Seeds of Betrayal: Book 2 of the Winds of the Forelands Tetralogy

by DAVID B. COE

  Still they waited. The soldiers finished their training. They heard footsteps in the corridor outside the chamber and Chofya straightened, facing the door. But no knock came and after a time, the queen seemed to sag.

  Pronjed cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should send a guard for him.”

  “No,” Chofya said. “He’s doing this for a reason. I will not have him see that he’s angered me.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  So they sat, doing nothing. Evanthya began to listen for the midday bells, sensing that they couldn’t be far off. Chofya wandered around the chamber, straightening paintings that already hung straight, and smoothing tapestries that had no creases.

  When the knock finally came, it sounded so loud that Evanthya started.

  Chofya crossed to the throne and sat. “Come!” she called, her voice icy.

  The door swung open and Grigor strode into the chamber, followed by his two brothers. He looked much as he had the previous evening, elegant and graceful, and as broad and muscular as the hero of some childhood tale. He was dressed in warrior’s garb, a dun shirt and matching trousers, black boots and belt. From the belt hung a fighting sword on one side and a matching short sword on the other, both with jeweled hilts. He had only been duke of Solkara for a few days, yet he looked as much like a king as Chofya did a queen, and by comparison he made the other two dukes appear to be little more than courtiers.

  Positioned behind him, his brothers served as such perfect complements to his appearance that Evanthya had to believe the effect was intended. To the left stood Henthas, powerfully built like his brother, but with darker hair and harder features that made him appear grim where Grigor was jaunty. To the right stood Numar, slighter than his brothers and with a kind, open face that made the trio seem somewhat less imposing.

  “Forgive us if we kept you waiting,” Grigor said lightly, leading his brothers to the table, lowering himself into a chair, and indicating with a nod that the two of them should do the same.

  Chofya waited until they were seated before speaking. “I didn’t give you leave to sit, Lord Solkara, nor did I see you bow to me as is proper.”

  Grigor regarded her with a look of utter innocence. “With Carden dead, I’m duke of Solkara. I didn’t think I had to ask permission to sit in my own castle.” He furrowed his brow. “Unless you intend to vie for my dukedom as well.”

  Henthas chuckled.

  “As for failing to bow to you,” Grigor went on, “please forgive me.” He half stood and sketched a small bow that was really nothing more than a nod. “Now, can we please be done with all this foolishness and discuss the matter at hand?”

  Chofya glowered at him, her color high. But after a moment, she gave a curt nod. “Very well,” she said. “By the matter at hand I assume you mean the selection of Carden’s successor.”

  “Actually, no,” the duke said, all traces of a smile vanishing from his face. “I mean the making of plans for my investiture as king. I do hope that you and your daughter will feel free to remain in the castle until the celebrations are complete.”

  “This castle belongs as much to Kalyi and me as it does to you!”

  “There’s no Solkaran blood in your veins, Your Highness,” he said, his tone contemptuous.

  “What about the girl?” Brall asked. “Surely you don’t intend to deny her bloodright.”

  “This is a big castle,” Numar said, before Grigor could respond. “I can’t imagine that there isn’t room here for Kalyi and her mother, no matter who is chosen to lead Aneira.”

  Grigor cast a venomous look at his brother, but after a brief pause, he nodded. “I suppose there’s room.”

  The queen was gazing at Numar as if seeing him for the first time. Clearly she hadn’t expected him to take her part. In light of his reputation, she might not even have expected him to speak.

  “Now, as to my investiture,” Grigor began again. “I’m willing to wait a few more days—”

  “There will be no investiture,” Chofya said. “Not until all the dukes have arrived and selected Carden’s successor.”

  Grigor shook his head. “The crown belongs to House Solkara. We decide who rules, not the dukes.”

  “The Council of Dukes has always met to select a new king,” Pronjed said.

  “The Council is a formality, a way of presenting our choice to the other houses. You know that as well as I.”

  “As I understand it,” Tebeo said, “the Volumes call for a vote.”

  Grigor closed his eyes, as if struggling to keep his composure. “That’s true, but as I said, the vote is a formality. The Council hasn’t actually chosen a king in hundreds of years.”

  The archminister shrugged, a small smile on his lips. “That’s only because there hasn’t been a dispute within the royal house that required resolution by the Council. Now there is.”

  “We will not allow the Solkaran Supremacy to be ordered about by outsiders!”

  “If you try to defy the Council, brother,” Numar said mildly, “the other houses may see fit to do away with the Solkaran Supremacy. None of us wants that, do we?”

  Grigor balled his hands into fists, until his knuckles were white as Qirsi hair. But when he spoke, his voice remained even. “What is it you propose, Chofya? Surely you don’t want the crown for yourself.”

  “No,” she said. “As you’re so fond of pointing out to me, I’m not Solkaran. Kalyi is Carden’s rightful heir. I want her to be queen when she’s of age. Until then I propose a regency.”

  “Who would you select as her regent?”

  The queen hesitated, but only for an instant. She even managed a small smile. “You, of course. You’re the eldest of Carden’s brothers. It seems appropriate that you should guide her through the early years of her reign.”

  “You actually trust me with this?”

  “Shouldn’t I?”

  A smile stretched across the man’s face. “Of course. But you’ve shown little faith in me or my motives in the past. I find it strange that you’d suddenly see fit to entrust me with instructing your daughter in the ways of statecraft.”

  “Kalyi is ten years old, Lord Solkara. If I could make her queen without your help, I would. But under the laws of the land I cannot. Since I doubt that you’d agree to a regency with anyone else as regent, I’m willing to place Kalyi in your hands for the next six years. I’ll be here to help as I can, and I intend to have her appoint Pronjed as her archminister. You won’t be doing this alone.”

  Grigor looked from the queen to the archminister, nodding slowly. “Actually, it’s not clear that I’ll be doing this at all.”

  Chofya paled. “Does that mean that you intend to oppose her?”

  “I’ve made no secret of the fact that I wish to be king, that indeed I feel entitled to the crown. As you say, I’m Carden’s eldest brother, and therefore the logical choice to be Aneira’s next king. We came close to establishing a matriarchy in the Time of Queens and the other houses nearly rebelled. I doubt that the Council will be eager to tread that path again.”

  “What if they are?” Tebeo asked.

  “As I’ve indicated already, I don’t recognize the Council as the final authority on this matter.”

  Brall stared at the man. “Are you saying you’d defy the other houses, that you’d risk a war?”

  “I’m saying that I’ll do what I feel is necessary to preserve the Solkaran Supremacy. If the other houses dare to challenge me, they’ll be the ones starting a war.”

  “Don’t take the other houses lightly, Lord Solkara,” Tebeo said. “Yours may be the most powerful house in Aneira, but if she stands alone, she’ll be crushed.”

  Grigor smiled. “My lords, please. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. The Council has yet to meet, and I’ve done nothing but state my belief that I am the rightful heir to the throne.” He looked at Chofya, who still sat on the throne, looking too small for it. “I’ll consider your proposal, Your Highness. If the Council supports Kalyi’s claim
to the throne, we can meet again to discuss the form such a regency might take.”

  “That’s not good enough,” the queen said. “I want your word right now, in front of these men, that you’ll respect the will of the Council.”

  Grigor stood, and after a moment, Henthas and Numar did as well. “I’m afraid I can’t make that promise,” the duke said. “Had he been in my position, your husband wouldn’t have either. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I, Chofya? You know it’s true.” He glanced at his brothers. “Let’s go,” he said, starting toward the door. “This discussion is done.”

  Henthas looked at Chofya and the dukes, a smirk on his lips, and then he followed. Numar offered a small bow to the queen.

  “Your Highness,” he said, without a hint of irony, before leaving as well.

  When Carden’s brothers had gone, closing the door behind them, Brall pushed himself out of his chair and began to pace, as Evanthya had seen him do so often.

  “The impertinence of that man is galling,” he said. “I had my doubts about the regency before, Your Highness. But having seen what the kingdom would have to endure instead, I’m ready to do whatever I can to see that your daughter is made queen. I only wish you’d reconsider your choice of Grigor as regent.”

  Tebeo let out a breath. “I have to agree, Your Highness. The man is set on being king. Giving your daughter over to him is far too dangerous. She won’t survive the first turn.”

  “What about Numar?” Fetnalla asked, looking around the room and even allowing her gaze to alight briefly on Evanthya.

  “He does seem a more reasonable man,” Tebeo said. “And not at all the dullard we’ve been led to believe he was.”

  Chofya shook her head. “Grigor wouldn’t stand for it.”

  “Forgive me, Your Highness,” Evanthya said. She felt all of them watching her, even Fetnalla, but she kept her gaze fixed on the queen and hoped that her voice would remain steady. “But why should we care what Grigor thinks? He’s willing to defy the Council, he treats you and all those around him with contempt, and he obviously cares for nothing but his own ambitions. He doesn’t deserve your concern.”

  “He’s a powerful man, First Minister,” the queen said. “If we anger him, we risk war.”

  “He’s intent on war already, Your Highness. If you truly wish to put your daughter on the throne, you’ll have to defeat Grigor first.”

  “I’m afraid my first minister may be right,” Tebeo said. “In which case all turns on the Council. It’s not enough that you win the support of a majority of Aneira’s dukes. You need enough of them with you to defeat Grigor in battle.”

  Brall drew his sword. “You’ll have my blade, Your Highness.”

  “And mine,” Tebeo said, raising his weapon as well.

  The queen managed a smile. “My thanks to you both.”

  Evanthya looked at Fetnalla, and found the minister already staring back at her, an apology in her eyes. When she next glanced at Pronjed, however, she saw something quite different. He was staring at her as well, his face deathly pale and his eyes filled with rage.

  Grigor was walking so fast his brothers could barely keep pace with him. He said nothing, fearing that others might hear—he knew that once he loosed his ire he would be unable to control it.

  He led them out of the castle to a remote and deserted corner of the gardens, which had long since turned brown. Only then, when he was certain that he was beyond the sight and hearing of all in the castle, did he whirl toward his youngest brother, his short sword drawn.

  “I should kill you here and now!” he said, laying the blade along the side of Numar’s neck. “How dare you oppose me in front of Chofya and her little dukes!”

  “I didn’t oppose you, brother,” Numar said, looking and sounding maddeningly calm. “I merely tried to point out that the castle is large enough to accommodate both you and the queen.”

  “There was more to it than that!”

  “Yes, there was. I also tried to make you see that by angering the Council, you invite rebellion. Strong as our house may be, we cannot stand against all the dukedoms of Aneira. You may be the oldest, Grigor, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stand by and let you ruin House Solkara in your pursuit of the throne.”

  “I’ve warned you once, brother. Don’t get in my way, or I’ll destroy you.”

  Numar smiled. Even with the sword still at his throat, he actually smiled. “I’m not afraid of you, Grigor.” He glanced at Henthas. “I’m not even afraid of the two of you together. You need to convince the Council that you can be trusted with the kingdom. If you kill me, you’ll be undermining all that you’ve worked for.”

  Grigor glared at him a moment longer before lowering his sword and grinning.

  “You may be right, Numar,” he said, sheathing the blade again. “But that only protects you now. Once I’m king, there won’t be anyone in the Forelands who can save you, and there won’t be anywhere you can hide.”

  Numar gave a small shrug, the smile still on his lips. “Then I’ll just have to see to it that you never take the throne.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The funeral of King Carden the Third began with the tolling of the dawn bells on the eighth day of Bohdan’s waning. Nobles from across the land crowded into the wards of Castle Solkara to watch as the king’s body was carried forth from the castle cloister, set upon an ornate golden cart, and pulled toward the city streets by four white Caerissan steeds.

  As the cart passed through the castle gates, beginning its long winding procession through the streets of Solkara, the nobles fell in step behind, like soldiers following their king to war. Out of the castle they walked, and into streets that were lined six deep on both sides for as far as the eye could see.

  Fetnalla saw few tears on the faces of those braving the cold to watch the procession; Carden had been feared, perhaps respected, but he was never loved. Mostly, she thought she read apprehension in the sunken eyes and begrimed faces of Solkara’s people. One didn’t have to be a duke or minister to understand that the kingdom faced a time of profound uncertainty. A prolonged struggle for the crown seemed imminent, war seemed likely. And though the people in the city streets might not have known precisely what was coming, or even the names of those most likely to shape their futures, they appeared to be steeling themselves for the worst.

  The procession moved slowly, stopped more than once by mourners placing dried flowers in the path of Carden’s cart and bards standing in the lane to sing an elegy that they hoped would bring them fame and the good grace of Aneira’s ruling family. It was late in the morning, almost midday, before Carden’s final journey ended where it began, at the base of the castle’s cloister tower.

  As the last of the nobles entered the castle ward once more, eight Solkaran soldiers in full battle raiment lifted the pallet holding the king’s body and bore it into the castle’s great hall. Inside, Solkara’s prelate led the kingdom’s most powerful men and women in prayer for their fallen leader. When the ceremonies ended, Carden was carried back out to the ward and placed upon a great pyre. Chofya and her daughter stepped forward, each bearing a lighted torch which they tossed onto the mountain of wood. Grigor, Henthas, and Numar followed, and finally the eight surviving dukes added their torches to the blaze. Soon the fire raged like a storm, warming the entire courtyard, bathing the stone walls with its yellow glow, and claiming the body of the dead king in a maelstrom of flame and smoke.

  A feast followed the funeral, as was customary, but the mood in the hall seemed even more glum than one might have expected. Great platters of food sat uneaten on the tables as dukes and marquesses gathered in small groups around the periphery of the great chamber, speaking in hushed tones and eyeing rival nobles warily.

  Tebeo and Brall stood together, as they always seemed to do under such circumstances, watching the rest, concern etched on both their faces. Usually, Fetnalla would have taken some comfort in having Evanthya nearby, but they had barely spoken since their fig
ht several nights before. They stood as far as possible from one another; they didn’t even allow their eyes to meet.

  Fetnalla knew that she had been wrong. Evanthya had every right to disagree with her. Had it not been for Brall’s persistent distrust of everything she did and said, she never would have reacted as she did. But having lost her temper, having dismissed Evanthya with such cold disdain, Fetnalla didn’t know how to heal the rift she had created. She had always been stubborn. Her mother had told her so in her youth, and Evanthya had done the same in the beds they shared. Now that willfulness and pride had cost her the one love she had ever known.

  “Do you see how Grigor moves from one cluster of nobles to the next?” Brall asked quietly. “Before the night is over, he may have won over all the houses he needs to claim the throne.”

  “Perhaps we should be doing the same,” Tebeo said.

  “To what end? We have nothing to offer, no reason to make them listen to us.”

  “We speak for the queen and her daughter. Isn’t that reason enough?”

  Brall shook his head. “It’s the queen’s place to speak for herself. And instead she sits with Kalyi, drying the child’s tears.”

  “Isn’t that what she should be doing, Lord Orvinti?” Evanthya asked. “Wouldn’t you expect the same of your duchess, were this your funeral?”

  Brall eyed her briefly, then nodded, looking away. “Yes. I suppose I would.”

  Grigor did not bother to speak with the dukes of Orvinti and Dantrielle, no doubt knowing that their loyalties lay firmly with the queen. Fetnalla noticed as well that he didn’t circle the room in the company of his brothers. Henthas and Numar stood at the far end of the hall, watching Grigor, but keeping themselves apart from all the nobles. At least for a time. After Grigor stepped past Brall and Tebeo, an icy smile on his lips, Numar left his middle brother and approached the dukes.

  “A word, my lords?” he said quietly, his gaze flicking from one of them to the other.

  “Of course, Lord Renbrere,” Tebeo answered.

  Numar glanced over his shoulder, as if making certain that Grigor wouldn’t hear him. “I wish to apologize for my brother’s behavior during our conversation the other day. His disrespect for the Council and his indifference to your concerns was inexcusable.”