by DAVID B. COE
This at least is what he had been saying to the other dukes. And they were listening. Eardley, Sussyn, Domnall, and Rennach. Minor houses all, and aside from Eardley, not even the strongest of the minors. But taken together, their armies included nearly four thousand men, and combined with the soldiers of Galdasten and Kentigern, they constituted a considerable fighting force. They were not powerful enough to defeat the royal army, particularly if it was supported by the armies of Glyndwr, Curgh, Labruinn, and Tremain, as seemed likely. But unlike Aindreas, Renald didn’t want a war.
The duke of Kentigern was so consumed by his grief and his need for vengeance that he would gladly have destroyed the kingdom so long as he managed to destroy Curgh and Glyndwr in the process. Everyone in the realm knew it. Certainly the other dukes did. Which was why even as he railed against the injustice of Kearney’s rule, Renald never spoke of taking the kingdom by force. His was the soothing voice, the antithesis to Aindreas’s cries for blood. No, he didn’t need a force capable of taking Audun’s Castle. He merely needed a credible army, large enough to convince a majority of the dukes that the danger of war was real, and that any peaceful settlement was preferable to the carnage such a conflict would bring.
It was a process he knew would take some time. Even those dukes who were with him still spoke of war, of the injustice done to Aindreas. Many of them believed that Thorald could be turned to their cause and that when Tobbar joined them, Kearney would be forced to surrender the throne. Renald had no such illusions. Tobbar would never be king, nor would Marston, his son. But if Kearney the Younger, the king’s boy, failed to produce an heir, Marston’s son or grandson could claim the throne as his own. Thorald remained the preeminent house in the land, and as such, its leaders had reason to preserve the Rules of Ascension. The lone hope for Renald and his allies was that Aindreas would lead them to the brink of war, before Kearney was forced to abdicate in order to keep the land whole.
Under any circumstances, his chances of succeeding would have been small. But Kearney’s message, versions of which he had no doubt sent to every duke in the realm, made matters that much more difficult. If the king managed to convince the other nobles that Aindreas had been wrong about Tavis, that Glyndwr’s offer of asylum had saved an innocent man rather than harboring a murderer, then support for the rebellion would crumble.
The guards returned to Renald’s chamber a short time later bearing a pot of tea and breakfast, but from that time until just after the ringing of the midmorning bells, the duke was alone with his thoughts and the damned letter from Kearney. Even as the pealing of the bells continued to echo through the castle, a knock came at his door. Ewan Traylee and Pillad jal Krenaar, his swordmaster and first minister. They met with the duke every morning at this time. But when he called for them to enter, it was Elspeth who opened the door, not the two men.
Renald stood. “Good morrow, my lady.” He stepped around the table, taking her hands in his and kissing her forehead.
She gave a quick smile, but did not return the kiss. “The guards tell me you were awake again before dawn.”
He dropped her hands. “The guards should know better than to speak of their duke without leave.”
“Even to his wife?”
“Even so, yes.” He walked back to the table and sat once more.
“What is it that wakes you?”
Renald shook his head, looked away.
“Is it another woman? I know you’ve had mistresses in the past.”
“No, Elspeth. There’s no other woman.” A lie, though strictly true for this past night.
“Then what?”
“It’s nothing I wish to tell you. I spent the balance of the night here, working. That’s all you need to know.”
The duchess stared at him for a long time, her dark eyes holding his. She remained beautiful, even after so many years, even after three childbirths. But it was an austere beauty, as inaccessible as the high peaks of the Border Range, or the ocean just before a storm. With her brown hair up, accentuating her prominent cheekbones and wide mouth, she looked more like a prioress than a duchess. She looked very much a queen.
“Of what do you dream, my lord?”
He felt his mouth twitch, saw her smile triumphantly.
“I dream of Kell’s death,” he admitted.
“And that’s what wakes you.”
“Yes.”
“It would wake me, too.”
It was as much a kindness as she was likely to show him, but he didn’t wish to speak of this with anyone, least of all with her. “I’m expecting the swordmaster and my minister,” he said. “We have a good deal to discuss.”
“Even now they stand in the corridor,” she said mildly. “They said they would wait until we were through.”
Damn you. “What do you want?”
“What word have you sent to the other houses?”
“Nothing yet. It’s too early. The message only came two days ago—”
“Three now.”
“All right, three. But that’s still not enough time to compose a response.”
“They’ll expect one. From you. Aindreas can’t say anything. I doubt he’ll even accept Kearney’s claims. He’d gone too far to turn back now. That leaves you to lead the others.”
Where? Where do I lead them now? “I know. That’s why my response must be crafted with care.”
“With care, yes. But swiftly as well. It will take some time for whatever message you send to reach the others. If you wait too long, they’ll think Kearney’s message has settled matters and this moment will pass.” She walked to where he sat and knelt beside him, placing her hand on the inside of his thigh. “Don’t you want to be king? Don’t you want to reclaim the glory that was once Galdasten’s?”
Her hand crept up his thigh and in spite of everything he felt himself becoming aroused. Cursing his weakness, he stood and stepped away from her. She only wanted the throne for him because she wished desperately to be queen, and because she had long nurtured ambitions for their sons.
“I daresay I want the throne nearly as much as you do, Elspeth. And I plan to do all I can to get it—”
“But you don’t know how.”
He glared at her. “Leave me.”
She smirked at him. After a moment she stood once more and walked to the door. She was nearly as tall as he and she moved with the grace of a Revel dancer.
“Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to remain? I can hardly imagine Ewan or Pillad being of much help. Their minds are no more nimble than yours.”
He said nothing, and she reached for the door handle.
“What would you do?” he asked, signaling his surrender.
She faced him again. If she felt she had beaten him, she hid it well. “That’s why I married you, Renald. A lesser man would have allowed his pride to keep him from asking.”
He already regretted not letting her leave.
“I certainly wouldn’t deny the verity of Kearney’s claims,” she went on, after seeming to consider the question briefly. “All it takes is one duke curious enough to make the journey and you’re ruined. Rather, I’d insist that the tidings from Audun’s Castle have no bearing on your dispute with the Crown. In fact, they make it all the more urgent that Eibithar rid itself of this arcane method of choosing its kings. Regardless of who killed Brienne, we still have a king who rules simply because two men decided he should. The rules are too easily bent to the will of a few.” She paused, as if to weigh her own words. “That’s what I would say.”
Renald nodded. Not surprisingly it made a good deal of sense. She was a brilliant woman. Had he loved her he might have taken pride in having made her his duchess.
“And Renald,” she added, lowering her voice and glancing toward the door. “If I were you, I wouldn’t speak of this with Pillad.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“Because he’s Qirsi, you fool. Didn’t Kearney’s message teach you anything? Brienne is dead because the Qirsi wis
hed her dead. Eibithar is poised to fall into turmoil because the Qirsi wished it so. A noble who continues to trust his white-hairs with all matters of the realm risks a similar fate.”
“But Pillad—”
She raised a finger to her lips, silencing him. Her eyes flicked to the door once more. Then she walked back to where he sat.
“Please, Renald,” she said, her voice low. “Don’t tell me that you know him too well, that he’s served your house for too long, that he couldn’t possibly betray you.”
The duke just stared at her, groping for a response and feeling like a chastised child.
“He’s Qirsi,” she said, “and therefore he’s dangerous. You may be right about him, he may be as loyal as a hound. But you’ve come too far to take that chance.”
He nodded to her a second time, knowing that she was right, hating her for it.
“We’ll speak again later,” she told him. “After you’ve spoken with the others.”
She turned away from him, her gown swirling, and left the chamber, leaving the door open as she favored the two men in the corridor with a gentle smile.
“Good day, my lord,” Ewan said entering the chamber.
Pillad followed him in and bowed to Renald. “My lord.”
“Close the door,” the duke said sourly.
The Qirsi shut the door quietly and both men sat near the hearth. Renald eyed them both for several moments. Confronted now with the need to dismiss the Qirsi from his chamber, the duke wasn’t certain how to proceed. Living in a realm in which nobles gathered Qirsi ministers according to their status and rank, Renald should have been able to attract to his court the wisest and most powerful. Eandi leaders in the Forelands had been collecting Qirsi for centuries, for their magic to be sure—their ability to glean the future, to weave mists that could conceal an entire army, and to shatter swords or whisper dark words to the horses of enemy soldiers—but also because a powerful minister enhanced the reputation of the man he served. Javan of Curgh was a formidable man in his own right, but having Fotir jal Salene as his first minister served to make him seem that much more impressive.
Had he been in line for the throne, Renald might have lured such a Qirsi to his own court. Instead, he had Pillad. The man was a capable minister whose visions had proven to be of value once or twice over the years. But Pillad would have been the first to admit that the powers he possessed—gleaning, fire, and healing—were not among the deeper Qirsi magics. He would have been less likely to admit what brought him to Galdasten, though Renald knew. Under most circumstances, a Qirsi of his limited abilities could never have expected to serve the duke of a major house in one of the Forelands’ most powerful realms. But when Renald became duke, he was served by an aging woman whose powers were no more impressive than Pillad’s, and when she died, Pillad saw an opportunity to serve in a dukedom, despite his shortcomings. With Galdasten removed from the Order of Ascension, other Qirsi weren’t exactly flocking to Renald’s castle, and though one or two of the others who did come had a bit more to offer than this man, something in Pillad’s manner drew the duke’s attention.
He had little doubt that his minister remained loyal to the house and despite the soundness of Elspeth’s reasoning, Renald was loath to exclude him from the discussion.
But can you be certain?
“How goes the training of the men?” he asked Ewan, stalling.
The swordmaster looked puzzled. “Well, my lord. As always.”
“Would you trust them to prevail in a fight?”
“Against whom, my lord?”
“The army of another major house.”
“Excuse me, my lord,” Pillad broke in. “But are you expecting to go to war?”
“No, Minister, I’m not. But with Kentigern threatening rebellion, I feel that we should be prepared for the worst. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“I’d put our men up against any in the land, my lord,” Ewan said, a note of pride in his voice, his black beard bristling.
“Of course, Ewan,” the duke said. “Forgive the question.”
In his own way, the swordmaster was as limited in his capabilities as the minister. He was a fine swordsman, nearly a match for Hagan MarCullett in Curgh. But once more, measuring the men who served him against those serving Javan, Renald found that he suffered for the comparison. Ewan was not quite as skilled with a blade as Hagan, nor could he have prevailed against Curgh’s swordmaster in a battle of wits. His men loved him and would have followed him into battle against a host of demons and wraiths. But Kell’s swordmaster had succumbed to the pestilence with the old duke, and replacing him with as fine a soldier had proven difficult.
Once more the duke could hear his wife mocking them all. I can hardly imagine Ewan or Pillad being of much help. Their minds are no more nimble than yours. And though it galled him to think it, he had to concede that she was right about this as well.
Pillad pressed his fingertips together. “Have you given any more thought to the king’s message, my lord?”
“Yes, though I haven’t yet decided on any course of action.”
“You still believe he may be lying.”
“Possibly.” The duke narrowed his eyes. “Is that what you think?”
“Actually it is. I’ve given the matter a good deal of thought, and I find it hard to imagine a member of the conspiracy admitting so much to any Eandi noble. I’d advise you to put little stock in that letter.”
Renald nodded, though he suddenly felt cold. Perhaps the duchess was right about him after all. The one thing the duke and his wife agreed on was that Kearney wouldn’t have lied about such a thing. Yet here was the minister arguing that the king had done just that.
“It’s a fair point, Minister. I’ll consider it. For now, however, I’d like to speak with the swordmaster in private.”
It was clumsily done—Elspeth would have handled it far better. But Renald could barely keep his hands steady. He just wanted the man out of his chamber.
Pillad merely stared back at him, his face expressionless, his yellow eyes wide, so that he looked like a great owl. “My lord?”
“I wish to speak with Ewan of the men and of their training. I see no need to keep you here for a discussion that could consume the rest of the morning. I’ll call for you later.”
The minister glanced at Ewan, then stood and sketched a small bow. “Of course, my lord.”
Still he stood there, as if confused. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. After another moment he walked to the door and slipped out of the room, saying nothing more.
“Damn,” the duke muttered, closing his eyes and shaking his head.
“You’ve lost faith in him.”
“It’s that apparent, is it?”
“I’m afraid so. Can you tell me why?”
“Something the duchess said about the dangers of trusting any Qirsi in these times. And then his suggestion that Kearney’s letter was a deception.”
Ewan raised an eyebrow. “Actually, I agree with him.”
Renald felt his stomach heave. Damn the woman! “You do?”
“From what I’ve heard of these Qirsi traitors, it seems they’d rather die than betray their cause. You remember what happened in Thorald?”
Indeed he did, not merely because it had been only a few turns before but also because the tidings had left him badly shaken. Faced with accusations that she was a traitor, Tobbar’s first minister admitted as much, but then took her own life before the duke and his men could question her.
“But would the king lie about such a thing, knowing how easy it would be for one of us to challenge his word?”
Ewan shrugged. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be so easy. He might have convinced a Qirsi loyal to his house to play the part of traitor.”
Renald sat forward. “Of course!” he whispered. It had never occurred to him to consider this. He felt certain that it had never occurred to Elspeth either. He actually thought it unlikely that
Kearney could be so devious, but that was beside the point. Here was the excuse he needed to continue supporting Aindreas.
“Do you think that’s what he’s done?” Ewan asked.
“Tell me, swordmaster, how many men would we need to pose a threat to the king?”
“Far more than we have, my lord.”
“Even with the minor houses that support us? Even with Kentigern?”
“Kentigern is still recovering from the siege, and the armies of four minor houses don’t add up to much. Kearney has Glyndwr and Curgh, Tremain and Heneagh, as well as the royal army. Even if Thorald joined us it wouldn’t be enough.”
“I’m not asking you what we need to defeat the king. Only what we might need to convince him that a civil war would be too destructive to consider.”
“To what end, my lord?”
Renald briefly considered telling the swordmaster of his hope that Kearney might abdicate. In the end, however, he decided against it. In the light of day, the notion struck him as too farfetched to repeat. At least for now.
“I fear that the king might attempt to crush Kentigern’s rebellion before Aindreas can strike at him. Until we know for certain that Kearney is telling the truth about this Qirsi, I want to do all we can to prevent that.”
Ewan’s mouth twisted so that he looked, despite his beard and brawn, like a boy grappling with a question from his tutors. “I’m not even certain we’re strong enough to do that much. If the king is determined to destroy the threat now, there’s little we can do to stop him.”
“But he couldn’t do this without some cost,” the duke said, desperate now for any encouraging response.
“Indeed, my lord. He’d pay dearly for the effort. We can’t defeat him, but we can inflict heavy losses.”
“And he must know this. Isn’t that correct?”