Bonds of Vengeance: Book 3 of Winds of the Forelands (Winds of the Forelands Tetralogy)

by DAVID B. COE

  “He should know it, my lord. If he doesn’t, Gershon Trasker will tell him as much.”

  Renald rapped his knuckles on the table and stood, throwing open the shutters and staring out at the grey skies hanging over Galdasten. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Thank you, swordmaster.”

  “But, my lord, you must realize that whatever losses the king suffers will be nothing compared to our own.”

  “I know that, Ewan. Rest assured, I have no intention of leading our men to a slaughter. I merely need time, and so long as Kearney knows that he can’t defeat us without a bloodletting, I have it.”

  “Time for what, my lord?”

  A fine question. One to which Renald had no answer. He needed for something to happen, though he couldn’t even give a name to what that might be. He’d know it when it came, and he guessed that he wouldn’t have to wait too long for whatever it was. Events in the Forelands had become as changeable and difficult to predict as the planting weather on the shores of Amon’s Ocean. One couldn’t guess the direction of the winds from one hour to the next. But there could be little doubt that a storm would be blowing in soon.

  Pillad hadn’t been sitting at his table for more than a few moments when he saw Uestem enter the tavern. He groaned inwardly and lowered his gaze, hoping that the merchant wouldn’t notice him, knowing how foolish that was. The man was here because he had seen Pillad come in. The minister was certain of it. And as much as he dreaded speaking with him, he was surprised to find himself trembling with anticipation.

  “First Minister, I’m surprised to see you here so early in the day.”

  Pillad looked up from his ale, frowned at the man, and looked away. “I’d like to be alone, thank you.”

  “Then why come to a tavern?” He lowered himself into the seat across from Pillad, resting his hands lightly on the table. “Why come to this tavern in particular? How many times have we met here now? Three? Four?”

  “Three.” The minister kept glancing toward the door, fearing that someone from the castle might enter the tavern at any moment. He had no cause to worry, of course. Only Qirsi came to this inn, and few were likely to do so before the ringing of the midday bells. Indeed, they were the only two people in the tavern aside from the barkeep and a pair of serving women. Besides, Uestem was known throughout Galdasten and the surrounding countryside as a successful and wellrespected merchant. No one would have thought it strange that so wealthy a man might know the first minister. Few would have guessed that he was also a leader in the Qirsi conspiracy. But still Pillad watched the entrance. Anything to avoid looking this man in the eye.

  “Three then. Nevertheless, you must have known I’d find you. I believe that’s why you came.”

  “What? Don’t be ridiculous! I came here—”

  “Yes, I know: to be alone.” He smiled. “Tell me, Minister, why is it that you’ve never had me imprisoned?”

  “What?”

  “You know I’m with the conspiracy—I’ve been trying to convince you to join us for more than a turn. Yet in all that time, even as you’ve refused, even as you’ve called me a traitor, you’ve never summoned the castle guard. Why?”

  Pillad’s heart was beating so hard that it hurt. He knew the answer, just as Uestem did. There was so much about himself that he had kept hidden away, that he had been afraid to admit, even to himself. Yet speaking with this man, he felt that all of it was laid bare for the world to see.

  “Never mind that for now,” the merchant said. “Tell me this: what drove you from the castle today?”

  Pillad shook his head, eyes on the door again. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I think it does. I think your duke drove you here.”

  The minister met the man’s gaze. “If I didn’t know better, Uestem, I’d say that you had a spy in the duke’s castle.”

  The merchant grinned. “Who’s to say I don’t?” He leaned forward. “Tell me what happened.”

  “You’re the one with the spies. You tell me.”

  “All right,” he said. He appeared to consider the matter for several moments, his brow furrowing. “I’d imagine you went to your duke’s chambers as you do each morning, to speak with him of Kentigern and the king and whatever else concerns those of you living in the courts. The Eandi may not always know what to do with the authority they wield, but they do seem to enjoy talking about it. In any case, this morning something was different. Your duke seemed more distant than usual, more wary of you. And before you could even get comfortable in his spacious chambers, he asked you to leave. He didn’t tell you why, he certainly didn’t say that he had lost faith in you, but you knew. And so you came here.” He sat back again. “Is that about right?”

  Perhaps he really did have a spy. “It’s close enough,” the minister conceded. He sipped his ale, lowering his gaze once more. He felt humiliated, though Uestem was merely watching him, a look of sympathy on his lean face.

  “The same thing is happening all over the Forelands, Minister. The Eandi speak of the faithlessness of the Qirsi, but they’re the ones who reward years of loyal service with suspicion and contempt.”

  “Perhaps. But they do so because of your movement. They’re frightened, and rightly so.”

  The man smiled again. “That’s the first time in any of our conversations that you’ve referred to it as a movement rather than as a conspiracy.”

  Pillad felt his cheeks redden. “Don’t think too much of it.”

  “Minister, why do you still resist? Your duke has lost faith in you. How long do you think it will be before he banishes you from the castle entirely?’

  “It won’t come to that.”

  “Can you be certain? I’m sure you never thought it would come to this.” He paused watching Pillad, his light eyes fixed on the minister’s face. “Actually, you’re probably right. It won’t come to that, though not for the reason you think. He won’t send you from the castle because he won’t have time. Renald isn’t a bold man. It would take him several turns, maybe close to a year before he could muster the nerve to send you away. My allies and I will have already struck at the Eandi courts by then. For all we know, Renald will be dead before the end of the growing turns, as will any Qirsi who still serve him.”

  Pillad looked up at that.

  “Is he worth dying for, Minister? After what he’s done to you today, can you honestly say that you’re still willing to give your life for this man and his house?”

  Was it possible that he had come here knowing that Uestem would find him? Had he intended to pledge himself to the movement all along? Listening to the merchant speak, grappling with this last question he had asked, Pillad couldn’t help but wonder. For abruptly, the answer seemed all too plain.

  “No, I can’t.”

  Uestem smiled, his expression free of irony. “You mean that? You’re ready to join us?”

  “What would be expected of me?”

  “I don’t know yet. To be honest, I haven’t been confident enough in my ability to persuade you to inquire. But I will now.”

  “Yes, do.” He drained his ale and placed it on the table a bit too sharply. The noise startled him. “So what will happen now?”

  “Someone will contact you in the next few days. You’ll—”

  “Someone? You mean it won’t be you?”

  The man placed his hand on Pillad’s. His skin felt warm and smooth. “It will be all right. Much of what you do in service to the movement will be through me. But not all.”

  The minister nodded.

  “You’ll be given a bit of gold—I don’t know how much—and you’ll be asked to perform some task on our behalf. When you’ve completed it, you’ll be contacted again. What happens after that will depend upon many things, so I can’t tell you much more.”

  The minister pulled his hand away and stood. “I should return to the castle. I’ll be missed before long.”

  “You’ll be missed here.”

  Pillad felt his face grow hot again, but he smi
led. He started to walk away, but then halted, facing the merchant again. “What would you have done if I had refused you again?”

  “I would have kept trying, for a while at least. Eventually, I would have had to kill you.”

  As quickly as the smile had come to his lips he felt it flee, along with much of the blood from his face. “You jest.”

  “No. I like you, Minister. Very much. But I serve a great cause. I’d gladly die for our people, and if I had to, I’d kill for them as well. I’m glad you’ve made that unnecessary.”

  Pillad swallowed, nodded once more. He could still feel where the man had touched his hand, though it wasn’t merely warm anymore. Rather, it burned like an open wound.

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  City of Kings, Eibithar, Osya’s Moon waning

  The first of the Eibitharian dukes was to arrive at Audun’s Castle before nightfall, meaning that this was Cresenne’s last day of freedom. Keziah had explained as much to her the day before, but Cresenne knew that the king would be coming to tell her so himself. It was his way, she had come to realize. She wasn’t yet ready to say that she had been wrong about Eandi nobles and the Qirsi who served them. But she did have to admit that Kearney and Keziah were different somehow. Even Lord Tavis was not quite as she had expected.

  After speaking with the archminister that first day, Cresenne had answered all of Grinsa’s questions, at least all that she could. She had even told them of the Weaver, though she had begged the king not to reveal this to anyone other than his nobles. And to her surprise he granted her request. She expected the Curgh boy to exult in his exoneration, but though Cresenne sensed his relief when she told the others of her role in Lady Brienne’s murder, Tavis offered no outward response.

  She had spoken with Keziah a number of times since that day, and, most surprising of all, she actually felt that they were becoming friends. They were far more alike than Cresenne ever would have guessed, and after her initial discomfort around Bryntelle, Keziah had taken an interest in the child. Best of all, Grinsa seemed genuinely disturbed by their growing bond. Cresenne would have befriended the emperor of Braedon had she been certain that it would irk the gleaner.

  After their first conversation, when Keziah convinced Cresenne to speak to Kearney openly of her involvement in the movement, the two women had not spoken of the Weaver again. Indeed, they had hardly mentioned the movement, or the threat of civil war, or even the messages Kearney had sent, summoning the other dukes to the City of Kings. Mostly they talked of their childhoods, of their families and their loves. Cresenne still sensed that the archminister wasn’t telling her all, particularly when the topic turned to Grinsa or the king, and she guessed that one or both of the men had been her lover. But she didn’t push the woman on these matters. For the first time in memory, she had a friend, and she was content simply to enjoy their friendship and to accept the limits placed upon it by the minister.

  Which was why the previous day’s conversation had come as such a blow.

  They were in the gardens, enjoying the first clear day in what felt like ages. Keziah had carried Bryntelle for a time, cooing at the girl and playing with her until the baby began to fuss for her mother. But after handing the child back to Cresenne, she grew quiet, her eyes fixed stubbornly on the path before her. At first Cresenne thought nothing of it, but as the silence between them stretched on, she grew wary. For all the laughter and easy conversation she had shared with Keziah, Cresenne had never forgotten that she was, when all was said and done, a prisoner of the king and a renegade in the eyes of all around her.

  The baby had fallen asleep, and Cresenne held her in the crook of her arm, gazing down at her and turning her body to keep the sun off Bryntelle’s face.

  “If you’ve something to say, you’d best get it over with,” she told the minister. “Bryntelle will wake soon, and she’ll need to eat.”

  “All right,” Keziah said quietly. But for a long while she said nothing, each moment of silence heightening Cresenne’s apprehension. “The king asked me to talk with you,” the minister began at last, still staring at the ground. “I’m speaking as archminister now, rather than as your friend.” She glanced over briefly. “And I am your friend, Cresenne. It’s important to me that you know that.”

  “I understand.” Really she didn’t. Her stomach was balling itself into a fist, and she wasn’t even certain why.

  “Javan of Curgh arrives here tomorrow, and possibly Lathrop of Tremain as well.”

  “yes, I’ve heard.”

  “In the next few days, the king expects Marston of Shanstead to arrive from Thorald, and also the duke of Heneagh. He’s even hoping that some of those who have pledged themselves to Aindreas’s cause, will come. Domnall perhaps, and Eardley.”

  “What’s your point, Keziah?”

  “The king trusts you, and he’s been willing to allow you to remain free in the wake of your confession. But the dukes are not likely to be so generous. Javan in particular will want to know why Kearney grants these liberties to the woman responsible for his son’s suffering.”

  She should have expected it. They thought her a traitor, she had admitted being party to an assassination. Cresenne supposed that she should have been grateful for the freedom she had enjoyed until now. Yet she couldn’t help feeling that they had betrayed her. Keziah called herself Cresenne’s friend. Kearney had promised that she had nothing to fear from him. And now they wished to lock her away, so as to avoid offending a handful of dukes.

  “You must understand,” the minister continued. “With Aindreas threatening rebellion, the king can’t take for granted the support of any duke. Thorald and Curgh, the major houses, are especially important. If Galdasten—”

  “So he wants me in the dungeon?”

  “No!” Keziah sounded horrified. “He wouldn’t do that!”

  “Then what?”

  “The prison tower. With the days growing warmer, it should be quite comfortable, and of course Bryntelle will remain with you. The dukes will be here for some time, but when they finally leave, you’ll be free to leave the tower.”

  It was more than she should have expected, but still she trembled at the thought of being locked away. Was this how she would spend the rest of her life? A prisoner in the king’s castle? They wouldn’t execute her. She felt fairly certain of that. But they couldn’t let her go free. Ever. Bryntelle would grow up with iron bars on her windows and guards at her doors. Or she would grow up in the home of another, knowing that the world considered her mother a traitor and murderer.

  “What if I refuse?”

  Keziah halted and faced her, her expression bleak. “Don’t.”

  Cresenne took a breath, nodded. “I should return to my quarters, then. I don’t have a lot, but I should probably gather the few things I carried with me from Aneira.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No.” She couldn’t help but be moved by the stricken look on Keziah’s face. Clearly this conversation had pained the archminister. “I’ll be all right,” she added, trying to smile.

  “May I stop by later?”

  “Why don’t you walk me to the tower tomorrow? I’d be grateful.”

  The minister smiled, her relief palpable. “Of course.”

  Cresenne and Bryntelle passed the rest of the day in their chamber. It took Cresenne but a few moments to gather her possessions, but after speaking with the archminister, she had no desire to be seen by anyone else. Solitude promised to be something she would have in abundance for the rest of her days, but privacy was another matter. There were no bars on the door to this room, and though there were guards posted just outside in the corridor, she didn’t have to see them or hear them or endure their stares. For one last day, she savored the basic comforts of the room she was in as she would have the luxuries of being queen.

  She slept fitfully and had awakened early this morning, unable to get back to sleep after hearing the peal of the dawn bells. Keziah hadn’t told her what
time of day she was to be taken to the tower and Cresenne thought it best to be ready whenever the minister and Kearney’s guards arrived. She sat with Bryntelle asleep in her lap. She had pulled the tapestry away from the chamber’s lone narrow window so that she could watch the sky brighten and listen to the crack of wooden swords and the shouted commands of the king’s swordmaster as he trained the royal army in the ward below.

  A knock at the door startled her so that Bryntelle awoke and began to cry.

  “Come in!” she called, cradling the girl to her chest.

  The door opened, revealing the king. Cresenne stood and bowed as well as she could with the baby in her arms. “Your Majesty.”

  “Good morning,” he said, sounding unsure of himself.

  “Please come in, Your Majesty.”

  He hesitated still, eyeing Bryntelle. “Perhaps I should return another time.”

  “There’s no need. She just woke up. She’ll be fine in a moment.”

  The king nodded, then entered the room, still looking uneasy. “The archminister spoke with you?”

  It seemed there was a hand squeezing her heart. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  He had begun to walk a slow circle around the room, but he stopped now and faced her. “I am sorry. I want you to believe that.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” She tried to keep her voice even, but failed.

  “You doubt me.” Before she could respond, Kearney shook his head. “I don’t blame you, though it is the truth. I do this because the dukes will expect no less. As it is, I’ll have to answer to those who will wonder why I haven’t had you executed.”

  “I’m grateful for your mercy, Your Majesty.”

  “And I’m grateful for all you’ve told us. When the dukes leave the City of Kings, as they must eventually, you’ll be free once again.”

  “Free to roam the castle, Your Majesty? Or free to leave, to take my child and make a life for myself elsewhere in the Forelands?”

  Seeing him struggle with the question, she knew.

  “We can offer you a fine life here in the castle, Cresenne. Your child will grow up with the sons and daughters of those who serve me. She will be taught with them, she’ll enjoy all the freedoms and privileges they enjoy.”