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

by DAVID B. COE

“No. My sister’s name is Lettalle.”

  “Lettalle,” Cadel repeated. “And what’s your family name?”

  “Hunfeurta,” Dario said, staring at him. “Why?”

  By the time it occurred to the younger man to be afraid, Cadel had already started to move. Grabbing a handful of Dario’s hair, the singer ducked behind him. Dario tried to twist away, but then felt a sudden burning pain in his heart. Looking down with a strangled cry, he saw the Qirsi’s dagger sliding up into his chest, just below his breastbone. He flailed at Cadel, desperate to free himself from the man’s powerful grip. But already he could feel the life draining from his body.

  “I’m sorry,” Cadel whispered to him, easing Dario down onto the bed beside the Qirsi. “Truly I am. It wasn’t my intention to do this when I found you in Dantrielle. But circumstances have changed. I need to end this, and I can’t have you wandering the land knowing all you do about me, about my past and my ties to the conspiracy.”

  It seemed to Dario that Cadel was already leaving him, that his voice was receding like an ocean tide. He could barely see for the darkness of the chamber.

  “They’ll find you,” he whispered. He was shivering, his legs and hands growing numb. He had never known the snows could bring such cold. “They’ll find you and kill you. You’ll be with me soon enough.”

  Cadel’s face loomed above him, wraithlike and grim.

  “I know,” the singer said.

  Dario wanted to say more. He wanted to close his fingers around the man’s throat for what he had done. But the cold held him fast, and Cadel’s face seemed to drift away, leaving only blackness.

  He had only felt this way about a kill once before: in Kentigern, after murdering Lady Brienne. Cadel shuddered to think how he would suffer on Pitch Night in Bian’s Turn for what he had just done. Facing Brienne had been bad enough. Now he’d have to face Dario as well.

  He lifted the lutenist’s body and draped it over the Qirsi’s, staining the white-hair’s blade hand with Dario’s blood. Then he overturned the Qirsi’s chair and picked up the flask Dario had left on the floor, only to drop it again so that it shattered, sending shards of clay and dark streaks of wine in all directions. Surveying the room briefly, he nodded to himself, satisfied with the way it looked. He took the lute, wiping it clean on the inside of his riding cloak, and opened the door quietly, peering out into the hallway before making his way to the nearest of the towers.

  He descended the stairs to the first of the castle’s two wards and hurried on to the gate.

  The guards there waved and smiled. Seeing the lute in his hands, however, their smiles faded.

  “Where’s the lad?” one of them asked.

  “He went off with one of the duchess’s ladies. Last I saw him, he was carrying a flask of wine and telling me to take care of this.”

  The soldiers laughed.

  “Guess his hands are full with other things,” the first one said.

  Cadel nodded and stepped past them to the wicket gate. “Just my luck. Serves me right for traveling with a younger man.”

  They were still laughing as he left Castle Mertesse and started across the city. He heard the gate bells ring on the city walls. Gate closing. Not that it mattered: he had never planned to leave Mertesse through the gates.

  The city was quiet, like a great sleeping beast. He saw no one as he walked back to the Swallow’s Nest, nor did he see the innkeeper as he crept up the stairs of the tavern. He took both his travel sack and Dario’s, pausing in the room only long enough to write a brief message, before leaving the inn as noiselessly as he had come. With neither moon traveling the sky this night, he had little trouble scaling the city wall unobserved. Before long he had reached the edge of Mertesse Forest, which he followed west, toward the rocky shores of the Scabbard Inlet. At some point he would head back in the other direction, toward the Moors of Durril and the Caerissan Steppe, and, eventually, to the relative safety of the Wethy Crown. First, however, he needed to find a merchant, and short of remaining in Mertesse, the easiest way to do so was to visit the trading villages along the coast.

  He walked through the night, setting a swift pace so that he might put as much distance as possible between himself and Mertesse. With first light of day, he slipped into the shadows of the wood, and continued to travel westward. They would be finding the bodies soon and Cadel knew that the castle guards would be interested in speaking with him. Best not to give them that chance.

  Near midday, sooner than he had expected, Cadel spotted a peddler’s cart approaching, following one of the sea-lanes toward Mertesse. He stepped out of the forest and raised a hand in greeting. Seeing him, the man reined his horse to a halt. He had steel grey hair, though not much of it, and his face was ruddy from the cold and wind. As Cadel approached the cart, he saw the man pull out a long bladed knife.

  “Are you heading to Mertesse?” the singer asked.

  “I am. I suppose you’re wanting a ride.”

  “Actually, no. I was wondering if you would be willing to ride on to Solkara without stopping in Mertesse.”

  The merchant wrinkled his brow. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I’ll pay you fifty qinde.”

  He chuckled. “You have fifty qinde?”

  Cadel pulled out his money pouch and counted out the gold pieces, which glittered in the sunlight.

  The merchant rubbed a hand over his mouth, his dark eyes fixed on the coins and the hand holding the knife falling to his side.

  “What is it you want of me?”

  Cadel swung the travel sacks and lute off his shoulder and knelt beside them, returning his money to his pocket. Rummaging through Dario’s bag, he soon found the lutenist’s pouch of gold and counted its contents. Then he added a bit of his own.

  “This lute and travel sack belong to a friend of mine. He wants them taken to his sister in Tounstrel dukedom.”

  “Tounstrel! You said Solkara. It’ll take me nearly the entire turn to ride to Tounstrel.”

  Cadel raised an eyebrow. “When was the last time you cleared fifty qinde in a single turn?”

  The man clicked his tongue several times. “The girl’s name?”

  “Lettalle Hunfuerta. She lives in a village on the Plain of Stallions, just north of Tounstrel city.” He pulled from his pocket the message he had written the night before. “On your way to Tounstrel, I want you to deliver this to Castle Dantrielle. Give it to the first minister there.”

  “You ask a lot.”

  Cadel strode to the cart and dragged the man down off of his seat. The peddler tried to raise his knife, but the singer slapped it away.

  “What’s your name?” Cadel demanded.

  “T-Traver. Traver MarSint.”

  “Well, Traver, you’re right. I do ask a lot. And I expect even more. There’s forty qinde in that travel sack. If I hear from Lettalle that she didn’t get the lute, or that even a single qinde is missing from the pouch in that sack, I’ll find you, and I’ll slit your throat. Do I make myself clear?”

  The merchant nodded, his eyes wide, spittle on his chin.

  Cadel released him, smoothing his overshirt. He took out his money again and paid the man his gold.

  Traver tucked it away in a pocket without bothering to count it.

  “You better get moving,” Cadel said. “You’ve a long journey ahead of you.”

  The man eyed him briefly, then nodded again and climbed back onto his cart.

  “Why don’t you want me going to Mertesse?” he asked, picking up the reins.

  Cadel started to walk away. “It’s not safe,” he said over his shoulder. “I hear two people died there just last night.”

  She sat on the floor beside Shurik’s hearth, staring at the bloodstained bed, tears running down her face like melting snows off the steppe. Her love’s body and that of the other man had already been removed, but Yaella couldn’t bring herself to leave, even with soldiers and servants constantly stepping around her.

  The cas
tle guards said that the second man was a musician, a lute player of some renown, who had come to the castle to bed one of the duchess’s ladies. But despite their certainty, and the broken flask of wine found in the middle of the chamber, she had no doubt that he was actually a paid assassin. She found it remarkable that Shurik had managed to kill the man, on Pitch Night no less.

  Her chest ached merely thinking of how she had doubted him. For nearly an entire turn, he had spoken of his fears, of how two Weavers wanted him dead. Yet for all that time, she had tried to convince herself and him that the danger wasn’t as great as he believed. She should never have left him alone. She should have stayed with him, or better yet, insisted that he accompany her to the sanctuary.

  “I failed you in so many ways, Shurik,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  One of the Weavers had arranged this. She felt certain of it. Sitting there in the chamber, Yaella resolved to learn which one. If it turned out to be her Weaver, the leader of the movement, she wasn’t sure what she would do. The man could read her thoughts. He would sense her rage, her need for vengeance, and he would have her killed as well. But if it was the other one, this Grinsa jal Arriet, she would use every resource within her grasp to destroy him. She owed Shurik that much.

  She heard the sound of boots clicking in the corridor, and looking toward the doorway, saw the duke walk in. Reluctantly, she stood and bowed to him.

  “First Minister,” he said, meeting her gaze before walking to the bed and shaking his head at the dark stains. “This is a terrible business. I don’t understand how such a thing could happen in my castle.”

  Is that all you can think about? Your castle? “Yes, my lord.”

  “You must be terribly upset. I’m sorry for you.”

  Her tears starting to flow once more and she cursed herself. This foolish young duke had hated Shurik, yet she reacted to his smallest kindness as if he had put his arms around her.

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

  “I’m sure you’ll want the funeral to be at the sanctuary, but you’ll have whatever help the servants of this castle can offer.”

  “That’s most generous of you, my lord.”

  He hesitated. “There is the matter of this chamber. There’s no hurry of course, but at some point it will need to be…emptied. Will you want to do that, or would you like me to have the servants take care of it?”

  Shurik had left most of his belongings in Kentigern when he fled Aindreas’s castle after the siege, but there might be some gold in this chamber. The Weaver’s gold.

  “I’ll see to it, my lord.”

  “Very well. As I say, there’s no hurry.” He glanced about the room once more, shaking his head. “I intend to find out how this happened, First Minister. No man, regardless of his race or how he came to be here, should fear for his life within the walls of Castle Mertesse.” Rowan turned to leave, his cape swirling.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said again, despising him.

  Yaella remained in the chamber for a few minutes more, then walked back to her own quarters and curled herself into a ball on her bed, sobbing as she hadn’t since she was a girl. Her stomach felt hollow, and no matter how tightly she wrapped herself in her blankets, she couldn’t stop shivering.

  Her mind was clear, however, and she thought of the two Weavers. If her Weaver had wanted Shurik dead, he wouldn’t have needed assassins to kill him. He could have done it in a dream. It had to have been Grinsa, to whom Shurik would never have opened his mind. Yet, Yaella could not keep herself from blaming both of them. Had the Weaver who haunted their sleep not sent Shurik after Grinsa, this might never have happened. She had been more than happy to work on behalf of the movement when its enemies were Eandi, and Shurik fought by her side. But if one Weaver opposed the other, their war already claiming Shurik’s life, how was she to choose between them? The Weaver had spoken of a glorious future, in which Qirsi ruled the Forelands and aspired to be more than festival performers and servants of Eandi nobles. And though she was drawn to such a vision, she increasingly found herself repelled by the thought that the Weaver she knew, the one who had bought her loyalties with gold and who held them with cruelty and the constant threat of a painful death, should claim the throne for himself.

  She could never turn to this other Weaver as an alternative, not with Shurik’s blood staining his hands. But perhaps she didn’t need to. Perhaps there was another way. Shurik was gone, and though she couldn’t bring him back, she might be able to strike a blow on his behalf, one that would be felt by both Weavers.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Curtell, Braedon, Eilidh’s Moon waxing

  It promised to be a long, difficult night. He needed to speak with several of the Qirsi who served him, and with one whom he hoped would pledge herself to him before dawn. Fortunately, Dusaan had slept well the previous night. He might have been a Weaver, but he could not escape the limitations placed upon Qirsi magic by the moon legends. Qirsar’s Pitch Night affected him as it did all his people, and so, unable to reach for the dreams of others, he allowed himself a night of rest. He felt better for having done so.

  The emperor had long since dismissed Dusaan for the night, taking to his bedchambers with one of his wives. Aside from the palace guards, the Weaver assumed that no others were awake. Still he waited, poring over the treasury accounting until he was certain that those he wished to contact were sleeping. Finally, as the midnight bells tolled in Curtell City, he put aside the treasury volume, added some wood to the fire in his hearth, and sat beside the blaze.

  Closing his eyes, he sent his mind eastward, first seeking out one of his chancellors, a merchant who had last been in Kentigern. This promised to be the quickest of his discussions and so the easiest.

  Usually he made his servants walk to him, requiring them to climb the rise on Ayvencalde Moor before they could speak with him. On this night, however, he hadn’t time for such games. Dusaan allowed himself a smile. Well, perhaps there was time enough to make just the next one climb. But not the others, not tonight.

  He found Jastanne’s ship at the top of the Scabbard, just a few days’ journey north of Kentigern. Touching the woman’s mind, he summoned the vision of the plain, with its great white sun. He saw her appear before him, naked, as she always was when she slept, and seeing her there, he stepped forward so that she would see him, black as night and framed against the brilliance of his white sun. If she felt abashed speaking to him unclothed, she had never shown any sign of it. Nor did she have reason to, he had to admit. The woman was lovely.

  “Yes, Weaver,” she said, her voice strong. “How may I serve?”

  “Did you hear anything more from Kentigern before you set sail?”

  “No, Weaver. But neither did I expect to.”

  “You believe he intends to honor our agreement?”

  “I believe, Weaver, that before speaking with me, the duke of Kentigern failed to grasp the power and scope of your movement. He thought to use it as a weapon against his king, whom he hates as we do the Eandi. I made him understand that we are no mere sword in his armory, that in fact we’re more formidable than any Eandi court. He’ll need some time to accept this, to alter his ambitions to match the reality of what we are. But his needs haven’t changed, his hatred for Kearney is no less than it was. He’ll serve you, Weaver. I’m certain of it.”

  “Very good,” Dusaan said.

  “Is there anything else, Weaver?”

  He merely gazed at her, her fine white hair and golden eyes; her skin, as white and flawless as the stars. Without raising a hand, he caressed her cheek and the side of her neck. He had longed to make Cresenne his queen—if not for her lingering affections for the gleaner, whose child she carried, he might have already. But this woman who stood naked on the moor—eyes closed now, a small smile on her full lips—was, in her own way, even more perfect for him than the other. One needed only listen as she spoke of taming Lord Kentigern to know that.

  He allowed his t
ouch to travel down her shoulder and then to circle her breasts. Her lips parted and her nipples grew hard, but she did not flinch away as some women might. Yes, she would make a fine queen.

  “You serve me well,” he said, his voice rough.

  He made himself stop touching her. It was to be a long night.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes, her smile deepening. “Yes, Weaver.”

  “We’ll speak again soon.”

  An instant later he withdrew from her dream, opening his eyes to the orange glow of the fire in his chambers. He sat for several moments, savoring the memory of her smooth, cool skin, before shutting his eyes once more and reaching toward Mertesse, where he expected to find Shurik jal Marcine. This conversation would be a brief one as well, not only because he had but a few questions for the man, but also because he didn’t care to be in Shurik’s company any longer than was necessary. When he couldn’t find Shurik in Castle Mertesse, he sent his mind southward to Solkara and then Dantrielle. Failing to find the man in either of those cities, Dusaan began to feel a familiar quickening of his pulse.

  Less than a turn before, he had tried to reach for Enid ja Kovar in Thorald Castle, only to find that he couldn’t perceive her consciousness there or anywhere else in Eibithar. A few days later, he received word of what he already suspected. The woman had died, her betrayal revealed to her duke. She kept faith with the movement to the end, taking her own life rather than submitting to her duke’s torture, but her death disturbed the Weaver nevertheless. True, she had outlived her usefulness to him, but after having killed Paegar and lost the first minister of Bistari in the Solkara poisoning, Dusaan could scarcely afford to replace another minister.

  Now it seemed something had happened to Shurik as well. It almost seemed that the gods were against him, though he refused to believe that. At least this time, he might not have to wait for word of Shurik’s fate. Turning his mind back to Mertesse, he sought out the man’s lover, Yaella ja Banvel.

  As soon as he saw the woman, he knew. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face discolored. Judging from how she looked, Dusaan deemed himself lucky to have found her sleeping at all.