DAVID COE - Seeds of Betrayal

Grigor stood, and after a moment, Henthas and Numar did as well.

I’m afraid I can’t make that promise,“ the duke said. ”Had he been in my position, your husband wouldn’t have either. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I, Chofya? You know it’s true.“ He glanced at his brothers. ”Let’s go, he said, starting toward the door. “This discussion is done.”

Henthas looked at Chofya and the dukes, a smirk on his lips, and then he followed. Numar offered a small bow to the queen.

“Your Highness,” he said, without a hint of irony, before leaving as well.

When Carden’s brothers had gone, closing the door behind them, Brail pushed himself out of his chair and began to pace, as Evanthya had seen him do so often.

“The impertinence of that man is galling,” he said. “I had my doubts about the regency before, Your Highness. But having seen what the kingdom would have to endure instead, I’m ready to do whatever I can to see that your daughter is made queen. I only wish you’d reconsider your choice of Grigor as regent.”

Tebeo let out a breath. “I have to agree, Your Highness. The man is set on being king. Giving your daughter over to him is far too dangerous. She won’t survive the first turn.”

“What about Numar?” Fetnalla asked, looking around the room and even allowing her gaze to alight briefly on Evanthya.

“He does seem a more reasonable man,” Tebeo said. “And not at all the dullard we’ve been led to believe he was.”

Chofya shook her head. “Grigor wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Evanthya said. She felt all of them watching her, even Fetnalla, but she kept her gaze fixed on the queen and hoped that her voice would remain steady. “But why should we care what Grigor thinks? He’s willing to defy the Council, he treats you and all those around him with contempt, and he obviously cares for nothing but his own ambitions. He doesn’t deserve your concern.”

“He’s a powerful man, First Minister,” the queen said. “If we anger him, we risk war.”

“He’s intent on war already, Your Highness. If you truly wish to put your daughter on the throne, you’ll have to defeat Grigor first.”

“I’m afraid my first minister may be right,” Tebeo said. “In which case all turns on the Council. It’s not enough that you win the support of a majority of Aneira’s dukes. You need enough of them with you to defeat Grigor in battle.”

Brail drew his sword. “You’ll have my blade, Your Highness.”

“And mine,” Tebeo said, raising his weapon as well.

The queen managed a smile. “My thanks to you both.”

Evanthya looked at Fetnalla, and found the minister already staring back at her, an apology in her eyes. When she next glanced at Pronjed, however, she saw something quite different. He was staring at her as well, his face deathly pale and his eyes filled with rage.

Gngor was walking so fast his brothers could barely keep pace with him. He said nothing, fearing that others might hear-he knew that once he loosed his ire he would be unable to control it.

He led them out of the castle to a remote and deserted corner of the gardens, which had long since turned brown. Only then, when he was certain that he was beyond the sight and hearing of all in the castle, did he whirl toward his youngest brother, his short sword drawn.

“I should kill you here and now!” he said, laying the blade along the side of Numar’s neck. “How dare you oppose me in front of Chofya and her little dukes!”

“I didn’t oppose you, brother,” Numar said, looking and sounding maddeningly calm. “I merely tried to point out that the castle is large enough to accommodate both you and the queen.”

“There was more to it than that!”

“Yes, there was. I also tried to make you see that by angering the Council, you invite rebellion. Strong as our house may be, we cannot stand against all the dukedoms of Aneira. You may be the oldest, Grigor, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stand by and let you ruin House Solkara in your pursuit of the throne.”

“I’ve warned you once, brother. Don’t get in my way, or I’ll destroy you.”

Numar smiled. Even with the sword still at his throat, he actually smiled. “I’m not afraid of you, Grigor.” He glanced at Henthas. “I’m not even afraid of the two of you together. You need to convince the Council that you can be trusted with the kingdom. If you kill me, you’ll be undermining all that you’ve worked for.”

Grigor glared at him a moment longer before lowering his sword and grinning.

“You may be right, Numar,” he said, sheathing the blade again. “But that only protects you now. Once I’m king, there won’t be anyone in the Forelands who can save you, and there won’t be anywhere you can hide.”

Numar gave a small shrug, the smile still on his lips. “Then I’ll just have to see to it that you never take the throne.”

The funeral of King Carden the Third began with the tolling of the dawn bells on the eighth day of Bohdan’s waning. Nobles from across the land crowded into the wards of Castle Solkara to watch as the king’s body was carried forth from the castle cloister, set upon an ornate golden cart, and pulled toward the city streets by four white Caenssan steeds.

As the cart passed through the castle gates, beginning its long winding procession through the streets of Solkara, the nobles fell in step behind, like soldiers following their king to war. Out of the castle they walked, and into streets that were lined six deep on both sides for as far as the eye could see. Fetnalla saw few tears on the faces of those braving the cold to watch the procession; Carden had been feared, perhaps respected, but he was never loved. Mostly, she thought she read apprehension in the sunken eyes and begrimed faces of Solkara’s people. One didn’t have to be a duke or minister to understand that the kingdom faced a time of profound uncertainty. A prolonged struggle for the crown seemed imminent, war seemed likely. And though the people in the city streets might not have known precisely what was coming, or even the names of those most likely to shape their futures, they appeared to be steeling themselves for the worst.

The procession moved slowly, stopped more than once by mourners placing dried flowers in the path of Carden’s cart and bards standing in the lane to sing an elegy that they hoped would bring them fame and the good grace of Aneira’s ruling family. It was late in the morning, almost midday, before Carden’s final journey ended where it began, at the base of the castle’s cloister tower.

As the last of the nobles entered the castle ward once more, eight Solkaran soldiers in full battle raiment lifted the pallet holding the king’s body and bore it into the castle’s great hall. Inside, Solkara’s prelate led the kingdom’s most powerful men and women in prayer for their fallen leader. When the ceremonies ended, Garden was carried back out to the ward and placed upon a great pyre. Chofya and her daughter stepped forward, each bearing a lighted torch which they tossed onto the mountain of wood. Grigor, Henthas, and Numar followed, and finally the eight surviving dukes added their torches to the blaze. Soon the fire raged like a storm, warming the entire courtyard, bathing the stone walls with its yellow glow, and claiming the body of the dead king in a maelstrom of flame and smoke.

A feast followed the funeral, as was customary, but the mood in the hall seemed even more glum than one might have expected. Great platters of food sat uneaten on the tables as dukes and marquesses gathered in small groups around the periphery of the great chamber, speaking in hushed tones and eyeing rival nobles warily.