by DAVID B. COE
The Volumes of Pernandis had been compiled during the First Bistari Supremacy, nearly six centuries before. According to legend, they were written by King Pernandis the First, whose reign of forty years was still the longest in Aneiran history. The volumes listed most of the ruling customs established over the first two hundred years of the Aneiran monarchy, and though written by a Bistari, to this day they continued to guide all the courts of the kingdom, even House Solkara.
“We should find out for certain,” Fetnalla said. “If I’m right, it leaves us little choice but to back the queen.”
Brail looked at her skeptically. “Why?”
“Because she can name Pronjed as one of the girl’s ministers.”
The duke looked at Tebeo for an instant, the frown on his face deepening. “I thought you feared the archminister. I thought-” He hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the other duke once more. “I thought you suspected him of having a hand in the king’s death.”
Tebeo’s eyes widened. “Is this true?” he asked, staring at Evanthya.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it, my lord,” she said.
Fetnalla had mentioned to her an encounter with the archminister, but they had fallen into each other’s arms before having a chance to discuss it.
“I had a conversation with Pronjed this morning,” Fetnalla said, speaking to the three of them, though her eyes remained mostly on Evanthya. “I have reason to suspect that he may possess delusion magic.”
“What reason?” Tebeo asked.
“I can’t say, my lord. I swore an oath to the archminister that I would share our conversation with no one.”
“So it was Pronjed who was in your chambers this morning,” Brail said, looking frightened.
Fetnalla exhaled slowly. “Yes,” she admitted.
“And he asked you to heal an injury?”
“I cannot say more, my lord. Please try to understand.”
Brail propelled himself out of his chair and walked to the hearth, his body seemingly coiled like that of a wild cat. “You ask me to understand, but you tell me nothing. You warn me about how dangerous this man is, and then you suggest that we support the regency so that he can serve the girl as her archminister.” He threw up his hands. “Why should I trust your counsel?”
“Because I’ve given you no reason to doubt me,” Fetnalla said, raising her chin proudly, despite the reddening of her cheeks. “Because Grigor is your enemy, not I.”
“And what about Pronjed? A few days ago you told me that you were afraid of him.”
“I still am. But he’s no friend of Grigor, and I don’t believe he wants civil war.”
“But he might,” Brail said. “If he has delusion magic as you say, there’s no way to be sure, is there. Not even for you.”
Fetnalla opened her mouth, then closed it again. Finally she shook her head. “No, my lord. If his powers run that deep, I can’t be certain.”
The two of them fell silent, though they continued to stare at each other, the duke’s mistrust and Fetnalla’s dismay making the room’s air heavy as a winter fog.
After some time, Tebeo looked up at Evanthya, who still stood in the center of the chamber, uncertain of what to do.
“What say you, Evanthya?” he asked softly. “Do you know anything of the archmimster?”
Evanthya swallowed, her eyes meeting Fetnalla’s for just an instant. She feared that Fetnalla might begin to cry at any moment, and she would have said nearly anything to prevent that. But her duke had asked her about Pronjed, and she feared the archminister nearly as much as Brail did, nearly as much as she always thought Fetnalla had as well.
“I know that he’s a formidable man,” she said, choosing her words with care. “I’ve heard him called ruthless by some. He was always said to be a perfect match for his king.”
“But do you know anything of his powers?”
“No, my lord. Nothing at all.”
“Would you trust him if you thought he had this delusion magic?” Brail asked. “Would you be willing to place the fate of Kalyi’s regency in his hands?”
Evanthya forced herself to keep her gaze fixed on the duke, though she longed to look at Fetnalla. Brail knew nothing of their love affair, so he couldn’t have understood the difficult position in which he had placed her. This was small consolation, however.
“I suppose I would be reluctant to trust him, Lord Orvinti,” she finally said.
Brail nodded, looking at Tebeo and then Fetnalla. “There, you see?”
“I wouldn’t be eager to put my faith in the duke, either,” she added quickly. “Rather than arguing over which man poses less of a threat to the kingdom, I believe we’d be better served by looking for other possible solutions.”
“All other solutions lead to civil war,” Tebeo said.
“That may be. But at times such as these, men of influence must decide whether war is preferable to a tyrant.”
Evanthya chanced a look at Fetnalla, and regretted it immediately. The minister was staring at her as if she had just announced her intention to marry another. Her cheeks were scarlet and her pale eyes appeared red-rimmed, so that one might have thought she had been crying all this time.
“You’d actually counsel us to challenge House Solkara?”
Evanthya wanted to say something, to send some sign to Fetnalla that she was sorry, that she hadn’t intended to hurt her. But the woman looked away before she could, and Evanthya had to force herself to face her duke again so that she could reply.
“I would, my lord,” she said, struggling to keep her thoughts on the matters at hand. “If the crown stays with House Solkara, it will end up on the head of a man hated and feared throughout the land, or it will fall to a child whose best hope for surviving her regency rests with a Qirsi minister none of us trusts. Surely better choices lie elsewhere.”
“And what of the girl?” Brail demanded. “Are we just to wrest her father’s legacy from her grasp?”
“She is ten years old, Lord Orvinti. With Grigor as her regent and Pronjed as her archminister, do you really expect that she would survive the next six years? The regency is a death sentence for the child. All of us know that.”
“So we’re to ignore her mother’s wishes?”
“Yes,” Evanthya said, knowing how cold she sounded. “That’s my counsel.”
Both dukes stared at her for some time, saying nothing. At last, Tebeo gave a small nod.
“Very well, Evanthya. Thank you. You and the first minister are free to go. Brail and I have a good deal to discuss.”
“If I may, my lord,” she said. “If the two of you decide that you agree with me, I would strongly urge you to find some way to hide your decision from the duke of Solkara and the archminister. Perhaps even from the queen as well. In a sense, the war for the throne began this evening in the king’s hall, and Grigor probably thinks he’s already winning. He may not want to be regent, but he’ll see in it a possible path to power. Either way, he believes the crown is his. If he senses that the two of you intend to oppose House Solkara, he’ll want you dead. And since we can’t leave the city for several days more, he’ll have ample opportunity to have you killed.”
Brail narrowed his eyes. “What are you suggesting?”
“That until we’re safely away from Solkara, you should continue to talk and act as if you support the queen in this matter.”
“What?” the duke said. “If we support the regency now, we’ll appear to betray Chofya when we oppose House Solkara later.” He shook his head. “I won’t do it! It may not bother a Qirsi to be called a traitor, but I won’t bring such shame on House Orvinti!”
“That’s enough, Brail,” Tebeo said in a low voice, his gaze still fixed on Evanthya.
“You’re not actually going to listen to her, are you?” the duke asked.
Tebeo turned at that. “She’s my first minister. I listen to all her counsel, and I accept that she has my best interests and those of my house at heart.”
“But-”
“You may think that loyalty means nothing to the Qirsi, Lord Orvinti,” Evanthya said. “But you’re wrong. Fetnalla serves you faithfully, just as I do, my duke. You may not like the counsel I’ve just given, but I assure you that I offer it out of concern for my lord’s life as well as for my own. You said before that you suspected the king might have been murdered. This was the first I had heard of such a possibility, and I don’t know whether to believe it or not. But you must ask yourself, if someone was willing to kill the king, would they hesitate to kill a duke as well?”
“Thank you, First Minister,” Tebeo said again.
She faced her duke, hearing in his voice a request that she leave. He nodded to her once, as if to say that he would be all right without her.
After a moment, she bowed to him. “Very well, my lord.”
She walked to the door, sensing that Fetnalla was just behind her, and that the dukes were watching them both.
Even after the two ministers had stepped into the corridor and pulled the door closed behind them, they said nothing. Fetnalla regarded her briefly, the hurt still evident in her eyes. Then she started back toward her chamber, leaving Evanthya little choice but to follow.
Only when they stepped into Fetnalla’s room and Evanthya closed the door did her love turn to look at her.
“How could you do that to me?” she said, flinging the words at Evanthya like a dagger, and finding her heart with the blade.
“I’m not allowed to disagree with you?”
“Not in front of my duke! Not about this! I told you how suspicious of me he’s become, and still you made it sound like I was telling him to put his trust in a demon.”
“Because I honestly don’t trust Pronjed, and neither did you until now. What happened this morning? Why do you suddenly think he’s the kingdom’s best hope?”
Fetnalla looked away. “I’m not sure I can explain it,” she said, her voice lower.
Evanthya took a step toward her. She wanted to place a hand on Fetnalla’s shoulder. She wanted to take the woman in her arms. But she didn’t dare.
“Can you try?” she asked instead, gently, as one might speak to a child.
“I just don’t think that he wants a war,” Fetnalla said with a shrug.
“I’m sure he doesn’t. His fate is tied to House Solkara, Fetnalla. A war is the last thing he wants, because it may very well bring an end to the Solkaran Supremacy.”
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Evanthya took a breath. “I don’t want a tyrant.”
“I don’t either. But I’m more afraid of a war.”
She tried to smile. “Maybe together, we can find a way to avoid both.”
But Fetnalla shook her head. “I don’t think so. We’re working at cross-purposes. I don’t see any way for us to help each other.”
Evanthya thought she might cry. “But-”
“You should go. I’m tired, and I’m sure you must be as well.”
She had never heard Fetnalla’s voice sound so flat, so devoid of love.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked. She was the child now, small and frightened.
“I expect our dukes will keep their audience with the queen. I’ll see you then.”
Their eyes remained locked a moment longer. Evanthya wanted to say more, or more to the point, to hear Fetnalla say more. They hadn’t parted without speaking the words for so long, she hardly knew how to do it anymore. But Fetnalla kept herself still, and after a painfully awkward silence, Evanthya turned and left the room. Once in the corridor, she fell against the stone walls, stifling a sob with an effort that made her chest ache.
I love you, she wanted to cry out. I love you as I’ve never loved anyone.
But the stillness stopped her. Leaning closer to Fetnalla’s door, she felt her heart wither. She heard nothing, nothing at all. Not even the sound of tears.
Chapter Fourteen
They had come within sight of the royal city late the previous day, following the waters of the Kett away from the setting sun, through fishing villages, farmlands, and patches of dense forest. They could have entered the city at any time, but as he usually did when they arrived somewhere new, Grinsa chose to wait for morning, when the peddlers and shepherds would file through the city gates and make their way to the city marketplace. As two travelers entering Solkara, or any other Aneiran city, Tavis and he couldn’t help but draw the attention of the city guards. As part of the horde flooding the city each morning, they could avoid close scrutiny. Every city to which they journeyed presented risks, none more so than the royal city in the wake of Carden’s death, with every Aneiran noble and his best soldiers walking the streets. But short of abandoning their search for the assassin and his Qirsi allies, such small precautions offered the most safety for which the gleaner could hope.
Standing amid the beggars and merchants waiting for the ringing of the morning bells and the opening of the gates, Tavis stamped his feet in the cold and muttered to himself impatiently. He wore an old woolen riding cloak with its hood drawn up to hide at least some of his livid scars.
“Any other city in the Forelands would have let us in already,” he said with petulance. “Certainly they would have in C-” He stopped, glancing about as if to see if anyone was listening. “At home,” he continued a moment later, lowering his voice.
Grinsa had to smile. The morning had brightened considerably, and the boy was probably right. The bells should already have been rung. But it was a matter of moments. As much as Tavis had matured in the half year since his Fating, he remained terribly young, as only a noble could.
“It won’t be long now,” Grinsa said, gazing up the city lane through the iron grating of the gate. “Here come the morning guards now.”
A murmur went through the crowd as the soldiers approached. Tavis wasn’t the only one growing cold in the early-morning air.
The guards unlocked the gate, pulled both sides of it open, and waved the men and women into the city.
“Keep your head down,” Grinsa whispered.
Tavis gave a quick glance, glowering at the Qirsi. “Yes, I know!” he answered. “Nod my head a lot and say ‘good morning,’ though not so loudly that the guards can hear my accent. You don’t have to tell me every time!”
Grinsa smirked. “But I enjoy these conversations so.”
Tavis glared at him a moment longer, before smiling himself and shaking his head. “I should have gone to Glyndwr when I had the chance,” the boy said, the grin lingering on his lips. “Exile would be better than this.”
Grinsa nodded, facing forward. “For both of us.”
They passed the guards without incident and began to follow the crowd toward the marketplace. But before they had gone far, the gleaner heard the jangling of a sword and the scuffling of a soldier’s boots.
“Stop right there, you!” came a hard voice.
Grinsa kept walking, and gestured for Tavis to do the same, but his heart was pounding at his chest like a fist.
“I told you to stop!” the guard said.
A sword was drawn, the morning air ringing with the sound of steel.
“Another step and you die!” the man warned.
Grinsa froze, putting out an arm to stop his companion as well. He turned slowly, only to see the guard pressing his blade against the throat of the man walking just behind him.
“What’s this,” the guard said, removing a two-handed sword from a baldric on the man’s back. “Peddlers don’t usually need such fine blades.”
“I carry it for safety, good sir,” the man said, his voice quavering. “There are thieves on the roads throughout the forest.”
“That may be,” the guard said. “But you don’t carry such a blade into Solkara unless you’re a noble or a soldier in the service of one.” He paused, glancing over at Grinsa and frowning. “What are you looking at, white-hair? This doesn’t concern you.”
“Of course not, good sir,” the gleaner said
quickly, lowering his gaze. “Forgive me.”
He hurried on, Tavis beside him, but for some time his pulse continued to race, as if he had just come through a battle. He looked forward to the day when they could leave Aneira for Caerisse, or Wethyrn or Sanbira. Any place where Tavis’s lineage wasn’t grounds for immediate execution, and where his accent didn’t draw the unwished-for attention of everyone from castle guards to innkeepers.
“They stopped that man just for carrying a sword,” Tavis said quietly. “No wonder my father hates the Aneirans so.”
“We’re in their royal city, Tavis. Their king has just died and one of their dukes was murdered barely a turn ago. Houses will by vying for the throne, old rivalries will be rekindled. This is a time for vigilance. I wouldn’t assume that the guards always treat strangers that way.”
Tavis eyed him briefly. “Why do you always take the part of those I dislike?”
“I’m not taking their part. I’m merely trying to make you see the world from someone else’s perspective. A good king can see through his enemy’s eyes as well as his own.”
The boy gave a short, sharp laugh. “You still think I’m going to be king?”
“I don’t know,” Grinsa said. “But the same qualities that make a good king, can make a good man.”
Tavis seemed to consider this as they walked on, wandering slowly among the stalls and peddlers’ carts of the city marketplace. There was little for them to learn in the city streets, though they could certainly ask some of the sellers about the assassin. But it was far too early in the day for them to go to taverns and inns, where their chances of learning something useful were far greater.
Grinsa couldn’t say what it was about the woman that caught his attention. While there were more Eandi in the marketplace than Qirsi, there were enough white-hairs about to keep one from standing out. From a distance, her clothes appeared ordinary-a simple brown cloak, hooded like his own, and clasped at the neck with a plain silver chain. It was only when she drew nearer that he saw the hem of her robe and realized she was a minister in the court of an Aneiran noble. She was pretty in a plain way, with a thin face, bright yellow eyes, and fine white hair that she wore loose so that it hung past her shoulders to the middle of her back. But she wasn’t beautiful, like Cresenne or even Keziah, his sister.