He remained by the window, staring out at the castle’s outer ward and the great towers of its middle wall. The sun turned its slow arc across the bright sky, casting deep shadows across the north barbican and the deep green grass that grew in front of it. After some time, guards at the city gates rang the prior’s bells. Still Paegar did not move. A flock of doves flew above the walls and towers, turning together in tight circles like trained horsemen. A bank of dark clouds appeared in the western sky, blocking out the sunlight. The air turned colder and the minister thought he heard thunder roll in the distance.
A short time later it began to storm, the gusting wind driving rain into his chamber. Reluctantly the minister closed the wooden shutters on his window and lit a candle by his bed. He thought about lying down and trying to sleep, but, fearing that he would sleep too long, immediately thought better of it. After sitting in the candlelight for just a minute or two, he extinguished the flame. He had been in his room long enough. Better to return now to the king’s chambers, and remain there for as much of the night as was necessary, than to appear there suddenly just a short while before Aylyn was to die.
Wenda and Natan were with the king when he got there, as
were the ever-present priests. Paegar had hoped—vainly, he knew—that Aylyn might die before nightfall, but the king looked just as he had that morning.
The minister stepped to the foot of the bed, bowing once to his sovereign, before he joined the older ministers at Aylyn’s side.
“He actually stirred at the sound of the thunder,” Natan said softly, his eyes never straying from the king’s face. “We hoped that perhaps he would awaken. But he hasn’t moved or made a sound since.”
Paegar shuddered at the notion that the man could move at all. He was supposed to be one step from death. The minister felt his hands start to tremble again and he balled them into fists.
“Is everything all right, Paegar?” Wenda asked.
“I had hoped the king might show some improvement.”
Natan shook his head. “He’s past that.”
Wenda stepped closer to Paegar. “I’d like to get some sleep now,” she whispered. “That way I can stay with the king through the night. Can you remain with the archminister until I return? I fear for his health.”
“Actually,” Paegar said, also lowering his voice, “I slept during the day so that I could relieve you both for the night.”
She smiled, looking a bit surprised. “How kind of you.”
“What’s that?” Natan asked.
“Paegar is going to stay with the king tonight so that you and I can rest.”
“I don’t want to rest.”
Wenda frowned. “Natan, don’t make me call the herbmaster for a sleep draught.”
The archminister glared at her for several moments, then shrugged and looked away. “All right,” he muttered. He quickly looked up again. “Not yet, though. I’m not leaving yet.”
Wenda took his hand. “No,” she said gently. “Not yet.”
The priests left a short time later, with the ringing of the twilight bells. They would pass the night in the cloister, returning the next morning at dawn. At least that was what they did most nights. Tonight would be different.
Wenda and the archminister lingered far longer than Paegar had wished they would. And just as they finally resolved to leave, the healers arrived to check on the king. Natan insisted on staying for
this, of course, and it was another hour or more before Wenda could lead him away.
At last, however, Paegar found himself alone in the chamber with the king. There was no light save for the low fire that burned in the great hearth, and a single candle that flickered by Aylyn’s bed. The castle had grown quiet. Most were in bed by now. But still he waited. The minister told himself that he had all the night, that if he killed the king too early he would invite suspicion. But he knew that wasn’t why he waited.
There were several pillows on the bed other than the two on which the king’s head rested. He had only to take one in his hands. His stomach felt hollow and sour, and his throat was so dry he couldn’t swallow.
The king had never been especially kind to him—certainly not as he was to Natan and Wenda. But neither had he ever been cruel or even discourteous. He had done nothing to deserve this death. Paegar could never claim that he had. The men and women of the movement had offered him gold and spoken to him of a glorious future for his people. And after so many years of living in this castle and serving this Eandi king, of offering counsel that was ignored as often as it was accepted, that had been enough. That was why Aylyn was about to die. That was the only reason.
He stepped forward and picked up one of the pillows. He was breathing hard and his hands felt sweaty. Only at the last minute, just before he covered the king’s face, did he remember what the healer had said about a kerchief. Pulling one from the pocket of his robe, he placed it carefully over Aylyn’s mouth and nose. The king didn’t move.
Paegar closed his eyes and lowered the pillow onto the old man’s face, pushing it down harder and harder until he was nearly lying on the bed himself. Still Aylyn offered no resistance and for a long time the high minister remained there, wondering if the old man was dead yet.
Finally he stood and removed the pillow and kerchief. The king looked just as he had before. Paegar bent over and laid his cheek on the king’s chest. He heard no heartbeat and sensed no movement. Straightening, the Qirsi carried the kerchief to the hearth and threw it on the fire. It blazed briefly before shriveling into a small blackened mass, which he stirred with a poker until it vanished.
His hands were still shaking, but that didn’t matter anymore. They’d expect that, just as they would expect the tears that ran down his cheeks.
“Guards!” he shouted, returning to the king’s side. “Wake the castle! The king is dead!”
Tremain, Eibithar
“A
sk a noble the difference between a minor house and a major house,” an old Eibitharian saying went,”and his answer will tell you to which he belongs.”
Like so many of the old adages this one carried more than a grain of truth. The only differences the dukes of Eibithar’s minor houses saw between themselves and the leaders of the major houses were a few hundred men in their armies, a few thousand qinde in their treasuries, and the chance to become king under the Rules of Ascension. To the dukes of the major houses, even Kearney, whose house ranked lowest among the five, the distinctions were far greater. With each house’s army including fewer than two thousand soldiers, a difference of a few hundred could be significant. But more than that, the men of Thorald, Galdasten, Curgh, Kentigern, and Glyndwr were the land’s finest and best trained. Kentigern and Glyndwr were expected to protect Eibithar’s borders; Thorald, Galdasten, and Curgh her shores. Their armies had to be the best. And since the dukes of the five were in line for the throne, their courts had to be worthy of receiving nobles from all the kingdoms of the Forelands. Their castles were larger and more elegant, their cities were more prosperous. “No one who has lived in a major house could ever mistake a minor for one of the five,” it was often said. “And no one who leaves a minor house for one of the five will ever return home.”
Keziah, who had spent her childhood in the House of Eardley, the most prosperous of the minors, and her adult years in Glyndwr,
was inclined to agree with the nobles of the five. The castles of the major houses were finer in every way. Eardley’s army was only slightly smaller than Glyndwr’s, but Eardley’s men were no match for those commanded by Kearney. It was true that the houses had been ranked centuries ago, according to their strengths at the end of the clan wars. It might even have been true that in some ways the hierarchy no longer reflected reality. Many believed that Sussyn, the lowest in rank of all Eibithar’s houses, was actually stronger and more prosperous than both Domnall and Labruinn. Most agreed that there was little difference among the armies of Galdasten, Curgh, and Kentigern.
But there could be no disputing the fact that only five dukedoms deserved to be called major houses. Far from being a relic of a forgotten time, the distinction between the majors and minors continued to provide a legitimate basis for determining who among Eibithar’s nobles should be king.
Keziah was reminded of this upon their arrival at Tremain Castle eight days after her last conversation with Grinsa. Among the kingdom’s seven minor houses, Tremain was ranked fourth. The castle, perched just at the edge of the Heneagh River and within sight of the eastern fringe of Kentigern Wood, rose high above the surrounding city, its round towers bearing banners of tawny, black, and gold. Keziah could see the famous Tremain orchards on the eastern side of the castle, just beyond the low grey wall that surrounded the city. There could be no denying that it was one of Eibithar’s more beautiful fortresses, but it was no larger or more imposing than the castles of thanes and earls living in the Glyndwr Highlands. Compared with Glyndwr Castle itself, Tremain looked small and vulnerable.
Riding with Kearney and Gershon just a few hours past midday, Keziah crossed the Tremain Bridge and approached the city’s north gate. There, Lathrop, duke of Tremain, met the company with a full complement of guards. Kearney had sent a small party of soldiers ahead to Tremain two days earlier, to ask Lathrop’s leave for the Glyndwr army to rest in his dukedom.
Of course the duke had given his permission. As Keziah had told Grinsa, Kearney was on good terms with the duke and they visited yearly, to hunt for elk in the highlands or boar in the nearby wood. Indeed, not only had he agreed to let Glyndwr’s men set up
camp in the shadow of the city walls, he had made Kearney, Gershon, and Keziah guests of the castle.
Lathrop had been a friend of Kearney’s father before the old duke died. His hair and beard were the color of steel, and there were deep lines around his pale blue eyes. He had grown heavy in recent years and he walked with a pronounced limp. But he was still quick to smile and he greeted Kearney and Gershon with great enthusiasm, embracing them as brothers after the riders from Glyndwr dismounted.
Lathrop had been accompanied to the city gate by his young wife, Tabya, who, to Kearney’s obvious surprise, was large with child.
“A duke needs heirs,” Lathrop said in a deep voice, chuckling at the reddening of Kearney’s face. “My first wife, Bian keep her safe, gave me only daughters.”
The duchess appeared unconcerned with all the attention being given to her belly. She merely stood beside her duke, playing absently with her red curls and smiling as he spoke. She couldn’t have been more than three or four years past her Fating.
The duke of Tremain’s first minister was there as well, an older Qirsi woman named Evetta, whom Keziah greeted warmly. Keziah would have been happy to pass the evening speaking with the minister and drinking the rich pear spirits made here in Tremain’s cellars. But already she was scanning the faces of those who peered out through the city gate, searching for Grinsa. The spires of the Sanctuary of Adriel rose into the sky just beyond the city wall. She could hear the clerics chanting where she stood. Her brother was nearby. She could feel him.
“First Minister?” she heard Kearney say.
She made herself face the two dukes, her cheeks burning. “Yes, my lord.”
He nodded toward Lathrop. “The duke was just asking you how you enjoyed traveling the land in the company of such an army.”
“My Lord Duke, forgive me,” she said, bowing deeply to the grey-haired man. “I’m weary from our journey and I had forgotten how beautiful your city and castle are.” She smiled, her eyes flicking toward Gershon, who was frowning at her. “Riding with the duke and his guard is always an honor, but I’ll be grateful for a comfortable bed and a meal prepared in your fine kitchens.”
Lathrop smiled. “You’re most kind, First Minister. Be welcome. I know that my first minister has been looking forward to seeing you.”
“And I her,” Keziah said, though she felt her stomach tightening. Leaving the castle to find Grinsa would not be easy.
A few moments later, Gershon rode back to Glyndwr’s men to give the orders to set up camp. At the same time, Lathrop, the duchess, and Tremain’s first minister led Kearney and Keziah through the city toward the castle. Evetta walked beside her, speaking of recent events in Tremain. There had been a flood early in the planting season—word of it hadn’t reached Glyndwr—and dozens had died of the pestilence in one of the more remote baronies, though the disease had come no closer than that. Keziah did her best to listen to what the minister was saying, but she could not keep herself from looking for Grinsa. He should have been easy to spot, tall as he was. Fewer Qirsi lived in the cities of the minor houses than in Glyndwr, Thorald, and the other majors. There weren’t as many opportunities for them in the smaller castles. But she didn’t see him, though they walked right past the sanctuary and through the city marketplace. Keziah wondered if he had come to Tremain after all, or if something had happened to change his plans.
“He would have told you,” she told herself. “He would have come to you again.”
“What?”
She looked at Evetta, feeling herself grow pale. “Did I say that aloud?”
“You said something. I couldn’t tell what it was.”
“I’m sorry, Evetta. I’m afraid I won’t be very good company. I’ve a lot on my mind.”
The woman pushed a strand of white hair back from her brow. “Of course you do. If I was riding to Kentigern these days, I would as well.”
“Thank you for understanding. I probably just need some sleep.”
Evetta gave a strange smile. “Perhaps. Or maybe you need some time alone in our sanctuary. That can be quite restful, I hear.”
Keziah froze in midstride for just an instant. Before she could say anything, the minister pulled a small folded piece of parchment from her robe and placed it in her hand, the movement so fluid and subtle that no one would have noticed had they not been looking for it.
“This came for you in the morning,” Evetta said in a low voice.
“One of the clerics brought it to me. He made it sound as though this was a matter of some urgency. I didn’t open it, of course, but I assume you’ll need to get to the sanctuary as soon as possible. I can help you get out of the castle and accompany you as far as the marketplace. I’d take you farther, but I expect you’d prefer to go the rest of the way alone.”
“Thank you,” Keziah whispered, keeping her gaze fixed on the road before her, but unfolding the parchment as quickly as she dared. She glanced down at it for just an instant, but that was long enough to see that it was from Grinsa, and that the entire message consisted of just two words: prior’s bells.
“Is everything all right?” Evetta asked.
“Yes, fine.” She looked up at the sun, trying to gauge the time. “How long has it been since the midday bells?”
“Several hours. The prior’s bells should be rung in another hour or so. Is that when you’re to be there?”
Keziah faltered. She had always liked Evetta, but enjoying the woman’s company was one thing; trusting her under these circumstances was quite another. Grinsa had relied on her to deliver his note, but he had kept his message so brief as to reveal almost nothing.
The minister saw Keziah’s hesitation, her features hardening. “I see,” she said, facing forward again.
“Forgive me, Evetta. The letter took me by surprise.”
“Did it?” the woman asked, still not looking at her. “It seems to me you’ve been looking for someone since the moment you passed through the city gate.”
Keziah felt herself growing cold. Had she been that obvious?
“It’s your choice, First Minister,” Evetta went on before she could say anything. “I’ve offered my help. It’s yours if you decide you need it.”
“I do,” Keziah said, making up her mind in that moment. “You’re right. I need to be at the sanctuary with the prior’s bells. I’m meeting—”
“No.” The woman shook her head. “Don’t tell me. I’m not certain that I want any part of this.”
You don’t,
Keziah wanted to say.
No more than I do.
Instead she nodded, saying only, “I’ll be grateful for whatever aid you can offer.”
They came to the castle a short while later and entered the larger of the structure’s two wards. There Lathrop presented his daughters and Tremain’s swordmaster, a dour man who barely even looked at
either of the first ministers. Keziah was sure that he and Gershon would be fine friends.
They were shown to their quarters—hers was on the same corridor as Kearney’s, but several doors away from it. It was a small room, but comfortable, with an ample bed, a washbowl, and a pitcher filled with water so warm that steam still rose from it. The lone window afforded a fine view of the river and, in the distance, the abrupt cliffs of the steppe.
Lathrop had said that there was to be a banquet that night in honor of Kearney and the rest of Tremain’s guests, but it was not to begin until dusk. Whether he had known this or not, Grinsa had planned their meeting perfectly.
Keziah was not alone in her chamber for more than a few moments when there came a knock on the door. Pulling it open, she found Evetta standing in the corridor, looking as withdrawn as she had before. Keziah felt a fool for not trusting her. She feared that she had lost a friend.
“If you want to be at the sanctuary when the bells ring, we should go now.”
Keziah nodded. More than anything she wanted to wash herself with that water while it was still hot.
“You do still want to go,” the woman said, eyeing her curiously.
Keziah shook her head. “No. But I have no choice.”
That drew a smile from Evetta.
She stepped out of the chamber and pulled the door closed behind her. “I’m sorry for not confiding in you before,” she said, as they started toward the nearest tower and the stairs down to the ward. “It’s not a matter of not trusting you. Much of this isn’t mine to tell. Nearly all of it, really. I was afraid to say too much; I still am.”
“I understand,” Evetta said, smiling again. “In our position, it’s sometimes hard to separate ourselves from the affairs of our dukes.”
Keziah didn’t bother to correct her; best for now to let her think that she was acting on Kearney’s behalf. They descended the winding steps of the tower and hurried through the castle wards to the streets of Tremain. They were crowded still, though not as they had been earlier in the day, when Tremain’s people had turned out to greet Kearney and his company. Sunlight slanted sharply across the low buildings, casting odd shadows on the narrow stone lanes. The bells tolled as the two ministers neared the cluster of merchant stalls
in city marketplace, the sound filling the streets and halting conversations momentarily.
“Follow this lane back toward the north gate,” Evetta said, stopping at the north end of the marketplace. “You’ll see the sanctuary just beside it. You passed it when you entered the city.”
Keziah nodded. “I remember. Thank you, Evetta. I’ll see you at the banquet.”