Seeds of Betrayal wotf-2

by DAVID B. COE

  “Perhaps not, Enid. But you leave me no choice. You don’t want to be imprisoned in the tower. Would you be willing to talk if I offered you a quick, painless death?”

  She seemed to consider this, though only for an instant.

  “No. Though you may not believe it, honor means a great deal to me. I have sworn to serve my people, and I’ll carry that oath to the Underrealm.”

  “May you be thrown to the flames and demons there,” Marston said, refusing to look at her. “May the Deceiver torment you until the end of time.”

  The first minister stood, glancing at the two guards. “You heard your duke,” she said. “Take me to the dungeon. I grow tired of this company.‘

  The guards didn’t move, appearing uncertain of what to do, until Tobbar nodded to them. Each man took hold of one of the woman’s arms and led her away. She looked like a waif between them, tiny and harmless. One last deception among so many.

  She would have liked to strike out at all of them, to use her powers to destroy all of Thorald. Even having betrayed Tobbar, she had never hated him. He had never struck her as being worthy of such intense feeling. In the wake of this, however-having been ensnared by Marston’s whelp of a minister and humiliated by the duke before his guards-she found that she could hate him after all. This is a war, she had told them, and for the first time in years, almost since she arranged the murder of Filib the Younger near the woodland sanctuary where the boy’s father died several years earlier, she felt like a soldier in the service of the Weaver. She was ashamed- not of being a traitor, but rather of being foolish enough to let Tobbar find out-and she knew that before long she would be broken, but at least she was fighting again, striking at the Eandi for her people.

  She had spoken the truth to the young Qirsi earlier that day: there was far more to be gained from serving the movement than merely gold pieces. Wealth might have been enough for the young; it had been for her. But though she was too old now to enjoy fully the gold given to her by the Weaver’s chancellors, she drew greater satisfaction than ever before at furthering their cause. If only she could have done more.

  Her powers had never been great. She was a gleaner, and she possessed as well the magics of fire and language of beasts. Not many Qirsi wielded three magics, but only that last, language of beasts, was thought of by her people as one of the deeper powers. None of them was capable of shattering the walls of this castle, or killing its inhabitants. Even had she been a shaper, she was too old to do much damage before the Eandi killed her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had drawn upon her power. She still had gleaning dreams occasionally, visions that woke her from her sleep with their clarity and the certainty that they carried the weight of prophecy. But there was a great difference between gleaning in a dream and wielding magic as a weapon.

  The two guards led her down the steps of the nearest tower into the cold air of Thorald’s north ward. Clouds raced overhead, like grey mounts charging across the moorlands. A few stars shone in the deep black of the night sky, but this was Pitch Night, the last of the year. Neither moon shone upon them. Torches from the ramparts lent a dim glow to the ward, and the dry snow crunching beneath their feet seemed to gather the starlight and torch fire so that it gleamed like a moonlit lake. A stiff wind carved across the ward, making Enid shudder. Apparently the guards thought she was trying to wrench herself out of their grasp, and they tightened their hold on her arms until she thought they would bruise her.

  “The duke told you not to hurt me,” she said.

  “He also said you were dangerous, Minister,” one of them said. Still, a moment later, they relaxed their grip once more.

  They continued past the castle’s great hall, through the central ward, until the prison tower loomed above them, dark and ponderous, like some great black creature from the Underrealm.

  Seeing the tower, shivering once more from the cold, or from fear, Enid felt herself waver. My body will fail long before my will, she had said. A boast. She would happily die if it meant protecting the movement and the Weaver. But standing before the castle prison, she no longer felt so certain that she could endure the duke’s torturers.

  At the entrance to the tower, a soldier stopped them. In the dim light, it took her a moment to recognize the captain of the guard.

  “What’s this?” he asked, looking briefly at the minister before facing the older of the two guards.

  “The duke told us to put her in the dungeon.”

  The captain raised an eyebrow. “The dungeon? You’re sure he didn’t mean the tower?”

  “He said the dungeon, all right. He wants her in chains. Seems she’s a traitor, and the duke wants to know something of her allies.”

  The man exhaled, whistling through his teeth. “So it’s to be torture.”

  “Can you torture a Qirsi?” the other guard asked.

  The two men looked at him, the captain frowning.

  “Well I’ve never heard of it,” the man said, sounding defensive. “I thought maybe a sorcerer could keep it from hurting or something.”

  The captain eyed at her again. “No, you can torture them. Isn’t that right, Minister?”

  She regarded him for a moment, then looked away. Her pulse was hammering at her temples, and her hands trembled. Of course a Qirsi could be tortured. They felt pain like the Eandi; they bled, their bones shattered, their skin burned. Even a healer couldn’t stave off pain forever. A shaper might shatter the manacles that held his wrists and ankles and neck, but no Qirsi as old and weak as she could fight off the Eandi forever. Except, perhaps, the Weaver, but he possessed powers that went far beyond those she had wielded in her youth. That was why they followed him; that was why she would die for him.

  Please, Qirsar, she prayed silently. Give me the strength to keep silent. Give me the courage to face their blades and torches.

  The captain led the men to the dungeon door, searching his keys for the proper one. Finding it, he unlocked the door and pulled it open. Stale, fetid air swirled up the dark stairs, hitting Enid like a gangrenous fist and making her gag. She tried to back away, but the men held her.

  “It’s not too late to tell us what you know, Enid,” came a voice from behind them. “You don’t have to go down there.”

  The guards turned, and the minister with them.

  Marston stood in the tower doorway, the golden glimmer of the torches lighting his ruddy face and grey eyes.

  “My father sent me to reason with you one last time. He’s prepared to offer you a choice: life in the tower, or a quick, easy death. All you need do is talk to us. Answer our questions about the conspiracy, and you need never set foot in that dungeon.”

  It occurred to her then to lie to them. She had been lying for so long. A day more or less wouldn’t mean anything. She could give them plausible answers to their questions and be done with it.

  But as quickly as the thought came to her, she dismissed it. It seemed there was more to her silence than devotion to the Weaver and his cause. Here at the end, with every path before her leading to the Deceiver, she found strength where she least expected it. Pride. To feign a confession, to give the Eandi fools any information at all, faulty or not, was to surrender. Enid couldn’t bring herself to do it. Even if it could have bought her freedom, rather than just a comfortable incarceration, the price would have been too high. She would sooner linger a year on the torturer’s rack than give in to them.

  Instead, she chose to fight, like a good soldier faced with an insuperable foe. This is a war. Yes. She needed time, however. Just a bit.

  “Your father believes I would betray my people, just to save myself from a foul smell?”

  “My father is a good man. Indeed, he’s so generous in spirit, that it weakens him. He refuses to accept that others are not as honorable as he, even after they have proved themselves liars and cowards again and again.”

  “I see,” she said, though she was barely listening to him. Rather, she was reaching for her power, despairing at how
feeble her magic had grown with age and years of neglect. At first she thought there was nothing left, that she might have to face the dungeon after all. But at last, as Marston began to drone on again about her duty to the House of Thorald and his father, she sensed the magic still residing with her, like a shallow still pool. She remembered when it had flowed through her limbs and body like a torrent fed by the early rains, and she lamented the passing of her life, the withering of her body and mind.

  Still, she reached into those still waters, carefully drawing forth what remained, like a child carrying the precious nectar of Bohdan’s fruit in cupped hands. She would have but one chance, she knew. If she failed the first time they would kill her before she could try again. So she devoted her mind fully to this last act, as if she were a young Qirsi new to her apprenticeship, using her powers for the very first time. She closed her eyes.

  “What is she doing?” she heard Marston say, fear in his voice.

  She would have liked to strike at the thane as well, but she was so weak. It would have to be enough to attack the two who held her.

  With a sudden, hard push of her mind that tore a cry from her chest, she threw fire at the two guards.

  Enid heard them cry out, felt them release her. Opening her eyes, feeling the ground pitch and roll as if from an earth tremor, she saw that their clothes and hair were ablaze. She was stronger than she realized. Once again she considered using her magic against Marston as well, but already he was drawing his sword. She hadn’t time. Instead she lunged for the nearer of the two guards, grabbing his dagger from his belt.

  Other guards were coming at her. Marston had drawn back his weapon to strike. She sensed death closing on her from all sides, like an ocean fog. But still she had time enough to choose. Barely.

  She turned, took a long step toward the stairs to the dungeon. Then a second and third. And then she leaped.

  The fetor, the unseen fist, pounded at her senses, but she no longer cared. She felt herself falling through the blackness, knowing the impact with the foul stone floor would probably kill her. Still, she wanted to be certain. Slowly, as if she had an abundance of time, she placed the tip of the soldier’s blade against her chest.

  “For my people!” she cried.

  And struck.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Solkara, Aneira, year 880, Qirsar’s Moon waxing

  “Wake up, traitor!”

  Grigor started, hearing the too-familiar jingle of chains. He opened his eyes and let out a soft moan. His legs and back ached from sleeping on the stone floor of the prison chamber. Or perhaps it was from the manacles that held his wrists and ankles, making it impossible for him to lie comfortably when he slept. He couldn’t be certain anymore, nor did he care.

  He smelled like the streets of Solkara on a hot day, having fouled himself more times than he could remember. His hair and clothes were matted with filth, his skin itched as if from a thousand bug bites.

  They had spared him the dungeon-a grace offered because he was duke of the royal house. But Grigor could hardly imagine that the dungeon would be worse. He had two windows in this chamber, though each was as narrow as the flat side of a sword, and he had not been tortured. Yet. But in every other way, this was his dungeon, his forgetting chamber.

  “Get up!” the voice said again.

  The voice of the yellow-haired guard. Grigor had come to know it well over the past several days. Aside from Numar and Henthas, the only people who had spoken to him since the poisoning were the night guard and this man, the day guard. They brought him water and food, such as it was, and they ordered him to keep quiet when they tired of hearing him complain or protest his innocence.

  “I said, get on your feet!” The guard’s voice echoed loudly off the stone walls.

  Looking toward the door, Grigor realized that the man wasn’t alone.

  “Why?” Grigor asked. His lips and throat were so dry, he could barely make himself heard.

  “Because I ordered it, traitor!”

  He just grinned at the guard, not moving. “Why?” he said again.

  “I believe he wants you to stand because I’m here,” the other man said, stepping forward so that Grigor could see his face through the small iron grate on the chamber door.

  Pronjed jal Drenthe, Chofya’s archminister. There was a small smile on his bony face, a look of amusement in those ghostly pale eyes. Had Grigor been armed and free to move, he would have lunged at the door, blade in hand.

  In truth, he would have liked to stand. His knees throbbed and he longed to stretch the night from cramped muscles. But he refused to give the Qirsi that satisfaction.

  “What is it you want?”

  The minister shrugged, his smile broadening. “I was about to walk down to the city-”

  “And you wanted to know if I could come?” He shook his chains, making them ring like tiny bells. “A kind offer, Minister. But as you can see I have other matters holding me here.”

  Pronjed regarded him for several moments, the smile growing forced and brittle. “You have a singular humor, sir. I suppose some might even mistake it for courage. No, I was going to say that I’m on my way to the city to announce your execution, which is planned for tomorrow. I thought it only fair that I tell you first.”

  He tried to sustain his own grin, but failed. He needed water. “What day is this?”

  “The third of the new waxing.”

  Grigor frowned. He had thought it the second. The Deceiver awaited him; in less than a day he would journey to the Underrealm to face whatever eternal fate Bian had chosen for him. And he fretted over losing count of the days. Was it mere vanity to worry now for the soundness of his mind?

  “That’s all?” the Qirsi asked. “Just a simple inquiry about the day? A moment ago you jested bravely; now you can’t find your tongue. Is it the prospect of your death that gives you such pause?”

  Grigor looked away, saying nothing.

  “Surely you expected this.”

  “As I told you that first night, Minister, I didn’t poison anyone. I suppose I trusted that Ean would save me from an unjust death. It would seem that my faith was misplaced.”

  “It’s a terrible thing to face death in the absence of one’s faith.”

  He faced the door again, searching the white face for some sign that he was being mocked. Seeing none, he finally stood.

  “I’m innocent, Minister. You must believe me. I have never shied from raising my sword to strike at my enemies, nor have I ever lied about doing so. For this reason I have long been hated and feared throughout the kingdom. You know this. And I am telling you now, I did not do this thing. I have been betrayed by my own brother, who poisoned the queen and her guests and deflected blame to me. He admitted as much to me that very night.”

  “Ah, yes,” Pronjed said, obviously unconvinced. “I had heard that you were blaming Lord Renbrere for this. I found it interesting that you chose to blame the Fool. Henthas would have seemed a much better choice.”

  “This is not a ruse, you idiot!” he said, straining against his chains. “Numar poisoned the wine! He seeks the regency, and when the time comes, he plans to kill the girl!”

  “I see. And he saw fit to tell you all of this?”

  Grigor closed his eyes, his entire body sagging. The Fool. It was almost funny. His one consolation was that House Solkara would prevail. He wouldn’t live to see it, but all Aneira would suffer for taking Numar too lightly. Just as he had. “Yes, he told me. He knew there was no danger in it.” He opened his eyes once more. “So, I’m to be hanged?”

  “Hanged, drawn, and quartered. Your head will be impaled on a pike, and left in plain sight on the east wall of the castle. The pieces of your body will be carried by four horsemen to the far corners of the kingdom and left for the ravens and dogs and vultures to eat. In this way, Queen Chofya hopes to show all Aneirans what becomes of traitors.” He spoke the words in a flat voice, reciting them as a new adherent in the cloisters might his litany. “
Because you have been a duke in this house, however briefly, and because you were brother to her king, the queen has mercifully offered to grant you a final meal of your choosing. You can make your request now or speak to one of the guards later. Don’t wait too long, however. The kitchen will need some time.”

  His stomach felt like a river stone, cold and hard. He wondered if he would ever be hungry again, then nearly laughed aloud, realizing with the certainty of the damned that he would not. An instant later he was blinking back hot tears, wincing at the pain of ironies that cut too deep.

  This is what it’s h’te to face death.

  “I don’t care what I eat,” he said. “But I want a change of clothes and a basin of water in which to wash. My death may be a spectacle for the people of Solkara, but I’ll not walk to the gallows looking like a common brigand. As you say, I was duke of Solkara, and before that a marquess.”

  Pronjed considered this a moment, before nodding. “I’ll have to ask the queen, of course. But it seems to me a reasonable request. I’ll advise her to grant it.”

  It was a small kindness, but when one’s life was reduced to a matter of hours and moments, even the simplest courtesies carried some weight.

  “My thanks, Minister.”

  The Qirsi turned, as if to leave.

  “Minister, wait,” he called. He wasn’t certain how to ask the question that burned within, nor was he confident that Pronjed, who was facing him again, waiting, would be willing to answer. But in the end his curiosity proved more powerful than these other concerns. “How many died that night?”

  The man’s expression hardened, and for several moments Gngor thought that Pronjed would rail at him rather than offering any response.

  “I guess there’s no harm in telling you,” he finally said, his tone icy. “Perhaps you’ll even be disappointed. You killed five, two Eandi, three Qirsi.”

  “The two Eandi, they were dukes?”

  Pronjed nodded. “Tounstrel and Noltierre.”