Seeds of Betrayal

Chapter Fifteen

The funeral of King Carden the Third began with the tolling of the dawn bells on the eighth day of Bohdan’s waning. Nobles from across the land crowded into the wards of Castle Solkara to watch as the king’s body was carried forth from the castle cloister, set upon an ornate golden cart, and pulled toward the city streets by four white Caenssan steeds.

As the cart passed through the castle gates, beginning its long winding procession through the streets of Solkara, the nobles fell in step behind, like soldiers following their king to war. Out of the castle they walked, and into streets that were lined six deep on both sides for as far as the eye could see. Fetnalla saw few tears on the faces of those braving the cold to watch the procession; Carden had been feared, perhaps respected, but he was never loved. Mostly, she thought she read apprehension in the sunken eyes and begrimed faces of Solkara’s people. One didn’t have to be a duke or minister to understand that the kingdom faced a time of profound uncertainty. A prolonged struggle for the crown seemed imminent, war seemed likely. And though the people in the city streets might not have known precisely what was coming, or even the names of those most likely to shape their futures, they appeared to be steeling themselves for the worst.

The procession moved slowly, stopped more than once by mourners placing dried flowers in the path of Carden’s cart and bards standing in the lane to sing an elegy that they hoped would bring them fame and the good grace of Aneira’s ruling family. It was late in the morning, almost midday, before Carden’s final journey ended where it began, at the base of the castle’s cloister tower.

As the last of the nobles entered the castle ward once more, eight Solkaran soldiers in full battle raiment lifted the pallet holding the king’s body and bore it into the castle’s great hall. Inside, Solkara’s prelate led the kingdom’s most powerful men and women in prayer for their fallen leader. When the ceremonies ended, Garden was carried back out to the ward and placed upon a great pyre. Chofya and her daughter stepped forward, each bearing a lighted torch which they tossed onto the mountain of wood. Grigor, Henthas, and Numar followed, and finally the eight surviving dukes added their torches to the blaze. Soon the fire raged like a storm, warming the entire courtyard, bathing the stone walls with its yellow glow, and claiming the body of the dead king in a maelstrom of flame and smoke.

A feast followed the funeral, as was customary, but the mood in the hall seemed even more glum than one might have expected. Great platters of food sat uneaten on the tables as dukes and marquesses gathered in small groups around the periphery of the great chamber, speaking in hushed tones and eyeing rival nobles warily.

Tebeo and Brail stood together, as they always seemed to do under such circumstances, watching the rest, concern etched on both their faces. Usually, Fetnalla would have taken some comfort in having Evanthya nearby, but they had barely spoken since their fight several nights before. They stood as far as possible from one another; they didn’t even allow their eyes to meet.

Fetnalla knew that she had been wrong. Evanthya had every right to disagree with her. Had it not been for Brail’s persistent distrust of everything she did and said, she never would have reacted as she did. But having lost her temper, having dismissed Evanthya with such cold disdain, Fetnalla didn’t know how to heal the rift she had created. She had always been stubborn. Her mother had told her so in her youth, and Evanthya had done the same in the beds they shared. Now that willfulness and pride had cost her the one love she had ever known.

“Do you see how Gngor moves from one cluster of nobles to the next?” Brail asked quietly. “Before the night is over, he may have won over all the houses he needs to claim the throne.”

“Perhaps we should be doing the same,” Tebeo said.

“To what end? We have nothing to offer, no reason to make them listen to us.”

“We speak for the queen and her daughter. Isn’t that reason enough?

Brail shook his head. “It’s the queen’s place to speak for herself. And instead she sits with Kalyi, drying the child’s tears.”

“Isn’t that what she should be doing, Lord Orvinti?” Evanthya asked. “Wouldn’t you expect the same of your duchess, were this your funeral?”

Brail eyed her briefly, then nodded, looking away. “Yes. I suppose I would.”

Grigor did not bother to speak with the dukes of Orvinti and Dantnelle, no doubt knowing that their loyalties lay firmly with the queen. Fetnalla noticed as well that he didn’t circle the room in the company of his brothers. Henthas and Numar stood at the far end of the hall, watching Grigor, but keeping themselves apart from all the nobles. At least for a time. After Grigor stepped past Brail and Tebeo, an icy smile on his lips, Numar left his middle brother and approached the dukes.

“A word, my lords?” he said quietly, his gaze flicking from one of them to the other.

“Of course, Lord Renbrere,” Tebeo answered.

Numar glanced over his shoulder, as if making certain that Grigor wouldn’t hear him. “I wish to apologize for my brother’s behavior during our conversation the other day. His disrespect for the Council and his indifference to your concerns was inexcusable.”

“He seems a difficult man,” Brail said.

“Where his ambitions are concerned, he’s ruthless. You shouldn’t doubt for a moment that he’ll do anything he feels is necessary to gain the throne.”

“Nor should he doubt that we’ll oppose him with all the might at our disposal in order to protect the queen and the king’s heir,” Brail said. “I hope you’ll make that clear to him.”

Numar gave a chagrined smile. “It was Carden and Grigor who first called me the Fool, Lord Orvinti. I’m afraid my eldest brother has little regard for anything I tell him. But I will try.” He hesitated, though only for an instant. “I also wanted to say that if by some chance Grigor does agree to the queen’s proposition, you should all remain diligent in your protection of the girl. To be honest, I think Grigor a poor choice for her regent.”

“We agree,” Tebeo said. “But the queen seems to feel that she has no choice in the matter. A lord from another house would refuse to become entangled in the affairs of the Solkarans, fearing for his life.”

Numar nodded. “She may be right.”

“What about you, Lord Renbrere?” Brail asked. “Would you be willing to serve as regent for the girl?”

A strange look came into the man’s eyes and then was gone. “If it was the only way to preserve the Solkaran Supremacy, then yes, I would. But I’m afraid my brother would find the idea of me as regent even more distasteful than he would a regent from another house.”

“Your brother’s preferences in this matter are of little concern to us,” Tebeo said. “I’m asking you about yours. If the Council supports the queen, we may find it necessary to suggest someone other than Gngor as our choice for regent.”

“Let me think on it, Lord Dantrielle. You do me a great honor even to suggest this. But I must decide if I’m ready to break with my brother publicly.”

“Of course. I understand.”

They stood a moment in silence. Then Numar offered a small bow. “Thank you, my lords. We’ll speak again soon.”

He hurried back to Henthas’s side, just as Grigor stepped past the dukes a second time.

Once the older brother had gone by, Tebeo looked at Brail, raising an eyebrow. “We might have just found a way to avoid war.”

The feast finally ended late in the day with a last prayer offered by the prelate. Later that night, the Council was to meet in the king’s presence chamber with Grigor and Chofya, but for a time at least, Fetnalla had nothing to do. Usually, she and Evanthya would have taken such an opportunity to steal away together, to bed perhaps, or at least to enjoy a walk on the castle grounds. But Evanthya walked out of the great hall with her duke, leaving Fetnalla with Brail.

“I’ll be in my quarters if you need me,” the duke said, starting away from her. “I’ll expect you to meet me there shortly before the Council is to meet.”

Fetnalla nodded, but Brail didn’t bother to look at her. “Yes, my lord,” she called to him.

He raised a hand in a vague gesture of acknowledgment, but he didn’t turn or slow his gait. In a moment, she was alone.

The minister would herself have liked to leave, but with Brail having just walked away from her, and Evanthya before him, she felt foolish doing so, as if all those remaining in the hall would notice how they had left her. She was almost ashamed of how grateful she was when Pronjed approached her.

“First Minister,” he said, the look on his bony face even more grave than usual. “I’m glad I found you.”

“Yes, Archminister. How can I help you?”

“I saw your duke leaving without you and I wanted to make certain that you would be accompanying him to the meeting of the Council later tonight.”

Fetnalla nodded. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

“And will your friend as well? Dantnelle’s first minister?”

She swallowed, feeling her chest tighten. What have I done? “I assume she will be. Why?”

“You need to ask?” he said with a frown. “She speaks of civil war as if it were inevitable, as if it were something to be anticipated and enjoyed.”

“Evanthya doesn’t seek war, Archminister. And I assure you, no one abhors killing more than she.”

“One wouldn’t know it to listen to her.”

“She’s a brilliant woman who serves her duke well. She may not want war, but she’s wise enough to understand that we may have no choice in this instance.”

“You must think very highly of her.”

Fetnalla looked away. “I do.”

“I would think so, since she’s already convinced you to fight Grigor as well.”

“Evanthya has convinced me of nothing,” she said sharply. Such pride. “At least not yet,” she added, dropping her gaze once more. “She’s merely made me see that we can’t rule out war, just because it strikes us as distaste-fill.”

“It’s more than that!” Pronjed said with a fervor Fetnalla had never seen in him before. “War will be the ruin of us all, of Aneira itself. I’m certain of it.” This time it was the archminister’s turn to avert his eyes, his lips pressed thin. “You must help me find another way. Please.”

“I’ll do what I can, Archminister. I don’t want war. Truly I don’t. But wouldn’t we be fools to rule it out entirely? Doesn’t that weaken us in our discussions with Lord Solkara?”

Pronjed opened his mouth, rage in his pale eyes. Then he seemed to stop himself, though clearly it took an effort. “Yes,” he finally said. “I guess you’re right.” He looked over his shoulder at Chofya. “I should return to the queen. Thank you, First Minister.”

“You’re welcome.”

He spun away from her in a manner that told her he was still angry, and returned to the queen’s table. After standing where she was for another moment or two, Fetnalla left the hall and hurried back to her chamber. She was lonely and would have preferred to walk the gardens, or better yet the marketplace. But with alliances being formed and broken all around her, and Grigor collecting supporters as a quartermaster gathers weapons, she felt safer in the solitude of her room.

The time passed slowly, and Fetnalla was ready well before she began to hear voices of the other dukes and their ministers in the corridor outside her room. Still, when she stepped out of her chamber and over to Brail’s door, Tebeo and Evanthya were already there, and Brail was frowning at her as if she were hours late.

“At last,” he said, striding past her into the hallway.

Fetnalla cast a quick look at Evanthya, who offered a sympathetic smile. She smiled in return, feeling her face redden slightly. She shouldn’t have let the woman see how much a simple smile could please her, but just then she didn’t care. Pride be damned, she wanted her love back.

Most of the dukes had already arrived by the time Brail, Tebeo, and the two ministers reached the chamber. A servant was pouring Sanbiri red into goblets on a small table by the door while the nobles and their Qirsi took seats at a second, larger table in the center of the room. Grigor and Chofya were already sitting, one at either end of the table, their goblets already filled and resting before them. The queen sat with Pronjed, but Grigor was alone. Henthas and Numar were nowhere to be seen. Apparently, the duke of Solkara did not wish to have his brothers speaking for him on this night.

After several moments, the queen stood, lifting her wineglass. Grigor stood also, as did the others in the room. Servants brought the wine to the table, so that soon all were holding their goblets for a toast.

“Welcome, all of you,” Chofya said. “I know it’s been a long, wearying day, and I’m grateful to you for coming here tonight. Our kingdom has been without a leader for too long. The time has come for us to decide this matter once and for all. Let us hope that we can find the wisdom to keep Aneira at peace with herself.”

Grigor nodded, a thin smile on his lips. “Well said, Your Highness. But I would add that we must also keep Aneira strong, so that we do not invite challenge from our neighbors, particularly the kingdom to our north.”

Several of the dukes nodded their approval. This promised to be a difficult night for the queen.

Chofya gave a low sigh. “It seems we can’t even agree on a toast, Lord Solkara. Shall we drink simply to our realm then?”

The duke nodded. “Agreed. To Aneira.”

“To Aneira,” the dukes and ministers repeated.

Fetnalla took a sip of wine, then belatedly glanced toward Evanthya, who was watching her, still holding her glass. They had done this for several years, sharing a private silent toast whenever they attended such events together. Fetnalla smiled and raised her glass a second time.

Even as she did, however, she became aware of a queer sensation in her throat. She heard a strangled cry come from the queen, and then another from one of the dukes. Brail, who had started to sit, lurched back to his feet, staggered backward, and began to retch. But all Fetnalla could do was stare at Evanthya. The feeling in her throat was spreading down through her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe.

Evanthya was gaping at her, hands trembling until her wine started to spill. Aware suddenly of the goblet she was holding, Evanthya threw it away, as if it had abruptly become too hot to hold.

Fetnalla felt her stomach heave.

“Evanthya?” she called. Or tried to. The name came out as softly as a sigh.

Still Evanthya seemed to hear her. And as Fetnalla convulsed, vomiting violently onto the table, her love was at her side, her slender hands gripping Fetnalla’s shoulders.

All around them was turmoil and panic. Shouts of “See to the queen!” and “Someone help my lord!” filled the chamber. Fetnalla sensed people running to and fro all about them, but all she could do was stare at Evanthya’s face. Her chest burned like a smith’s forge and she struggled to draw breath.

“Evanthya,” she whispered.

There were tears on Evanthya’s face and a wild look in her eyes, such as a horse gets on a stormy night. “Yes, love. Yes. I’m here.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know. Be still now. Someone’s gone to fetch the surgeon.”

Fetnalla nodded, and with an effort, she tried to gaze around the chamber. Several dukes were on the floor, as was Chofya. Servants were screaming to each other, terror on their faces. She could hear people vomiting, and she felt her own stomach rise again.

Turning the other way, she saw Grigor still standing at the end of the table, his face ashen, his dark eyes as wide as a frightened child’s.

Fetnalla raised a hand, the effort almost more than she could bear, and pointed at him.

“You did this,” she mouthed, unable to make a sound.

The duke shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice quavering. “No, I swear.”

She wanted to call him a liar. She wanted to scream at him. But instead she felt herself convulse again. And as consciousness began to slip away from her, like a memory or a dream, she felt Evanthya’s arms easing her down to the floor.

“Where’s the surgeon?” Evanthya screamed again, through the tears running down her face.

No one answered, of course. Everyone who hadn’t been poisoned was seeing to someone who had. All of the servants had escaped harm, saved by their low station. A few of the ministers had waited for their dukes to drink before doing so themselves, and thus had been spared as well. Pronjed appeared to be fine, and though this raised Evanthya’s suspicions, she was hardly in a position to make accusations.

Still, she felt certain that Fetnalla had spoken for all of them when she accused Grigor. Pronjed had barked an order to the castle guards, and four of them now stood around the duke of Solkara, swords drawn and pressed against his back and chest.

Fetnalla was still breathing, but barely, the rise and fall of her chest nearly imperceptible in the torchlight. Tebeo was on his back as well, but still conscious. He had taken but a small sip of the wine and had been in the process of swallowing when the queen cried out. He managed to cough up most of what he drank, and had emptied his stomach of the rest. If any of those who had taken the wine were to survive, the duke would be one of them. Evanthya had gone to his side after laying Fetnalla on the floor, but he had waved her away.

“I’ll be fine, First Minister,” he had whispered. “Tend to the others. Tend to Brail and Fetnalla.”

Brail had collapsed to the floor some time before and had not moved since. One of the servants was laying wet cloths on his brow, but Evanthya feared the worst.

At last, the master surgeon burst into the room, followed by a number of his assistants, an older man who had to be the castle herbmaster, and several Qirsi. Let them be healers, Evanthya prayed silently, knowing that Carden had no Qirsi healers in the castle, but hoping that at least one of the gods might hear her.

The master surgeon hurried to the queen, but the other surgeons and the Qirsi began to move among those lying on the chamber floor. One of them, a young Qirsi wearing ministerial robes, knelt beside Evanthya and looked down at Fetnalla.

“Are you a healer?”

“Not by trade, but I have the power. How is she?”

“She’s having trouble breathing. She’s barely moved in some time.” Evanthya started to say more, but then began to cry.

“All right,” he said. “Let me see what I can do.”

She made room for the man and watched as he closed his eyes and laid his hands on Fetnalla’s chest and stomach.

One of the Eandi surgeons was kneeling beside Brail, a deep frown on his face. But he wasn’t giving up on the duke, and Evanthya took that as a good sign.

“What was it?” the master surgeon called out.

Looking up, Evanthya saw the herbmaster sniffing at one of the goblets.

“I can’t be certain,” the old man said. “But if I had to guess, I’d say it was oleander.”

“Oleander? That doesn’t even grow here. You’d have to go south of Noltierre to find any in Aneira.”

“Not today, you wouldn’t,” Evanthya heard herself say.

Both men stared at her.

“The funeral. It was all over the great hall and the cloister.”

The herbmaster nodded. “Of course.”

Oleander was also known as Bian’s Rose because it was used so often in funeral settings for kings and queens. Despite its noxious qualities, it was a beautiful shrub that remained green throughout the year and could be made to bloom even during the snows if taken inside and cared for properly.

“In that case, herbmaster,” the surgeon said, “bring me all the pink madder you have. That may be the only way to keep the palsy from their lungs.”

The old man nodded and rushed away. The surgeon turned to one of the servants. “Bring tea. Uulranni, if you have it. Otherwise Caerissan will do. Make it strong and make a lot of it.”

This man too offered a quick nod and then left to do the surgeon’s bidding.

Evanthya turned back to the young Qirsi healer kneeling beside Fetnalla. “Is she going to…?” She stopped, unsure of what she wanted to say, and almost afraid to hear his reply to any question she might ask.

He shook his head, his eyes still closed. “I don’t know yet. A healer’s touch only goes so deep. She’ll probably need the madder and tea, just like the others.”

Evanthya began to nod, then stopped herself, realizing that he couldn’t see her anyway. As she continued to kneel there, watching the healer, Pronjed walked past her to where Grigor still stood, surrounded by the guards.

The duke of Solkara’s face had regained little of its color, but he held himself straight-backed and proud, as befitted a man seeking the throne.

“You honestly believed you could do this and go unpunished?” Pronjed said, stopping just beside him. “You thought you could poison the queen?”

“I’ve poisoned no one,” Grigor said, gazing straight ahead.

“Come now, Lord Solkara. You want us to believe that you came through this ordeal unharmed by sheer good fortune?”

He did turn at that, a sneer on his fine features. “You’re fine, Archminister.” He gestured at Evanthya. “So is she. Several Qirsi survived this,” he went on, looking around the chamber. “I don’t hear you accusing them.”

“None of the Qirsi in this room seek to take the throne from the queen and her child. None of us has sworn to defy this council.”

“Perhaps not, but all of us know of the conspiracy. And all of us know that poison in the weapon of a Qirsi. An Eandi uses his sword and his strength. I have no need for magic and potions.”

Evanthya saw at least one of the guards waver.

“Hold your place!” Pronjed commanded, seeing it as well. “You serve the queen, not this man!” He lifted Grigor’s goblet and sniffed it. Then he held it out to the duke. “Drink this.”

“Are you mad?” the surgeon said from across the room. “I’ve already got more patients than I can handle. I won’t allow you to poison another man, no matter what you think he’s done.”

A cold smile touched Pronjed’s lips. “He won’t be poisoned, you fool. That’s the whole point. There is no poison in this cup.”

“Then you drink it,” Grigor said.

Pronjed raised an eyebrow. “Very well.” Throwing back his head, he drained the goblet, wiped a drop of wine from the corner of his mouth, and returned the cup to the table. “You see?” he said. “No poison.”

“How did you know?” the surgeon asked, his voice low.

Pronjed didn’t take his eyes off the duke. “I saw him drink with the others just after the toast.” He stared at Grigor briefly. “Tell me, Lord Solkara. You’re so convinced that a Qirsi is behind this. Are you willing to drink from my cup as I just have from yours?” He gestured toward Evanthya. “Will you drink from this woman’s, or from any of the others meant for Qirsi lips?”

Grigor swallowed and looked away. “No,” he whispered.

“I see.”

“But I’m telling you,” the duke said a moment later, raising his eyes again, “I didn’t poison anyone. I had no need. A majority of the Council was prepared to support me.”

“But if they hadn’t been, then you would have killed them. Is that what you mean?”

“Of course not. I’m just saying-”

“I’ve heard enough,” Pronjed said, turning his back on the duke and returning to the queen. “Take him to the prison tower. He’s a duke, and should be treated as such. Don’t put him in the dungeon, but be certain to chain him to the wall, feet and hands. He has allies in this castle, and I don’t want them winning his freedom.”

Two of the guards sheathed their weapons, grabbed the duke’s arms, and started dragging him toward the door.

“Release me!” Grigor shouted, struggling to break free. “I didn’t poison anyone!”

Pronjed didn’t even look at him again. None of them did.

“Let go of me!” he yelled, as the soldiers pulled him into the corridor. “I didn’t do this! I swear it on the memory of my brother!”

“The man knows no shame,” the archminister said in a low voice, as the duke’s cries continued to echo through the castle halls. “He’ll hang before long.”

Evanthya had little sympathy for Grigor, but she couldn’t help feeling that his denials had the ring of truth to them. Again she found herself wondering if there might have been more to Pronjed’s escape than mere good fortune.

In the next instant, the herbmaster returned bearing several vials of ground madder root, and almost immediately after, several servants arrived with steaming pots of tea. The surgeon had the herbmaster mix the root right into the tea, and then directed the servants and healers to administer the tea to all who had ingested the poison.

Evanthya helped the young Qirsi lift Fetnalla into a sitting position and held her there as the man gently spooned tea into her mouth. At first the tea just dribbled down the woman’s chin, staining her ministerial robes. She felt cold to the touch, and Evanthya feared that they had lost her already. Finally, though, Fetnalla seemed to swallow a small amount. A moment later she began to cough and retch. But her eyes fluttered open briefly, and when the healer offered more tea, she swallowed.

“Gods be praised,” Evanthya whispered.

The healer glanced at her. “Indeed.”

An Eandi surgeon tending to Brail called for assistance, and the healer handed the spoon to Evanthya.

“But I don’t know-”

“There’s no secret to it. Just keep giving the tea to her. As much as you can make her drink.” He smiled kindly. “You’ll do fine.”

After a moment, she nodded. She began to feed Fetnalla the tea, which was the color of rusty iron and smelled slightly bitter, though she couldn’t tell if that was the tea itself, or the madder root that had been added to it. For a long time she gave little thought to what was happening around her, giving all her attention to Fetnalla and the tea. The color started to return to the woman’s face, and her breathing gradually grew less labored. She didn’t open her eyes again, nor did she say anything or give any indication that she knew Evanthya was there. But she was alive, and with all that had happened, Evanthya could hardly ask for more. Eventually, Fetnalla refused more tea and Evanthya allowed her to lie down once more. She gazed at Fetnalla’s face for a few moments, then rose, her knees stiff and sore, and walked to where the healer and a surgeon were spooning tea into Brail’s mouth. The duke was drinking as well, though his face remained deathly pale and shiny with sweat.

“She stopped taking it,” Evanthya said. “I think she looks better.”

The healer glanced quickly at Fetnalla. “You’re right, she does. Well done.”

“How’s the duke?”

The man shrugged. “He’s taking the tea, which is something.”

“Do you need my help?”

“No, but others might. Go ask the master surgeon.”

She walked to the end of the table, where the master surgeon was overseeing the care of the queen. There were two other surgeons there, as well as a Qirsi healer. Circling the room once, she found that all those who had survived the poisoning thus far were being treated. She returned to Tebeo, who was still on his back, his eyes closed, and a hand resting under his head.

“My lord?”

He opened one eye. “Yes, Evanthya. What news of the queen?”

She sat beside him. “The master surgeon says it’s too soon to know. She takes the tea, but her breathing is still weak and her face is grey.”

“Demons and fire,” the duke muttered. “What about Brail and Fetnalla?”

“The duke is much the same as the queen. Fetnalla took some tea and has better color than before.”

“I suppose that’s something at least. And the others?”

“Lord Tounstrel is dead, my lord, and Lord Noltierre is failing.”

Tebeo closed his eyes. “Vidor and Bertin. No one hated the Solkarans more. Except maybe poor Chago, and they already took care of him.”

“The first ministers of Kett, Rassor, and Bistan are dead as well.”

“I’m sorry, Evanthya,” he said, opening his eyes again. “Did you know them well?”

“Not very, my lord.”

“Still. This will be remembered as one of Aneira’s darkest nights. I expect such things from the Eibitharians, but for one Aneiran noble to do this to others…” He let the thought go unfinished, shaking his head.

“Have you had enough of the tea, my lord? I know that you’re better off than most, but you did drink some of the poison.”

He made a sour face. “I’ve had more than enough. I never liked Uulranni tea to begin with. The madder root just makes it worse.”

Evanthya smiled, as if at a complaining child. “The taste is secondary, my lord.”

“I know, Evanthya. I’ve had plenty. I promise.”

“Very well.” She started to stand again, then stopped herself. “My lord, thank you for letting me go to Fetnalla. I’m sure she would have survived anyway, but I was able to help her. I’ll always be grateful to you for that.”

“You’re welcome.”

She tried to stand a second time, but the duke grabbed her arm.

“Grigor will hang for this, First Minister. I’ll see to it. I swear it to all the gods who’ll listen, he’ll hang.”

They had placed Grigor in the topmost chamber of the prison tower, manacles on his wrists and ankles holding him to the stone wall facing the iron door. The room was semicircular, with two narrow windows at opposite ends of the arcing wall and a single sputtering torch mounted on the wall just to the left of the door. The room was clean and smelled only of torch smoke and his own sweat. Still, there could be no mistaking it for anything but what it was: a prison. As boys, he and Carden had often played in the tower, pretending to be archers in this very room. Never in his wildest imaginings, though, had he thought to be a prisoner in the castle of his ancestors.

He felt certain that Chofya’s Qirsi had done this to him. Who else could hope to gain so much by turning the entire Council against him?

Chofya herself, perhaps. But while she might have harbored ambitions for her daughter, or even herself, he knew she wasn’t capable of this. It had to be the archminister.

Knowing this did little to help him, however. Unless he could convince someone else, someone other than his brothers, he would be executed before the end of the waning.

He heard footsteps on the tower stairs and strained to see through the small barred grate at the top of the door.

After a moment a guard appeared, and with him Numar.

“I’ll have to take your weapons, my lord,” the soldier said.

Numar nodded. “Of course.”

Gngor heard the ring of steel as his brother drew his sword and dagger and handed them to the man. The door swung open and Numar stepped into the room. After a moment the door closed again and the lock was thrown.

“I’ll be at the base of the tower if you need anything, my lord.”

“Yes, thank you,” Numar said, walking slowly around the chamber. He stopped at one of the small windows and stared out into the night. “I remember this window offering a fine view by day,” he said, looking over at Grigor for just an instant.

“I sent for Henthas,” Grigor said. “Where is he?”

Numar gazed out the window for another few seconds, then resumed his pacing. “Ah, poor Henthas. He thinks you might really have done this, though he’s not certain. And he fears that the soldiers will come for him as well, seeing him as your closest ally in Solkara. At this point, he doesn’t know whether to raise the Renbrere army and attack this tower, or disguise himself as a cloister adherent and flee the castle.” He faced Grigor again. “How is it that I became the Fool and not him?”

In that instant Grigor knew. He felt as though he had been kicked in the groin.

“It was you,” he breathed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Numar said with a grin that gave the lie to his denial.

“You killed all those people, just to keep me from the throne.”

“First of all, I doubt very much that I killed all of them. I used a fairly light hand. Some of the older dukes might die, and a few Qirsi. But Chofya ought to survive, and most of the Council.”

“You’re mad.”

“Second of all,” he went on, ignoring Grigor for the moment, “there was more to this than just keeping you from the throne. I expect they’ll make the girl queen now, and who do you think they’ll trust with her regency. Henthas? He’s another jackal, just like you. But I’m only a fool. And when they realize that I’m really quite intelligent, they’ll probably beg me to serve.”

“They’ll find out. You won’t be able to hide this forever.”

“Why not? You think they’ll listen to you?”

“Someone will.” But even saying the words, Grigor knew it wasn’t true.

“You know better,” Numar said. “You made this possible for me years ago. You and Carden, and even Henthas, I suppose. The Jackals and the Fool. You’ve hanged yourself, Grigor. It’s not just that the other nobles believe you’re capable of poisoning those dukes. It’s that they want to believe it. You’ve spent so much of your life making them fear you, that you never thought to make them like you.” He smiled again. “They despise you, brother. Bards will write songs of the day you hang. People will dance in the streets. It hardly matters who put the oleander in their goblets. You tied your own noose years ago.”

His brother had planned it perfectly, Grigor realized. Like a Qirsi magician entertaining children, he had deceived all of them, making them see just what he wanted them to see.

“What is it you want, Numar?” he asked, feeling the metal bite at his wrists, desperate now for anyway out of this.

“The same as you. I’m Tomaz’s son, too, remember? I want to sit on Father’s throne. The difference between us is that I’m patient enough to allow the girl to get me there.”

“If you kill her as well, someone’s bound to figure out all of this.”

“It won’t matter by then. I’ll have the Council, and I’ll have the army.”

“I can help you with that. No one will ever trust me with the throne now, or the regency. But they still fear me. They will even more after this. With me at your side, no one will ever think to challenge you.”

Numar stepped closer, stopping just in front of him, the smile still on his lips. “I’m sorry, Grigor, but I know you too well. You could never bring yourself to accept me as your king. Sooner or later you’d try to have me killed. For now, you’re much more valuable to me in chains. And though I hate to see another Solkaran die, I’ll feel a good bit safer once you’ve been executed.”

Screaming his rage, Grigor launched himself at the man, only to find that the chains held him fast. Numar stood just beyond his reach.

“As I said, you’re much more valuable to me in chains.”

He turned away and walked to the door.

“Guard!” he called.

“I’ll stop you, Numar. I’ll find a way. And when I do, I’ll kill you myself.”

Numar glanced back at him and grinned, saying nothing.

“The man’s a murderer!” Grigor shouted as the guard appeared. “He poisoned your queen and the Council of Dukes! Don’t let him out of here!”

The guard unlocked the door and opened it for Numar.

“Thank you,” Numar said. He stopped in the corridor outside the door, gazing back at Grigor as the guard locked the door again. “Take care of him,” he said. “I know what he’s done. But he was once a noble of House Solkara. Even with the shame he’s brought upon us, we must never forget that.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“He’s lying! He’s betrayed our house, our realm! You must believe me!”

The guard didn’t even look at him, and Grigor’s words echoed through the tower like a rumble of thunder that brings no rain, the desperate, empty cries of a condemned man.