Seeds of Betrayal

Chapter Nineteen

Solkara, Aneira

Tebeo paced the room restlessly, like a Sanbiri mount held too long in a stable. He looked healthier than he had at any time since the poisoning. His face remained wan and thin-though he had his strength again, he had not yet regained his appetite- but the very fact that he was on his feet once more marked much improvement from just a few days before.

Evanthya watched him, waiting for the questions he had posed every day since that awful night in the queen’s chambers. How was the queen faring? Brail? Fetnalla? The others? It had become a ritual of sorts, a way, no doubt, for the duke to feel that he was more than just another victim of Grigor’s twisted ambition. He was, among all the dukes, the one who had most fully recovered, and though he could not help but be thankful for his good fortune, Evanthya sensed that he felt guilty as well.

Eventually the questions did begin, and the minister told her duke what she knew of the others who had drunk the tainted wine. It now seemed clear that all those who survived the first night after the poisoning were going to be all right. Brail had recovered enough to leave his bed that morning and take a slow stroll through the corridors of the castle. Fetnalla was improving quickly, though she was still weakened, as were most of the other afflicted Qirsi. Even the queen, who hovered near death for so long that many feared she would never regain consciousness, had finally opened her eyes the day before and now appeared to be gaining strength with each hour that passed.

They had been fortunate, if such a word could be used in these circumstances, to lose only the two dukes-Bertin of Noltierre and Vidor of Tounstrel-and the first ministers of Kett, Rassor, and Bistari, all of whom died that first night.

“Has there been any word yet from Numar?” the duke asked, when Evanthya had told him all she knew about Grigor’s victims.

“No, my lord. None. I believe he may be waiting until Grigor’s fate is decided before he formally offers himself as regent.”

“Grigor’s fate was decided the night he poured that wine.”

“Of course, my lord. But he lives still, and so long as he does the house is his to rule.”

Tebeo’s face twisted sourly, but after a moment he nodded. “What do you think he’ll do?”

“I believe he’ll wait until Grigor has been executed, and then he’ll grant our request. If he intended to say no, he would. He only waits because he intends to say yes.”

The duke’s expression brightened somewhat. “I suppose you’re right. Has the queen said when she intends to have Grigor put to death?”

“Not that I’ve heard, my lord. Soon, I believe.”

“I’d like to know for certain. I want to be there. I want to see it.” He took a breath, as if trying to calm himself. “Can you speak with the archminister?”

Evanthya wavered, though only briefly. “Of course, my lord.”

“You seem reluctant.”

He hates me, and I fear him. “No, my lord. I’ll speak with him and let you know what I’ve learned.” She rose from her chair. “Is there anything else, my lord?”

“No, Evanthya. Thank you.”

She crossed to the door, but before she could open it, the duke spoke her name again. Evanthya turned to face him once more, waiting. He had stopped pacing.

“Do you distrust the archminister because he came through this atrocity unscathed?”

The minister smiled, though she felt herself begin to tremble. “I did as well, my lord. I can hardly blame Pronjed for his good fortune.”

“But I sense that you do anyway.”

She wanted first to speak of this with Fetnalla. She would have already, had the awkwardness that began before the poisoning not still stood between them. They had spoken in recent days, and Evanthya had spent a good deal of time in Fetnalla’s chamber, sitting with her and feeding her when Fetnalla was too weak to feed herself. But their conversations remained difficult and they had not yet been able to speak of Pronjed, Grigor, and the matters that first caused their quarrel.

Tebeo, for all his fine qualities, was still an Eandi noble, proud, but easily frightened by talk of the conspiracy. He had also proven himself to be a friend, however, and she owed him an honest answer.

“I find it strange that he never drank from his glass. I didn’t drink…” She paused, feeling her cheeks redden. “Fetnalla and I always toast each other at such occasions. She forgot that night, I didn’t. But I don’t know why Pronjed hesitated.”

“You think he may be a part of the conspiracy.”

“I have no proof of this.”

“But you suspect it.”

She paused, then nodded.

Tebeo took a step toward her. “Evanthya, I need to know everything you can tell me about this Qirsi movement. Even if it’s not responsible in this case, the very fact that you’re wondering about the archmmister tells me the time has come to speak of this with the Council of Dukes and the queen.”

He was right, of course. Indeed, it was well past time. Yet, what could she tell him? That she had hired a man to kill the one Qirsi she knew of in the movement? That she and Fetnalla had taken it upon themselves to combat the traitors among their people? Just a turn ago it had seemed a necessary step, a dark but justifiable way of striking a blow for those Qirsi who called the Forelands their home and considered the Eandi their friends. But in the wake of all that happened since, her doubts had grown too great. She could hardly bring herself to speak of it with Fetnalla, much less her duke. Too many people had died. This murder she had purchased, as one might buy cloth in the marketplace of Dantnelle, now seemed as cruel and arbitrary as the poisoning. She felt like an archer who looses an arrow, only to wish vainly that she could call it back to her bow.

“I know so little about the conspiracy, my lord. I’ve already told you what I can.”

Tebeo looked disappointed, but after a moment he nodded. “I thought you had, but I felt I should ask.”

She wanted to help him. Seeing how Brail treated Fetnalla, particularly recently, during their stay in Solkara, Evanthya had come to appreciate her duke more than ever. Which might have been why she didn’t simply let the matter drop.

“I can tell you, my lord, that those who lead the conspiracy have a good deal of gold. I’ve heard that those who work on their behalf are paid very well.” She still remembered the look on the assassin’s face when she paid him-ninety qinde, all the gold she and Fetnalla had between them. And clearly the assassin had expected far more.

“Do you know where this gold comes from?”

“No, my lord.”

“We should find out. Knowing that would certainly tell us much about the leaders of the movement.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They stood in silence briefly, Tebeo appearing lost in thought, and Evanthya waiting for him to grant her leave to go. At last he looked up at her again.

“My thanks, First Minister. I look forward to speaking with you again later.”

She offered a small bow. “Yes, my lord.”

Leaving him, she followed the turns of the castle corridors to Fetnalla’s chamber, knocking once before letting herself into the room.

Like all of the chambers on this end of the castle, this one was small and dark, with a single narrow window, and a fire in the hearth that didn’t quite manage to warm the chamber sufficiently.

Fetnalla was sitting up in her bed, a candle burning on the table beside her. She was staring toward the small window, a far-off look in her pale eyes. Seeing Evanthya, she smiled and gave a slight shake of her head, as if rousing herself from a dream.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“No. I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

Fetnalla shrugged. “Earlier today Brail spoke with the castle surgeon about the poisoning. He was here a short while ago, telling me what he had learned.”

Evanthya sat on the edge of the bed. “Did the surgeon tell him anything interesting?”

“Not really. Nothing beyond what we already knew. There was oleander in the wine, not a lot, but enough to kill some of us.”

“That’s odd. Why wouldn’t Grigor use more than that?”

“Maybe he couldn’t find more. Maybe he’s not familiar with poisons.‘

Both seemed possible. Still, she could not keep from thinking back to that night in the presence chamber and remembering Grigor’s denials. Even then, she had sensed that there was more to them than the desperate, hollow claims of a guilty man. This information about the poison only served to feed her doubts.

“You have that look again, Evanthya.”

She looked at the woman, unable to keep from smiling at the sound of her own name. “What look?”

“Like you’re readying yourself to stir up trouble. You don’t think Grigor did this, do you?”

“Can you forgive me?” Evanthya asked abruptly, ignoring the question at least for the moment. “Can you… Can you love me again?”

Fetnalla placed her hand over Evanthya’s. It felt cool and smooth, just as Evanthya remembered. “I never stopped loving you. You should know that. And as for the rest, I think I should be asking your forgiveness, not that other way around.”

Evanthya leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. She wanted to hold her, to kiss her far more deeply than this. But not here, in this room where Fetnalla had almost died.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

“I know. I’ve missed you, too.”

They kissed again.

“Now answer me,” Fetnalla said, grinning, her head tilted to the side as always. “What about Grigor?”

She took Fetnalla’s hand, needing to be touching the woman in some way. “I’m not certain what I think. Tebeo asked me if Pronjed could be part of the conspiracy, and I had to admit that I thought it possible.”

“Brail has asked me the same thing, just as he did when Carden died. I suppose I think it’s possible as well.”

“Then Grigor may not be lying when he says he’s innocent.”

“True,” Fetnalla agreed. “But remember, Grigor is saying far more than that. He claims that Numar did this, not Pronjed. And I don’t think anyone in the castle believes that.”

Evanthya shook her head. “I’m confused. You still believe Grigor did this?”

Fetnalla hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “I think that with all that’s happened in the Forelands over the past several turns, it’s easy for us to forget that sometimes those who appear guilty really are guilty.”

“Then what about Pronjed?”

“As you yourself pointed out some time ago, it may be that neither man can be trusted. Would it really surprise you to learn that one of them was a murderer and the other a traitor?”

Evanthya felt her cheeks burning. Fetnalla was referring to the night of their fight, when she had disagreed with Fetnalla in front of both their dukes. “No, I don’t suppose it would.”

“It would be nice to know for certain, though,” Fetnalla went on, her tone light. Having brought up their disagreement, she seemed eager to move beyond it. “It’s time we found a way to determine which Qirsi we can trust and which ones we can’t.”

Such a simple statement. It was nothing that Evanthya hadn’t thought herself a dozen times before. Yet in this instance, it struck her so powerfully that she actually found herself standing, though she didn’t remember getting to her feet.

“What is it?” Fetnalla asked, eyeing her with concern.

She even knew where to look. With any luck at all, the man was already looking for her.

“There might be a way,” she said breathlessly. She stooped quickly, kissed Fetnalla on the brow, and strode to the door. “I’ll be back later.”

“Where are you going?” Fetnalla called, as Evanthya stepped into the corridor.

“To the city, to continue a conversation I began several days ago.”

As far as Tavis was concerned, they had already been in Solkara for too long. The assassin wasn’t here. He might have been once, though they had found no proof of this. No one among those they questioned even knew of the assassin. That is, no one except for the Qirsi minister Grinsa and he met their first morning in the royal city. And she denied knowing the man. Still, the gleaner seemed certain that she was lying, that in fact she had spoken to the assassin in her home city of Dantrielle. It was this, the vague instinct of a Weaver, that kept them there, spending Curgh gold for a room in a Qirsi inn where Tavis’s father would never have deigned to sit, much less sleep, and waiting for a chance to question the minister again.

It had been several days since they saw her last. That same night, the queen, several of Aneira’s dukes, and many of their ministers had been poisoned. For all Tavis and the gleaner knew, Dantrielle’s first minister was dead, a victim of Grigor’s ambition.

Tavis raised this possibility with Grinsa as word of the atrocity spread through the streets, but the gleaner dismissed the suggestion with a shake of his head, his eyes rising to the castle towers as if he could see the minister through the grey stone walls.

“Everything we’ve heard tells us that those who died, Eandi and Qirsi, were older. Evanthya is a young woman. Even if she was stricken, I’m sure she survived. Besides,” he added, glancing at Tavis, “this is no time for an Eibitharian noble to be captured sneaking out of Aneira’s royal city.”

How could he argue?

So they remained in the city, wandering the marketplace by day, and haunting the taverns at night, making themselves familiar to those who frequented the inns, and, they hoped, gradually earning their trust. They didn’t ask about the assassin again, at least not for several days. But Grinsa suggested to Tavis that he stop trying to hide his scars.

“Let them see you,” he told the young lord. “Let them wonder about the wounds and the blade that caused them.”

At first, Tavis found their stares and questions almost impossible to bear. Every eyebrow that went up at the sight of his face, every whistle through gritted teeth that greeted him as he entered an inn, every thoughtless remark-“Lad looks like he’s been through a war”; “I’ve never known road thieves to have such a heavy hand”; “A pity, seems he might have been fair of face once”-brought back his grief at losing Brienne and dark memories of the horrors he endured in Kentigern’s dungeon. Still, he understood the reasoning behind Grinsa’s request. Convincing the men and women they met in the taverns to talk about the assassin had been difficult. If he and the gleaner could win their trust, and at the same time make them believe that the singer was responsible for Tavis’s injuries, they just might learn something about the man or his whereabouts.

As of yet, however, on the last day of both the turn and the year, they hadn’t gleaned anything new. Still weary after another uncomfortable night in the tiny bedchamber they were renting, Tavis’s patience had run out.

“Father’s gold isn’t going to last much longer,” he said, not bothering to conceal his annoyance as they walked past the peddler’s carts. “And we’ve nothing to show for all the qinde we’ve spent here.”

Grinsa scanned the marketplace, as if too intent on his vain search for the minister to bother looking at him. “If we weren’t spending the gold here, we’d be spending it elsewhere,” he said. “Unless you’re ready to start sleeping in the wood rather than in a bed.”

“The snows are almost on us,” Tavis said. “No doubt they’ve begun already to the north. And you speak of sleeping in the wood?”

Still the gleaner didn’t look at him, though he did grin. “As you say, your father’s gold can’t last forever. Eventually you’re going to have to choose between sleeping on the ground and working to earn more gold.”

Tavis shook his head and muttered a curse. Neither possibility appealed to him.

“Let’s just find the assassin and be done with it. If I’m going to suffer through the snows, I’d just as soon do it in my own castle.”

They both knew that wasn’t likely to happen this year, perhaps not ever again. But Grinsa had the grace and sense not to say anything.

They passed much of the morning walking the length and breadth of the marketplace, nodding to those they recognized from the taverns and stopping to greet peddlers with whom they had spoken before. Once again, neither Tavis nor Grinsa mentioned the assassin, or asked questions of any sort. Despite his concerns about their gold, Tavis sensed that the gleaner had no intention of leaving Solkara any time soon. He could also see that Grinsa continued to search the marketplace with his eyes, even as he spoke and laughed with the sellers.

By midday they had covered much of the city, and they paused as the bells rang, trying to decide whether to return to the inn at which they were staying, or buy a small meal from one of the food vendors.

Tavis’s feet ached, and he told the gleaner as much, hoping he could convince Grinsa to go back to the inn.

“It will cost us less to eat in the marketplace,” the Qirsi said. “If you’re truly concerned about your father’s gold…” He didn’t bother to finish. He didn’t have to.

Before Tavis could respond, however, they heard a light footfall behind them.

“I’d have thought you’d be harder to find. Men such as yourselves should travel the city with care.”

They both turned to see the minister standing before them. She held a dagger in her hand, though she held it close to her body so that others in the marketplace wouldn’t see. Her bright golden eyes were fixed on Grinsa and her expression was grim.

“I’m glad to see that you’re all right,” the gleaner said. “I was concerned when I heard of the poisoning.”

The woman actually laughed, though the look in her eyes didn’t change. “Were you?”

“Yes. I trust your duke is well?”

A moment’s hesitation, then, “Yes. Thank you.”

Grinsa’s gaze wandered to her dagger. “Is that intended for us?”

Her face blanched, even as her blade hand remained steady. “I carry it to protect myself.”

“From us.”

A pause, then, “Yes.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that you don’t need it, that we bear you no malice?”

“No, I don’t think I would.”

The gleaner shrugged, but Tavis could see that he was troubled.

“Very well,” he said. “Is this a chance meeting, or have you come looking for us?”

“The latter. I want to ask you some questions.”

“Can you give me any reason why we should answer? You show no trust, you doubt me when I say that I was concerned for your safety, and you stand before us bearing a blade. Are you offering anything in return, Minister?”

“I offer your continued freedom,” she said. “I could just as easily have you arrested as members of the Qirsi conspiracy. I have no doubt that the men in Solkara’s dungeon would have no trouble getting answers to the same questions I wish to ask. But their methods are sure to be far less gentle than mine. An hour with them, and this blade will seem a trifle.”

At the mere mention of the dungeon, Tavis felt himself begin to tremble and sweat. He was certain that hers was an empty threat, but his memories of Kentigern were still too fresh in his mind.

Grinsa laid a hand on his shoulder, his eyes still on the minister. “I don’t think you have any intention of having us arrested. You have no evidence that we’re part of the conspiracy, unless you refer to our inquiries about the Eandi singer. And if that’s the case, you’d have to explain your own knowledge of the man, which I can’t imagine you want to do.”

The woman opened her mouth, closed it again. The hand holding the blade fell to her side.

“As it happens, Minister, we might be willing to answer your questions, but only if you agree to answer ours in return.”

“I can’t do that,” she said.

“Then you’d best call for the Solkaran army, or prepare yourself to use that dagger. Because you have no other means of compelling us to tell you anything.”

The minister glared at him, seeming to weigh her choices. Her grip on the blade tightened, whitening her knuckles, and Tavis sensed that she was ready to summon the castle guard. After what seemed a long time, however, her expression softened somewhat. She glanced down at her blade, then sheathed it.

“I can’t tell you everything,” she said, her voice low. “But I will answer some of your questions.”

“Fair enough,” Grinsa answered after a moment’s pause. “Where shall we go?”

She glanced about, appearing unsure of herself.

“You don’t want to be seen or heard speaking with us at any length, but neither do you trust us enough to go somewhere private.”

The minister met his gaze again. “You understand me quite well, don’t you?”

“I know how I’d feel. Why don’t we return to the inn at which we met the first time? We’ll have some privacy there, but the innkeeper can guarantee your safety.”

“Very well.” She gestured toward the far side of the marketplace. “After you.”

They walked to the inn in silence, the minister a few steps behind them, as if she expected them to flee at any moment. Tavis wasn’t certain that he trusted her any more than she did the two of them. Not only did she have a blade at the ready, but she was also Qirsi. Who knew what powers she possessed? Grinsa appeared perfectly willing to keep his back to her, however, and not for the first time, Tavis was glad to be traveling in the company of a Weaver.

The inn was called the Grey Dove, named like other Qirsi establishments, for the pale sorcerers who came there to eat and drink among their own kind. Entering the tavern just after the ringing of the midday bells, they found it far more crowded than it had been several mornings before. They couldn’t help but be seen together, but with the crowd came a din that would keep others from listening to their conversation. They waded through the mass of white-hairs to an empty table near the back of the great room. The minister appeared uncomfortable, and she continually looked around, as if expecting at any moment to be recognized by one of the inn’s patrons.

“Would you rather go elsewhere?” Grinsa asked, his voice just loud enough to carry over the noise.

The minister shook her head, tight-lipped and wary. She sat, as did Grinsa and Tavis, but for some time none of them spoke. Eventually a serving girl came to their table, bearing bowls of stew and a loaf of dark bread. A second girl came a few moments later, and placed three cups of red wine on the table. Tavis began almost immediately to eat, but the two Qirsi merely sat, the minister staring at her food, and Grinsa watching her.

“You think we’re with the conspiracy,” the gleaner said at last, drawing her gaze.

“Aren’t you?” she asked, sipping her wine.

“You think this because we were asking about the Eandi singer. The one who is also an assassin.”

The minister returned her cup to the table with a quivering hand, spilling some of her wine. She fumbled for her napkin, but Grinsa wiped away the wine before she could reach it.

“I sensed the day we met that you might know this man as well,” Grinsa went on. “Does that mean that you’re part of the conspiracy?”

“No!” she said, looking up. “I have nothing to do with it.”

“Why should we believe you?”

“I’m first minister to the duke of Dantrielle. I’ve served him loyally for more than five years now.”

Grinsa gave a small shrug. “You wouldn’t be the first Qirsi minister to betray her duke.”

“But I haven’t-” She stopped, staring at him with narrowed eyes. “You don’t really believe I’m with the conspiracy, do you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Answer me.”

After a few moments Grinsa shook his head, a smile touching his lips. “No, I don’t. But you’ve assumed from that first day that we were, and I thought this would be the best way for me to answer your suspicions.”

“So you still maintain that you have nothing to do with the movement either?”

“It’s the truth,” Grinsa said. “I’d even go so far as to say that we’re enemies of the Qirsi who lead it.”

The woman looked at Tavis, making no effort to hide her curiosity about his scars. He resisted the urge to turn away, suffering her gaze as best he could.

“That morning you told me that the singer did this to the boy. Is that true as well? ”

The gleaner hesitated. “In a manner of speaking. I believe I said that the singer was responsible for his scars, which is closer to the truth.”

“Now you’re weaving mists with your words.”

“Perhaps,” Grinsa admitted. “But I can’t tell you more. Not without endangering the boy’s life, and my own.”

“I see. Then it seems we’ve nothing more to say to each other.”

“You still don’t believe me,” he said.

“Actually, I do. I’m not certain why; I suppose I’ve no choice but to trust my instincts. And they tell me that you’re not a traitor.”

“Then why would you assume that our conversation is over? Unless you don’t consider yourself allied with those who oppose the conspiracy.”

“Of course I do. But I needed information about the movement, about those involved with it. Obviously, you don’t have any knowledge of this.”

“No,” Grinsa said, “I don’t. But you can still help us. I’m no friend of these renegade Qirsi, and neither are you. We’re partners in this struggle, and I need information. The singer-the assassin-has killed on behalf of the conspiracy. My friend and I need to find him.”

The woman turned away. “I can’t help you with that.”

“You can tell me where you saw him, where he was going. Anything you can tell us might prove to be of value.”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I don’t want you to find him.”

“What?” The gleaner sat back, looking for the first time like she had truly surprised him. “Why-?” He stopped, his eyes widening. “Are you lovers? Is that it?”

The minister burst out laughing so loudly that others in the tavern paused in their conversations to stare at her. The gleaner’s face reddened, but the woman didn’t appear to notice.

“No,” she said, when her laughter finally subsided. “We’re definitely not lovers.”

“Then what?” Grinsa asked.

She fell silent again, refusing to look at either of them. Tavis assumed that she would refuse to answer, but he was wrong.

“I’ll tell you,” she said at last, her voice so low that both Tavis and Grinsa had to lean closer just to hear her. “But I’ll give you no details, no names, no places. You’ll just have to trust that I’m telling you the truth, and that I have the best interests of the land at heart.”

Grinsa nodded. It seemed to Tavis that the gleaner didn’t know what else to do.

“I’ve hired him. I’ve sent him to kill someone we believe is part of the conspiracy.”

“What?” Tavis said, unable to stop himself. “Are you mad?”

The minister’s eyes narrowed once more. “You’re from Eibithar! I’d know that accent anywhere.”

Tavis felt himself flush.

“Yes, he is,” Grinsa said, sighing. “Our search for this man has brought us far. But that’s not important now. I need-”

“Not important?” the minister repeated, her voice rising. “One moment you tell me that we’re allies in a struggle against the conspiracy, and the next I learn that you’ve brought an enemy of my realm to the royal city.”

“He’s not an enemy of your kingdom!”

“Of course I am,” Tavis said.

Grinsa winced and shook his head.

“At least one of you is being honest, gleaner,” the minister said.

“The man we seek is an enemy of Qirsi and Eandi alike,” the young lord continued, facing the woman. “He’s an enemy of Eibithar, but he also may have killed your Lord Bistari, which I believe makes him an enemy of Aneira as well. Isn’t it possible, Minister, that in this instance the interests of our two kingdoms, indeed, of all the seven, are the same?”

She eyed him closely, as if trying to see beyond his scars. “Who are you?”

Tavis almost told her then. For just an instant, for the first time in what seemed an age, he felt like a noble again, like a man whose life revolved around the courts and the exigencies of statecraft. Before Kentigern he had given little thought to what it actually meant to be a noble. Only now that his title was gone, and with it his future, did he realize that he had lost more than comfort and wealth and power. He had trained all his life to be duke and perhaps king. It was his calling, the one trade at which he might have excelled.

“His name isn’t important,” Grinsa said, gently placing a hand on Tavis’s arm, as if reading his thoughts. “But he makes a good point.”

The minister looked from one of them to the other, before finally nodding. “Yes, he does. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do to stop the singer now. I’ve given him gold and asked him to kill. I have no way to contact him again, and even if I did, I’m not certain that I would. We’re at war with the conspiracy, and I’ll not quibble about fighting my battles with a bloodied weapon.”

“Can you at least tell us which direction he’s gone, so that after he’s served your purposes we can find him?”

“How do I know you won’t find him too soon? Do you intend to engage him in conversation before seeking your vengeance?”

The gleaner frowned, but said nothing.

“I thought not. I’ve sent him to one of Aneira’s houses, but that’s all I’ll tell you.”

“You’ve told us nothing at all,” Tavis said.

“Of course I have. You know now that he’s still in this kingdom. That should help you quite a bit.”

Tavis started to argue the matter, but Grinsa tightened his hold on the young lord’s arm, silencing him.

“Can you tell us anything about this person you sent him to kill?” the gleaner asked.

She faltered. “Like what?”

“You said before that you believe this person is part of the conspiracy. You’re not certain though, are you?”

“I’m certain enough.”

But Tavis could tell from the tightness of her voice, and the way her hands began to tremble again, that she had doubts.

“If you tell me this person’s name, I may be able to put your mind at ease, or perhaps offer to track the assassin and stop him, before he murders an innocent.”

The minister’s face turned white, but she shook her head. “I can’t. As I said, I’m certain enough.”

Grinsa let out a breath and sat back. “Very well.”

“I should leave,” the minister said. “I’ll be missed in the castle.”

“Of course.”

She stood, but did not move away from the table, her eyes fixed on her cup of wine as if she were searching for something lost.

“Neither of us was very forthcoming, and I apologize for my part in that. But I want you to know, I do accept that we’re allies of sorts and I hope you find your singer eventually.”

“Thank you, Minister. Gods keep you and your duke safe.”

Still she didn’t leave.

“That first morning, when you followed me to this tavern, you made a point of asking the innkeeper about the singer in a way that allowed me to overhear. Why?”

Grinsa shrugged, a small smile on his lips. “I shouldn’t have to explain to you what it means to be a gleaner. I saw you walking the streets of Solkara in your ministerial robes. I saw you enter a tavern in the early morning when you should have been enjoying the hospitality of the queen. It seemed clear to me that you were a person I needed to meet.”

She appeared to weigh this. After some time she nodded. Her eyes strayed to Tavis and she seemed to consider saying something. But in the end she merely offered a small smile and walked away.

Tavis and the gleaner remained at their table, silently watching her go. Even after she left the tavern, they didn’t speak, choosing instead to eat their food and drink their wine.

Only when they had left a few silvers on the table and stepped back out into the street did Grinsa say, “Well, it seems there’s no longer anything holding us in Solkara.”

“Are you serious?”

The Qirsi glanced at him. “I expected you’d be relieved.”

“I suppose I am. I’m just surprised.”

“The singer isn’t here, and even if the person Evanthya wants dead is, no assassin would attempt a murder in the royal city, not after all that’s happened.”

“All we need to do is retrieve our things from the inn and buy some food, and we can be on our way.”

He stood scanning the marketplace for a moment, as if trying to decide from which of the peddlers to buy their stores.

An instant later, however, his eyes widened. “Demons and fire!”

“What is it?”

Grinsa started striding away so quickly that Tavis nearly had to run to keep pace with him.

“What is it?” he asked again, his voice rising.

“It’s Shunk.”

“Shurik? Here? Are you certain?”

But the gleaner didn’t answer.

Tavis heard a horse neigh and looking toward the sound, saw a beast rearing, kicking out with its front legs. A thin Qirsi man struggled to calm the animal, but his gaze kept flitting toward Grinsa and Tavis. It took the boy a moment, but he did recognize the man. Kentigern’s first minister, the one who betrayed Aindreas to the duke of Mertesse.

There was terror in the man’s pale eyes, and he looked about the marketplace as if seeking shelter or aid. But nothing could have prepared the young lord for what he did next.

“Guards!” he shouted suddenly, pointing a bony finger at Tavis and the gleaner. “Soldiers of Solkara! That man is an Eibitharian lord, come to kill our queen! Arrest him!”

Grinsa froze in midstride. “This way!” he said, pushing Tavis to the left and leading him through a knot of peddlers, carts, and buyers.

There hadn’t been any guards nearby, and though Tavis could still hear Shurik shouting for help, he saw no uniforms.

“Where are we going?” he asked, struggling to keep up with the tall Qirsi.

“We haven’t time to make it to the sanctuary. But the south gate isn’t far. Perhaps we can make the wood before word spreads to the guards on the city wall.”

They reached the edge of the marketplace, crossed a small lane, and cut across a common plot where sheep and goats huddled together against the cold, chewing the brown grasses. Tavis still heard cries, and an instant later a bell began to toll.

He could see the gate now, an arched opening in the grey wall surrounding the city. But with the sound of the bell, several soldiers had gathered there, swords drawn. A few seconds later, the bell at this gate began to ring as well.

“Damn him!” Grinsa said, stopping and looking around.

The guards at this gate wouldn’t know why the bells were ringing, or for whom they should be looking, but they weren’t likely to allow anyone to leave the city.

“Stay close to me,” the gleaner said. “Take hold of my cloak.”

Almost before the words had left his lips, ghostly white tendrils of mist began to rise from the ground, swirling around them like Bian’s wraiths until Tavis could see nothing of the wall or the soldiers.

Tavis grasped the man’s riding cloak, and the two of them started forward. He could only assume that they were making their way to the gate- the soldiers’ voices were growing louder-but he kept silent and allowed the gleaner to lead him.

Grinsa drew his dagger, and Tavis did the same. Seeing this, the gleaner stopped, leaned close, and whispered, “Only as a last resort. I’d rather get through without them knowing we’ve passed.”

Tavis nodded, and the two of them walked on.

After a few moments, Tavis felt a slight breeze brush past his cheek, stirring the mist, and thinning it for just an instant. They were at the gate. Four soldiers had positioned themselves in the opening, swords drawn, their eyes wide as they attempted to see through the cloud.

“There!” one of them cried, pointing his blade at Grinsa and Tavis.

The wind died away and the mist closed around them again, hiding the men from view. Grinsa whispered a curse. And then Tavis heard a strange sound, or rather, four of them in quick succession. The shattering of steel.

“Hit them low,” Grinsa said quietly, his voice taut.

He rushed forward and Tavis did the same, lowering his shoulder as he did. Suddenly a guard loomed before him, tall and muscular, and far bigger than Tavis. In a fair fight, Tavis wouldn’t have had a chance. But the man was gaping at the useless hilt of his sword. He didn’t even see Tavis until it was too late. The young lord crashed into the man’s chest, driving him to the ground. Tavis stumbled for an instant, but kept his balance and ran. Grinsa was beside him, still drawing mist from the earth, and now summoning a wind that howled like a demon. Tavis felt the air moving past him, but it didn’t slow him. Somehow, the gleaner had managed to raise a gale and then shield the two of them from it.

“That should slow them!” the Qirsi shouted over the roar of his tempest. “Follow me to the wood!”

“Where are we going?”

“Away from Solkara.”

Tavis rolled his eyes. “Of course. But then where?”

Grinsa didn’t hesitate. “North, to Mertesse. I want to be there when Shunk returns.”