Seeds of Betrayal (45 page)

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.