DAVID COE - Seeds of Betrayal

“I’ll do what I can, Archminister. I don’t want war. Truly I don’t. But wouldn’t we be fools to rule it out entirely? Doesn’t that weaken us in our discussions with Lord Solkara?”

Pronjed opened his mouth, rage in his pale eyes. Then he seemed to stop himself, though clearly it took an effort. “Yes,” he finally said. “I guess you’re right.” He looked over his shoulder at Chofya. “I should return to the queen. Thank you, First Minister.”

“You’re welcome.”

He spun away from her in a manner that told her he was still angry, and returned to the queen’s table. After standing where she was for another moment or two, Fetnalla left the hall and hurried back to her chamber. She was lonely and would have preferred to walk the gardens, or better yet the marketplace. But with alliances being formed and broken all around her, and Grigor collecting supporters as a quartermaster gathers weapons, she felt safer in the solitude of her room.

The time passed slowly, and Fetnalla was ready well before she began to hear voices of the other dukes and their ministers in the corridor outside her room. Still, when she stepped out of her chamber and over to Brail’s door, Tebeo and Evanthya were already there, and Brail was frowning at her as if she were hours late.

“At last,” he said, striding past her into the hallway.

Fetnalla cast a quick look at Evanthya, who offered a sympathetic smile. She smiled in return, feeling her face redden slightly. She shouldn’t have let the woman see how much a simple smile could please her, but just then she didn’t care. Pride be damned, she wanted her love back.

Most of the dukes had already arrived by the time Brail, Tebeo, and the two ministers reached the chamber. A servant was pouring Sanbiri red into goblets on a small table by the door while the nobles and their Qirsi took seats at a second, larger table in the center of the room. Grigor and Chofya were already sitting, one at either end of the table, their goblets already filled and resting before them. The queen sat with Pronjed, but Grigor was alone. Henthas and Numar were nowhere to be seen. Apparently, the duke of Solkara did not wish to have his brothers speaking for him on this night.

After several moments, the queen stood, lifting her wineglass. Grigor stood also, as did the others in the room. Servants brought the wine to the table, so that soon all were holding their goblets for a toast.

“Welcome, all of you,” Chofya said. “I know it’s been a long, wearying day, and I’m grateful to you for coming here tonight. Our kingdom has been without a leader for too long. The time has come for us to decide this matter once and for all. Let us hope that we can find the wisdom to keep Aneira at peace with herself.”

Grigor nodded, a thin smile on his lips. “Well said, Your Highness. But I would add that we must also keep Aneira strong, so that we do not invite challenge from our neighbors, particularly the kingdom to our north.”

Several of the dukes nodded their approval. This promised to be a difficult night for the queen.

Chofya gave a low sigh. “It seems we can’t even agree on a toast, Lord Solkara. Shall we drink simply to our realm then?”

The duke nodded. “Agreed. To Aneira.”

“To Aneira,” the dukes and ministers repeated.

Fetnalla took a sip of wine, then belatedly glanced toward Evanthya, who was watching her, still holding her glass. They had done this for several years, sharing a private silent toast whenever they attended such events together. Fetnalla smiled and raised her glass a second time.

Even as she did, however, she became aware of a queer sensation in her throat. She heard a strangled cry come from the queen, and then another from one of the dukes. Brail, who had started to sit, lurched back to his feet, staggered backward, and began to retch. But all Fetnalla could do was stare at Evanthya. The feeling in her throat was spreading down through her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe.

Evanthya was gaping at her, hands trembling until her wine started to spill. Aware suddenly of the goblet she was holding, Evanthya threw it away, as if it had abruptly become too hot to hold.

Fetnalla felt her stomach heave.

“Evanthya?” she called. Or tried to. The name came out as softly as a sigh.

Still Evanthya seemed to hear her. And as Fetnalla convulsed, vomiting violently onto the table, her love was at her side, her slender hands gripping Fetnalla’s shoulders.

All around them was turmoil and panic. Shouts of “See to the queen!” and “Someone help my lord!” filled the chamber. Fetnalla sensed people running to and fro all about them, but all she could do was stare at Evanthya’s face. Her chest burned like a smith’s forge and she struggled to draw breath.

“Evanthya,” she whispered.

There were tears on Evanthya’s face and a wild look in her eyes, such as a horse gets on a stormy night. “Yes, love. Yes. I’m here.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know. Be still now. Someone’s gone to fetch the surgeon.”

Fetnalla nodded, and with an effort, she tried to gaze around the chamber. Several dukes were on the floor, as was Chofya. Servants were screaming to each other, terror on their faces. She could hear people vomiting, and she felt her own stomach rise again.

Turning the other way, she saw Grigor still standing at the end of the table, his face ashen, his dark eyes as wide as a frightened child’s.

Fetnalla raised a hand, the effort almost more than she could bear, and pointed at him.

“You did this,” she mouthed, unable to make a sound.

The duke shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice quavering. “No, I swear.”

She wanted to call him a liar. She wanted to scream at him. But instead she felt herself convulse again. And as consciousness began to slip away from her, like a memory or a dream, she felt Evanthya’s arms easing her down to the floor.

“Where’s the surgeon?” Evanthya screamed again, through the tears running down her face.

No one answered, of course. Everyone who hadn’t been poisoned was seeing to someone who had. All of the servants had escaped harm, saved by their low station. A few of the ministers had waited for their dukes to drink before doing so themselves, and thus had been spared as well. Pronjed appeared to be fine, and though this raised Evanthya’s suspicions, she was hardly in a position to make accusations.

Still, she felt certain that Fetnalla had spoken for all of them when she accused Grigor. Pronjed had barked an order to the castle guards, and four of them now stood around the duke of Solkara, swords drawn and pressed against his back and chest.

Fetnalla was still breathing, but barely, the rise and fall of her chest nearly imperceptible in the torchlight. Tebeo was on his back as well, but still conscious. He had taken but a small sip of the wine and had been in the process of swallowing when the queen cried out. He managed to cough up most of what he drank, and had emptied his stomach of the rest. If any of those who had taken the wine were to survive, the duke would be one of them. Evanthya had gone to his side after laying Fetnalla on the floor, but he had waved her away.

“I’ll be fine, First Minister,” he had whispered. “Tend to the others. Tend to Brail and Fetnalla.”

Brail had collapsed to the floor some time before and had not moved since. One of the servants was laying wet cloths on his brow, but Evanthya feared the worst.

At last, the master surgeon burst into the room, followed by a number of his assistants, an older man who had to be the castle herbmaster, and several Qirsi. Let them be healers , Evanthya prayed silently, knowing that Carden had no Qirsi healers in the castle, but hoping that at least one of the gods might hear her.