David Coe - Bonds of Vengeance

“Well, you’re more forgiving than I would be.”

“If Qirsi and Eandi can’t forgive each other, we’re doomed,” he said, surprising himself a second time. It was something the gleaner might have told him.

Xaver looked at him for a long time, a slight smile on his lips. “You have changed, Tavis. I can see it. I think you’ll make a fine duke someday.”

He merely nodded. The young lord had been thinking for some time now that his life was on an unknown path, one that neither he nor even the gleaner had anticipated. He couldn’t say where it was leading, but he no longer believed that he’d ever be duke of Curgh.

Bells began to toll in the distance, beginning at the north gate, the Moorlands gate as it was known in the City of Kings. Soon all the bells in the city were pealing, as if presaging the beginning of a siege. In the center of the courtyard, Gershon Trasker shouted a command, and the king’s soldiers began to line up by the far gate.

Tavis looked at Xaver, who was already watching him, seeming to gauge the young lord’s reaction.

“That’s probably Shanstead,” Xaver said. “Your father thought he would be the first to arrive.”

“How many are supposed to arrive today?”

“In addition to the thane? Only one or two. Lathrop, and possibly Shamus.”

Only two. That was more than enough. Tavis still remembered how the other dukes had looked at him during Kearney’s investiture. Aindreas had convinced all of them that he was a butcher, a demon more deserving of torture and death than the mercy of exile.

“You can prove your innocence now, Tavis. You’ve been waiting for this since the last growing.”

“I’m not convinced that they’ll believe her, Stinger. She’s a Qirsi traitor. Aindreas will say that she’d confess to anything to save herself and her child. He’ll say that Kearney is so desperate to justify his actions on my behalf that he’d gladly believe her lies. And many of them will agree. Galdasten, Sussyn, Rennach. Before this turn is over, a majority of the dukes may be calling for both Cresenne and me to be hanged.”

“I think you give the dukes too little credit.”

“I hope so,” Tavis said. “I’ve never been so eager to be wrong.”

“We should go to the gate. Your father will want us there. From what I gather, Marston is already convinced that the Qirsi killed Brienne. He’s an ally.”

Tavis tried to smile. Failed. “You go. I’ll wait for him in the castle.”

Xaver frowned, but then nodded and, gripping Tavis’s arm briefly, walked away.

Watching Xaver leave, Tavis wished that he could have shared his friend’s faith in the judgement of Eibithar’s dukes. He knew he should have been pleased. If Shanstead really was with them, and could convince his father, the duke of Thorald, of Tavis’s innocence, there was indeed cause for hope.

Yet as he listened to the city bells, Tavis heard in their ringing not the promise of salvation or the herald of peace but rather the stubborn insistence of a call to arms, and the grim repetition of a dirge.

Gershon’s father, a fine soldier in his own right, had often said that a man could grow old and die watching nobles say hello. Standing in the shadow of Audun’s Castle, watching Kearney greet Marston of Shanstead, the swordmaster had to agree. The ceremony welcoming the thane to the royal city seemed to drag on for an eternity, until, unable to stand it any longer, Gershon muttered a bit too loudly, “Imagine if the duke himself had come.”

One of his soldiers snickered and the king gave them a look that would have melted steel.

It was nearly time for the ringing of the prior’s bells before Marston’s company was in the castle and the thane and king were able to talk. Still Gershon sensed that the younger man was reluctant to speak freely, as if he feared that their conversation would be overheard by enemies of the realm, though the only ones in the chamber with them were the archminister, Marston’s minister, Gershon, and a pair of servants. For some time, Marston and Kearney continued to trade pleasantries, discussing the severity of the snows that had just ended and their hopes for a mild growing season.

Only when the king asked after Marston’s father did the swordmaster have the impression that they were approaching matters that truly concerned the thane.

“My father sends his respects, my liege,” the young man said, looking grave. “He would have liked to make the journey himself, and he instructed me to thank you for your invitation and to apologize for his absence.” The man gave a wan smile. “It seems my father thinks me a poor substitute.”

The king shook his head, offering a sympathetic grin. “I doubt that. But I hope you’ll tell him that he was missed, and that we look forward to making him a guest at Audun’s Castle when he can make the journey.”

“I will, my liege.” But there was a catch in Marston’s voice, the briefest of hesitations when he spoke, which told Gershon that Tobbar of Thorald would never again set foot in the City of Kings.

Apparently Kearney heard it as well. “He shows no improvement?”

Marston sat straighter, as if gathering himself. Gershon had only met Tobbar once or twice, most recently at Kearney’s investiture, when he had already begun to grow thin and weak with the illness that had kept him from this journey. He could see so much of the duke in his son’s ruddy face. The penetrating grey eyes and noble straight nose, the kindness that seemed to linger in even the saddest of smiles. Aside from the years, there was little to separate father from son.

“Forgive me for being blunt, my liege, but my father is dying. The healers have told us for some time now that his illness lurks too deep for their magic and their herbs. They ease his pain as much as they can, but they’ve long since given up on trying to cure him.”

Kearney looked pained. “I’m sorry, Lord Shanstead. Your father is a fine man who has led his house with wisdom and compassion under the most difficult of circumstances. Bian, it is said, has a jealous heart, and he steals the brightest jewels so that his realm will glitter. Our world will be darker for his passing.”

Marston looked away, his jaw tightening. “Yes, my liege. Thank you.”

“You sent a message during the snows, in which you wrote of the treachery of your father’s first minister.”

The thane faced Kearney again, though not before casting a wary look at Keziah. “I did, my liege.”

“It’s all right, Lord Shanstead. I’ve already spoken of your message with all my ministers as well as with Gershon.”

Marston didn’t look pleased, but he nodded. “Of course, my liege.”

“Perhaps you should tell me more about what happened.”

Still appearing uncomfortable, Shanstead told them how his suspicions of Enid ja Kovar had grown over the preceding year, and of how his own minister agreed to act the part of an embittered servant who wished to join the Qirsi conspiracy. After listening to the man rail against the thane, Enid offered to help him join her cause, at which point Marston’s minister left her, related to the thane all that had been said, and accompanied Marston to Tobbar’s chamber, where he repeated his account.

“As you might expect,” Marston said, “my father was reluctant to believe him at first. Enid had served the House of Thorald for more than six years, and the duke had never thought to question her loyalty. When we summoned her to his chambers, she denied it, accusing Xiv here of fabricating the tale.”

Gershon looked for a moment at the thane’s minister, who was sitting quietly in the far corner of the chamber, his gaze fixed on his lord. Unlike most Qirsi, he wore his white hair short, so that at first glance he appeared to have none at all.