Seeds of Betrayal

Chapter Thirteen

“They’re all staring at you,” Numar said, looking amused as he watched Gngor take his seat at their table.

Grigor nodded, looking from one of his brothers to the other. It took some effort to keep himself from grinning, but he managed it well enough. He didn’t need to look around the hall to know that Numar was right. He sensed their eyes upon him, and he relished the feeling.

“They’re looking at their new king,” he said softly to his youngest brother. “How can they help but stare?”

Henthas gave a short sharp laugh. “You think you’ve won already? You’re a fool. Carden’s whore won’t give in to you so easily.”

“When all is said and done, she’ll have no choice,” Grigor told him. “But rest assured, brother, I’ve no intention of declaring victory yet.”

Henthas looked away and drained his goblet of wine. “Actually, I almost wish you would,” he said, as a servant poured him more. “I’d enjoy watching her humiliate you.”

“In that case you’ll be disappointed.”

His brother grunted, his eyes on the queen. Grigor knew that Henthas was trying to anger him, as he so often did. But on this night it wasn’t going to work. Not with Carden’s crown so close at hand.

If he could have done this without his brothers he would gladly have done so. Neither man was of much help to him, and Ean knew that the three of them had little affection for one another. Mostly Grigor needed to control both men, to keep either of them from undermining his intentions.

He would have had to be deaf and blind not to know how the three of them were perceived throughout Aneira, indeed, throughout the Forelands. The Jackals and the Fool. The names weren’t flattering, to be sure, particularly to poor Numar, but they did offer the brothers Renbrere a certain notoriety. As it happened, though, they were hopelessly inaccurate. Jackals were pack hunters, like wolves. Grigor and Henthas had never been bound by any common interest. Grigor had always been guided by ambition and his unwavering belief that his fate would one day match his formidable talents. Henthas dreamed of nothing, loved nothing, and feared nothing. He was the third son of House Solkara; power lay too far from his grasp to give him purpose. Even after Grigor took the throne, Henthas would gain only the marquessate in Renbrere, a small step up from the viscountcy he held already. The Solkaran dukedom would go to Grigor’s eldest son, leaving nothing for the brother or his boys. Grigor did not believe that Henthas had designs on his life, though he couldn’t risk ignoring the possibility. He thought it more likely that the man would oppose him, either openly or in secret. For while ambition didn’t drive Henthas, bitterness and envy did. He would gladly trade the marquessate and its small luxuries for the pleasure of seeing Grigor fail. And if that failure cost Grigor his life, all the better.

No, Henthas was no jackal. A viper perhaps, or some demon from Bian’s realm. But the name they had given him implied social skills that the man simply did not possess.

Calling Numar a fool made even less sense. True, he had little more ambition than Henthas. He seemed perfectly content with his viscountcy and he rarely involved himself with any matters of state beyond its boundaries. But to mistake his reticence for simplicity carried risks as well. He had a keen mind and a troublesome sense of moral propriety. If he chose to oppose Grigor’s bid for the crown, he would, Grigor knew, be a far more formidable foe than Henthas, if for no other reason than because Grigor had little sense of what tactics he might use. Whereas Henthas could always be counted on to resort to lies, betrayal, and brutality, Numar relied on reason and persuasion. He’d seek out allies, building bridges to Aneira’s other major houses. In doing so, he’d try to show the entire kingdom that he was no fool, that in fact, he was the Solkaran they most wanted to see on the throne.

The Jackals and the Fool. It was an illusion, but one he needed to maintain. Though he and Henthas hated one another, the notion that they worked together aided his cause. Grigor had utter confidence in his ability to win the crown for himself, by himself, but so long as the kingdom’s other nobles saw him as part of a deadly pair, they’d be less likely to challenge him. And so long as they dismissed Tomaz’s youngest son as a dullard, they wouldn’t realize that they could choose as their king someone other than Grigor without risking war with House Solkara.

“She must have the support of the dukes,” Henthas muttered. “She wouldn’t dare oppose you otherwise.”

Grigor glanced toward the front of the hall, where Tebeo of Dantnelle and Brail of Orvinti sat together. “She may have some of them,” he said. “I can’t imagine that Mertesse or Rassor has offered support. And with Bertin, Vidor, and the boy-duke still not here, I would guess that Noltierre, Tounstrel, and Bistari are hoping that Carden’s death will end Solkara’s rule. They’re not about to support her either. Kett might, but Ansis is easily cowed. I can win him over. That leaves Chofya with Dantnelle and Orvinti.”

Henthas faced him again. “Both are major houses. If she can win Bistari over, you’ll have no chance at all.”

“I just told you-”

“She’s not Solkaran. Not by birth, anyway. Her father held land in a barony near Tounstrel. It may be that Vidor will back her for that reason alone. And with all his father’s old allies backing the queen, the new duke of Bistari-the boy-duke, as you call him-might very well do the same.”

It was a point worth considering.

“Even without Bistari,” Henthas went on, “she has Solkara’s army, along with Tebeo’s and Brail’s. You can’t fight such a force and hope to win. I know that Renbrere is strong for a marquessate, but it’s not that strong.”

Grigor frowned. “You don’t really expect the army of Solkara to follow her, do you? Not if they know that I’ve laid claim to the crown.”

Henthas smiled darkly and shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to say one way or the other. Who knows what goes through a soldier’s mind when his kingdom is divided? It does raise interesting possibilities though, doesn’t it?”

The man was enjoying himself far too much for Grigor’s taste. The duke turned to his other brother, who was watching them both with interest, though he had kept his silence.

“And what do you think of all this?” Grigor asked.

Numar stared back at him impassively, absently running a finger around the rim of his goblet. “Do you really care?”

“Enough to have asked.”

The younger man shrugged, his brown eyes Hicking toward Chofya for just an instant. “I think you’re both misjudging her.”

Henthas raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Do you?”

“You’re thinking of her as you would another noble, a duke or a marquess.”

“She is queen, Numar,” Grigor said. “She may not have been born to a noble family, but she’s been in the courts now for a good many years.”

“No doubt. But I believe she’s a mother before she’s a noble. That’s where her ambitions lie.”

Grigor sat forward. “With the daughter?”

“You live up to your name, brother,” Henthas said, shaking his head. “The girl can’t yet rule. Chofya would have little choice but to name one of us as regent. Probably Grigor.”

Numar appeared to ignore Henthas, keeping his brown eyes fixed on Grigor instead.

Grigor said nothing, though he didn’t look away either. Numar was right. A regency for the girl made far more sense than a direct challenge from the queen. Chofya had no real claim on the throne, but as Carden’s only child, Kalyi did. Mertesse, Rassor, and some of the others might be reluctant to accept a queen under any circumstances, but for those who distrusted the men of Solkara, the child would seem preferable to both Grigor and a protracted struggle to establish a new supremacy.

“Do you know this for certain?” Grigor asked, his voice low.

Numar shook his head. “It’s just a guess.”

Grigor nodded, a thin smile touching his lips and vanishing. “A good one, I’d say. Do you think she already has Tebeo and Brail?”

“You can’t seriously believe she’d try such a thing,” Henthas said, his voice rising.

Several of the nobles sitting nearby looked over at them. Grigor glared at him. “Quiet down!” He faced Numar once more. “Well?”

“I expect that she has Brail’s support. He’s been in Solkara for several days now. Tebeo only arrived this evening, and this will take some time, even for those who hate you.”

“They all hate me, Numar. You know that as well as anyone.”

His brother sipped some wine, but said nothing.

“And where do you stand?” Grigor asked. “Will you support me or the girl?”

“Does it matter? Either way, no one listens to a fool.”

Grigor frowned. This was definitely not the answer he wanted.

“I would think,” Numar continued a moment later, his voice dropping to a whisper, “that you’d find regency a most attractive proposition. It would give you time to consolidate your power, make pacts with the other houses, and win over the army’s commanders. Eventually, you could have the girl killed and assume the throne with no fear of opposition.”

The duke narrowed his eyes. Such a scheme would have sounded perfectly natural coming from Henthas or himself. But he had never known Numar to think this way.

“Do you really think I’d do such a thing to a mere child, my niece, no less?”

Again the man shrugged, lifting his goblet to his lips once more, and leaving Grigor to wonder if he hoped to be named regent himself.

A regency did have its advantages, most of which Numar had described quite succinctly. Ridding himself of the girl when the time came would present difficulties, but none of them were insuperable. The greatest danger lay in the fact that Chofya herself would remain in the castle with Grigor and the girl, as would Carden’s Qirsi. Even if they chose Grigor as regent, which custom dictated they should, these two would know better than to trust him. Any plan to kill or exile Kalyi would have to make provisions for them as well. Better to claim the throne as his own now.

“I think in this case, Henthas is right,” Grigor said at last. “Aneira isn’t ready for a queen, even if she is Carden’s daughter. In the end, I’m certain that most of the dukes will agree with me.”

Numar nodded and smiled, though the look in his eyes remained grim. “Then you’ve nothing to fear.”

Once more, Grigor wasn’t sure what to make of his younger brother’s words, but before he could say anything more, Carden’s Qirsi approached them, his narrow face looking pale and birdlike in the glow of the torches.

“May I sit with you a moment, my lords?” the minister asked, stopping just beside Numar and hovering over them like a harrier.

“If we had wanted to speak with you, we would have sat with your queen,” Henthas said, not bothering to look up at the man.

Grigor would have liked to laugh aloud. With Henthas nearby, spitting venom at everyone he met, Grigor could appear civil and reasonable without making himself seem weak.

“Please sit, Archminister,” the duke said, waving a hand at an empty chair. “You’ll have to forgive my brother. He’s deeply saddened by Carden’s death, as we all are.”

“Of course, my lord,” the minister said, lowering himself into the seat, his gaze alighting on one brother after another until it came to rest at last on Grigor. “All Aneira suffers as you do. Which is why we need to settle the matter of Carden’s successor as quickly as possible.”

Grigor nodded. “I quite agree. As soon as the other dukes reach Solkara, we should meet with them and make it clear that, even though Carden had no heir, the Solkaran Supremacy will continue.”

The Qirsi licked his thin lips, looking uncomfortable. “Before that happens, Lord Solkara, the queen would like a word with you. A private audience. Tomorrow morning? Just after the ringing of the midmorning bells.”

He looked around the table. “Surely she can’t think that I have anything to hide from my brothers.”

“Of course not, my lord. But it is a matter of some… delicacy.”

Now Grigor was certain that Numar was right. Chofya had to have her mind set on a regency for the girl. What else could she want to discuss with him? If she intended to take the crown herself, she would have been plotting against him, not trying to appease him. The question was, should he speak with her alone, or insist that his brothers join him? Henthas could be of value in such a meeting, but Grigor couldn’t be certain what Numar might do.

“I’m not sure that I see the point in such a conversation,” Grigor finally said. “But she is our queen, and it would be inappropriate for me to refuse her.” He offered a smile to the minister. “Tell Her Highness that I’ll speak with her at her convenience.”

“What?” Henthas said, before the Qirsi could reply. His face had reddened, and there was rage in his dark eyes. “This affects our entire house, not just you! I will not be left out in the corridors of my family’s castle like some child!”

Again, Grigor couldn’t help but be amused and pleased. Had Henthas been wise enough to know how much he was aiding Grigor’s cause, he would surely have shut his mouth.

“In this case, I must agree with my brother,” Numar broke in, his voice so soothing after Henthas’s shrill tones that the archminister merely stared at him, seemingly amazed that a man he knew only as the Fool could sound so sensible. “With Carden dead, the three of us are the only heirs House Solkara has left.” He smiled. “At least the only heirs of age. All of us should be included in any discussions bearing on the future of the Supremacy.”

There was little in Aneiran royal tradition to support such a statement. The eldest son controlled the family’s destiny, and if that son died, the next oldest assumed leadership of the house. It would have been entirely within Grigor’s prerogative to ignore his brothers’ wishes and meet with Chofya alone, particularly since she had requested through her minister that he do so.

But with both Henthas and Numar having voiced their opposition, he couldn’t defy them without weakening himself. If he wanted Chofya and the nobles to fear the Jackals, he couldn’t openly break with Henthas their first night in Solkara. Henthas wouldn’t have thought of this; he had spoken out of pique and wounded pride. But Numar knew just what he was doing. Grigor felt certain of it. The Fool, indeed. Numar was, as far as Grigor could tell, the most dangerous man in the royal city.

He made himself smile as he opened his hands. “As you can see, Archminister, I have little choice in this matter. I’m happy to speak with the queen, but she’ll have to see all of us.”

The Qirsi looked displeased, but he nodded as he stood again. “Very well, my lord. I’ll convey this to the queen.” He turned and walked away.

“You were really going to speak to her without us?” Henthas demanded in a fierce whisper as soon as the minister was gone.

Grigor ignored him, glaring at Numar.

“You look angry, brother,” the man said mildly. “Did I upset your plans?”

“Don’t cross me, Numar. This is no game we’re playing. This is for the crown, and I won’t allow anyone to keep me from claiming it as my own. Not the queen, not our niece, not even you.”

“All I did was ensure that Henthas and I would be party to your conversation with Chofya. Surely you can see how having us there might work to your advantage.”

Grigor glanced at Henthas, who was eyeing him with obvious mistrust.

“You wanted to meet with her alone, didn’t you?” he said. “I want to know why.”

“I was afraid you’d muck it up, Henthas,” Grigor said wearily, “as you muck up everything. I don’t want a war with Chofya, though I’ll fight one if I have to. The last thing I need is you sitting in her presence chamber, insulting the queen and making idle threats.”

“A threat is only idle if the man making it is weak. It seems more likely that you’d be the one to ruin things, with your arrogance and your pride.”

Grigor looked at Numar, who was already watching him, the expression on his youthful face seeming to say, See? If you want to control him, you need me on your side.

“What is it you want?” he asked the younger man.

“I want what’s best for House Solkara,” Numar said. “Just as you do.”

Grigor couldn’t tell if he was being sincere, which scared him a good deal. He felt fairly certain, however, that Numar didn’t honestly believe that he had the family’s best interests at heart.

“And what would that be?”

Numar shrugged. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I want to hear what you and Chofya have to say to each other.”

The feast promised to go on well into the night, but Grigor left the hall a short time later with both brothers just a step behind him. It almost seemed that their mistrust of one another ran so deep that each was unwilling to allow the other two out of his sight. Chofya had seen to it that their quarters were together, and long after he entered his chamber and locked his door, Grigor continued to listen for any sign that either of his brothers was wandering about the castle. Only when he had satisfied himself that they weren’t going anywhere did he lie down to sleep. For some time, however, he lay awake in his bed, staring at the dim shadows cast onto his walls by the low fire in his hearth, and thinking back on what had just happened in the king’s hall.

He realized now that having heard Numar dismissed as a fool for so long, he had begun to believe it himself, though he should have known better. More than that, he had always assumed that Numar did not share his own lust for power and wealth. He couldn’t say why. Wasn’t Numar Tomaz’s son, just as the rest of them were? Perhaps, as the youngest, he had merely been clever enough to know that power would never be his so long as Carden sat on the throne. Now, however, with the king dead and the land teetering on the edge of upheaval, he could allow his ambitions to guide him. Having never tasted true power, Numar might have been even hungrier for it than Grigor, which only served to make him that much more dangerous.

Grigor had threatened his brother tonight. It had been vague to be sure, but a threat nonetheless. But now, lying in the dim orange glow of the dying fire, he wondered if he could really kill his own brother. And for the first time, he wondered if that brother-the youngest, the Fool-was capable of killing him.

They were lying in each other’s arms, their pulses just starting to slow, their breathing still quickened, a fine sheen of sweat on their bodies and faces, when they heard knocking at the door.

Evanthya stared into Fetnalla’s eyes, feeling panic rise in her chest.

“Whose room are we in?” she whispered. “I’ve forgotten.”

Fetnalla grinned, her eyes luminous in the candlelight, and kissed her lightly on the throat. “Yours.”

Evanthya pulled away and sat up. “Who’s there?” she called.

“Your duke.”

The minister sighed with relief. She wasn’t about to open the door, but at least it hadn’t been Brail or one of the other Qirsi ministers staying in the castle.

“Yes, my lord?” she said, quickly pulling on her clothes.

She heard him clear his throat, something he often did in awkward circumstances.

“I wish to speak with you,” he said. “Please come to my chambers as soon… when you can.”

“Yes, my lord. It will just be a moment.”

She turned to look at Fetnalla, who was smiling at her, having made no effort at all to dress. Evanthya frowned.

“You said he knew,” Fetnalla said with a shrug.

“Brail will be looking for you, too. And he doesn’t know.”

She made a sour face. “Maybe it’s time he did,” she said. But she began to put her clothes on as well.

In a few moments they were both dressed, and Evanthya stepped to the door.

“Wait a few moments after I’m gone, then slip out and return to your chambers,” she said, her hand resting on the door handle.

Fetnalla gave a small grin, tilting her head to the side. “Yes, my lord.”

Evanthya smiled and walked back to where Fetnalla stood. Rising to the tips of her toes, she kissed the woman gently on the lips.

“Forgive me.”

“Of course. You always get this way when you leave me to see your duke.”

Evanthya paused, gazing into her eyes. “Do I? I’m sorry.”

Fetnalla kissed her brow. “I’ve grown accustomed to it. I even find it charming in a way.”

They kissed one last time. Then Evanthya left the chamber, walked to Tebeo’s door, and knocked once.

“Come in!” the duke called immediately.

The minister stepped into the duke’s room, finding Tebeo and Brail seated by the hearth, both of them looking glum in the bright glow of a crackling fire.

“I thought Fetnalla was with you,” Brail said, scowling at her.

“She was, my lord. When Lord Dantrielle called for me, she went to find you, thinking that you might wish to speak with her.” The he came to her easily. She only hoped that Fetnalla would tell the same story.

Brail nodded and turned to the fire again, leaving Evanthya and Tebeo facing one another.

“You called for me, my lord?”

“Yes, First Minister. You saw what happened in the hall tonight, between the king’s brother and the queen?”

“I did, my lord.”

“Chofya and Grigor are to meet tomorrow morning. The queen wanted a private audience, but Grigor has insisted that his brothers be there as well. The queen, in turn, has asked Lord Orvinti to attend on her behalf, and she’s asked me as well, hoping perhaps that I will support her position.”

“For the regency, my lord?”

The duke of Orvinti turned at that. “You’ve been talking to my first minister.”

Fetnalla had spoken to her of how suspicious Brail had become. Hearing his tone now, seeing the distrust in his pale blue eyes, Evanthya understood that her love had not exaggerated the matter.

“I told you I had, Lord Orvinti. Your first minister guessed that you would enlist my duke in the queen’s cause, and she thought I should be prepared to advise him.”

“And what counsel would you offer?” Tebeo asked.

“Fetnalla seems to feel that any other course will lead to civil war.”

“This one might as well,” Brail told her. “I’m not certain that we wouldn’t be better off handing the throne to Grigor. He won’t make a very good king, but he might be able to keep the peace, albeit through fear and the threat of violence.”

“I thought you supported the queen, Lord Orvinti.”

The duke shrugged. “When Carden died, I gave her my word that I would aid her in any way I could. This is what she asked of me. But I’ve no illusions as to the difficulties a regency presents.” A knock at the door stopped him.

“Enter!” Tebeo said.

The door swung open and Fetnalla walked into the room.

“There you are, my lord,” she said, offering a small bow to Brail. “I searched for you after Lord Dantrielle came for the first minister.”

Evanthya breathed a small sigh of relief. Usually they worked out their story before they parted, but they had been in too much of a hurry this night. She wouldn’t let them forget again.

Brail nodded to her, but said nothing.

Instead, Tebeo gestured at an empty chair. “Make yourself comfortable, First Minister. We’ve been discussing a request from the queen that your duke and I attend a meeting tomorrow between Chofya and the new duke of Solkara.”

Fetnalla raised an eyebrow, glancing at Brail. “Strange that she’d want you there.”

“Grigor will have his brothers with him,” Brail said, his voice flat. “She wants us.”

“Do you support a regency, Lord Dantnelle?” Fetnalla asked.

Tebeo rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m not certain. Either way it seems that we’ll have to contend with Grigor. I just can’t decide whether he’s more dangerous as a regent or as king in his own right.”

“Does the queen have to name Lord Solkara as regent?” Evanthya asked. “Can’t she choose anyone she wants?”

“She doesn’t have to name Grigor,” Brail said. “But there are few other choices. Henthas would be no better, and no one expects her to ask the Fool. And if she goes outside of House Solkara, she risks war with Carden’s brothers and challenges from the other houses. Grigor is really the only one she can ask.”

“And you expect he’ll refuse.” Tebeo offered it as a statement, but he stared at the other duke as if awaiting a reply.

Brail shrugged. “He wants to be king. He made that much clear tonight in the hall. But I believe that he’ll look to the other houses before he decides whether to turn her down or not. If he senses that Aneira’s nobles will oppose a queen, he’ll claim the throne as his own. If, on the other hand, he sees that most of us support Chofya and will oppose his claim, he may accept her offer.” He gave a wan smile, though it was fleeting and appeared forced. “In either case, however, he has his heart and his eyes fixed on the crown. I’m certain of it. Even if he becomes regent, it won’t be long before he moves against Chofya and the girl.”

Fetnalla looked from one of the dukes to the other. “Am I correct in assuming that if Chofya succeeds in establishing a regency for her daughter, she can have a hand in choosing the girl’s ministers?”

Tebeo glanced briefly at Brail before nodding. “I believe that’s correct, though I’d have to consult the Volumes of Pernandis to be certain. It’s been over a century since the last regency.”

The Volumes of Pernandis had been compiled during the First Bistari Supremacy, nearly six centuries before. According to legend, they were written by King Pernandis the First, whose reign of forty years was still the longest in Aneiran history. The volumes listed most of the ruling customs established over the first two hundred years of the Aneiran monarchy, and though written by a Bistari, to this day they continued to guide all the courts of the kingdom, even House Solkara.

“We should find out for certain,” Fetnalla said. “If I’m right, it leaves us little choice but to back the queen.”

Brail looked at her skeptically. “Why?”

“Because she can name Pronjed as one of the girl’s ministers.”

The duke looked at Tebeo for an instant, the frown on his face deepening. “I thought you feared the archminister. I thought-” He hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the other duke once more. “I thought you suspected him of having a hand in the king’s death.”

Tebeo’s eyes widened. “Is this true?” he asked, staring at Evanthya.

“This is the first I’ve heard of it, my lord,” she said.

Fetnalla had mentioned to her an encounter with the archminister, but they had fallen into each other’s arms before having a chance to discuss it.

“I had a conversation with Pronjed this morning,” Fetnalla said, speaking to the three of them, though her eyes remained mostly on Evanthya. “I have reason to suspect that he may possess delusion magic.”

“What reason?” Tebeo asked.

“I can’t say, my lord. I swore an oath to the archminister that I would share our conversation with no one.”

“So it was Pronjed who was in your chambers this morning,” Brail said, looking frightened.

Fetnalla exhaled slowly. “Yes,” she admitted.

“And he asked you to heal an injury?”

“I cannot say more, my lord. Please try to understand.”

Brail propelled himself out of his chair and walked to the hearth, his body seemingly coiled like that of a wild cat. “You ask me to understand, but you tell me nothing. You warn me about how dangerous this man is, and then you suggest that we support the regency so that he can serve the girl as her archminister.” He threw up his hands. “Why should I trust your counsel?”

“Because I’ve given you no reason to doubt me,” Fetnalla said, raising her chin proudly, despite the reddening of her cheeks. “Because Grigor is your enemy, not I.”

“And what about Pronjed? A few days ago you told me that you were afraid of him.”

“I still am. But he’s no friend of Grigor, and I don’t believe he wants civil war.”

“But he might,” Brail said. “If he has delusion magic as you say, there’s no way to be sure, is there. Not even for you.”

Fetnalla opened her mouth, then closed it again. Finally she shook her head. “No, my lord. If his powers run that deep, I can’t be certain.”

The two of them fell silent, though they continued to stare at each other, the duke’s mistrust and Fetnalla’s dismay making the room’s air heavy as a winter fog.

After some time, Tebeo looked up at Evanthya, who still stood in the center of the chamber, uncertain of what to do.

“What say you, Evanthya?” he asked softly. “Do you know anything of the archmimster?”

Evanthya swallowed, her eyes meeting Fetnalla’s for just an instant. She feared that Fetnalla might begin to cry at any moment, and she would have said nearly anything to prevent that. But her duke had asked her about Pronjed, and she feared the archminister nearly as much as Brail did, nearly as much as she always thought Fetnalla had as well.

“I know that he’s a formidable man,” she said, choosing her words with care. “I’ve heard him called ruthless by some. He was always said to be a perfect match for his king.”

“But do you know anything of his powers?”

“No, my lord. Nothing at all.”

“Would you trust him if you thought he had this delusion magic?” Brail asked. “Would you be willing to place the fate of Kalyi’s regency in his hands?”

Evanthya forced herself to keep her gaze fixed on the duke, though she longed to look at Fetnalla. Brail knew nothing of their love affair, so he couldn’t have understood the difficult position in which he had placed her. This was small consolation, however.

“I suppose I would be reluctant to trust him, Lord Orvinti,” she finally said.

Brail nodded, looking at Tebeo and then Fetnalla. “There, you see?”

“I wouldn’t be eager to put my faith in the duke, either,” she added quickly. “Rather than arguing over which man poses less of a threat to the kingdom, I believe we’d be better served by looking for other possible solutions.”

“All other solutions lead to civil war,” Tebeo said.

“That may be. But at times such as these, men of influence must decide whether war is preferable to a tyrant.”

Evanthya chanced a look at Fetnalla, and regretted it immediately. The minister was staring at her as if she had just announced her intention to marry another. Her cheeks were scarlet and her pale eyes appeared red-rimmed, so that one might have thought she had been crying all this time.

“You’d actually counsel us to challenge House Solkara?”

Evanthya wanted to say something, to send some sign to Fetnalla that she was sorry, that she hadn’t intended to hurt her. But the woman looked away before she could, and Evanthya had to force herself to face her duke again so that she could reply.

“I would, my lord,” she said, struggling to keep her thoughts on the matters at hand. “If the crown stays with House Solkara, it will end up on the head of a man hated and feared throughout the land, or it will fall to a child whose best hope for surviving her regency rests with a Qirsi minister none of us trusts. Surely better choices lie elsewhere.”

“And what of the girl?” Brail demanded. “Are we just to wrest her father’s legacy from her grasp?”

“She is ten years old, Lord Orvinti. With Grigor as her regent and Pronjed as her archminister, do you really expect that she would survive the next six years? The regency is a death sentence for the child. All of us know that.”

“So we’re to ignore her mother’s wishes?”

“Yes,” Evanthya said, knowing how cold she sounded. “That’s my counsel.”

Both dukes stared at her for some time, saying nothing. At last, Tebeo gave a small nod.

“Very well, Evanthya. Thank you. You and the first minister are free to go. Brail and I have a good deal to discuss.”

“If I may, my lord,” she said. “If the two of you decide that you agree with me, I would strongly urge you to find some way to hide your decision from the duke of Solkara and the archminister. Perhaps even from the queen as well. In a sense, the war for the throne began this evening in the king’s hall, and Grigor probably thinks he’s already winning. He may not want to be regent, but he’ll see in it a possible path to power. Either way, he believes the crown is his. If he senses that the two of you intend to oppose House Solkara, he’ll want you dead. And since we can’t leave the city for several days more, he’ll have ample opportunity to have you killed.”

Brail narrowed his eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

“That until we’re safely away from Solkara, you should continue to talk and act as if you support the queen in this matter.”

“What?” the duke said. “If we support the regency now, we’ll appear to betray Chofya when we oppose House Solkara later.” He shook his head. “I won’t do it! It may not bother a Qirsi to be called a traitor, but I won’t bring such shame on House Orvinti!”

“That’s enough, Brail,” Tebeo said in a low voice, his gaze still fixed on Evanthya.

“You’re not actually going to listen to her, are you?” the duke asked.

Tebeo turned at that. “She’s my first minister. I listen to all her counsel, and I accept that she has my best interests and those of my house at heart.”

“But-”

“You may think that loyalty means nothing to the Qirsi, Lord Orvinti,” Evanthya said. “But you’re wrong. Fetnalla serves you faithfully, just as I do, my duke. You may not like the counsel I’ve just given, but I assure you that I offer it out of concern for my lord’s life as well as for my own. You said before that you suspected the king might have been murdered. This was the first I had heard of such a possibility, and I don’t know whether to believe it or not. But you must ask yourself, if someone was willing to kill the king, would they hesitate to kill a duke as well?”

“Thank you, First Minister,” Tebeo said again.

She faced her duke, hearing in his voice a request that she leave. He nodded to her once, as if to say that he would be all right without her.

After a moment, she bowed to him. “Very well, my lord.”

She walked to the door, sensing that Fetnalla was just behind her, and that the dukes were watching them both.

Even after the two ministers had stepped into the corridor and pulled the door closed behind them, they said nothing. Fetnalla regarded her briefly, the hurt still evident in her eyes. Then she started back toward her chamber, leaving Evanthya little choice but to follow.

Only when they stepped into Fetnalla’s room and Evanthya closed the door did her love turn to look at her.

“How could you do that to me?” she said, flinging the words at Evanthya like a dagger, and finding her heart with the blade.

“I’m not allowed to disagree with you?”

“Not in front of my duke! Not about this! I told you how suspicious of me he’s become, and still you made it sound like I was telling him to put his trust in a demon.”

“Because I honestly don’t trust Pronjed, and neither did you until now. What happened this morning? Why do you suddenly think he’s the kingdom’s best hope?”

Fetnalla looked away. “I’m not sure I can explain it,” she said, her voice lower.

Evanthya took a step toward her. She wanted to place a hand on Fetnalla’s shoulder. She wanted to take the woman in her arms. But she didn’t dare.

“Can you try?” she asked instead, gently, as one might speak to a child.

“I just don’t think that he wants a war,” Fetnalla said with a shrug.

“I’m sure he doesn’t. His fate is tied to House Solkara, Fetnalla. A war is the last thing he wants, because it may very well bring an end to the Solkaran Supremacy.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Evanthya took a breath. “I don’t want a tyrant.”

“I don’t either. But I’m more afraid of a war.”

She tried to smile. “Maybe together, we can find a way to avoid both.”

But Fetnalla shook her head. “I don’t think so. We’re working at cross-purposes. I don’t see any way for us to help each other.”

Evanthya thought she might cry. “But-”

“You should go. I’m tired, and I’m sure you must be as well.”

She had never heard Fetnalla’s voice sound so flat, so devoid of love.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked. She was the child now, small and frightened.

“I expect our dukes will keep their audience with the queen. I’ll see you then.”

Their eyes remained locked a moment longer. Evanthya wanted to say more, or more to the point, to hear Fetnalla say more. They hadn’t parted without speaking the words for so long, she hardly knew how to do it anymore. But Fetnalla kept herself still, and after a painfully awkward silence, Evanthya turned and left the room. Once in the corridor, she fell against the stone walls, stifling a sob with an effort that made her chest ache.

I love you, she wanted to cry out. I love you as I’ve never loved anyone.

But the stillness stopped her. Leaning closer to Fetnalla’s door, she felt her heart wither. She heard nothing, nothing at all. Not even the sound of tears.