by DAVID B. COE
“He wouldn’t have wanted to kill you.”
“I suppose not. But if for some reason he was intent on keeping Grigor from the throne, I’m not sure that sparing me would have been reason enough not to do this.”
They both fell silent again. Eventually, Yaella began to shake her head. “The Weaver wouldn’t have done this, not if he wanted to weaken the kingdom.”
“Why not?”
“Because Grigor would have been a terrible king. The dukes would have hated him; given time, they might even have rebelled. Now it seems that they’ve turned to Numar, the youngest of Carden’s brothers, to be regent for Chofya’s daughter. Strange as it may seem, Aneira is stronger for this having happened.”
“Well, good,” Shurik said. “I’d rather that this was the act of a madman. I would have been forced to hate the Weaver had I thought he had poisoned you.”
Yaella gazed toward the hearth. “You mean the way I hate him now for ordering you away from Mertesse?”
“I won’t be gone long. I’ll make certain of it.”
She nodded, but still wouldn’t look at him.
“You don’t know when he’s going to come to you, Yaella. It’s too dangerous to hate him.”
“He’ll never know.”
Shurik gave her hand a squeeze, making her meet his gaze. “I’m serious. This isn’t important enough to risk making him angry. I’ll find the gleaner, tell the Weaver where he is, and that will be the end of it. With you still recovering, and Grinsa probably in Solkara, I may be back in Mertesse before you are.”
“That’s not what you said before. You said it would be some time before you came back to me.”
He let out a breath, rubbing a hand across his brow. “I should let you rest. And I should find an inn before nightfall. I’ve ridden a long way, and I’ve yet to have a decent meal or sleep in a comfortable bed.”
She said nothing.
“You’ll be all right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll return in the morning. Now that the guards have seen me once, I shouldn’t have any trouble getting in again.”
In spite of everything, she smiled at that. “I’ll look forward to it. Just try to avoid the duke.”
“Of course.”
He kissed her brow again, then rose and left her, closing her door as softly as he could. In just a few moments he was out of the castle. He stopped at the smithy to retrieve his mount and pay the man, then began leading his horse back toward the city marketplace. He knew that there were at least three or four Qirsi inns in the city, one of which was supposed to be quite good. He had forgotten the name, but he knew that it was in the southeast corner of the city, near the Sanctuary of Morna, and he followed the broad lanes in that direction.
He hadn’t gone very far, however, when something—or rather, someone—caught his eye. At first he saw nothing familiar in the face; instead it was the scars that drew his attention. Long, angry, dark gashes marking the youthful face, like muddy lanes in a field of golden grain. But then he saw the young man’s eyes, and he knew. They were so much like those of the lad’s father that there could be no mistaking them. This was Tavis of Curgh.
An instant later, Shurik spied the gleaner as well, and doing so, he marveled that he hadn’t seen him sooner. He was tall and broad, and he stood out among the other Qirsi as Uulranni steel stands out among lesser blades.
Grinsa and the young lord were standing in the entrance of an inn—fortunately, not the one Shurik had in mind—the boy looking up at the gleaner, and Grinsa scanning the marketplace as if looking for someone. If you try to kill him and fail…Watching the gleaner now, his heart hammering in his chest like that of a hunted stag, Shurik knew that he would never be able to kill this man, not without help. He was equally certain, however, that this was no lowly gleaner. Power seemed to flow from the man, just as it did from the Weaver. Regardless of whether this man was a Weaver as well, he was definitely more than he claimed to be.
Shurik was still trying to decide if he should try to follow the man when Grinsa’s gaze fell on him. To his relief, Grinsa didn’t appear to recognize him. One moment he was staring right at Shurik, and in the next he was looking past him. An instant later, however, the man’s eyes widened and flew back to Shurik’s face. He said something to Tavis and the two of them began walking in Shurik’s direction.
Not knowing what else to do, Shurik tried to climb onto his mount and get away. Before he could grasp the saddle, however, the horse suddenly reared, neighing loudly and kicking with its front feet. Shurik looked once more at the gleaner, feeling panic grip his throat.
The man wore a fierce grin as he strode across the marketplace. The language of beasts. Grinsa had done this, somehow covering the distance between them with his magic. He had to be so much more than just a gleaner. Shurik had only one hope. The Weaver would be angry—he had never imagined that he might find himself caught between two Weavers—but what choice had Grinsa left him?
“Guards!” he shouted, looking wildly around the marketplace for any Solkaran uniform and pointing toward Tavis and the gleaner. “Soldiers of Solkara! That man is an Eibitharian lord, come to kill our queen! Arrest him!”
Chapter Nineteen
Solkara, Aneira
Tebeo paced the room restlessly, like a Sanbiri mount held too long in a stable. He looked healthier than he had at any time since the poisoning. His face remained wan and thin—though he had his strength again, he had not yet regained his appetite—but the very fact that he was on his feet once more marked much improvement from just a few days before.
Evanthya watched him, waiting for the questions he had posed every day since that awful night in the queen’s chambers. How was the queen faring? Brall? Fetnalla? The others? It had become a ritual of sorts, a way, no doubt, for the duke to feel that he was more than just another victim of Grigor’s twisted ambition. He was, among all the dukes, the one who had most fully recovered, and though he could not help but be thankful for his good fortune, Evanthya sensed that he felt guilty as well.
Eventually the questions did begin, and the minister told her duke what she knew of the others who had drunk the tainted wine. It now seemed clear that all those who survived the first night after the poisoning were going to be all right. Brall had recovered enough to leave his bed that morning and take a slow stroll through the corridors of the castle. Fetnalla was improving quickly, though she was still weakened, as were most of the other afflicted Qirsi. Even the queen, who hovered near death for so long that many feared she would never regain consciousness, had finally opened her eyes the day before and now appeared to be gaining strength with each hour that passed.
They had been fortunate, if such a word could be used in these circumstances, to lose only the two dukes—Bertin of Noltierre and Vidor of Tounstrel—and the first ministers of Kett, Rassor, and Bistari, all of whom died that first night.
“Has there been any word yet from Numar?” the duke asked, when Evanthya had told him all she knew about Grigor’s victims.
“No, my lord. None. I believe he may be waiting until Grigor’s fate is decided before he formally offers himself as regent.”
“Grigor’s fate was decided the night he poured that wine.”
“Of course, my lord. But he lives still, and so long as he does the house is his to rule.”
Tebeo’s face twisted sourly, but after a moment he nodded. “What do you think he’ll do?”
“I believe he’ll wait until Grigor has been executed, and then he’ll grant our request. If he intended to say no, he would. He only waits because he intends to say yes.”
The duke’s expression brightened somewhat. “I suppose you’re right. Has the queen said when she intends to have Grigor put to death?”
“Not that I’ve heard, my lord. Soon, I believe.”
“I’d like to know for certain. I want to be there. I want to see it.” He took a breath, as if trying to calm himself. “Can you speak with the archminister?”
>
Evanthya wavered, though only briefly. “Of course, my lord.”
“You seem reluctant.”
He hates me, and I fear him. “No, my lord. I’ll speak with him and let you know what I’ve learned.” She rose from her chair. “Is there anything else, my lord?”
“No, Evanthya. Thank you.”
She crossed to the door, but before she could open it, the duke spoke her name again. Evanthya turned to face him once more, waiting. He had stopped pacing.
“Do you distrust the archminister because he came through this atrocity unscathed?”
The minister smiled, though she felt herself begin to tremble. “I did as well, my lord. I can hardly blame Pronjed for his good fortune.”
“But I sense that you do anyway.”
She wanted first to speak of this with Fetnalla. She would have already, had the awkwardness that began before the poisoning not still stood between them. They had spoken in recent days, and Evanthya had spent a good deal of time in Fetnalla’s chamber, sitting with her and feeding her when Fetnalla was too weak to feed herself. But their conversations remained difficult and they had not yet been able to speak of Pronjed, Grigor, and the matters that first caused their quarrel.
Tebeo, for all his fine qualities, was still an Eandi noble, proud, but easily frightened by talk of the conspiracy. He had also proven himself to be a friend, however, and she owed him an honest answer.
“I find it strange that he never drank from his glass. I didn’t drink…” She paused, feeling her cheeks redden. “Fetnalla and I always toast each other at such occasions. She forgot that night, I didn’t. But I don’t know why Pronjed hesitated.”
“You think he may be a part of the conspiracy.”
“I have no proof of this.”
“But you suspect it.”
She paused, then nodded.
Tebeo took a step toward her. “Evanthya, I need to know everything you can tell me about this Qirsi movement. Even if it’s not responsible in this case, the very fact that you’re wondering about the archminister tells me the time has come to speak of this with the Council of Dukes and the queen.”
He was right, of course. Indeed, it was well past time. Yet, what could she tell him? That she had hired a man to kill the one Qirsi she knew of in the movement? That she and Fetnalla had taken it upon themselves to combat the traitors among their people? Just a turn ago it had seemed a necessary step, a dark but justifiable way of striking a blow for those Qirsi who called the Forelands their home and considered the Eandi their friends. But in the wake of all that happened since, her doubts had grown too great. She could hardly bring herself to speak of it with Fetnalla, much less her duke. Too many people had died. This murder she had purchased, as one might buy cloth in the marketplace of Dantrielle, now seemed as cruel and arbitrary as the poisoning. She felt like an archer who looses an arrow, only to wish vainly that she could call it back to her bow.
“I know so little about the conspiracy, my lord. I’ve already told you what I can.”
Tebeo looked disappointed, but after a moment he nodded. “I thought you had, but I felt I should ask.”
She wanted to help him. Seeing how Brall treated Fetnalla, particularly recently, during their stay in Solkara, Evanthya had come to appreciate her duke more than ever. Which might have been why she didn’t simply let the matter drop.
“I can tell you, my lord, that those who lead the conspiracy have a good deal of gold. I’ve heard that those who work on their behalf are paid very well.” She still remembered the look on the assassin’s face when she paid him—ninety qinde, all the gold she and Fetnalla had between them. And clearly the assassin had expected far more.
“Do you know where this gold comes from?”
“No, my lord.”
“We should find out. Knowing that would certainly tell us much about the leaders of the movement.”
“Yes, my lord.”
They stood in silence briefly, Tebeo appearing lost in thought, and Evanthya waiting for him to grant her leave to go. At last he looked up at her again.
“My thanks, First Minister. I look forward to speaking with you again later.”
She offered a small bow. “Yes, my lord.”
Leaving him, she followed the turns of the castle corridors to Fetnalla’s chamber, knocking once before letting herself into the room.
Like all of the chambers on this end of the castle, this one was small and dark, with a single narrow window, and a fire in the hearth that didn’t quite manage to warm the chamber sufficiently.
Fetnalla was sitting up in her bed, a candle burning on the table beside her. She was staring toward the small window, a far-off look in her pale eyes. Seeing Evanthya, she smiled and gave a slight shake of her head, as if rousing herself from a dream.
“Am I disturbing you?”
“No. I was just thinking.”
“What about?”
Fetnalla shrugged. “Earlier today Brall spoke with the castle surgeon about the poisoning. He was here a short while ago, telling me what he had learned.”
Evanthya sat on the edge of the bed. “Did the surgeon tell him anything interesting?”
“Not really. Nothing beyond what we already knew. There was oleander in the wine, not a lot, but enough to kill some of us.”
“That’s odd. Why wouldn’t Grigor use more than that?”
“Maybe he couldn’t find more. Maybe he’s not familiar with poisons.”
Both seemed possible. Still, she could not keep from thinking back to that night in the presence chamber and remembering Grigor’s denials. Even then, she had sensed that there was more to them than the desperate, hollow claims of a guilty man. This information about the poison only served to feed her doubts.
“You have that look again, Evanthya.”
She looked at the woman, unable to keep from smiling at the sound of her own name. “What look?”
“Like you’re readying yourself to stir up trouble. You don’t think Grigor did this, do you?”
“Can you forgive me?” Evanthya asked abruptly, ignoring the question at least for the moment. “Can you…Can you love me again?”
Fetnalla placed her hand over Evanthya’s. It felt cool and smooth, just as Evanthya remembered. “I never stopped loving you. You should know that. And as for the rest, I think I should be asking your forgiveness, not that other way around.”
Evanthya leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. She wanted to hold her, to kiss her far more deeply than this. But not here, in this room where Fetnalla had almost died.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered.
“I know. I’ve missed you, too.”
They kissed again.
“Now answer me,” Fetnalla said, grinning, her head tilted to the side as always. “What about Grigor?”
She took Fetnalla’s hand, needing to be touching the woman in some way. “I’m not certain what I think. Tebeo asked me if Pronjed could be part of the conspiracy, and I had to admit that I thought it possible.”
“Brall has asked me the same thing, just as he did when Carden died. I suppose I think it’s possible as well.”
“Then Grigor may not be lying when he says he’s innocent.”
“True,” Fetnalla agreed. “But remember, Grigor is saying far more than that. He claims that Numar did this, not Pronjed. And I don’t think anyone in the castle believes that.”
Evanthya shook her head. “I’m confused. You still believe Grigor did this?”
Fetnalla hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “I think that with all that’s happened in the Forelands over the past several turns, it’s easy for us to forget that sometimes those who appear guilty really are guilty.”
“Then what about Pronjed?”
“As you yourself pointed out some time ago, it may be that neither man can be trusted. Would it really surprise you to learn that one of them was a murderer and the other a traitor?”
Evanthya felt her cheeks burn
ing. Fetnalla was referring to the night of their fight, when she had disagreed with Fetnalla in front of both their dukes. “No, I don’t suppose it would.”
“It would be nice to know for certain, though,” Fetnalla went on, her tone light. Having brought up their disagreement, she seemed eager to move beyond it. “It’s time we found a way to determine which Qirsi we can trust and which ones we can’t.”
Such a simple statement. It was nothing that Evanthya hadn’t thought herself a dozen times before. Yet in this instance, it struck her so powerfully that she actually found herself standing, though she didn’t remember getting to her feet.
“What is it?” Fetnalla asked, eyeing her with concern.
She even knew where to look. With any luck at all, the man was already looking for her.
“There might be a way,” she said breathlessly. She stooped quickly, kissed Fetnalla on the brow, and strode to the door. “I’ll be back later.”
“Where are you going?” Fetnalla called, as Evanthya stepped into the corridor.
“To the city, to continue a conversation I began several days ago.”
As far as Tavis was concerned, they had already been in Solkara for too long. The assassin wasn’t here. He might have been once, though they had found no proof of this. No one among those they questioned even knew of the assassin. That is, no one except for the Qirsi minister Grinsa and he met their first morning in the royal city. And she denied knowing the man. Still, the gleaner seemed certain that she was lying, that in fact she had spoken to the assassin in her home city of Dantrielle. It was this, the vague instinct of a Weaver, that kept them there, spending Curgh gold for a room in a Qirsi inn where Tavis’s father would never have deigned to sit, much less sleep, and waiting for a chance to question the minister again.
It had been several days since they saw her last. That same night, the queen, several of Aneira’s dukes, and many of their ministers had been poisoned. For all Tavis and the gleaner knew, Dantrielle’s first minister was dead, a victim of Grigor’s ambition.