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

by DAVID B. COE

  It had been some time since he last drank this much. Certainly he had never done so on a night when he was to sing. But the lutenist never worried about the quality of their music, so why should he? The bitters wouldn’t detract much from his performance anyway. Wine and ale clouded the mind. Bitters brought clarity. They had this night.

  At no time during his struggle with Tavis of Curgh did Cadel truly fear for his life. He trusted all to his instincts, as he so often did in such circumstances, and he fought, assessing dangers and opportunities as they presented themselves. Only when the encounter had ended, as he stood alone in the darkened corridor, listening to the fading footfalls of the Qirsi gleaner, did he begin to contemplate how close he had come to dying.

  Earlier in the day he had sensed that something was amiss, that a threat lurked somewhere just beyond his sight and hearing. Emerging from his room just a few hours later, however, he gave no thought to those premonitions. He merely stepped into a dark hallway, his blades sheathed and his mind wandering like that of a child. Had he taken the time to glance toward the corner as he did—a simple precaution that even the most inexperienced assassin knew to take—he would have seen the Curgh boy and killed him with ease. Instead, he found himself on his back, with another man’s steel pressed against his throat. He deserved to be dead. Looking back on all that had happened, he was forced to conclude that he had been fortunate. Had the Qirsi not arrived when he did, Cadel might have managed to throw the boy off of him. But he couldn’t be certain of that. It was just as possible that he would have died in the attempt. He shuddered at the thought, as if he could still feel the cold blade on his neck.

  Assassins often spoke blithely of killing and being killed. No one who wielded a blade by profession could ignore the risks inherent in such a life. And no man, no matter his skill with a dagger, was immune to the passage of time. Cadel had plied his trade for more than eighteen years, not long for a farmer or smith perhaps, but an eternity for an assassin. He had always known that he would have to quit eventually, or be killed himself. But until today that time had seemed remote, a vague certainty, like the distant promise of the plantings in the middle of the snows.

  His instincts had saved him this day, barely. But how much longer could he count on them? Next time he faced Tavis of Curgh, the boy would be older, stronger, more sure of himself with a weapon. And Cadel would be that much slower, that much more likely to fail and die.

  Which brought him to the essence of the matter, the realization that had come with the clarity of his bitters. He wished to live. He had more gold than he could spend in a lifetime, some of it in a pouch he carried with him, the rest hidden in Cestaar’s Hills, just outside of Noltierre. Before he died, he wanted to enjoy his wealth, to wander the Forelands without planning his next murder or his next escape. A few turns before, after facing the ghost of Lady Brienne, he had convinced himself that he needed a new partner. A few hours ago, he had decided that he wanted to work alone. Now he understood that what he wanted most of all was to be finished with killing altogether. There was enough blood on his blade; there were already too many wraiths berating him on Bian’s Night. Brienne had told him that he wouldn’t survive the year, and the prioress in the Deceiver’s sanctuary had suggested that he find a new profession. It had taken far too long, but at last he had taken to heart the lessons of that harrowing night.

  He wasn’t foolish enough to think that the Qirsi would leave him alone for long, but he would find a way to avoid them and their movement. He could go east, to Wethyrn. The Wethy Crown had never held much appeal for him, but he had heard that the conspiracy was far less active there, no doubt because the eastern realm was the weakest of the seven.

  Wherever he chose to go, he had made his decision. The time had come to end his life as an assassin. One kill remained, and then he would be free.

  He saw Dario come down the stairs again and scan the tavern for him. It didn’t take the man long to spot him and approach his table. Seeing the cup of bitters in front of Cadel, he frowned.

  “You’re drinking?”

  “Yes. Care to join me?”

  “We’re performing tonight.”

  “I’m aware of that. You’re concerned that I won’t sing well?”

  “No. I just…” Dario stopped, shaking his head. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the broken daggers I found in the corridor, would it?”

  Cadel eyed the younger man for a moment, then looked away. “Yes, it would.” It occurred to him that he was unarmed, for the first time he could remember. He carried extra blades in his travel sack, just in case he lost or broke one—a musician couldn’t be seen purchasing daggers too often, not without raising suspicions. But he would have to remember to put them in the empty sheaths.

  The lutenist leaned closer. “What happened?” His eyes widened. “Was it the white-hair?”

  “A Qirsi broke my blades, but not the one you have in mind.” He drained his cup and forced a smile. “It was nothing. A debt from the past come due. It’s over now.”

  Dario regarded him closely, as if expecting him to say more. When he didn’t, the younger man shrugged, seeming to dismiss the matter. He looked angry, however. Or maybe hurt.

  “Fine then. If it’s over, I won’t ask about it anymore.”

  “Good.”

  “Do you plan to drink more, or is that over as well?”

  Cadel stared briefly at the empty cup. “I think I’m done.”

  “Then there’s something I want to talk about.”

  The singer gave a wan smile. Of course there is, he wanted to say. But he kept silent and waited.

  “I’ve given this some thought,” he began, his voice dropping low, “so I hope you’ll listen to all I have to say before arguing with me. I understand that you’ve always taken care of the jobs involving Qirsi. I understand as well that your old partner accepted this, that it was just the way you two worked things out. I can even see that we should do things the same way, at least until I’ve proven to you that I can handle a kill on my own.” He paused, appearing to gather himself for a fight. “But this job is different. We’re going into Castle Mertesse and we’re doing it on Pitch Night in Qirsar’s Turn.”

  “Your point?”

  “Killing the Qirsi is going to be the easy part. Any other day of the year it wouldn’t be, but that night he’ll have no magic. He’ll be no more dangerous than an Eandi. In fact, I expect he’ll be weaker than most of the men you usually go after.”

  Cadel had to agree. “Interesting. Go on.”

  Dario grinned, but it lasted only a moment. “The castle guards are the real danger. So it seems to me that it makes more sense for you to guard my back while I take care of the white-hair.”

  It wasn’t how Cadel had envisioned his last kill, but he hadn’t survived eighteen years in this profession by being stubborn. Clearly, this would make things far easier for him, and that alone made Dario’s suggestion attractive.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll try it your way. You take the Qirsi, and I’ll watch your back.”

  Dario gaped at him, as if Cadel had offered him all his gold. “Really?”

  The singer gave a shrug of his own. “As you say, killing the white-hair will be the easy part.”

  For all Qirsi, Pitch Night in the turn of Qirsar, god of their people, was a night of uncertainty and fear. Any Qirsi with even a bit of sense understood how much the Eandi hated the sorcerer race. Most of Shurik’s people believed that only their magic protected them from constant persecution.

  For one night each year, perhaps as a test of their strength and courage, perhaps as a cruel joke, Qirsar took away their power, their shield, and forced them to face Ean’s children unguarded. The vast majority of Qirsi passed this night in the sanctuaries. There were few shrines devoted to Qirsar anywhere in the Forelands, but as the last bastions of the Old Faith, the sanctuaries of the other ancient gods offered some solace and comfort. They were considered sacrosanct, even by nobles who
se courts had long ago turned to the Path of Ean. The Qirsi knew they were safe in the shrines. Even Shurik, who rarely visited the sanctuaries any other time of year, had spent Qirsar’s Pitch Night in Kentigern’s Sanctuary of Bian every year he served in Aindreas’s court.

  This year, however, he had no intention of leaving the castle. Not with two Weavers after him. Yaella had tried repeatedly to convince him to join her when she went to Elined’s Sanctuary in the north quarter of the city, but he wasn’t going to change his mind. If anything, the approach of Pitch Night only served to heighten his fears. By the last morning of the turn, he could barely bring himself to leave his chamber in order to have breakfast.

  He couldn’t say what he expected to happen. He had slept soundly the night before, without any thought of the Weaver, much less a dream of him. And the Mertesse guards weren’t about to allow a strange Qirsi man and an Eibitharian lord into the castle. But as a gleaner, Shurik had no choice but to trust the sense of foreboding that hung over him like a demon’s shadow.

  He took his meal in the castle kitchen, eating quickly and retreating immediately to his chamber. Almost as soon as he returned to the dark confines of his room, he wished that he had forgone his breakfast. His stomach felt heavy and sour, and he expected to be ill at any moment. He had often heard of Qirsi fasting on this night and he wondered if this was the reason.

  A knock at his door made him start and his heart race.

  “Come,” he called irritably.

  Yaella stepped into the room. The sight of him brought a frown to her face.

  “You don’t look well.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “I’ll be glad when this night is over.”

  “It would do you some good to get out of this chamber, maybe even out of the castle. The sun’s shining and it’s not very cold. How about a walk in the gardens?”

  He had to smile. “The gardens? In Qirsar’s Turn?”

  “Why not? There may not be much to look at, but at least you’d be doing something.”

  Shurik considered this for a moment, but then shook his head. “No. Thank you, but I’m happy to stay here.”

  She smiled coyly. “Well, would you like some company then?”

  “That’s a nice offer, but I think I’m better off alone.”

  The frown returned. “Now I’m really worried about you. You’ve never turned me from your bed before.”

  “I’ve never had two Weavers wanting me dead. Forgive me, Yaella. I’m not myself today. I’ll be fine after tonight. I promise.”

  “You still won’t come with me to the sanctuary?”

  He gave a small shrug. “I’m sorry.”

  The minister tried to smile, but failed. “All right. Try to…” She shook her head, as if unsure of what to say. “I’ll stop in later, before I go to the city.”

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  Finding himself alone once more, Shurik sat on his bed and picked up a volume of fables he had been reading the night before. He had purchased it from a merchant shortly after Rowan paid him for his betrayal of Kentigern. It had been a luxury, but one he could easily afford, and in the turns since, it had often rescued him from the boredom of his exile. On this day, the tales gave him little comfort, but at least reading passed the time. Occasionally he rose to put more wood on the fire in his hearth, but mostly he read, hearing the city bells toll in the distance every few hours. His stomach began to feel better late in the day, but he thought it best not to eat until morning.

  Sooner than he expected, another knock broke the silence in his chamber.

  “Come in.”

  Yaella pushed the door open and stuck her head into the room.

  “You look better,” she said, a smile on her lips.

  “I told you I’d be fine. I just need some time alone. Come the morning you won’t even recognize me.”

  “You’re certain about the sanctuary?”

  He nodded. “Quite.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

  She pulled the door closed, the echo of her footsteps in the stone corridor receding slowly. For just an instant, Shurik considered hurrying to the door and calling for her to wait. Certainly the sanctuary would be safe, and he dreaded spending the entire night alone in his chamber. Still, his fear of the city streets overmastered his desire to be with her. Before long, he couldn’t hear her footsteps anymore. He hadn’t moved from the bed.

  For some time he continued to stare at the book, though none of what he read reached him. Finally, he put the volume aside, stood, and crossed to the window. Staring out through the narrow opening in the stone wall, he shivered at the cold air that seeped into his chamber. The last faint glimmer of daylight still clung to the western corner of the sky, an orange so deep it was almost red. Above the castle, the first pale stars had begun to emerge in the gathering darkness.

  Shurik tried to summon a flame, reaching for his power as a starving man grasps at offered food. He felt nothing. He could conjure nothing. For tonight at least, his magic was gone.

  He turned from the window and began to pace the small room, pausing at the hearth to stir the fire and add another log. Once more, he thought of going to the sanctuary, but at this point he would have to make the journey alone, in the dark. He couldn’t bring himself to try.

  Instead, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, trying to calm his nerves.

  He was awakened by a loud voice in the corridor, a man’s voice. He was singing poorly, as if drunk. After a moment Shurik heard pounding on the door next to his.

  “Shara!” the man called. He battered the door again. “Shara!”

  Shurik sat up, rubbing his eyes. He had no idea of the time.

  His door shook with the force of the man’s knocking. Too late, the Qirsi realized that he hadn’t bolted the lock before lying down.

  “Shara!” came the voice again.

  The handle turned and Shurik’s door swung open, revealing an Eandi man who held a lute in one hand and a flask in the other. He was young, his face clean-shaven, his hair yellow. He stood in the corridor a moment, tottering in the glow of the torches. Then he took two unsteady steps into Shurik’s chamber.

  “Is Shara in here?” he asked loudly.

  Shurik fumbled for his dagger, his hands trembling. “Get out of here!”

  “I’m just looking for Shara.”

  “She’s not here! Now get out!”

  The man raised the flask to his lips and took a long drink. “Do you know where she is?” he asked a moment later. “I wrote a song for her. Would you like to hear it?”

  He bent over and carefully placed the flask on the floor, nearly toppling onto his back as he did. Straightening, he began to pluck tentatively at the strings of the lute.

  Shurik stood, still clutching his dagger. “Look,” he said, trying to sound forceful. “I don’t know who this woman is or where you can find her, and I don’t want to hear your song. Now either you leave my chamber, or I’ll call the castle guard.”

  The man shrugged. “Fine then.” He stooped to retrieve his wine. But rather than picking up the flask, he laid the lute on the floor. And faster than the Qirsi would have thought possible, he stood, lashed out with his left hand to knock the blade from Shurik’s grasp, and hammered his other fist into the Qirsi’s throat.

  Shurik fell back onto the bed in agony, clutching his neck and fighting for breath. The Eandi kicked the door closed and advanced on him, brandishing a blade of his own. Cowering away from him, Shurik tried to scream for help. But with his throat shattered, he could only manage a pathetic coarse sob that barely carried past the walls of his room.

  In the end, they kept their plan as simple as possible. Cadel had spoken of scaling castle walls in Kentigern and killing a guard in one of the cities of Sanbira. Neither of those approaches seemed necessary here. The two of them were renowned throughout Mertesse City and had befriended several of the castle guards. No soldier of Mertesse would have any trouble believing that the m
usicians had won the affections of two court ladies, nor would they doubt that with the city taverns closed for Pitch Night, the two men would be eager to indulge in a more private performance. When Dario and Cadel arrived at the castle gate bearing wine and Dario’s lute, the soldiers let them pass without question.

  From there, it was a small matter to find the Qirsi’s quarters. Once he had rendered the man helpless, Dario wasted little time. It might have been Pitch Night in Qirsar’s Turn, and he might have spoken brazenly to Cadel of taking care of this kill on his own, but the lutenist was no fool. He strode to the bed, grabbed the white-hair by his throat, and thrust his blade into the man’s heart.

  The Qirsi’s body went rigid, a small gasp escaping his mouth. Then he sagged, his eyes rolling back in his skull. Dario lowered him to the bed, and took a long breath.

  He heard a soft footfall behind him and spun, dropping into a fighter’s crouch. Seeing Cadel close the door behind him, he relaxed.

  “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be watching for guards?”

  “He’s not going to make any more noise, is he?”

  Dario grinned. “No.”

  Cadel crossed to where the lutenist was standing, pausing for a moment to retrieve the Qirsi’s dagger. Stopping next to Dario, he looked down at the white-hair’s body. “I wanted to see how you did.”

  “I did fine, just like I told you I would.”

  “It seems you were right. Any trouble?”

  “None. But I wouldn’t have wanted to try this any other night of the year. Any sign of the castle soldiers?”

  “No.” Cadel glanced at Dario, a small smile on his lips. “Who is Shara?” he asked. “Is that your sister’s name?”

  “No, it’s just a name I made up.”

  The singer gave a puzzled frown, gazing at the Qirsi again. “I was sure you told me your sister’s name was Shara.”