DAVID COE - Seeds of Betrayal

His brother had planned it perfectly, Grigor realized. Like a Qirsi magician entertaining children, he had deceived all of them, making them see just what he wanted them to see.

“What is it you want, Numar?” he asked, feeling the metal bite at his wrists, desperate now for anyway out of this.

“The same as you. I’m Tomaz’s son, too, remember? I want to sit on Father’s throne. The difference between us is that I’m patient enough to allow the girl to get me there.”

“If you kill her as well, someone’s bound to figure out all of this.”

“It won’t matter by then. I’ll have the Council, and I’ll have the army.”

“I can help you with that. No one will ever trust me with the throne now, or the regency. But they still fear me. They will even more after this. With me at your side, no one will ever think to challenge you.”

Numar stepped closer, stopping just in front of him, the smile still on his lips. “I’m sorry, Grigor, but I know you too well. You could never bring yourself to accept me as your king. Sooner or later you’d try to have me killed. For now, you’re much more valuable to me in chains. And though I hate to see another Solkaran die, I’ll feel a good bit safer once you’ve been executed.”

Screaming his rage, Grigor launched himself at the man, only to find that the chains held him fast. Numar stood just beyond his reach.

“As I said, you’re much more valuable to me in chains.”

He turned away and walked to the door.

“Guard!” he called.

“I’ll stop you, Numar. I’ll find a way. And when I do, I’ll kill you myself.”

Numar glanced back at him and grinned, saying nothing.

“The man’s a murderer!” Grigor shouted as the guard appeared. “He poisoned your queen and the Council of Dukes! Don’t let him out of here!”

The guard unlocked the door and opened it for Numar.

“Thank you,” Numar said. He stopped in the corridor outside the door, gazing back at Grigor as the guard locked the door again. “Take care of him,” he said. “I know what he’s done. But he was once a noble of House Solkara. Even with the shame he’s brought upon us, we must never forget that.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“He’s lying! He’s betrayed our house, our realm! You must believe me!”

The guard didn’t even look at him, and Grigor’s words echoed through the tower like a rumble of thunder that brings no rain, the desperate, empty cries of a condemned man.

City of Kings, Eibithar

The snows came to southern Eibithar just after dawn on the tenth day of Bohdan’s waning. Unlike most years, when the new season arrived with screaming winds and a blinding, frenzied swirl of snow, this year it came softly and silently. Keziah was still in bed when the snowfall began, though she was awake, her eyes wandering her room as she summoned the courage to leave the warmth of her blankets. Hearing laughter rise to her chamber from the ward below her window, she climbed from bed, wrapped herself in a robe, and stepped to the window. Opening the wood shutters, she saw tiny white flakes falling from a sky of deep somber grey and covering the castle grounds as sawdust coats the floor of a carpenter’s shop. The air was perfectly still, and she could hear the light scratching of the icy snow alighting on the castle walls and roofs.

She was shivering. With the window open and her fire having burned out during the night, her chamber quickly grew as frigid as the kitchen-master’s cellars. Still, the minister couldn’t bring herself to close her shutters again. Instead, she sat on the sill of her window and watched the snow fall, remembering how she and Grinsa had played in drifts on the steppe as children. Like the other castle children, they had spent much time throwing balls of snow and ice at one another, their hands growing numb and sore long before they tired of the sport. At other times, though, when they were alone, they practiced their magic on the pure white fields of Eardley’s outer wards. Young as they were, they hadn’t the power to shape wood. But they could trace patterns in the snow with their minds, drawing flowers, horses, and portraits of each other. As in everything else, Grinsa was better at this than she, though he was always quick to praise her efforts. They spent hours this way, alone, laughing and learning together. And when they were done, fearing that they might be punished for using their powers before their apprenticeships, they would stomp through the snow, erasing all evidence of what they had done. The Qirsi shortened their lives just a bit every time they used their magic, and the danger was greatest for children who had no training in how to control their power and use it sparingly. Had their parents learned of what they were doing, they would have forbidden the children from playing in the snow at all, or worse, kept Keziah and Grinsa apart from each other until the thaw. Such was the danger of the games they played.

Thinking of Grinsa, her mind turned southward, to Aneira and all that she had heard recently of events there. It had been some time since her brother last entered her dreams, and Keziah wondered where he was and whether he and Tavis of Curgh were any closer to finding Brienne’s killer. She still wished that Grinsa hadn’t gone with the boy. For all her brother’s power, she didn’t like the idea of him tracking a hired blade.

Someone knocked at her door, forcing her abruptly from her musings and memories. Pulling her robe tighter around her shoulders and passing a hand through her tangled white hair, she faced the door.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Paegar.”

Keziah smiled. In a castle and city that had long seemed empty of warmth and companionship, the high minister had in recent days become her closest friend, really her only friend. They had spent a good deal of time together since the waning began, talking as they walked through the corridors and wards, and laughing in the kitchens over midday meals. The night before, they had left the castle for a Qirsi tavern Paegar knew in the northern quarter of the marketplace. Keziah hadn’t been to a tavern in years. In Glyndwr, as Kearney’s first minister and lover, she had rarely left his side, much less his castle. Though she missed terribly the nights they spent together, she had found herself reveling in the freedom of being able to leave the confines of the castle walls and breathe in the life she found in the city. For too long, Keziah realized the previous night, she had allowed herself to steep like tea leaves in the grief that followed Kearney’s ascension and the end of their love affair. Without saying a word, perhaps without even knowing it, Paegar had helped her see this. All it had taken was a friend inviting her to live again, to find mirth and good company without the man with whom she had shared her bed. She hadn’t known how to thank the minister, and in a sense, she didn’t have to. It was enough that they enjoyed their time together.

“Come in!” she said. Then remembering that the door was bolted, she crossed the room and unlocked it.

“Good morning, Paegar,” she said, waving him into the room.

He smiled. “And to you, Archmimster.” Noticing her robe, he halted, his face falling. “Did I wake you?”

“Not at all. I was watching the snow.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That would explain why yours is the only chamber in the castle in which I can see my breath.”

Keziah gave a small laugh. “I know. I should start a new fire.” She turned to face the window again and sighed. “But isn’t it lovely? I’ve missed the snows.”

“Spoken like a woman raised on the steppe. To me the snows are a bother. I never feel so old as I do in the cold turns.”