by DAVID B. COE
“No.” He looked past her to his wife. “This might be a good time for their devotions,” he said, nodding toward the children. “I’ll meet you at the cloister shortly.”
Sulwen’s eyes strayed to the minister again, but she nodded and called to the children to stop their playing. It took several minutes to get all of them out of the chamber, but eventually Gershon and Keziah were alone.
“They seem like fine children,” Keziah said, taking a seat near the hearth and stretching her hands toward the fire to warm them.
Gershon frowned, as though uncomfortable accepting compliments from her. But after a moment he muttered, “Thank you,” and took a seat across from hers. “I wouldn’t have thought that you like children.”
“Why not?”
His frown deepened and he looked away. Keziah sensed that he wished he hadn’t spoken at all. “You were with Kearney all those years, loving a man who couldn’t give you children. I just assumed.”
“I like children very much, swordmaster. I just loved Kearney more.”
More than anything she had wanted to have children with her duke—her king. But doing so would have revealed their forbidden love to the world, and the first labor probably would have killed her. Her kind weren’t strong enough to bear even half-bloods.
“The king truly wanted us to speak?” Gershon asked, breaking a brief, strained silence.
Keziah took a breath, clearing her mind. “Yes. He said he was tired of our bickering.”
“Is that why he asked to speak with you?”
“Hardly,” she said, a wan smile springing to her lips. “He had me stay so that we could discuss my recent behavior.”
“So, it’s working.”
“I suppose it is.”
He looked at her, searching her eyes. “You don’t sound pleased. Wasn’t this your idea?”
“Yes, swordmaster, it was my idea.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
She turned her gaze to the fire. “I guess I didn’t realize how difficult it would be. I still love him, and to see the way he looks at me now, to hear him threaten to send me back to Glyndwr—”
“He did that?”
Keziah nodded, still staring into the bright flames. “He also told me that he would hold me responsible if you and I continue to fight. He told me to find a way to bridge our differences, or leave.” She smiled again, though it felt brittle. “You should be happy: our king has chosen you over me. If you wish to rid yourself of me, you can do so now. I know you’ve wanted to for a long time.”
She glanced at Gershon, only to find that he had looked away once more. He appeared uneasy again, though she couldn’t tell if it was because he no longer wanted her gone, or because he still did.
“I don’t think he’d really have you leave the castle,” he said, his voice low. “You didn’t hear him today, nor did you hear everything I said.”
“Is it possible that you’re pushing him too hard?”
“Do you think I am?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. You said some things about Marston today that struck me as too strong. He’s not a traitor, and by suggesting that he is, you make it harder for Kearney to trust him. That could be dangerous.”
“I was trying to make it seem that my anger at the king had made me distrustful of all Eandi.”
“Well, you did that.”
“Don’t worry, swordmaster. After today, the king isn’t likely to place much faith in anything I say. Our ties to the House of Thorald are safe.” She felt a single tear rolling down her cheek and she swiped at it impatiently, hoping that Gershon hadn’t seen.
“You’re doing the king a great service,” he said, his voice more gentle than she had ever imagined it could be. “He may not know it now, but when all of this is over, I’ll tell him. I swear it.”
She nodded, but couldn’t speak for the tears that were now coursing down her face. After keeping such a tight hold on her emotions for so long, it was all Keziah could do just to breathe amid her sobbing. Her anguish overwhelmed her; she felt like a child caught in the sudden tumult of a great ocean wave. Indeed, the only thing that saved her, that allowed her to stop crying at last, was the look of utter panic on the face of the poor swordmaster. He had found a kerchief and was holding it out to her. But he seemed at a loss to do more than that.
“Forgive me, swordmaster,” she managed, taking the kerchief and dabbing at her tears. “As I said before, this is more difficult than I had expected. Do you have any water?”
He nearly leaped to his feet, so anxious was he to do anything other than sit before her watching her cry. He went to a pitcher near the small window, poured her a cup of water, and carried it to her like a server at a banquet.
“Is there something else I can do?”
She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. Thank you. Just tell me, did you hear any of the other ministers speaking of today’s discussion?”
“Yes,” he said. “I made a point of walking with them briefly, at least until they reached the stairway leading to their chambers. They’re very much aware of the change in your behavior, and they trace it to Paegar’s death.”
She winced. “I’ve been too obvious.”
“No, it’s all right. A number of them…” He stopped himself, his face turning bright red.
Keziah smiled. “They think that Paegar and I were lovers.”
“Yes.”
“Kearney suspected the same thing, though I told him it wasn’t so.”
“Why? Where’s the harm in it? It makes all of this much more convincing.”
“I don’t want him thinking that, no matter how much it might help us.”
Something in her voice must have reached him. He stared at her a moment, then nodded. “Very well.”
“But the ministers do think it,” she said, prodding him.
“Some of them do. And at least one of them remarked on the growing discord between you and the king. If it was your aim to make the castle’s Qirsi think that your loyalties might be compromised, you’ve succeeded.”
She made herself grin, though she suddenly felt a chill, as from a north wind. “Well, I suppose I should be pleased then.”
Gershon continued to stare at her, a look of genuine concern in those hard blue eyes. “Are you certain about this? It’s not too late to stop. You can attribute it all to your grief at Paegar’s death, apologize to the king, and go back to advising him as you always have. No one would ever know but me, and I wouldn’t think worse of you for making that choice.”
“Careful, Gershon. Treat me with such kindness too often, and I may yet mistake you for a friend.”
He frowned again. He was the only man she had ever met on whom a frown seemed more natural than a smile.
“I’ll take that to mean that you still intend to go through with this,” he said.
“I do, unless you’ve thought of a better way to learn what we need to know about the conspiracy.”
She knew that he hadn’t of course. There was no other way. Had there been, she would have jumped at the chance to end all of this.
Keziah stood. “Your family will be awaiting you in the cloister, swordmaster. You should join them.”
He made a sour face. “I think I’ll see to my men instead.”
The minister laughed. “Perhaps you should join me in the sanctuaries one day. Devotions don’t have to be as tedious as the prelate makes them.”
Gershon actually grinned. “Good day, Archminister.” He pulled his door open and held it for her. “I hope this can be the beginning of better understanding between us,” he said, letting his voice carry into the corridor. “I pledge to do my best to make it so.”
She stepped into the hallway and turned to bow to him. “As do I, swordmaster. Thank you.”
He nodded once, looking for just an instant like he wanted to say more. But after a moment, he merely shut his door again, leaving her alone in the corridor. Had Keziah not known better, she would have thought he was going to
tell her to be careful.
She walked quickly back to her chamber, passing guards as she went, and enduring their stares as best she could. She passed Wenda as well, just a few steps from her room. Seeing her, the high minister paused, clearing her throat awkwardly.
“Yes, Wenda?” she asked, not bothering to mask her impatience.
The older woman faltered, then shook her head. “It was nothing, Archminister. Good day.”
Keziah resumed her walking. “And to you, High Minister.”
Entering her room, she shook her head, cursing herself for not being more courteous. She might have learned something from Wenda. She thought about leaving the room again and finding the high minister, but it wouldn’t have been in keeping with her recent behavior. And she was just too tired.
She walked to her bed intending to lie down, but a dark shape on her blanket caught her eye. For a moment she stood utterly still, staring at this thing, afraid to move, as if thinking it might scurry away at her approach. Then she realized what it was, and fear gripped her heart like the clawed hand of some great beast of the Underrealm.
He should have gone to the cloister. Sulwen would be expecting him, and even knowing how he felt about the devotions, she would chastise him for failing to join her and the children there. After speaking with the archminister, however, Gershon couldn’t even bring himself to walk to the ward, where the guards were training. He just sat, watching the fire burn, wondering how he had allowed the Qirsi woman to talk him into this. He had known from the start that her plan carried risks, and he had weighed them carefully. What he had neglected to consider, though, were the other costs—the archminister’s heartache, and the king’s as well.
Kearney’s love affair with his minister had been a mistake. Gershon had wanted to say so to Kearney a thousand times while they still lived in Glyndwr. Despite having misgivings about his duke taking the throne in the midst of the conflict between Curgh and Kentigern, the swordmaster had at least found comfort in the knowledge that Kearney’s ascension would end this foolhardy affair. But though the king and the Qirsi no longer shared a bed, it seemed to Gershon that their love continued to color all that happened here in Audun’s Castle. It made the archminister’s deception possible, by making believable her alienation from the king. Yet it also increased the dangers of what she was doing. By angering Kearney, by adding to the pain he had already suffered by losing her, Keziah risked not only her life, but the safety of the entire kingdom.
The swordmaster finally trusted her. Any doubts he had harbored about her devotion to Kearney and Eibithar had vanished when she agreed to seek out the conspiracy. But he thought her terribly young, and he had seen her put Kearney in harm’s way too many times. Gershon still remembered, with a vividness that made his sword hand tremble, how enraged he had been when she allowed her friend, the gleaner, to bring Tavis of Curgh to Tremain where the Glyndwr army had stopped on its way to the Heneagh River. At the time, the boy was still a fugitive from Aindreas’s dungeon, and Kentigern and Curgh were on the verge of war. No harm came of what she had done, and Kearney granted the gleaner’s request to give Tavis asylum. But Keziah had taken a terrible chance, placing at risk both the House of Glyndwr and the House of Tremain. Despite trusting her, despite knowing how much she loved the king, Gershon couldn’t help but feel that she remained the greatest threat to everything he held dear. That she was also their greatest hope of learning how to defeat the conspiracy only served to deepen his fears.
He made himself stand, and reached for his sword, intending to join his army in the castle courtyard. Before he could strap the scabbard to his belt, however, he heard a knock at his door. He pulled it open, only to find Keziah standing before him once more, her face deathly pale and her eyes wide, like those of a child who has just awakened from a frightening dream.
She held out his kerchief to him. “I forgot to return this to you,” she said, a flutter in her voice.
He took it from her, watching her closely. Clearly, this wasn’t all that had brought her back to his door.
“Do you want to come in again?”
She nodded and hurried past him to the center of the room.
Gershon closed the door and turned to face her. “What—?”
He stopped, staring at what she held in her hands. It was a simple leather pouch, brown, tied with a thin black cord, but he understood instantly that it signified far more than that. He crossed to where she stood and took the pouch from her. It was heavy with coins.
“You’ve counted it already?”
Keziah nodded. “One hundred qinde.”
He handed it back to her quickly. “You shouldn’t have come here. They may be watching you.”
“I know. I was scared. It thought that by returning the kerchief—”
“You wanted this, Archminister. You’ve done all you could to draw their attention, and now that you have it, you must keep your nerve. If you give them cause to doubt you, they’ll kill you.”
Any other day such a remark from him might have brought a cutting response about how he had never cared so much for her safety before. It would have been a joke, of course, though with an edge. But abruptly, even this humor was denied them. None of this was funny anymore.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She started for the door. “I’ll leave.”
“How much did Paegar have?” Gershon asked, stopping her again just short of the door. “I don’t remember.”
“One hundred and ninety qinde.”
He turned to face her, whistling through his teeth. “Even if he spent none of it, that’s nearly three hundred qinde they’ve spent here alone. That’s a lot of gold.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I know of nobles in Eibithar and Aneira who couldn’t afford to pay so much. Not just barons, mind you, but thanes and marquesses. That may be the way to find them, Archminister. If we can trace that gold to its source, we can find the leaders.”
Keziah nodded again, still wide-eyed. “I’ll do what I can.”
“And I’ll do everything necessary to keep you safe. You may not see me, you may not even believe that I can see you. But I’ll be watching just the same. You have my word.”
The Qirsi woman gazed at him a moment, then hurried back to where he stood and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.
A moment later she was gone, and Gershon was forced to wonder if he had judged her too harshly a short time before. It wouldn’t have been the first time. She might have been reckless, as only someone so young could be. But standing alone in his chamber, contemplating what she was about to do, he thought her the bravest soul he had ever known.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Thorald, Eibithar, Qirsar’s Moon waning
Even after Enid’s death and all that it implied, Marston’s father had been reluctant to speak with Eibithar’s other dukes of what they had learned. Tobbar and Marston had argued the point for the better part of two days, Marston telling the duke that the other houses had to be informed of Enid’s betrayal.
“It changes everything, Father,” he said at the time. “It brings into question all that we’ve assumed about Filib’s murder. With Lady Brienne’s murder still threatening to tear apart the kingdom, we have to speak with the others.”
To which his father replied simply, “This is a humiliation for our house. I’ll not make matters worse by telling all our rivals throughout the land.”
Though angry, and desperate to make Tobbar see that they couldn’t keep this a secret, Marston was no fool. “This is not a humiliation, Father, not for Thorald, and certainly not for you.”
Tobbar looked up at that, grey eyes glinting like a blade in the firelight. “I brought her into this castle,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Had my brother lived, she might never have become Thorald’s first minister. If all you say is true, I’m responsible for Filib the Younger’s death.”
Marston shook his head. “No. The conspiracy killed him, you
didn’t. It may be true that Enid wouldn’t have become first minister had it not been for the elder Filib’s death, but not for the reasons you think. I believe the Qirsi sought to throw the kingdom into turmoil, turning the Rules of Ascension to their purposes. Whether or not the conspiracy was behind Filib the Elder’s hunting accident, it was his death that made my cousin a target. If the duke lives, the Qirsi have no cause to kill the boy.”
Tobbar nodded, seeming to see the logic of this. “Still, I trusted her. I allowed her—I allowed the entire conspiracy—to turn this house to their purposes.”
“Kentigern did the same thing. He was betrayed as well.”
“But this is Thorald!” Tobbar said, his voice rising. “This is the house of Binthar, the house of the Golden Stallion. We are the leading house in Eibithar; where other houses fail, we must stand firm. Kentigern’s shame does nothing to ease the sting of our own.”
“Perhaps not. But as the leading house in the kingdom, don’t we have a duty to keep other houses from suffering the same fate? The treason of Kentigern’s first minister nearly allowed Mertesse to take the tor, and for all we know, it cost Lady Brienne her life. What if there are traitors in the other houses as well? What will be the price of their betrayal? We have to tell them, Father. We have to warn them. How can the house of Binthar do anything less?”
At the time, his father turned away, refusing to answer and effectively ending their conversation. Finally, as their silence dragged on and the fire in Tobbar’s hearth burned low, Marston left the chamber, returning to his own quarters, weary and discouraged.
He was awakened the following morning, however, by one of his father’s pages, who told him that the duke wished to speak with him as soon as possible. Thinking that perhaps his father’s health was failing, Marston dressed quickly and hurried through the corridors to the duke’s chambers. He knocked on the door and was relieved to hear his father call for him to enter, his voice sounding clear and strong.
“What would we say to the other houses?” Tobbar asked, before Marston could even close the door behind him.