Seeds of Betrayal wotf-2

by DAVID B. COE

  “Do you doubt that Kearney appreciates your counsel?”

  “Not at all. But he’s known you far longer than he has the rest of us. Like most Eandi nobles, he probably sees his other Qirsi as faceless sorcerers who aren’t to be trusted.”

  “Kearney’s not like that!” she said, her voice rising. She looked to the side, her lips pressed thin. “I’m sorry,” she said a few seconds later, her voice calm once more. “But I know the king, and he’s not like other Eandi. He may not know the rest of you very well yet, but he trusts you and he listens to what you tell him.”

  Paegar made himself smile, struggling with an unexpected bout of jealousy. “I’ll take your word for it. As I’ve already said, you know him better than I. But I’ve served several Eandi nobles in my life, and in my experience, they have little regard for their Qirsi.” He took a sip of ale, gazing off toward the fire burning on the far side of the room. “Just once, I’d enjoy the chance to serve in a Qirsi court.” He glanced at her. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I’ve never considered it,” she said coldly.

  “Oh, come now, Keziah. All of us have at one time or another.”

  “I’m telling you, I haven’t.”

  “Not even when you were a child?”

  She hesitated. “Well-”

  “You see? I knew it!”

  Keziah shook her head. “That’s different.”

  “Why? Because you were too young to know any better? Nonsense. In many ways the dreams of our childhood are more honest, because as children we haven’t been taught yet which dreams are permissible and which aren’t.”

  She eyed him warily. “It seems you’ve given this a good deal of thought, Paegar.”

  He smiled broadly, ignoring the slight flutter in his chest. “Not so much, really. When I was younger I thought often of going to the Southlands, to see what the Qirsi homeland is like. But that’s a long way from here, and at this point I’m a bit old to try crossing the Border Range.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and I think you know it. We’ve all heard the rumors, Paegar. There are those here among us who would like to remake the Forelands in the image of the Southlands. And you should make no mistake, if I learn that you’re one of them, I’ll destroy you.”

  He laughed. “You believe I’m with the conspiracy?”

  Her gaze didn’t waver for an instant. “I didn’t say that. But I want you to understand that I don’t take lightly talk of Qirsi courts and serving Qirsi lords. We live in the Forelands. The kingdoms belong to the Eandi. Given the history of our people in the seven realms we’re fortunate to serve them as we do.”

  “I’ll remember that, Archmimster.”

  She didn’t correct him. And for a long time, she kept her gaze fixed on her food.

  “I’m feeling tired,” she finally said. “I think I’d like to return to the castle now.”

  Paegar nodded. His stomach had balled itself into a fist, and his head was pounding. Clearly he had miscalculated badly, and in a short time he would have to face the Weaver, far less certain of the prize he intended to offer the man than he had been just a short time before.

  They made their way back to Audun’s Castle without a word passing between them. He walked her to her door, where they stopped and faced each other.

  “This has been a difficult day,” she said, her voice so low he could barely hear her.

  It’s not over. Not nearly. “I’m sorry for that.”

  Keziah shook her head. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. Sleep well, Paegar. Tomorrow can only be better.”

  “Goodnight, Keziah.”

  He left her there and returned to the darkness of his chamber, locking his door behind him. The fire had burned down again, though the embers still glowed an angry red. He put wood on the coals and then lay on his bed, not bothering to undress. His mind raced, and a part of him wondered if he could stay awake through the night, postponing at least for one day his encounter with the Weaver. As he lay in the shadows cast by his fire, though, feeling the chamber gradually grow warmer, Paegar’s fear of the Weaver began to give way to weariness. A difficult day, she had called it. Indeed it had been.

  He didn’t realize he was asleep until the dream began, and he found himself stumbling over boulders on the grassy plain. Soon he reached the slope and started to climb. The ascent was not long this time, although he was winded when he reached the summit and saw the Weaver approaching, his body a living shadow against the brilliant light. The same dream every time, yet filled with so much uncertainty that Paegar trembled.

  “You were paid?” the Weaver demanded, stopping before him.

  “Yes, Weaver. Thank you.”

  “Good. You’ve heard of the death of Aneira’s king?”

  “Word of it reached the castle several nights ago.”

  “There is a fight looming for the throne, just as you might expect. Carden’s only heir is a girl, not yet of age. Carden’s brother seeks the crown as his own, but the other houses fear him and may challenge the Solkaran Supremacy. I want you to counsel your king to make overtures to the other houses. Tell him that the end of Solkaran rule could bring peace to the Tarbin. With all that Eibithar has been through in the past year, the idea should interest him.”

  “Do you believe any house in Aneira would be moved by overtures from Eibithar’s king?”

  “That’s my concern,” the Weaver said, his voice edged with steel.

  “Of course, Weaver. Forgive me.”

  “You understand what I want?”

  “Yes, Weaver.”

  The man nodded once.

  “I’ve befriended the king’s archminister!” Paegar said quickly, fearing that the Weaver intended to end their conversation. Immediately he wished that he had kept silent. Keziah would never join the movement. But he had been planning this for so long, and if the Weaver believed there was any chance the minister could win her over, he might leave Paegar alone for a time.

  “Well, by all means, seek her help in this matter,” the Weaver said, sounding impatient. “Such counsel will carry more weight coming from two of you.”

  “You misunderstand, Weaver.” He winced at his choice of words, but forced himself to continue. “She was once the king’s lover. Before, when he was duke. And now she’s not. She has few friends in the castle-the other ministers were angered when Kearney made her archminister instead of Wenda. They treat her poorly.”

  “What is your point?” the man asked, biting off each word.

  “With time, I think she could be persuaded to join the movement.” He was lying to a Weaver. He must have been a fool.

  For several moments the Weaver said nothing. Then, “You believe Kearney’s archminister can be turned?”

  “I do.”

  “I sense something else in your thoughts.”

  Paegar swallowed, fearing that he was about to die.

  “You love her.”

  He would have to remember to say a quick prayer of thanks to Adriel when this night was over. “Yes, Weaver. Very much.”

  “But she doesn’t love you.”

  Paegar shook his head.

  Again the Weaver fell silent, standing motionless for so long that the minister began to wonder if he thought this a worthless pursuit, born of Paegar’s fruitless love. But the man surprised him.

  “Such things are never easy,” he said softly. “Do what you can with the minister. We’ll speak again soon and you can tell me what progress you’ve made. Maybe we can turn her together.”

  His blood turned cold at the thought of enduring another of these dreams so soon, but all he could do was nod. “Yes, Weaver. Again, thank you.”

  He expected to awaken then, as he always did when his dreams of the Weaver ended. But the two of them continued to stand there, almost as if the Weaver had forgotten him.

  And perhaps he had. For in the next instant the brilliant light blazing behind the Weaver dimmed, so that rather than blinding him, it offered a softer glow by which to see mu
ch that he had missed before. It lasted only a moment, but that was enough. Or rather, it was too much. For just an instant, no longer than the flicker of a single lightning strike on a warm night, Paegar looked upon the Weaver’s face. A square face, golden yellow eyes like those of a wild cat, straight nose and full lips. All framed by the wild white hair that always danced in the wind of this plain. This plain, which ran eastward to the Scabbard and overlooked the dark mass of Eibithar beyond the water. Ayvencalde Moor.

  Paegar gasped. The Weaver’s eyes widened. The light flared again, but too late. Both of them knew it.

  “Stand,” the Weaver said.

  “I am standing, Weaver,” he whispered.

  “Only in this dream. Stand up from your bed.”

  Without knowing how he did it, Paegar felt himself stand up, though his mind still saw only the plain and the Weaver. Ayvencalde Moor, and a man with golden eyes.

  “The woman of whom you spoke, what’s her name?”

  “Keziah. Keziah ja Dafydd.”

  “Thank you.” The Weaver seemed to hesitate. “I’m sorry for this,” he said. “Truly I am. Your love for this woman reminded me… I was careless, and now you must suffer for that. You’ve served me well. Take that with you.”

  Paegar didn’t know what to say, and even if he had, terror and grief would have held his tongue.

  “It will be quick.”

  Almost before he understood what the Weaver had said, he felt himself being grabbed from behind. He didn’t know who or what had him; the Weaver hadn’t moved. The unseen hands held him still for an instant; then he was thrown forward and down with dizzying force. He plunged toward the ground, but then suddenly found himself back in his room in Audun’s Castle. And instead of the grasses of the plain rising to meet him, he saw the blunt stone edge of his hearth.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After their strange conversation in the tavern the previous night, Keziah was relieved not to see Paegar when she emerged from her chamber the following morning. She managed to avoid him in the kitchens and hall as well, eating a light breakfast before returning to her room. When the midmorning bells tolled from the gates of the city wall, their sound muffled by the thin coating of snow that now lay over the City of Kings and Audun’s Castle, she made her way to Kearney’s chambers, expecting at any moment to hear the high minister calling to her. Still she didn’t see him, and Keziah began to wonder if she had angered him with her passionate defense of the Eandi.

  It was only during the ministerial audience with the king that Paegar’s absence began to concern her. Even if he was angry with her, even if his pride still suffered from her rejection of his advances, he would have attended the audience. True, she had known him only a few turns, but in that time she couldn’t remember him missing a single discussion with Kearney.

  No one else appeared to notice. They spoke of the thane of Shanstead, and word from the west that Kentigern’s captains were mustering in hundreds of new soldiers from the countryside surrounding the tor. But no one commented on the fact that the high minister had not joined them.

  Finally, at the end of the discussion, as the other ministers stood to leave, Keziah asked, “Has anyone seen Paegar this morning?”

  The king, who had already returned to his writing table to look over some recent messages, glanced up at her, a slight frown on his face. “Isn’t he here?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” she answered, unable to mask entirely her exasperation. “I haven’t seen him at all today.”

  “Nor have I,” Wenda said.

  The others shook their heads.

  Kearney raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps you should go to his quarters, Archminister. He may be ill.”

  Keziah nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. I’ll go right away.”

  By the time she reached his room, Keziah was truly frightened. She tried to tell herself that he was probably avoiding her, or maybe even punishing her with his absence. She sensed, however, that there was more to it than that. She couldn’t say why; it was just a feeling. Such was the magic of a gleaner. Among her powers, it was the one she liked least. It might warn her of danger, but it often brought grief and fear before she knew why.

  She knocked on his door with a trembling hand. No answer came. She tried the handle, but it was locked.

  “Paegar?”

  Nothing.

  She ran to the nearest tower and called for a guard. In moments, two of Kearney’s men answered her summons and followed her back to the high minister’s quarters.

  “It’s locked,” she told them, her voice quavering.

  One of the men pounded a fist on the door. “High Minister?” When Paegar didn’t answer, the guard tried the door, then looked at Keziah. “Perhaps he’s gone, Archminister.”

  “Gone?”

  “Maybe he’s left the castle.”

  It was the one possibility she hadn’t considered, but she dismissed it almost immediately. He wouldn’t have gone to the city if it meant missing the audience with Kearney. And he wouldn’t have left for good without a word, or at least a note, for her.

  She shook her head. “No. He’s in there. You have to open the door.”

  “We haven’t a key, Minister.”

  “Then find one,” she commanded, her voice rising.

  One of the men ran off. Keziah leaned against the wall by the door, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She tried to calm herself, to stop the shivering and the fluttering of her stomach, but her apprehension only grew.

  After what felt to her like hours, the guard finally returned with two more men, one of them carrying a ring of keys.

  “It might be one of these,” this man said. “I’m not certain.”

  He began trying them one by one, a process that had Keziah ready to scream in frustration after only a few moments.

  “This is ridiculous!” she said. “For all we know he could be dying in there.” He could already be dead. “Open this door right now!”

  “But, Archminister-”

  “Break it if you have to, but I want it open!”

  The guards looked at one another briefly. Then one of them shrugged. “All right,” he said. “You heard her.”

  The others moved away, and he rushed the door, crashing into it with his shoulder. It took four or five blows, but finally the bolt gave way, the corridor echoing with the sound of rending wood.

  “Demons and fire!” the man breathed, staring into the room.

  Keziah pushed past him, then fell to her knees with a sob.

  Paegar lay facedown upon his hearth, his head resting in a pool of blood, his arms lying at his side, palms up.

  The guard stepped forward cautiously, as if afraid the high minister might suddenly move. He squatted beside Paegar and slowly turned him over, exhaling sharply through his teeth. Keziah turned her head away, though not before seeing that the impact had crushed the minister’s face right across his eyes and the bridge of his nose. She felt her stomach heave and had to clamp her mouth shut to keep from being sick.

  “Oh, Paegar,” she whispered, her tears staining the stone floor like raindrops on a city lane. “I’m so sorry.” What had she said to him the previous night? Tomorrow can only be better. She’d never been more wrong about anything in all her life.

  The guard lowered the minister’s body to the floor again so that it lay just as it had when they entered the room.

  “Better get the surgeon,” the guard said. “And the swordmaster as well. He’ll want to see this.”

  Other guards stepped into the chamber, but Keziah remained where she was, on her knees in the middle of the room. The men walked around her, seeming to know better than to ask her to move. Eventually she heard a familiar voice and realized that Gershon had come, and with him the master healer.

  The swordmaster bent down to look at the body, rolling Paegar over much as the guard had a short while earlier. After a few moments he glanced at Keziah.

  “You didn’t hear anything?”

  She
shook her head and wiped the tears from her face. “Nothing at all.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Last night. We went to a tavern in the city.” She closed her eyes. “I should have come for him before meeting with Kearney.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

  She opened her eyes again.

  “Look at the blood,” he said, pointing to the dark edges of the stain on the stone floor. “It’s already drying. This happened hours ago. He probably awoke in the night to a cold room, got up to add wood to his fire, and fell.”

  “That must have been some fall,” the surgeon said, standing over them and gazing down at Paegar’s face.

  “What else could it have been?” Gershon asked. “The door was locked from the inside…”

  Even as he spoke the words, the swordmaster seemed to falter. Keziah knew why. The words came back to her as well. Lady Brienne of Kentigern had been murdered in a locked room as well, and though her father blamed Tavis of Curgh, Gnnsa had convinced Keziah, Kearney, and Gershon that the boy was innocent, and someone else to blame.

  “Could this have been done with magic?” Gershon asked her.

  She considered the question for several moments. “I don’t see how.”

  Gershon looked up at the surgeon. “Is it possible someone hit him with something, then put him here to make it look like he had fallen?”

  The man shook his head and knelt beside Keziah. “Look at the way the blood has splattered here,” he said, pointing to the edge of the hearth. “That’s where his head hit. I’m sure of it. I didn’t mean to say he couldn’t have fallen-I think it likely that he did. I just meant that I’ve rarely seen a simple fall result in such a severe wound.”

  Gershon nodded. “I see.” Keziah could tell, though, that he still had his doubts. He took a breath and looked at the archminister again. “I should inform the king. Are you all right?”

  She hesitated, surprised by the question. “I will be.”

  He glanced at the body once more, then left the room. The guards continued to step around Keziah, and she decided that she should leave as well. There was little she could do here but get in their way.