DAVID COE - Seeds of Betrayal

“Can you try?” she asked instead, gently, as one might speak to a child.

“I just don’t think that he wants a war,” Fetnalla said with a shrug.

“I’m sure he doesn’t. His fate is tied to House Solkara, Fetnalla. A war is the last thing he wants, because it may very well bring an end to the Solkaran Supremacy.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Evanthya took a breath. “I don’t want a tyrant.”

“I don’t either. But I’m more afraid of a war.”

She tried to smile. “Maybe together, we can find a way to avoid both.”

But Fetnalla shook her head. “I don’t think so. We’re working at cross-purposes. I don’t see any way for us to help each other.”

Evanthya thought she might cry. “But-”

“You should go. I’m tired, and I’m sure you must be as well.”

She had never heard Fetnalla’s voice sound so flat, so devoid of love.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked. She was the child now, small and frightened.

“I expect our dukes will keep their audience with the queen. I’ll see you then.”

Their eyes remained locked a moment longer. Evanthya wanted to say more, or more to the point, to hear Fetnalla say more. They hadn’t parted without speaking the words for so long, she hardly knew how to do it anymore. But Fetnalla kept herself still, and after a painfully awkward silence, Evanthya turned and left the room. Once in the corridor, she fell against the stone walls, stifling a sob with an effort that made her chest ache.

I love you , she wanted to cry out. I love you as I’ve never loved anyone .

But the stillness stopped her. Leaning closer to Fetnalla’s door, she felt her heart wither. She heard nothing, nothing at all. Not even the sound of tears.

They had come within sight of the royal city late the previous day, following the waters of the Kett away from the setting sun, through fishing villages, farmlands, and patches of dense forest. They could have entered the city at any time, but as he usually did when they arrived somewhere new, Grinsa chose to wait for morning, when the peddlers and shepherds would file through the city gates and make their way to the city marketplace. As two travelers entering Solkara, or any other Aneiran city, Tavis and he couldn’t help but draw the attention of the city guards. As part of the horde flooding the city each morning, they could avoid close scrutiny. Every city to which they journeyed presented risks, none more so than the royal city in the wake of Carden’s death, with every Aneiran noble and his best soldiers walking the streets. But short of abandoning their search for the assassin and his Qirsi allies, such small precautions offered the most safety for which the gleaner could hope.

Standing amid the beggars and merchants waiting for the ringing of the morning bells and the opening of the gates, Tavis stamped his feet in the cold and muttered to himself impatiently. He wore an old woolen riding cloak with its hood drawn up to hide at least some of his livid scars.

“Any other city in the Forelands would have let us in already,” he said with petulance. “Certainly they would have in C-” He stopped, glancing about as if to see if anyone was listening. “At home,” he continued a moment later, lowering his voice.

Grinsa had to smile. The morning had brightened considerably, and the boy was probably right. The bells should already have been rung. But it was a matter of moments. As much as Tavis had matured in the half year since his Fating, he remained terribly young, as only a noble could.

“It won’t be long now,” Grinsa said, gazing up the city lane through the iron grating of the gate. “Here come the morning guards now.”

A murmur went through the crowd as the soldiers approached. Tavis wasn’t the only one growing cold in the early-morning air.

The guards unlocked the gate, pulled both sides of it open, and waved the men and women into the city.

“Keep your head down,” Grinsa whispered.

Tavis gave a quick glance, glowering at the Qirsi. “Yes, I know!” he answered. “Nod my head a lot and say ‘good morning,’ though not so loudly that the guards can hear my accent. You don’t have to tell me every time!”

Grinsa smirked. “But I enjoy these conversations so.”

Tavis glared at him a moment longer, before smiling himself and shaking his head. “I should have gone to Glyndwr when I had the chance,” the boy said, the grin lingering on his lips. “Exile would be better than this.”

Grinsa nodded, facing forward. “For both of us.”

They passed the guards without incident and began to follow the crowd toward the marketplace. But before they had gone far, the gleaner heard the jangling of a sword and the scuffling of a soldier’s boots.

“Stop right there, you!” came a hard voice.

Grinsa kept walking, and gestured for Tavis to do the same, but his heart was pounding at his chest like a fist.

“I told you to stop!” the guard said.

A sword was drawn, the morning air ringing with the sound of steel.

“Another step and you die!” the man warned.

Grinsa froze, putting out an arm to stop his companion as well. He turned slowly, only to see the guard pressing his blade against the throat of the man walking just behind him.

“What’s this,” the guard said, removing a two-handed sword from a baldric on the man’s back. “Peddlers don’t usually need such fine blades.”

“I carry it for safety, good sir,” the man said, his voice quavering. “There are thieves on the roads throughout the forest.”

“That may be,” the guard said. “But you don’t carry such a blade into Solkara unless you’re a noble or a soldier in the service of one.” He paused, glancing over at Grinsa and frowning. “What are you looking at, white-hair? This doesn’t concern you.”

“Of course not, good sir,” the gleaner said quickly, lowering his gaze. “Forgive me.”

He hurried on, Tavis beside him, but for some time his pulse continued to race, as if he had just come through a battle. He looked forward to the day when they could leave Aneira for Caerisse, or Wethyrn or Sanbira. Any place where Tavis’s lineage wasn’t grounds for immediate execution, and where his accent didn’t draw the unwished-for attention of everyone from castle guards to innkeepers.

“They stopped that man just for carrying a sword,” Tavis said quietly. “No wonder my father hates the Aneirans so.”

“We’re in their royal city, Tavis. Their king has just died and one of their dukes was murdered barely a turn ago. Houses will by vying for the throne, old rivalries will be rekindled. This is a time for vigilance. I wouldn’t assume that the guards always treat strangers that way.”

Tavis eyed him briefly. “Why do you always take the part of those I dislike?”

“I’m not taking their part. I’m merely trying to make you see the world from someone else’s perspective. A good king can see through his enemy’s eyes as well as his own.”

The boy gave a short, sharp laugh. “You still think I’m going to be king?”

“I don’t know,” Grinsa said. “But the same qualities that make a good king, can make a good man.”

Tavis seemed to consider this as they walked on, wandering slowly among the stalls and peddlers’ carts of the city marketplace. There was little for them to learn in the city streets, though they could certainly ask some of the sellers about the assassin. But it was far too early in the day for them to go to taverns and inns, where their chances of learning something useful were far greater.

Grinsa couldn’t say what it was about the woman that caught his attention. While there were more Eandi in the marketplace than Qirsi, there were enough white-hairs about to keep one from standing out. From a distance, her clothes appeared ordinary-a simple brown cloak, hooded like his own, and clasped at the neck with a plain silver chain. It was only when she drew nearer that he saw the hem of her robe and realized she was a minister in the court of an Aneiran noble. She was pretty in a plain way, with a thin face, bright yellow eyes, and fine white hair that she wore loose so that it hung past her shoulders to the middle of her back. But she wasn’t beautiful, like Cresenne or even Keziah, his sister.