Seeds of Betrayal

Chapter Eight

Kentigern, Eibithar

Aindreas stood atop the east wall of the castle gazing out over the city of Kentigern and the open land beyond its walls. The late-morning sun shone upon him from a sky of clearest blue, but it offered little warmth in the cold, steady wind sweeping across the face of the tor.

Beside him, Ennis, his youngest child and sole heir, kicked at the stone wall with a booted foot, making the barrel on which he stood wobble noisily. He was almost too big to stand on it anymore, though he wasn’t yet tall enough to see over the wall without it.

“If you don’t stop that kicking, you’re liable to fall,” Aindreas said.

The boy had never fallen before, of course, and he did this every time they walked the walls together. But Ioanna would have expected him to say something, and she would have his head on a pike if the boy did manage to hurt himself. When a mother lost one child, she grew ever more protective of those who remained.

“Yes, Father,” Ennis said. He stopped kicking, but almost immediately began hopping from one foot to the other.

The duke could do nothing but smile. It was something he would have done as a child. Not surprising, really, since the boy favored him in almost every other way. He was bigger than most boys two or three years older than he, and his red hair, grey eyes, and round face were so like Aindreas’s that even the castle guards had taken to calling him the Little Duke.

“Do you see him yet, Father?” the boy asked, sounding a bit more impatient than the last time he asked.

“Actually, I do,” the duke said, marking the progress of a small company of riders on the road leading from Kentigern Wood to the city.

Ennis looked up at him, a smile brightening his ruddy face. “Really?”

Aindreas nodded and pointed toward the road. “See for yourself.”

The boy rested his hands on the top of the wall and stared out at the riders. “I can see two flags,” the said, “but I can’t make out what’s on them.”

“There’s a golden stallion on the red one. That’s the banner of Thorald. And the blue one bears the crest of Shanstead, crossed swords over a rising sun.”

“Which rider is the thane?” Ennis asked.

“It’s hard to say from here. Probably the one riding just behind the men with the banners.”

The boy looked up at his father, squinting against the sun. “Do you think he’ll liance us?”

Aindreas couldn’t help but grin. “Do you mean, Do I think he’ll form an alliance with us?”

“Yes, that’s what I meant.”

Aindreas stared down at the riders again. “I don’t know. Marston isn’t the duke yet, and he can’t do anything until he is. But I wouldn’t have asked him here if I didn’t think there was a possibility.”

“Does he like the people who killed Brienne?”

The duke eyed the boy briefly, wondering whether to correct this as well. Ennis wasn’t yet ten, but he was a bright boy, wise beyond his years. Perhaps he was ready to understand a more subtle explanation for Marston’s visit.

“It was just one man who killed Brienne, boy.”

“Lord Tavis.”

Aindreas nodded and tried to say more, but the words stuck in his throat at the thought of his daughter.

“But you hate his father, too. And the king. I’ve heard you speaking of it with Villyd and the prelate.”

The boy missed little of what went on around him. He’d make a good duke.

“Yes, I hate Javan of Curgh, and though I wouldn’t say that I hate Kearney, I do believe that he betrayed us.”

“How?”

“By giving asylum to that Curgh demon, and by turning Tobbar against me before I even had a chance to speak with him.”

He glanced down again to find the boy staring at him, a puzzled look on his face. Maybe he wasn’t ready for this after all.

“What’s asylum?”

“It’s when a noble gives protection to someone. Kearney guarded the boy after he escaped our prison and refused to return him to us.”

Ennis frowned. “Why? Didn’t he like Bnenne?”

Aindreas almost ended the conversation there. He didn’t want to have to admit the rest. But he was a duke and a father, and if the boy was to hear some of it, he had to hear all of it.

“Kearney doesn’t believe Tavis killed her,” he said. “Javan and his son claim it was someone else, and the king believes them.”

“That’s why you hate them.”

He didn’t miss anything. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

Ennis nodded, facing the road once again. “That’s why I hate them, too.”

The duke placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and together they watched the riders approach the city gates. Once Marston and his company were inside the city, Aindreas and the boy left the wall and descended to the castle’s inner ward.

“Go tell your mother the thane of Shanstead has arrived,” Aindreas said.

“She won’t want to see him. She never wants to see anyone.”

The duke winced inwardly. Ennis was right about this as well. Since Bnenne’s death, Ioanna had hardly left her chambers, other than to pray in the cloister or take a brief walk through the castle gardens. In recent turns she had shown some signs of emerging from the darkness that gripped her, but the improvement often seemed painfully slow, like trying to see the movement of the moons as they arced through the night sky. At least she now managed to smile with Ennis and his remaining sister; at times Aindreas even heard her laughing.

“Tell her anyway,” Aindreas said. “She’ll want to know.”

The boy shrugged and hurried off, leaving the duke to greet his guests. He had thought to do so alone, but a moment later he was joined by Villyd Temsten, his swordmaster, who led several hundred soldiers into the ward.

“One of the tower guards told me they had arrived,” the man called to him. “I thought you’d want me here.”

Aindreas grinned. He didn’t trust many men anymore-he would never trust a white-hair again-but those who remained still served him well. “Thank you, Villyd.”

The swordmaster nodded and ordered the men into neat rows, before taking his place just behind the duke, his stout legs planted squarely on the grass and his arms folded over his broad chest.

Marston arrived a few moments later, accompanied by two guards from the city gate who announced him to the duke. He looked older than Aindreas remembered, which wasn’t surprising; it had been several years since last they met. But he appeared taller as well, and broader in the chest and shoulders. The duke had expected to see an unimpressive boy; instead he found himself facing a man who, despite his youth, looked very much like a thane, or even a duke. He resembled his father, just as his brother did, if Aindreas remembered correctly. All the Shanstead men seemed to share the same unremarkable but vaguely pleasant looks-straight brown hair, pale grey eyes, a straight nose and square chin.

Marston had come with eight of his men and his Qirsi minister, a young-looking man with close-cropped white hair and the same strange yellow eyes that all the sorcerers had. The thane introduced the man, but Aindreas missed his name, and didn’t care enough to ask Marston to repeat it.

When they finished with the formalities, the duke had Villyd arrange for the housing of Shanstead’s men and invited the thane, and with some reluctance his Qirsi as well, to join him for the midday meal. They kept their conversation light. Aindreas did not wish to discuss anything of substance in the company of the white-hair, nor did he wish to seem too anxious to speak of weightier matters. He had hoped that Ioanna might join them, but midway through the meal Ennis came to say that his mother was resting and would do her best to attend the evening meal.

“How fares the duchess?” Marston asked once Ennis was gone. “I’ve heard that she suffered greatly for the loss of your daughter.”

“We all did, Lord Shanstead,” Aindreas said pointedly. “My wife is doing as well as one might expect. As one parent to another, I can tell you that I wouldn’t wish the loss of a child on my most hated enemy.”

He regretted the words as soon as he spoke them, for the fact was he had done just that, fighting for the execution of Javan’s boy. If Marston noticed the duke’s error, he had the good sense not to comment on it.

“Of course not, my lord. You and your entire family have our deepest sympathies.”

They lapsed into a difficult silence, which the Qirsi finally ended.

“This is my first journey to Kentigern, my Lord Duke. I wonder if we might walk the battlements when our meal is done. I’ve heard tales of them all my life.”

Aindreas made himself smile. “It would be my pleasure, Minister.”

A short while later they finished eating and ascended the steps of the nearest tower to the castle walls. The duke had walked the battlements with his guests so often that with barely a thought he could tell the history of Kentigern’s various towers and the sieges they had survived. Still, the Qirsi seemed quite interested, as did Marston, who last visited the tor nearly eight years before, as a boy only a year or two past his Determining.

By the time they had come full circle back to Aindreas’s private hall, it was nearly dusk. The thane and his minister left the duke to find their quarters and wash the road from their faces and clothes.

“If we’re to meet the duchess,” Marston said, “we ought not to smell like our mounts.”

After making certain that his guests were escorted to their chambers, Aindreas returned to the castle’s great hall to check on the preparations for the night’s feast. Before Brienne’s death, this had been Ioanna’s task, but for the past several turns Aindreas had considered himself fortunate if she even attended a feast, much less planned one. He had become both duke and duchess, just as he had been forced to care for Affery and Ennis as both father and mother. At times like these, thinking of all that Tavis of Curgh had taken from him, the duke could barely contain his rage. The boy deserved to die, as did his father, the king, and everyone else who had aided his escape from Kentigern’s dungeon.

To his surprise, his wife actually did come to the hall to join their meal, arriving just a few moments after Marston and the Qirsi. She wore a red velvet gown, one that Aindreas had always loved on her. But seeing her dressed so, jewels about her neck, and her hair combed and scented, the duke could only grieve. She had always been slight, but rather than looking elegant, she now appeared frail, as if the darkness that had consumed her mind had ravaged her body as well. Her once beautiful face had grown sallow and pinched; her large brown eyes seemed sunken and when she smiled, upon her arrival in the hall, she looked more like a wraith than a living woman.

Aindreas stood, offering her the chair beside him, and Marston and his minister bowed deeply to her, drawing another ghostly smile to her lips. Though pleased that she had come to the hall, the duke could not help worrying that she might embarrass herself. Her behavior since Brienne’s death had been erratic almost to the point of madness. Aindreas didn’t want it spread through the kingdom that the duchess of Kentigern had lost her mind, nor did he want his efforts to forge an alliance with Thorald and the other houses to be hindered by rumors that perhaps he was mad as well. Fortunately, Ioanna made it through the meal without any lapses. Indeed, the food and conversation seemed to do her good, leaving her more animated than she had been when the evening began. She lingered over the dried fruits, cheeses, and honey cakes served at the end of the meal, sipping her wine and speaking with Shanstead’s minister about Sussyn, where, as it happened, both of them had spent their early childhood. Despite Ioanna’s sickly appearance, Aindreas could not help but be pleased. In some small way, he felt that his wife had come back to him this night.

At last, the duchess announced that she had grown tired and wished to return to her chambers. Aindreas helped her to her feet and kissed her cheek.

“I’m glad you joined us,” he said quietly, their eyes meeting for a moment.

“As am I.” She turned to Marston. “Good night, Lord Shanstead. I’ve enjoyed your company.”

“And I yours, my lady.”

One of her ladies took her arm and led her out of the hall, leaving Aindreas alone with Marston and his minister.

“Shall we open another flask of wine?” the duke asked, smiling at the thane. “We have a good deal to discuss.”

“Of course, my Lord Duke.”

Aindreas motioned to one of the servants to bring more wine. He glanced for an instant at the Qirsi, before facing Marston again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like for us to speak in private.”

The thane looked for a moment as if he might object, but instead he offered a strained smile. “I don’t mind at all.” He turned to his minister. “It’s all right, Xiv. We’ll speak later.”

The Qirsi nodded and stood. “Yes, my lord.” He eyed the duke, his expression revealing nothing. “Good night, my Lord Duke. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Aindreas nodded and made himself smile, but offered no reply.

“I hope you don’t think me rude,” Aindreas said once the man was gone. “Where some matters are concerned, I feel more comfortable addressing myself just to a noble.”

“I don’t think you rude, my lord. I think I understand your concerns.”

“Good.” Aindreas poured out the wine and raised his goblet. “To friendships, old and new.”

“To friendships,” the thane said, sipping his wine.

“I should have asked you earlier, Lord Shanstead, but how is your father?”

“He’s well, my lord.”

Aindreas raised an eyebrow. “I’m glad, though somewhat surprised. I had heard he was ill.”

“It’s a minor discomfort, my lord, nothing more.”

“I see,” Aindreas said, not entirely certain that he believed the thane. “Well, I hope you’ll convey to him my wishes for a quick recovery.”

“Yes, I will.”

They fell silent, Marston sipping his wine again and the duke taking another honey cake, his eyes flicking toward the thane.

“I imagine you’d like to know why I asked you here,” Aindreas said at last.

“I have some idea, my lord. Shanstead may be just a thaneship, but word of the major houses does reach us. You seek allies in your dispute with Curgh and you hope to convince Thorald to support you. My father has refused thus far, so you thought to learn where I stand, knowing that eventually the dukedom will be mine.”

Aindreas couldn’t help but grin. “You’ll make a fine duke someday, Lord Shanstead.” He drank some wine and placed his goblet on the table. “Yes, that’s why I wanted to speak with you.”

“I’ll be happy to listen to whatever you have to say, my lord. But you must realize that as long as my father leads the House of Thorald, I can offer no promises one way or another.”

“I understand,” the duke said. “But surely you’re free to express your opinions.”

“That would depend. If you ask me to comment on any choice my father has made as duke of Thorald, I would say nothing save to agree with him. My duty to him, as both thane and son, requires no less.”

Aindreas eyed the man for several moments, wondering if he had erred in inviting him to Kentigern. He had expected to find more ambition in the thane. Marston’s father had become regent to Filib the Younger after the hunting mishap that claimed the life of the last duke of Thorald. But even after Filib’s untimely death at the hands of road thieves, Tobbar could never be more than a duke, nor could his sons. The Rules of Ascension forbade any of them from becoming king. Marston’s eldest son, however, had a claim to the jeweled crown, if only Glyndwr’s line could be removed from Audun’s Castle. Aindreas had thought to lure the thane into an alliance with the promise of placing his boy on the throne. He never intended to ask Marston to betray his father, but neither had he counted on the thane showing such strict loyalty to Tobbar’s decrees. “I wonder, Lord Shanstead,” he said, “if your father understands just what happened here during Elined’s Turn. I wonder if you do.”

He saw Marston hesitate, as if the thane knew that their conversation had taken a dangerous turn.

“I believe we do understand, my lord,” he said, his voice and gaze both steady. “My house is no stranger to tragedy and loss.”

“Has a daughter of your house ever been murdered in Thorald Castle by a visiting lord? Have other houses ever aided the escape of a prisoner from your dungeon, so that they might then offer the demon asylum?”

The thane looked down at his hands. “No, my lord.”

“Then don’t liken your losses to mine,” the duke said, feeling his throat constrict. “No house of Eibithar has ever endured such indignities as those heaped upon Kentigern by Curgh and Glyndwr.”

“None of us doubts that you and your family suffered terribly, my lord. To lose Brienne…” Marston shook his head. “I’m certain the Underrealm shines like the sky with her light. All the kingdom grieved with you, none more than my father. And then to have to fight off a siege as well. That you vanquished the army of Mertesse in spite of all that happened before bespeaks uncommon strength and honor, Lord Kentigern. That hasn’t gone unnoticed in Thorald.”

Aindreas nodded gruffly, his eyes still stinging with the memory of Brienne’s death.

“I understand that your Qirsi betrayed you to the Aneirans,” Marston said, running a finger along the rim of his goblet.

“Yes,” the duke said. “One more injury among many.”

“Do you think he was in league with this conspiracy we’re hearing so much about in Shanstead?”

“I suppose it’s possible. Certainly he was in league with Mertesse. I can only guess about the rest of it.”

“But you’re suspicious enough to have rid yourself of all your Qirsi ministers.”

Aindreas shrugged. “One of them betrayed me. And not just any one, but my most trusted advisor. How am I to trust any of them after that?”

“I understand,” Marston said. “In these times, we all should question the loyalty of our ministers. I’ve tried to impress this point upon my father, but with only limited success. I’m glad to see that you’ve taken it to heart. You even asked that my minister leave the hall before we spoke.”

The duke narrowed his eyes, wondering where this was leading. “I meant no offense to you or your minister. But as you say, at times like these, we must use caution.”

“Do you think it possible, my lord duke, that your daughter’s murder and the attack on your castle were related in some way?”

“I think Mertesse knew of Brienne’s death, if that’s what you mean. I think he even knew of my intent to wage war on the House of Curgh. That’s why he attacked when he did.”

Marston chewed his lip for a moment. “That’s not quite what I had in mind. Your first minister betrayed you to the Aneirans, perhaps as part of a larger Qirsi plot to weaken the kingdom. Isn’t it possible that he arranged your daughter’s murder as well, hoping to destroy the alliance that you were on the verge of forming with Javan?”

“You talk like a Curgh, Shanstead!” Aindreas said, glaring at the man.

“I’m merely speaking of what you already know to be true. The Qirsi-some Qirsi-may be trying to destroy the courts of Eibithar. Since one of these traitors was in this court at the time of Brienne’s death, it seems logical to wonder if he had some role in her murder.”

Aindreas shook his head, propelling himself out of his chair and starting to stalk around the perimeter of the hall. “No! It’s not possible! Tavis was with her in that room! The door was locked from the inside! His dagger-” He choked on the word, pausing at an archway and slamming his fist against the wooden door. “It’s not possible,” he said again a moment later, his voice lower.

“I would have thought the same thing about my cousin Filib’s murder nearly three years ago. We were all so certain that he was killed by thieves. His dagger and his gold had been taken. They even cut off his finger to get the gold ring that had once been the duke’s. But in recent turns we’ve been forced to ask ourselves if we might have been wrong all this time, if in fact it could have been an assassination made to look like the work of common thieves. Where magic is concerned, my Lord Duke, nothing is absolute.”

“Enough!” the duke said, whirling toward Marston. “I told you not to compare what happened in Thorald to what happened here. The two are nothing alike. Magic had nothing to do with my daughter’s murder. It was lust and arrogance and evil.”

The thane looked like he might argue the point further, but a moment later he seemed to think better of it.

“Perhaps so, my lord. Forgive me.”

“I expect you’ll be leaving Kentigern in the morning, Lord Shanstead,” Aindreas said, ice in his voice. “I’ve learned all I need to know about Thorald’s intentions.”

Marston straightened in his chair, but he didn’t stand or give any indication that he was ready to leave the hall.

“With all respect, my lord, I don’t believe you have.”

“What’s left for me to know? You and your father have obviously allied yourselves with Curgh and our new king. You would have saved us both a good deal of time and effort had you simply informed me of that when I sent the message asking you to come.”

“We’ve allied ourselves with no one, Lord Kentigern, nor do we intend to any time soon. The kingdom will be safer if we take no sides in this matter.”

“But you do take sides, with all this talk of the Qirsi and their so-called conspiracy. That’s just what Javan wants the whole kingdom to believe.”

“To be honest, my lord, my father and I don’t know what to believe. Javan is so convinced that his son is innocent that he won’t even allow the possibility that Tavis killed Lady Brienne. And you’re no better, refusing to consider any other explanation for her death. This land may yet go to war with itself, and if it does, you and Curgh will share the blame.”

“You forget yourself, sir!”

The thane looked away, his face coloring. “Forgive me,” he murmured, sounding anything but contrite.

For some time, neither of them spoke.

“Do you honestly believe the king plotted against you?” Marston asked at last, still not looking at Aindreas.

“Why shouldn’t I? He harbored the boy rather than returning him to my prison, where he belonged.”

“My father tells me that you and Kearney’s father were once friends.”

“What of it?”

“Don’t you wonder why the king was willing to believe Tavis? Doesn’t it say something that he would risk his own reputation and that of his house to guard Javan’s son, even though Glyndwr and Curgh have never been on good terms?”

Aindreas had heard enough. Still standing at the archway, he reached for the door handle and pushed the door open. “Frankly, Lord Shanstead, I don’t know what it says, nor do I care. Any ties that Kentigern once had with Glyndwr have been sundered. My allies live now in Galdasten and Eardley, in Rennach, Domnall, and Sussyn. I had thought to find them in Thorald as well, but I see that my hopes were misplaced. Our conversation is over. You may return to your quarters for the night. I’ll have the stable-master prepare your horses so that you can be on your way back to Shanstead as early as possible.”

Marston stared at him a moment. Then he rose from the table, a thin smile on his face. He drained his goblet and made his way to the door, stopping just in front of the duke.

“You may not believe this, my lord, but I came here today as a friend, just as my father instructed. The House of Thorald bears you no ill will, nor do we owe any allegiance to Javan and his allies. Our duty is to the kingdom, and it was in that spirit that I journeyed to Kentigern. I’m sorry if in my devotion to Eibithar and my desire to save the land from civil war I gave offense. My father thought you invited me here to speak of such things. I told him I thought you were merely hoping to find another ally in this foolhardy conflict with Javan. I’ve never been so sorry to be right.”

He stepped past the duke into the corridor and made his way to the nearest of the towers. Aindreas should have stopped him. He should have railed at the man for his self-righteousness. Under the circumstances he would have been justified putting him in the dungeon. A thane did not say such things to a duke, certainly not in the duke’s castle.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to do anything more than watch Marston walk away. Even after the thane had entered the tower stairway, disappearing from view, the duke continued to stare down the corridor trying to summon anger or indignation or even hurt; anything other than the strange hollowness he felt.

At last he turned back to the table, eyeing the wine. But rather than filling his goblet again, he left the hall and made his way to the upper corridor of the castle, where the private chambers were found. He passed a pair of guards along the way, the men nearly jumping to salute him as he walked by, but Aindreas hardly noticed.

The duke heard the midnight bells ringing in the city just as he reached the door he sought-apart from his guards and Marston, he might have been the only person in the castle not yet asleep. Still he didn’t hesitate to knock. When no one answered, he pounded on the door a second time. Silence. He raised his fist to hammer at the door a third time, but in that instant he heard a voice from within.

“This had better be important! I’ve got my sword, and I’m mad enough to use it.”

“I’m armed as well, swordmaster,” the duke said. “So I’d sheath your weapon before you open the door.”

The door flew open, revealing Villyd, bare-chested, his hair tousled with sleep, and his eyes blinking in the torchlight. He carried a sword, though he held it point down, as if he had forgotten it. “Demons and fire! Forgive me, my lord. I didn’t know it was you.”

“You’re forgiven, swordmaster.” Aindreas looked past the man and saw Villyd’s wife still asleep in their bed. “Why don’t we go elsewhere, some place where we can talk.”

“Of course, my lord.”

The swordmaster ducked back into his chamber, emerging a few moments later wearing a shirt and strapping on his belt and weapon.

“I trust your conversation with Lord Shanstead went well, my lord?”

Aindreas frowned. “Actually no. That’s why I wanted to speak with you.”

The man gave him a puzzled look. “My lord?”

“Tell me again where we stand. What’s the state of our army?”

“We’re still down several hundred men, my lord. We lost some at the Heneagh during our battle with the army of Curgh, and a good many more in the siege. The lesser nobles are doing their best to fill the ranks, but it’s going to take some time.”

“And what of the castle?”

Villyd shrugged. “The repairs go well. The Tarbin gate is nearly at full strength again, though the last portcullis is not yet in place. The inner gates still need a good deal of work.”

Aindreas nodded. “What about Galdasten?”

“They lost more than two hundred men to the pestilence just before the harvest. From what I hear, I believe they’ve replaced more than half of them, but even at full strength, Galdasten’s army is no larger than ours.”

Aindreas shuddered at the mention of the pestilence. The lords of Galdasten had long prided themselves on their ability to control the outbreaks with the burnings that accompanied their Feasts. But nearly eight years before, a commoner-a madman-brought infected vermin to the Feast, spreading the disease throughout the court. Not only did the duke and his family die, but so did much of his army and hundreds of the common folk living in Galdasten City. This past year, when the pestilence returned, the new lords of the house chose to weather the outbreak rather than resorting to the burnings again.

“And the others?”

“The others, my lord?”

“Eardley, Sussyn, Domnall,” he said impatiently. “The others who stand with us against the king.”

“They’re minor houses, my lord. Each has six hundred men; Eardley may have eight hundred, but no more.”

They reached Aindreas’s chambers and the duke opened the door, leading the swordmaster inside.

“That’s not enough men, is it?”

“For what, my lord?” the man asked, dropping himself into one of the chairs as Aindreas stepped to the hearth. “I have to confess that I don’t understand what you hope to accomplish with this alliance you’re forming.

I know that you feel Curgh and Glyndwr conspired to keep you from the throne, but that’s done now. If you wanted the throne for yourself, you should have moved against them before Kearney’s investiture.“

It was not a tone Aindreas would have tolerated at most other times. But it was late, and he had roused Villyd from his bed.

“I don’t want to be king,” the duke said.

Villyd raised an eyebrow, drawing a grin from Aindreas.

“All right, let me put it this way. It’s not the crown I seek, not right now.”

“Then what, my lord?”

“I want Kearney off the throne. He betrayed this house by granting asylum to Tavis, and in return, Javan gave him the kingdom. He may claim to have taken no sides in this dispute, but he owes everything he’s become to Curgh. So long as he rules Eibithar, there will be no justice for Kentigern.”

“Will you sacrifice the Rules of Ascension to destroy him?”

“Gladly, if that’s what it takes.”

The swordmaster nodded. It was hard to tell what he thought of the duke’s aims, though Aindreas suspected that he disapproved. “If your aim is to challenge the king, my lord, then you haven’t enough men. Not anywhere near. And I doubt you ever will. The king has not only his guard, but also the army of Glyndwr. Javan will join him as well, as will Tremain and Labruinn. And I assure you, if you move against the crown, Thorald and Heneagh will oppose you as well. Even if the other houses stand with you-and I’m not convinced that they will-it will not be enough.”

“What if we had Thorald?”

Villyd looked at him keenly. “Do we?”

The duke turned away, gritting his teeth. “No.”

“I’m not sure it would matter, my lord. Thorald might balance the scales, particularly if Tobbar brought Heneagh with him. But still it wouldn’t be sufficient. Kearney has Audun’s Castle. You’d need an overwhelming force to take it from him.”

“You said before that you weren’t certain the other houses would stand with me in such a fight. What about you, swordmaster? Would you fight beside me to break Kearney’s hold on the throne?”

Villyd lowered his gaze, the light of the blaze shining like torch fire in his dark eyes. “I serve Kentigern, my lord. I gave an oath many years ago to follow you and your house, even if it led me to my death. If you command me to fight Glyndwr for the crown, I’ll do so.” He took a breath. “But I hope with all my heart that you’ll not give that command.”

It was a more honest answer than he had any right to expect, perhaps a more honest one than he deserved. No doubt if Villyd felt this way, his men did as well. Raising an army to fight the king would not work. Villyd’s words made that clear, as had his own conversation with Marston.

But Shanstead had said something else this night that gave the duke reason to think there could be another way. A year ago he wouldn’t have believed himself capable of considering such a thing. But a year ago Brienne still lived. A year ago the man who had harbored her killer did not wear Eibithar’s jeweled crown.