The duke heard the midnight bells ringing in the city just as he reached the door he sought-apart from his guards and Marston, he might have been the only person in the castle not yet asleep. Still he didn’t hesitate to knock. When no one answered, he pounded on the door a second time. Silence. He raised his fist to hammer at the door a third time, but in that instant he heard a voice from within.
“This had better be important! I’ve got my sword, and I’m mad enough to use it.”
“I’m armed as well, swordmaster,” the duke said. “So I’d sheath your weapon before you open the door.”
The door flew open, revealing Villyd, bare-chested, his hair tousled with sleep, and his eyes blinking in the torchlight. He carried a sword, though he held it point down, as if he had forgotten it. “Demons and fire! Forgive me, my lord. I didn’t know it was you.”
“You’re forgiven, swordmaster.” Aindreas looked past the man and saw Villyd’s wife still asleep in their bed. “Why don’t we go elsewhere, some place where we can talk.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The swordmaster ducked back into his chamber, emerging a few moments later wearing a shirt and strapping on his belt and weapon.
“I trust your conversation with Lord Shanstead went well, my lord?”
Aindreas frowned. “Actually no. That’s why I wanted to speak with you.”
The man gave him a puzzled look. “My lord?”
“Tell me again where we stand. What’s the state of our army?”
“We’re still down several hundred men, my lord. We lost some at the Heneagh during our battle with the army of Curgh, and a good many more in the siege. The lesser nobles are doing their best to fill the ranks, but it’s going to take some time.”
“And what of the castle?”
Villyd shrugged. “The repairs go well. The Tarbin gate is nearly at full strength again, though the last portcullis is not yet in place. The inner gates still need a good deal of work.”
Aindreas nodded. “What about Galdasten?”
“They lost more than two hundred men to the pestilence just before the harvest. From what I hear, I believe they’ve replaced more than half of them, but even at full strength, Galdasten’s army is no larger than ours.”
Aindreas shuddered at the mention of the pestilence. The lords of Galdasten had long prided themselves on their ability to control the outbreaks with the burnings that accompanied their Feasts. But nearly eight years before, a commoner-a madman-brought infected vermin to the Feast, spreading the disease throughout the court. Not only did the duke and his family die, but so did much of his army and hundreds of the common folk living in Galdasten City. This past year, when the pestilence returned, the new lords of the house chose to weather the outbreak rather than resorting to the burnings again.
“And the others?”
“The others, my lord?”
“Eardley, Sussyn, Domnall,” he said impatiently. “The others who stand with us against the king.”
“They’re minor houses, my lord. Each has six hundred men; Eardley may have eight hundred, but no more.”
They reached Aindreas’s chambers and the duke opened the door, leading the swordmaster inside.
“That’s not enough men, is it?”
“For what, my lord?” the man asked, dropping himself into one of the chairs as Aindreas stepped to the hearth. “I have to confess that I don’t understand what you hope to accomplish with this alliance you’re forming.
I know that you feel Curgh and Glyndwr conspired to keep you from the throne, but that’s done now. If you wanted the throne for yourself, you should have moved against them before Kearney’s investiture.“
It was not a tone Aindreas would have tolerated at most other times. But it was late, and he had roused Villyd from his bed.
“I don’t want to be king,” the duke said.
Villyd raised an eyebrow, drawing a grin from Aindreas.
“All right, let me put it this way. It’s not the crown I seek, not right now.”
“Then what, my lord?”
“I want Kearney off the throne. He betrayed this house by granting asylum to Tavis, and in return, Javan gave him the kingdom. He may claim to have taken no sides in this dispute, but he owes everything he’s become to Curgh. So long as he rules Eibithar, there will be no justice for Kentigern.”
“Will you sacrifice the Rules of Ascension to destroy him?”
“Gladly, if that’s what it takes.”
The swordmaster nodded. It was hard to tell what he thought of the duke’s aims, though Aindreas suspected that he disapproved. “If your aim is to challenge the king, my lord, then you haven’t enough men. Not anywhere near. And I doubt you ever will. The king has not only his guard, but also the army of Glyndwr. Javan will join him as well, as will Tremain and Labruinn. And I assure you, if you move against the crown, Thorald and Heneagh will oppose you as well. Even if the other houses stand with you-and I’m not convinced that they will-it will not be enough.”
“What if we had Thorald?”
Villyd looked at him keenly. “Do we?”
The duke turned away, gritting his teeth. “No.”
“I’m not sure it would matter, my lord. Thorald might balance the scales, particularly if Tobbar brought Heneagh with him. But still it wouldn’t be sufficient. Kearney has Audun’s Castle. You’d need an overwhelming force to take it from him.”
“You said before that you weren’t certain the other houses would stand with me in such a fight. What about you, swordmaster? Would you fight beside me to break Kearney’s hold on the throne?”
Villyd lowered his gaze, the light of the blaze shining like torch fire in his dark eyes. “I serve Kentigern, my lord. I gave an oath many years ago to follow you and your house, even if it led me to my death. If you command me to fight Glyndwr for the crown, I’ll do so.” He took a breath. “But I hope with all my heart that you’ll not give that command.”
It was a more honest answer than he had any right to expect, perhaps a more honest one than he deserved. No doubt if Villyd felt this way, his men did as well. Raising an army to fight the king would not work. Villyd’s words made that clear, as had his own conversation with Marston.
But Shanstead had said something else this night that gave the duke reason to think there could be another way. A year ago he wouldn’t have believed himself capable of considering such a thing. But a year ago Brienne still lived. A year ago the man who had harbored her killer did not wear Eibithar’s jeweled crown.
Chapter Nine
Bistari, Aneira
The tavern was so empty, so quiet, that Rodaf could hear the sign out front rattling in the wind. He often heard it during the days, but by this hour on most nights enough people crowded the tables of his inn to make it hard to hear an order from a man standing right in front of him, much less any sounds from beyond the tavern walls. Not that he should have expected any better. It was his own fault for opening at all one night before Bohdan’s Night. Aliya warned him it would be like this tonight, and though he had told her to keep her mind on her stitching, he had to admit that she had been right. He wouldn’t bother opening tomorrow night, nor would he do this again next year. For now, however, he had little choice but to remain open and serve those who came in.
The Ironwood wasn’t completely empty. Old Winso was here, as usual, as were a few of the others. And since he had already told the serving girls to go home for the night, it cost him nothing to keep his doors open. Still, it would have been nice to be back in his private room, sitting before a fire, sipping a dark Sanbiri wine. Knowing how much Aliya enjoyed a good blaze on a cold night, there was no telling where the evening might have led.
Rodaf couldn’t help but notice the strangers as soon as they entered the tavern. Even on a regular night, when the inn was so choked with men and women that a person could barely move, they would have caught his attention. Such an unlikely pair could hardly expect to go anywhere without drawing stares, though it seemed clear to the innkeeper that they hoped to go unnoticed.
One of them was Qirsi, a tall, broad-shouldered man who looked more like a swordsman than a sorcerer. His eyes were the color of torch flame and his white hair fell loose to the middle of his back. The other-well, it was hard to say what the other was. Eandi, to be sure, with the fine features and graceful swagger of a court noble, and deep blue eyes to match. He looked young, though it was difficult to guess his age, for his face bore a lattice of dark, angry scars that made Rodaf, who had seen his share of wounds and scars, shudder in spite of himself. More than anything else, though, their clothes drew his eye. They were travel-stained and poor-fitting. Almost too much so. Rather than making the strangers look indigent, their filthy road coats and torn trousers simply seemed out of place. There was an old Aneiran saying, “A man is more than his clothes.” But for these two, it was more than just an adage. In fairness to the travelers, Rodaf had spent much of his life observing people-he grew up as the son and grandson of innkeepers. Their clothes might have fooled others. Seeing such tatters might have kept another man from even bothering to look at their faces. But Rodaf couldn’t help thinking that the two were running from something.
“Welcome to the Ironwood, friends,” he said, raising a hand in greeting and forcing a smile.
The Qirsi nodded, glancing around the tavern as if searching for someone. “Thank you, good sir,” he said, his eye coming to rest at last on Rodaf’s face. The accent was subtle, and the innkeeper couldn’t quite place it. “Might we get some ale and a bit to eat?”
“You have coin to pay?” Rodaf knew they did, but dressed as they were, the strangers would expect him to ask.
“Yes, we do.”
The innkeeper waved a hand at the empty tables. “Then please make yourselves comfortable.” He started back toward the kitchen. “I hope cheeses and dried meats are all right,” he called to them. “I sent my cook home with the prior’s bells.”
The Qirsi said something he couldn’t hear, but Rodaf didn’t bother asking him to repeat it. These two wouldn’t object to anything he served. To do so would have been to make themselves too conspicuous.
He brought them the cheese and meats as well as a half loaf of dark bread and two tankards of black ale. The men said nothing as he set the food and drink in front of them, but Rodaf felt them watching him. They made him uneasy, and he found himself hoping that they would move on rather than asking to buy a room for the night, despite the six qinde it would bring him.
“Is there anything else you need?” he asked, looking from the younger man to the Qirsi.
“Actually there is,” the white-hair said. “We were hoping you might join us for a moment. We have some questions for you.”
He shook his head. “I’m not one for answering questions. Not for strangers.”
“I can understand that,” the Qirsi said. “But there’s gold in it for you if you’ll talk to us.”
Rodaf hesitated, twisting his mouth in a way Aliya would have understood. “Dressed as you are, I’m surprised to hear you offering gold. That’s sure to make people take notice.”
The white-hair grinned and turned to his companion. “See, I told you he was the one to find. Rodaf Wantaro of the Ironwood sees things other men miss. Didn’t I say that?”
The other man nodded and gave a thin, unconvincing smile.
“Have we met, friend?” Rodaf asked, staring at the man, and feeling his stomach tighten.
“No,” the Qirsi said. “But I’ve heard others speak of you. I gathered, from what they said, that we should talk to you.”
“About what?”
The white-hair indicated an empty chair with a nod. “Please sit, Rodaf.”
Reluctantly, the innkeeper pulled a chair up to their table.
“My name is Grinsa,” the Qirsi said. He gestured at his friend. “This is Xaver.”
Rodaf nodded at the Eandi, but the lad only stared at him.
“What is it you want to ask me?” the innkeeper asked, trying to sound like he had far more important things to do than sit with them.
“We heard of the garroting of your duke,” Grinsa said, biting into a strip of dried meat. “There’s talk of it all over the kingdom. People here must have been terribly angry.”
Rodaf shrugged. “Some were. House Bistari and House Solkara have hated one another for centuries, and old Chago did nothing to win this king’s affections. I suppose it was just a matter of time before Carden grew angry enough to send his assassins.”
“So you believe it was the king’s men who did this.”
“Of course,” the innkeeper said. “Everyone does.”
“Did you notice any strangers in the city around the time your duke was killed?”
“We get strangers all the time.” Rodaf gave a small smile. “Even the evening before Bohdan’s Night. Bistari sits at the edge of the Great Forest, on the shores of the Scabbard, and between the Kett and the Rassor. During the course of a single turn I see peddlers and merchants from almost every dukedom in every kingdom in the Forelands. Asking me if I’ve noticed a stranger is like asking a Wethy trader if he noticed a five-qinde piece.”
“You might remember this man,” the Qirsi said. “He’s a musician. Long black hair, beard, pale blue eyes. He’s slightly taller than I am, lean but powerfully built.”
Rodaf shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone like that, at least not recently.”
“Think harder,” the younger one said.
“Xaver-”
“Well, he didn’t even consider it,” the lad said, turning to Grinsa. “He just said no.”
Rodaf looked the boy up and down. The odd clothes made more sense now. He recognized the accent.
“You’re from Eibithar,” he said, the words coming out as an accusation.
“South Wethyrn actually,” the Qirsi said quickly. “We both are.”
The accents were similar. For some it was easy to confuse Jistingham and Glyndwr. But Rodaf knew better. As he’d said a moment before, running an inn in Bistari, he met men from every part of the Forelands, including Eibithar. He wasn’t mistaken, and he could see from the look in the boy’s eyes that his companion had warned him not to speak.