city, and it seemed the entire land was poised to go to war over whether or not to make her queen. She was too young to defend herself or her castle, too ignorant in the ways of the court to command an army, too small even to wear the heavy golden crown that her father had left for her. But she had a quick mind—all her tutors told her so—and she had always been good at reasoning things out. So she had set herself this task. It was too late to save her father from whatever had caused him such grief, but it wasn’t too late to understand.
Somewhere in the time since, she had tried to convince herself that her father had been murdered, that he couldn’t have died by his own hand. She knew now that she was wrong.
But nothing else had changed. She was still intelligent enough to ask the right questions and to learn what she could from what her father had left behind. And that, she decided in the middle of her lessons, was what she would do.
It seemed only natural that she should speak first with her mother, and so when her last tutor of the day ended her lesson, asking her please to be more attentive tomorrow, she ran from the chamber to her mother’s sleeping quarters, which were just beside her own.
She found her mother sitting by the open window, staring out at a clear blue sky. Her mother rarely left her chambers anymore. She took most of her meals there, only venturing beyond her walls for formal meals in the great hall and occasional walks in the castle gardens. She was still beautiful—Kalyi thought her the most beautiful woman in the realm—but there were thin strands of silver appearing in the dark hair at her temples, and her face was paler than Kalyi remembered from before her father’s death.
“Good day, love,” her mother said from her chair, her face brightening as Kalyi let herself into the room.
“Hello, Mother.”
She crossed to where her mother sat and kissed her cheek.
“How were your studies today?”
Kalyi shrugged. “All right, I suppose.”
Her mother frowned. “Is there something wrong?”
“No. I just was thinking about other things.”
Chofya regarded her solemnly. “A queen must learn to discipline her mind so that ‘other things’ won’t distract her. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Her mother smiled. “Good. Now, why don’t you tell me what you were thinking about when you should have been listening to your tutors.”
“I was thinking about Father.”
The smile fled her mother’s face, as it always seemed to when Kalyi mentioned her father.
“What about him?”
“About how he died.”
“Kalyi, you mustn’t—”
“You’re always telling me that I’m not a child anymore, that a queen has to be grown-up, even if other girls my age aren’t. Why should this be different? He was my father—someday I’m to sit on his throne. Shouldn’t I know how he died?”
Her mother looked toward the window again, taking a deep breath. “Why would you want to know such a thing?”
“Because I want to understand why he did it.”
“He was dying, Kalyi. That’s why he killed himself.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Her mother looked at her once more. “Whyever not?”
“Because Father wasn’t afraid of dying. He told me so. And only a man who was afraid of dying would take his own life upon learning that he was ill.”
Chofya gazed at her for a long time as if trying to decide something. At last she gave a small smile and pulled Kalyi close, in a long embrace.
“It’s good that you think so highly of him, that you remember him with so much love.”
It seemed a strange thing to say. Why shouldn’t she love her father?
“So will you tell me?”
Her mother released her, her eyes meeting Kalyi’s once more. The smile had gone away again. “What do you want to know?” she asked, sounding weary.
“Well,” she began slowly, abruptly questioning whether she really did want to know any more about the way he died, “everyone keeps telling me that there can be little doubt that he killed himself. How can they be so sure?”
Chofya frowned, and for a moment Kalyi thought she might refuse to answer. But her mother surprised her.
“He killed himself with a blade. He thrust it into his own chest. He was sitting at his table in the great hall at the time. There was a good deal of blood, but all of it remained right there, covering his hands and his place at the table. Had someone killed him . . . well, it would have looked different.”
Kalyi swallowed. She should have been scared, she knew, and repulsed. And perhaps a small part of her was. But mostly she was so grateful for even this small bit of knowledge that she didn’t mind.
Her mother eyed her closely. “Are you sorry you asked?”
“No. Who found him?”
“What?”
“Who found him?”
“One of the servants, I believe.”
“When?”
“Kalyi—”
“When?”
“I don’t remember. The next morning I think.”
“Had he been alone all night?”
“Actually, no. The duke of Orvinti was here and the two of them spoke well into the evening. Your father killed himself sometime after the duke retired for the night.”
“You’re certain the duke had gone?”
“Yes, Kalyi. I’m certain. One of the servants brought wine to your father after the duke left him.”
“Do you know what Father and the duke talked about?”
“No, I don’t.” Her mother stood. “And I don’t see the point of all this. Your father died by his own hand. I’m sorry if that disturbs you, but it’s the truth. He learned from the surgeon that he was dying, and rather than face a long, slow death, he chose to end his life that night. Why is it so hard for you to accept that?”
“I told you. It means that he was afraid, and I know that Father wasn’t afraid of anything.”
“Each of us is afraid of something, Kalyi. Anyone who claims to have no fear is either a fool or a liar. You father was no different. He might not have been afraid of death, but he was afraid of appearing weak. And rather than spend his last days weakened by an illness the healers couldn’t cure, he chose to die while he was still strong and able to make such a choice. Is that so difficult to fathom?”
“Yes. All that you say may be true for other men, but not for Father. He was king, and he was
brave.” Kalyi felt as though she might cry, which was the last thing she wanted to do. She was queen now, and she was trying to show her mother that she was mature enough to speak of such things. But her mother seemed not to care about any of this. She should have been as eager to know the truth as Kalyi was. Yet she seemed more than happy to just accept that he was gone, without asking any questions.
“Did you love Father?”
Her mother looked away, color draining from her face. “What kind of question is that? I was his queen.”
“Sometimes kings and queens don’t love each other.”
“Who told you that?”
“I’ve been learning history, Mother. I know that Aneira has seen more than its share of court bastards, and I know what that means.”
“I think we’ve spoken of this enough for one day,” her mother said.
“That’s why you don’t care about this. You didn’t love him.”
“You’re talking nonsense!”
But Kalyi could see her mother trembling.
“Well, you don’t have to talk about this with me if you don’t want to. I’m going to find out why he died, no matter how long it takes. I’ll even talk to the surgeon if I have to.” She started toward the door. Then stopped turning to face her mother again. “Father wasn’t a coward, and he wouldn’t have violated Ean’s doctrines without a good reason. That’s not the kind of man he was.”
She started to turn again.
“You want to know what kind of man he was?” her mother demanded. “You want to know why I’m so certain that he killed himself because he was dying?”
Kalyi didn’t answer. She was afraid to.
“You’re free to talk to the surgeon, child. But it won’t do you any good, because this isn’t the same surgeon who told your father that he was dying. That man is dead as well. Your father had him garroted before taking his own life. That’s the kind of man your father was. He was proud, and vengeful, and he cared little for Ean’s doctrines.”
There were tears on her mother’s face to match her own. For a long time they stood staring at each other, holding themselves perfectly still.
Then her mother whispered Kalyi’s name and took a faltering step toward her, her arms outstretched. But Kalyi ran from the room, choking back a sob.