David Coe - Bonds of Vengeance

What does it matter? asked a voice within his head, as he turned yet another corner in the castle corridors. Why do this to yourself?

“I do it for Bryntelle,” he said aloud. “We’re her parents. Even with what we’ve both become, shouldn’t there have been love between us once?”

To which the voice replied, You do it for pride. You do it to soothe the pain that lingers in your heart like infection in an old wound .

Grinsa rubbed a hand over his face. “I do it because I’m a fool.”

“Did you say something?”

Startled, he spun around to see two soldiers standing by a door he had just passed.

“No, I. .” He shook his head. “Whose chamber is this?”

“The queen’s. She doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Do you know where I can find the king’s archminister?”

The two men exchanged a look. “What do you want her for?” one of them asked.

Grinsa felt the hairs on his neck prickle. He didn’t like the sound of this at all. “She’s an old friend,” he said, keeping his tone as casual as possible.

The man frowned as if not believing him.

“Is she all right?”

“She’s well enough. You might find her in her chambers, or maybe walking the gardens.”

The gleaner nodded. “My thanks.”

He started to walk past them, but the soldier held out a hand, forcing him to halt.

“I’m not sure how you got through the gates, but we keep a close watch on white-hairs in this castle. You remember that.”

Perhaps he should have held his tongue, but the man had pushed him too far.

“I got through the gate because the men there knew that I had been asked here by the king, along with Lord Tavis of Curgh. If you’d like, I can accompany you to the king’s chambers, and you can express your reservations to him. Otherwise I’d suggest you let me pass.”

The man’s face reddened, but he didn’t look away. “Forgive me, sir. I would have addressed you differently had I known.”

“What’s your name?”

The guard’s mouth twitched. “Cullum Minfeld, sir.”

“Well, Cullum, I’ll say nothing of this to your king or the swordmaster, provided it doesn’t happen again.”

“It won’t, sir.” His tone was insolent, but there was little Grinsa could do about that.

“You say the archminister could be in the gardens or in her chambers. I checked her chambers not long ago. Is there somewhere else I might look before walking all the way to the gardens?”

Cullum glanced at his companion. “She spends a good deal of time alone on the ramparts, sir. You’ll probably find her there.”

“Thank you.” He nodded to both men, then walked on without looking back. Grinsa had no doubt that soldiers throughout the realm, indeed, throughout the Forelands, felt as much contempt for the Qirsi as did those two. But it was unusual for men as disciplined as those serving the king of Eibithar to be so obvious about it. He walked to the nearest of the towers and climbed the steps to the ramparts. Stepping out into the sunlight, he spotted Keziah immediately. She stood on the wall opposite his, her back to him, leaning on the stone and staring up at Raven Falls, a thin white ribbon in the distance.

He walked to where his sister stood, passing several guards along the way, all of whom watched him warily. Keziah glanced at him as he approached. A light breeze stirred her fine white hair, but otherwise she didn’t move. There were lines around her mouth and eyes, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

“I’d greet you properly,” she said, her voice low, “but I don’t think it would be wise with the soldiers watching us.”

He was a Weaver, and for centuries, Weavers had been executed simply because the Eandi feared their powers. But more than that, a Weaver’s family usually suffered the same fate, and so for years now, since his Fating, Grinsa and Keziah had concealed the fact that they were brother and sister.

“I understand. Are you well?”

She shrugged. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Not really.”

He would have liked to take her in his arms, to let her cry against his chest until the tears finally stopped. Instead he surveyed the ramparts as unobtrusively as he could. None of the soldiers was close enough to hear their conversation.

“Have you spoken to the Weaver again?”

Against his better judgment, and unbeknownst to her king, Keziah had made an effort to join the conspiracy, believing it the best way to learn of the Weaver’s plans and tactics. As far as Grinsa knew, her last conversation with the leader of the conspiracy had been the one he overheard, having sought to enter her dreams himself so that they could speak.

“Twice, the first time a few nights after you were there as well, and a second time two nights ago.”

Two nights. No wonder she looked so weary. “And?”

“I think he’s starting to trust me. He asked a lot of questions about Kearney’s intentions regarding Aindreas of Kentigern and those who seem willing to follow him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth. That Kearney is concerned, but he has no intention of abdicating, and that if he believes any of his dukes are guilty of treason, he’ll take their castles by force and install new dukes who are loyal to the throne.”

Grinsa eyed her closely, searching for some sign that she found this talk of a civil war disturbing. Seeing none, he felt his own apprehension growing.

“I take it the Weaver was pleased by this.”

“Yes. I have no proof of this, but I think he must have someone else working on Aindreas’s end, and perhaps in Galdasten as well. I expect he plans to push both sides away from any thought of reconciliation, hoping that this time we can bring about a civil war that involves all the major houses.”

It seemed to Grinsa that the Deceiver himself ran an icy finger down his spine. “We?”

“What?”

“You said he hoped that ‘we’ could bring about a civil war.”

“Yes, the conspiracy.”

“So you count yourself as one of them now?”

“What choice do I have?” She brushed a wisp of hair from her brow. “I’m trying to convince Kearney that I’ve turned against him, and I’m trying to convince the Weaver that I’ve joined his cause. Day and night, awake and asleep, I’m acting the part of a traitor. If I’m to play the role properly, I have to give myself over to it. My life depends upon it.”

Again, he would have liked to find some way to ease her burden, or at least express his sympathy. But he didn’t know how. Throughout their lives, he had been the older sibling, the Weaver, the one who faced dangers and took risks in order to protect her. Now, for the first time, he found himself overwhelmed by the sacrifice Keziah was making, not only for him but for all the Forelands. It felt strange to him, and just a bit frightening.

“You weren’t with Kearney when he met us in the ward. Have you lost his trust?”

She gave a wan smile. “Not entirely, not yet. The Weaver wants me to repair the damage I’ve done to our rapport. He says that if Kearney no longer trusts me, or worse, if he banishes me from the castle, I’m of little value to the conspiracy. I’ve assumed that to mean that the Weaver would then have me killed.”

“Is it working? Is Kearney starting to turn to you again?”

She straightened, folding her arms over her chest. “As you say, I wasn’t with him when he greeted you. I’ve tried apologizing for my behavior. I’ve explained to him that I was embittered by the end of our love affair and desperate to hurt him, but that I still wish to serve him as archminister.”

“And what does he say?”

“Very little. He hasn’t ordered me from the castle yet, for which I suppose I should be grateful, but neither has he begun to confide in me again.”