by David B. Coe
“Wait a moment,” Henthas broke in. “Did you say Rassor?”
“Yes, my lord. The duke of Rassor.”
“That’s impossible. Rassor fought with Numar. You mean Orvinti.”
“Lord Orvinti is dead, my lord.” The man held out a scroll tied with satin ribbons or red, gold, and black. “You may read this for yourself.”
Henthas grabbed it from him, pulled off the ribbons, and unrolled the parchment, scanning the message quickly. It matched what the man had said almost word for word, and was signed by the five dukes he had mentioned, including Grestos.
“Traitorous bastard!” he muttered, crumpling the parchment in his fist.
“Did the message say anything else?” Chofya asked. “Did it . . . did it offer any instructions for us?”
“No, my lady. Nothing of that sort.”
She pressed her lips thin. Clearly she had been hoping for some indication that they wanted Kalyi to be made duchess. Perhaps she even hoped they would demand that Henthas be imprisoned, or sent back to Dantrielle to be punished with his brother.
“Well, you must be weary from your journey,” she said to the man a moment later, recovering as would a queen. “We can feed you and tend to your mount before you begin the ride back to Dantrielle.”
“Thank you, my lady, but I was instructed not to enter your castle.”
Chofya frowned. “What?”
“They don’t trust us, my lady,” Henthas said, eyeing the man, watching for his response. “Or more to the point, they don’t trust me. Isn’t that so, Dantrielle?”
“I merely know what I was told, my lord.”
“Fine. Begone then. If they wish to make an outcast of House Solkara, then so be it.”
“No!” Chofya said, glaring at him. “We will not become the bane of every house in this realm. Tell the other dukes that when the time comes to choose a new king, we would like very much to be party to the council.”
“You will tell them no such thing!”
“You do not speak for this house, Henthas! Kalyi was queen and is now duchess! And if you aren’t prepared to recognize her authority then I’ll assume the role of regent myself!”
“Don’t presume to challenge me, Chofya. I’ll crush you, just as Numar should have done, and Grigor before him.” He turned on his heal and started back through the gate.
As Henthas walked away, he heard Chofya tell the rider to deliver her message to his duke, but he didn’t care. By the time Tebeo received word of their confrontation, the matter would be settled, once and for all.
Before he had managed to cross the courtyard, someone called to him. Turning, he saw one of the younger captains approach. He couldn’t remember the man’s name. He knew only that for a man this young to be here, rather than with one of the two forces Numar had sent to war, he couldn’t be much of a soldier.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“Your pardon, my lord, but I couldn’t help hearing what you and the lady was just saying.”
“Yes, what of it?”
“Well, I wanted you to know that not all the men is with her.”
“What?”
“Some of us is siding with you.”
“What are you—?” He stared at the man a moment, his mind racing to catch up with the implications of what this fool was telling him. “Are you saying that Chofya’s been talking to the captains, trying to turn the army against me?”
“Yes, my lord. But not all of us is ready to join her.”
The whore! He’d kill her, and the brat, too.
“What do you want us to do, my lord? Just say the word, and we’s with you.”
“How many?”
“My lord?”
“How many of the soldiers are with me?”
“ ’Bout a hundred, my lord.”
“One hundred? That’s all?”
The soldier flinched. “Well . . . well, by the time we thought to do anything, she had got to most of the men.”
Henthas shook his head. A hundred men. And if the others were anything like this one, he didn’t stand a chance. Best to handle this on his own. After, he’d deal with the ones she had turned. “Tell them to be ready,” he said. “Tell them to watch for my signal.”
“What signal will that be, my lord?”
“They’ll know it when they see it. In the meantime, see if you can persuade any of the others to join me. Quietly.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Henthas spun away from the man, striding back to his chamber, his hands trembling with rage, his heart pounding like that of an overworked mount. He should have expected this. For several turns he had been warning Numar against taking Carden’s woman too lightly. Now it seemed that he had done just that. All the time he had been lying to her, lulling her, he thought, into a false sense of trust, she had been doing the same to him, with far more success.
Well, no more. Court games such as this had long been Numar’s strength, and Grigor’s before him. Henthas was a different sort of animal, and it was time he began acting as such.
Once in his chamber, he closed and locked the door behind him. He would allow himself no distractions until he had decided on a course of action. There were several ways to do this; he just had to decide which of them conveyed the proper message to those men who had joined with the queen mother. It didn’t take him long to realize that his choices were actually quite limited. This was one instance when the brutality for which he and Grigor had long been reviled would serve him best. He had only to wait.
He took his meal in his chamber, sitting by his window, waiting for nightfall. When at last the sky darkened, the duke stood, strapped on his sword, and left his chamber, making his way through the corridors to the sleeping quarters of Chofya and Kalyi.
Two men stood watch outside their door, both of them tall and muscular. Neither of them was young—most of the young men had marched with Numar or had gone north to join Mertesse—but neither were they as old as some of those who now guarded the castle.
Seeing Henthas approach, they straightened, their hands falling quickly to the hilt of their blades, though neither man drew his weapon.
“Can we be of service, my lord?”
“I wish to see the queen.”
The men glanced at one another. “I’m sorry, my lord. The duchess’s mother left instructions you weren’t to be allowed in.”
The duchess’s mother . . . Chofya had already claimed the family seat for her daughter. “Did she?” he said, itching to draw his blade. “Did she also mention that I don’t recognize the child’s claim to the duchy? When I awoke this morning, I was duke of Solkara, and I have no reason to believe that I’m any less than that now.”
“The duchess awoke as queen, my lord, which gives her as much claim to the duchy as anyone.”
This was ridiculous. He was a nobleman, and he wasn’t about to debate matters of state with this fool of a soldier.
“Whatever I am,” he said, forcing a smile, “I’m a man of this court. And I’m ordering you to step aside and allow me to speak with my niece.”
“I’m sorry, my lord. I can’t do that.”
Henthas had known it would come to this. In a way, he had looked forward to it, seeing in it a chance to enhance his already formidable reputation. Killing the child and her mother did little in that regard. Fighting his way past two of Chofya’s guards would do a good deal.
“You force me to do this,” he said, drawing his sword. “I fight for my house and my castle.”
He was a swordsman, perhaps not Carden’s equal, or even Grigor’s, but a skilled fighter nevertheless, taught by Tomaz himself. These men might have been well trained, but they hadn’t a chance.
The first of the soldiers fell quickly—so concerned was he with the duke’s sword that he didn’t see the dagger in Hen thas’s left hand until it was too late. To his credit, the second man didn’t flee. Indeed, he fought quite well, parrying deftly with his sword hand and using a torch that he grabbed wi
th his free hand to keep the duke’s smaller blade at bay.
For several moments they circled in the dark corridor, trading feints and sudden thrusts, neither man gaining any advantage. It soon became clear to Henthas, however, that the soldier, while adept, was unimaginative. All his attacks were the same—straightforward, powerful, but leveled at the duke’s chest and head. So when he began his next assault, Henthas dropped to one knee, slashing at the man’s leg with his dirk. When the soldier fell to his knees, dropping the torch, Henthas stood, and with a mighty sweep of his sword, hacked off his head.
“Let them speak of that come morning,” he muttered.
He was winded, sweat running down his temples, but he felt good. It had been too long since he raised his blade in battle. He had missed this.
The chamber was locked, of course. But one of the guards carried a ring of keys on his belt. In a matter of moments, Henthas had found the correct one and unlocked the door.
“You should have made me regent, Chofya,” he said, pushing it open. “That was the only way your child was going to live past her Fating.”
Her mother had been telling her for much of the day how safe they would be, how Henthas would not be able to reach them with so many of the castle guards on their side. But that had done little to allay Kalyi’s fears. It had seemed that her mother was trying to convince herself as much as she was Kalyi. Adults always did that—offering the most reassurances when they were least certain of what they were saying.
Kalyi was frightened all day, and didn’t begin to feel safe until her mother agreed to take their evening meal in their bedchamber. Once they were in their quarters for the night, the door locked, the two guards positioned outside in the corridor, she finally started to believe that her uncle couldn’t reach them.
Then she heard the voices. They had finished eating. Her mother was knitting by the light of one of the oil lamps, while Kalyi sat on her bed, copying the numbers her tutor had given her in the morning. Kalyi recognized her uncle’s voice immediately, as did her mother, judging by the way she dropped her needles into her lap, her eyes fixed on the door.
For several moments they just listened, trying to make out what was said. Kalyi was shaking so badly that her bed creaked. Then she heard the ring of steel and she actually cried out.
Her mother pushed herself out of her chair and hurried to Kalyi’s side, putting her arms around the girl’s shoulders.
“Hush, child,” she whispered.
“What are we going to do? He’s going to kill us.”
Chofya shook her head, but before she could say anything, they heard someone fall. A moment later they heard steel ringing again. The fight was continuing. One of the soldiers was dead.
Her mother stood and walked quickly to the wardrobe. For a few seconds she rummaged through her belongings, her back blocking Kalyi’s view. Then she straightened and turned. She held a sword in one hand and a small dagger in the other. It took Kalyi a moment to realize that both weapons had belonged to her father.
“I was keeping these for you,” her mother explained, crossing back to the bed. “I guess we need them sooner than I had thought.” She handed Kalyi the dagger, keeping the sword for herself.
Kalyi glanced at the dagger. Its hilt was made of silver, the blade of glimmering clear crystal. It looked almost new. A sudden memory. “Is this the knife he used to . . . to—”
“Yes. Don’t worry about that now. If you can get past him, into the corridor, do. Run as fast you can and get help.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Just try.”
“Should we put out the lamps? He won’t be able to see us.”
Her mother considered this for a moment, then shook her head. “The corridor is darker than the chamber. He’ll be able to see before we will.”
They heard a man cry out, and then a second strangled noise that was cut off abruptly. A moment later, they heard the jangling of keys and all too soon, the clicking of the door lock.
“You should have made me regent, Chofya. That was the only way your child was going to live past her Fating.”
He stood in the doorway, his sword, stained crimson, glinting in the glow of the lamps, his face shining and flushed. He grinned at them both, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. He held a dagger in that hand, and there was blood on that blade, too.
“Your Highness,” he said, nodding at Kalyi.
“Get out, Henthas,” her mother said. “Leave us alone.”
He stepped farther into the chamber, closing the door behind him and turning the lock once more. “You’ve turned the army against me, Chofya. You shouldn’t have done that.”
He lunged at her, swinging his sword so suddenly, with such savagery, that Kalyi screamed.
Chofya jumped back out of reach.
“You can have the dukedom. Just let Kalyi go.”
“It’s too late for that. I gave you that chance the other day, and you turned on me, you whore!” With these last words he leaped at her again, slashing with his sword, forcing her to parry with hers. She staggered under the force of his blow, and he stabbed at her with his dagger. Once more she avoided his steel, stumbling as she fled from him.
Kalyi ran to the window and started screaming for help.
“Stop that!” he shouted.
“Kalyi!”
Turning at the sound of her mother’s voice, the girl saw Henthas rushing at her, his sword raised to strike. She ducked away, running to her bed, rolling over it, and cowering on the far side.
He advanced on her, but had only taken a step or two when Chofya charged at him, shouting his name.
Henthas turned quickly, both of his blades flashing. Kalyi had never seen anyone move with such speed, such ease. Her mother reeled away from him again, but this time, as she did, she clutched at her chest, just below her shoulder. An instant later, a dark stain appeared on her white gown and began to spread, like fire across parchment.
“Mother!”
Before Chofya could speak, Henthas was on her again, hammering at her with his blade, forcing her back and then to her knees.
Kalyi rushed out from behind her bed, brandishing her dagger. Before she reached him, though, Henthas looked back at her, pointing his dagger at her face, all the while keeping Chofya pinned to the floor with his sword.
“Stop right there, girl, or I’ll kill your dear mother. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
There was a knock at the door.
“Your Highness?” came a voice from the corridor.
“Not a word!” Henthas warned, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Or your mother dies.”
“I’m dead anyway,” Chofya said. And then, she shouted, “Help us! The duke is trying to kill us!”
“Damn you!” He pulled back his sword and plunged it into her. At the last moment Chofya hacked at his blade with her own so that his thrust missed her heart. Still, it lanced deep into her side, tearing a gasp from her lips and staining her gown with another gush of blood.
Someone began to pound at the door, the wood moaning but not giving way.
“By the time they break that door, you’ll both be dead.”
“They’ll kill you anyway,” Chofya said through clenched teeth.
“I’ll take that chance.”
The next blow would kill her. Kalyi knew it, just as she knew that he’d turn his steel on her next. She grabbed her mother’s knitting needles and threw them. They hit Henthas in the arm and clattered harmlessly to the floor.
He looked back at her and laughed, then faced Chofya again, raising his sword.
She grabbed for something again, and this time she found the oil lamp. She threw it as hard as she could, striking him in the back. The glass shattered, the oil soaked his shirt and burst into flame.
Henthas roared and spun toward her, dropping his weapons to flail with both hands at the flames. And rather than retreating from him, Kalyi ran forward, gripping her father’s dagger in her fist and poundi
ng the crystal blade—the same blade that had taken her father’s life—into her uncle’s chest.
Henthas stopped in midstride, his face contorting, his entire body swaying, like some great oak in a harvest storm. Then he toppled forward, falling toward Kalyi as if he meant to crush her beneath his weight.
She scrambled out of the way, sobbing now, wanting only to be away from him. But he merely hit the floor and lay still, the flames still blackening his shirt and flesh.
In the next moment the door crashed open. Several men rushed into the chamber. A few of them bent to attend to Kalyi’s mother. Others hurried to smother the fire. One man crossed to Kalyi and knelt before her.
“Are you all right, Your Highness?”
She nodded, crying too hard to speak.
“Did you kill him?”
Again she nodded.
The soldier shook his head, looking at her with awe and admiration. “People will sing of this day. Of you, Your Highness. They may yet keep you as their queen.”
Kalyi just stared at him. That was the last thing she wanted.
Chapter
Twenty-seven
The Moorlands, Eibithar
avis and Grinsa finally met up with the king’s company ten leagues north of Domnall. Kearney and his men had made camp on the moors here two days before, awaiting the arrival of the dukes of Curgh and Heneagh, who were to lead their armies to this place before the three forces continued northward toward Galdasten. According to reports from Eibithar’s north shore, the Braedon army had made land within the last half turn and after facing little resistance from the army of Galdasten, had marched southward into the heart of the realm.
Javan of Curgh and Welfyl of Heneagh had arrived this very morning, Tavis’s father leading a force of just under two thousand men, nearly the entire Curgh army, and Welfyl commanding a force of almost fifteen hundred. Combined with Kearney’s warriors, they made a formidable army. The Moorlands appeared to teem with men, their armor and blades gleaming beneath a hazy white sky. Kearney rode among his warriors, his head uncovered, the silver, red, and black baldric of his fathers strapped to his back. Grinsa had to admit that he looked every bit the soldier-king. Unfortunately, the king continued to act the part as well.