by DAVID B. COE
“We’ll ride on shortly, First Minister,” Tebeo said after some time, not even bothering to look at her.
“Yes, my lord.”
“You’re eager to reach the city.”
She grinned. “I’m eager to spend a few days away from my mount, my lord. I’m eager to stand beside a fire, rather than huddling in my riding cloak.”
“You don’t travel well, First Minister,” the duke said, grinning as well.
“No, my lord. I never have.”
He glanced at the soldiers and servants standing nearby, then walked a short distance along the riverbank. Evanthya followed. When they were far enough from the men to speak without being overheard, he said, “I thought perhaps you were anxious to reach the city so that you could see Orvinti’s first minister.”
Evanthya felt her mouth go dry. “My lord?”
“You thought I didn’t know.”
What could she say? “Yes, my lord,” she said, staring at the river, knowing that her cheeks must be crimson. “I feared that you wouldn’t approve.”
“I’m not certain that I do, but I learned long ago that Adnel can be stingy with her gifts. We all must take love where we can find it.”
She looked up at him, her surprise and relief mingling until she felt that her heart would burst. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the gentle rush of the river.
“You realize, of course, that if Brail and I ever have a falling-out, this will become a problem.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He nodded, then gazed up at the castle again. “We should ride. Night approaches and I’d like to be in the castle before dark.”
The duke started to lead his horse back toward the soldiers, but Evanthya called to him, making him turn once more.
“I fear that Lord Orvinti would not be as… as understanding. Fetnalla has told him nothing of our love.” She stopped, unsure of how to speak her mind without sounding impertinent.
“Don’t concern yourself, First Minister. Brail will hear nothing of this from me.” He started walking again, then halted to look back at her a second time. “You’re right, though. He wouldn’t be happy at all.”
The rest of their journey passed quickly. Soon all the riders from Dantrielle were within the castle, and Evanthya was warming herself before the great hearth in the king’s hall.
After allowing his men time to eat and rest, Tebeo ordered them to offer their swords to the captain of the Royal Army for the remainder of their stay. It was a customary gesture, and judging from the many colors worn by the men guarding the gates and corridors of the castle, it was clear that other nobles had done the same. Evanthya had been pleased to see a large number of men wearing the green, blue, and white of Orvinti. Fetnalla was already here and the first minister longed to find her.
As if in answer to Evanthya’s desires, a horn rang out from the nearest doorway of the hall and a herald announced the queen. An instant later Chofya entered the great room, followed by the dukes of Rassor, Mertesse, and Orvinti, several lesser nobles, and their ministers, including Fetnalla. Tebeo knelt before the queen, as did Evanthya, although she couldn’t keep from looking at her love, who was already watching her.
Fetnalla looked as she always did, tall and graceful, her face as white and soft as Panya’s light reflected on the waters of the Rassor. She had her hair pulled back and she wore her long ministerial robes rather than riding clothes. It seemed she had been here at least a full day. She was smiling as she gazed at Evanthya, but there was a troubled look in her eyes.
The formalities seemed to take forever, with the queen presenting each of her guests to Tebeo, and the duke, in turn, presenting Evanthya to all the gathered nobles. At last, however, they finished and the queen called forth more food from the kitchen and flasks of wine from the cellars, inviting all her guests to partake of a feast.
Brail and Tebeo chose to dine together, giving Fetnalla and Evanthya an excuse to do so as well. They were surrounded by the most powerful men and women in Aneira, so they could do nothing more than sit, speak, and eat. But just being this close to Fetnalla made Evanthya’s skin tingle as it did just before a thunderstorm on a warm evening.
“You look well, First Minister,” Fetnalla said. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”
“Yes, thank you. And you?”
“We’ve been here some time now. Ten days, I believe. But the journey was pleasant enough.”
Evanthya gaped at her. “Ten days?” she breathed. She thought a moment. “But that means you were here when-”
“Yes,” Fetnalla said, her voice falling to a whisper. “Carden died our first night in Solkara. The blade that killed him was a gift from my duke.”
“Demons and fire!”
Fetnalla cast a quick look at the others sitting with them at the table. “Perhaps we’ll have an opportunity to discuss these matters later,” she said, “when we can speak more freely.”
Evanthya nodded, wishing they could steal away immediately. “I’d like that. I have tidings as well.”
A strange look came into Fetnalla’s eyes. “You’ve done it, haven’t you?”
It took Evanthya a moment to realize that she was speaking of hiring the assassin. She nodded, glancing around the table, much as Fetnalla had a moment before. Brail and Tebeo were deep in conversation.
Fetnalla just gazed at her, shaking her head slightly, as if not quite believing it was true. “I want very much to hear about that.” She gave a small laugh. “I wish I had seen it. You in a place like that.” She shook her head again.
“It wasn’t funny,” Evanthya whispered, feeling her color rise. “I was terrified, and one of the men knew me.”
The smile vanished from Fetnalla’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have laughed.” She looked as if she might say more, but at that moment, the horn sounded again, and the herald stepped into the hall.
“Grigor, Marquess of Renbrere!”
Every conversation in the hall stopped and all eyes turned toward the doorway. For a moment they waited. Then a man stepped past the herald into the great room, his satin cape swirling. For just an instant it seemed to Evanthya that she looked upon a wraith, so much did the marquess resemble his brother the king. Like Carden, Grigor was tall and powerfully built, broad in the chest and shoulders, with muscular forearms that he left uncovered, even in the last days of Bohdan’s Turn. His hair was golden, his eyes were dark, and his features were so fine that they almost appeared womanly. He didn’t have Carden’s swagger, but moved instead with an effortless elegance that made him seem even more impressive than the king ever had.
She had heard others speak of the man more times than she could count, always referring to him as the Jackal. But seeing him now, Evanthya couldn’t help thinking that he was more like a great wolf. There was a nobility to him that Carden never possessed.
After a moment’s silence, the others in the hall rose and bowed to him, though many of them, Brail and Tebeo included, were of higher rank.
Chofya did not bow. She didn’t even stand. After her guests took their seats once more, Grigor walked to where she was sitting and knelt before her.
“Your Highness,” he said, his voice as clear and strong as the ring of a smith’s hammer on hot steel. “You have my sympathy for your loss.”
“And you have mine for yours,” the queen answered. “Carden was as much your brother as he was my husband.”
Grigor looked up at that, his eyes dancing with torchlight. “That may be so.” The queen shifted uncomfortably, drawing a grin from the man. He stood, though Chofya hadn’t yet given him leave to do so. Glancing around the hall, he spotted his brothers sitting together at a nearby table. He nodded to them, but remained where he was, continuing to survey the room. The other guests were still watching him silently, waiting for him to speak or sit or, perhaps, claim the throne right then and there. “Where are the other dukes?” he finally asked of no one in particular. “No
ltierre, Tounstrel, Bistari, Kett. They should be here by now.”
“I expect them in the next day or two,” Chofya said after a brief pause. “The funeral is in three days. I’m sure they’ll arrive in time.”
“We should have a new king by then.”
The queen straightened in her chair. “Aneira’s new leader will be chosen after the funeral, as custom dictates.”
Grigor turned to her once more, his eyes narrowing.
Evanthya had noticed as well. Aneira’s new leader, Chofya said. Not, Aneira’s new king.
She turned to Fetnalla, a question in her eyes, but the minister shook her head.
“Not now,” she whispered. “I’ll explain later.”
“Do you plot for the throne, Your Highness?” Grigor asked, with a small laugh. He made a sweeping gesture, turning neatly on one foot as he did so as to indicate the entire hall. “Do you honestly believe that the men in this room would accept you as their sovereign? Was your father even a baron?”
The queen sat unmoving, her color high, her eyes darting about the hall as if she were gauging the reaction of the other nobles. “This isn’t a matter to be discussed just now, Lord Renbrere.”
“With my brother’s death, I am now duke of Solkara,” Grigor said sharply. “I should be addressed as such.”
The queen’s mouth twisted for just an instant, as if she realized that she had erred. “Of course, my lord. Forgive me.”
Whatever game Chofya was playing, she had started poorly. Evanthya could only guess that she had miscalculated. Grigor was a dangerous foe; even seeing him for the first time this day, she could tell that much.
“She can’t think to oppose him for the crown,” Evanthya said quietly.
Fetnalla gave a small nod. “She does, though not as you think.”
“Please, Lord Solkara,” the queen began again. “Sit with us. Raise your glass and join us in our feast. These matters can wait, and it’s been long since we last dined together.”
The man gave a thin smile. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “But I came to honor my brother, the king, and to ensure the continued reign of House Solkara. My place is with my brothers.”
With everyone still watching him, Grigor walked to where Henthas and Numar sat, leaving Chofya sitting by herself, looking small and defeated.
“He’ll crush her,” Evanthya said softly.
Fetnalla turned to her, her face looking paler than usual, her lips drawn tight. “We can’t let that happen,” she said. “He’ll ruin us all.”
Chapter Thirteen
“They’re all staring at you,” Numar said, looking amused as he watched Gngor take his seat at their table.
Grigor nodded, looking from one of his brothers to the other. It took some effort to keep himself from grinning, but he managed it well enough. He didn’t need to look around the hall to know that Numar was right. He sensed their eyes upon him, and he relished the feeling.
“They’re looking at their new king,” he said softly to his youngest brother. “How can they help but stare?”
Henthas gave a short sharp laugh. “You think you’ve won already? You’re a fool. Carden’s whore won’t give in to you so easily.”
“When all is said and done, she’ll have no choice,” Grigor told him. “But rest assured, brother, I’ve no intention of declaring victory yet.”
Henthas looked away and drained his goblet of wine. “Actually, I almost wish you would,” he said, as a servant poured him more. “I’d enjoy watching her humiliate you.”
“In that case you’ll be disappointed.”
His brother grunted, his eyes on the queen. Grigor knew that Henthas was trying to anger him, as he so often did. But on this night it wasn’t going to work. Not with Carden’s crown so close at hand.
If he could have done this without his brothers he would gladly have done so. Neither man was of much help to him, and Ean knew that the three of them had little affection for one another. Mostly Grigor needed to control both men, to keep either of them from undermining his intentions.
He would have had to be deaf and blind not to know how the three of them were perceived throughout Aneira, indeed, throughout the Forelands. The Jackals and the Fool. The names weren’t flattering, to be sure, particularly to poor Numar, but they did offer the brothers Renbrere a certain notoriety. As it happened, though, they were hopelessly inaccurate. Jackals were pack hunters, like wolves. Grigor and Henthas had never been bound by any common interest. Grigor had always been guided by ambition and his unwavering belief that his fate would one day match his formidable talents. Henthas dreamed of nothing, loved nothing, and feared nothing. He was the third son of House Solkara; power lay too far from his grasp to give him purpose. Even after Grigor took the throne, Henthas would gain only the marquessate in Renbrere, a small step up from the viscountcy he held already. The Solkaran dukedom would go to Grigor’s eldest son, leaving nothing for the brother or his boys. Grigor did not believe that Henthas had designs on his life, though he couldn’t risk ignoring the possibility. He thought it more likely that the man would oppose him, either openly or in secret. For while ambition didn’t drive Henthas, bitterness and envy did. He would gladly trade the marquessate and its small luxuries for the pleasure of seeing Grigor fail. And if that failure cost Grigor his life, all the better.
No, Henthas was no jackal. A viper perhaps, or some demon from Bian’s realm. But the name they had given him implied social skills that the man simply did not possess.
Calling Numar a fool made even less sense. True, he had little more ambition than Henthas. He seemed perfectly content with his viscountcy and he rarely involved himself with any matters of state beyond its boundaries. But to mistake his reticence for simplicity carried risks as well. He had a keen mind and a troublesome sense of moral propriety. If he chose to oppose Grigor’s bid for the crown, he would, Grigor knew, be a far more formidable foe than Henthas, if for no other reason than because Grigor had little sense of what tactics he might use. Whereas Henthas could always be counted on to resort to lies, betrayal, and brutality, Numar relied on reason and persuasion. He’d seek out allies, building bridges to Aneira’s other major houses. In doing so, he’d try to show the entire kingdom that he was no fool, that in fact, he was the Solkaran they most wanted to see on the throne.
The Jackals and the Fool. It was an illusion, but one he needed to maintain. Though he and Henthas hated one another, the notion that they worked together aided his cause. Grigor had utter confidence in his ability to win the crown for himself, by himself, but so long as the kingdom’s other nobles saw him as part of a deadly pair, they’d be less likely to challenge him. And so long as they dismissed Tomaz’s youngest son as a dullard, they wouldn’t realize that they could choose as their king someone other than Grigor without risking war with House Solkara.
“She must have the support of the dukes,” Henthas muttered. “She wouldn’t dare oppose you otherwise.”
Grigor glanced toward the front of the hall, where Tebeo of Dantnelle and Brail of Orvinti sat together. “She may have some of them,” he said. “I can’t imagine that Mertesse or Rassor has offered support. And with Bertin, Vidor, and the boy-duke still not here, I would guess that Noltierre, Tounstrel, and Bistari are hoping that Carden’s death will end Solkara’s rule. They’re not about to support her either. Kett might, but Ansis is easily cowed. I can win him over. That leaves Chofya with Dantnelle and Orvinti.”
Henthas faced him again. “Both are major houses. If she can win Bistari over, you’ll have no chance at all.”
“I just told you-”
“She’s not Solkaran. Not by birth, anyway. Her father held land in a barony near Tounstrel. It may be that Vidor will back her for that reason alone. And with all his father’s old allies backing the queen, the new duke of Bistari-the boy-duke, as you call him-might very well do the same.”
It was a point worth considering.
“Even without Bista
ri,” Henthas went on, “she has Solkara’s army, along with Tebeo’s and Brail’s. You can’t fight such a force and hope to win. I know that Renbrere is strong for a marquessate, but it’s not that strong.”
Grigor frowned. “You don’t really expect the army of Solkara to follow her, do you? Not if they know that I’ve laid claim to the crown.”
Henthas smiled darkly and shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to say one way or the other. Who knows what goes through a soldier’s mind when his kingdom is divided? It does raise interesting possibilities though, doesn’t it?”
The man was enjoying himself far too much for Grigor’s taste. The duke turned to his other brother, who was watching them both with interest, though he had kept his silence.
“And what do you think of all this?” Grigor asked.
Numar stared back at him impassively, absently running a finger around the rim of his goblet. “Do you really care?”
“Enough to have asked.”
The younger man shrugged, his brown eyes Hicking toward Chofya for just an instant. “I think you’re both misjudging her.”
Henthas raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Do you?”
“You’re thinking of her as you would another noble, a duke or a marquess.”
“She is queen, Numar,” Grigor said. “She may not have been born to a noble family, but she’s been in the courts now for a good many years.”
“No doubt. But I believe she’s a mother before she’s a noble. That’s where her ambitions lie.”
Grigor sat forward. “With the daughter?”
“You live up to your name, brother,” Henthas said, shaking his head. “The girl can’t yet rule. Chofya would have little choice but to name one of us as regent. Probably Grigor.”
Numar appeared to ignore Henthas, keeping his brown eyes fixed on Grigor instead.