DAVID COE - Seeds of Betrayal

After a moment’s silence, the others in the hall rose and bowed to him, though many of them, Brail and Tebeo included, were of higher rank.

Chofya did not bow. She didn’t even stand. After her guests took their seats once more, Grigor walked to where she was sitting and knelt before her.

“Your Highness,” he said, his voice as clear and strong as the ring of a smith’s hammer on hot steel. “You have my sympathy for your loss.”

“And you have mine for yours,” the queen answered. “Carden was as much your brother as he was my husband.”

Grigor looked up at that, his eyes dancing with torchlight. “That may be so.” The queen shifted uncomfortably, drawing a grin from the man. He stood, though Chofya hadn’t yet given him leave to do so. Glancing around the hall, he spotted his brothers sitting together at a nearby table. He nodded to them, but remained where he was, continuing to survey the room. The other guests were still watching him silently, waiting for him to speak or sit or, perhaps, claim the throne right then and there. “Where are the other dukes?” he finally asked of no one in particular. “Noltierre, Tounstrel, Bistari, Kett. They should be here by now.”

“I expect them in the next day or two,” Chofya said after a brief pause. “The funeral is in three days. I’m sure they’ll arrive in time.”

“We should have a new king by then.”

The queen straightened in her chair. “Aneira’s new leader will be chosen after the funeral, as custom dictates.”

Grigor turned to her once more, his eyes narrowing.

Evanthya had noticed as well. Aneira’s new leader , Chofya said. Not, Aneira’s new king .

She turned to Fetnalla, a question in her eyes, but the minister shook her head.

“Not now,” she whispered. “I’ll explain later.”

“Do you plot for the throne, Your Highness?” Grigor asked, with a small laugh. He made a sweeping gesture, turning neatly on one foot as he did so as to indicate the entire hall. “Do you honestly believe that the men in this room would accept you as their sovereign? Was your father even a baron?”

The queen sat unmoving, her color high, her eyes darting about the hall as if she were gauging the reaction of the other nobles. “This isn’t a matter to be discussed just now, Lord Renbrere.”

“With my brother’s death, I am now duke of Solkara,” Grigor said sharply. “I should be addressed as such.”

The queen’s mouth twisted for just an instant, as if she realized that she had erred. “Of course, my lord. Forgive me.”

Whatever game Chofya was playing, she had started poorly. Evanthya could only guess that she had miscalculated. Grigor was a dangerous foe; even seeing him for the first time this day, she could tell that much.

“She can’t think to oppose him for the crown,” Evanthya said quietly.

Fetnalla gave a small nod. “She does, though not as you think.”

“Please, Lord Solkara,” the queen began again. “Sit with us. Raise your glass and join us in our feast. These matters can wait, and it’s been long since we last dined together.”

The man gave a thin smile. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “But I came to honor my brother, the king, and to ensure the continued reign of House Solkara. My place is with my brothers.”

With everyone still watching him, Grigor walked to where Henthas and Numar sat, leaving Chofya sitting by herself, looking small and defeated.

“He’ll crush her,” Evanthya said softly.

Fetnalla turned to her, her face looking paler than usual, her lips drawn tight. “We can’t let that happen,” she said. “He’ll ruin us all.”

“They’re all staring at you,” Numar said, looking amused as he watched Gngor take his seat at their table.

Grigor nodded, looking from one of his brothers to the other. It took some effort to keep himself from grinning, but he managed it well enough. He didn’t need to look around the hall to know that Numar was right. He sensed their eyes upon him, and he relished the feeling.

“They’re looking at their new king,” he said softly to his youngest brother. “How can they help but stare?”

Henthas gave a short sharp laugh. “You think you’ve won already? You’re a fool. Carden’s whore won’t give in to you so easily.”

“When all is said and done, she’ll have no choice,” Grigor told him. “But rest assured, brother, I’ve no intention of declaring victory yet.”

Henthas looked away and drained his goblet of wine. “Actually, I almost wish you would,” he said, as a servant poured him more. “I’d enjoy watching her humiliate you.”

“In that case you’ll be disappointed.”

His brother grunted, his eyes on the queen. Grigor knew that Henthas was trying to anger him, as he so often did. But on this night it wasn’t going to work. Not with Carden’s crown so close at hand.

If he could have done this without his brothers he would gladly have done so. Neither man was of much help to him, and Ean knew that the three of them had little affection for one another. Mostly Grigor needed to control both men, to keep either of them from undermining his intentions.

He would have had to be deaf and blind not to know how the three of them were perceived throughout Aneira, indeed, throughout the Forelands. The Jackals and the Fool. The names weren’t flattering, to be sure, particularly to poor Numar, but they did offer the brothers Renbrere a certain notoriety. As it happened, though, they were hopelessly inaccurate. Jackals were pack hunters, like wolves. Grigor and Henthas had never been bound by any common interest. Grigor had always been guided by ambition and his unwavering belief that his fate would one day match his formidable talents. Henthas dreamed of nothing, loved nothing, and feared nothing. He was the third son of House Solkara; power lay too far from his grasp to give him purpose. Even after Grigor took the throne, Henthas would gain only the marquessate in Renbrere, a small step up from the viscountcy he held already. The Solkaran dukedom would go to Grigor’s eldest son, leaving nothing for the brother or his boys. Grigor did not believe that Henthas had designs on his life, though he couldn’t risk ignoring the possibility. He thought it more likely that the man would oppose him, either openly or in secret. For while ambition didn’t drive Henthas, bitterness and envy did. He would gladly trade the marquessate and its small luxuries for the pleasure of seeing Grigor fail. And if that failure cost Grigor his life, all the better.

No, Henthas was no jackal. A viper perhaps, or some demon from Bian’s realm. But the name they had given him implied social skills that the man simply did not possess.

Calling Numar a fool made even less sense. True, he had little more ambition than Henthas. He seemed perfectly content with his viscountcy and he rarely involved himself with any matters of state beyond its boundaries. But to mistake his reticence for simplicity carried risks as well. He had a keen mind and a troublesome sense of moral propriety. If he chose to oppose Grigor’s bid for the crown, he would, Grigor knew, be a far more formidable foe than Henthas, if for no other reason than because Grigor had little sense of what tactics he might use. Whereas Henthas could always be counted on to resort to lies, betrayal, and brutality, Numar relied on reason and persuasion. He’d seek out allies, building bridges to Aneira’s other major houses. In doing so, he’d try to show the entire kingdom that he was no fool, that in fact, he was the Solkaran they most wanted to see on the throne.

The Jackals and the Fool. It was an illusion, but one he needed to maintain. Though he and Henthas hated one another, the notion that they worked together aided his cause. Grigor had utter confidence in his ability to win the crown for himself, by himself, but so long as the kingdom’s other nobles saw him as part of a deadly pair, they’d be less likely to challenge him. And so long as they dismissed Tomaz’s youngest son as a dullard, they wouldn’t realize that they could choose as their king someone other than Grigor without risking war with House Solkara.