“We should have a new king by then.”
The queen straightened in her chair. “Aneira’s new leader will be chosen after the funeral, as custom dictates.”
Grigor turned to her once more, his eyes narrowing.
Evanthya had noticed as well.
Aneira’s new leader
, Chofya said. Not,
Aneira’s new king
.
She turned to Fetnalla, a question in her eyes, but the minister shook her head.
“Not now,” she whispered. “I’ll explain later.”
“Do you plot for the throne, Your Highness?” Grigor asked, with a small laugh. He made a sweeping gesture, turning neatly on one foot as he did so as to indicate the entire hall. “Do you honestly believe that the men in this room would accept you as their sovereign? Was your father even a baron?”
The queen sat unmoving, her color high, her eyes darting about the hall as if she were gauging the reaction of the other nobles. “This isn’t a matter to be discussed just now, Lord Renbrere.”
“With my brother’s death, I am now duke of Solkara,” Grigor said sharply. “I should be addressed as such.”
The queen’s mouth twisted for just an instant, as if she realized that she had erred. “Of course, my lord. Forgive me.”
Whatever game Chofya was playing, she had started poorly. Evanthya could only guess that she had miscalculated. Grigor was a dangerous foe; even seeing him for the first time this day, she could tell that much.
“She can’t think to oppose him for the crown,” Evanthya said quietly.
Fetnalla gave a small nod. “She does, though not as you think.”
“Please, Lord Solkara,” the queen began again. “Sit with us. Raise your glass and join us in our feast. These matters can wait, and it’s been long since we last dined together.”
The man gave a thin smile. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “But I came to honor my brother, the king, and to ensure the continued reign of House Solkara. My place is with my brothers.”
With everyone still watching him, Grigor walked to where Henthas and Numar sat, leaving Chofya sitting by herself, looking small and defeated.
“He’ll crush her,” Evanthya said softly.
Fetnalla turned to her, her face looking paler than usual, her lips drawn tight. “We can’t let that happen,” she said. “He’ll ruin us all.”
Chapter Thirteen
“They’re all staring at you,” Numar said, looking amused as he watched Gngor take his seat at their table.
Grigor nodded, looking from one of his brothers to the other. It took some effort to keep himself from grinning, but he managed it well enough. He didn’t need to look around the hall to know that Numar was right. He sensed their eyes upon him, and he relished the feeling.
“They’re looking at their new king,” he said softly to his youngest brother. “How can they help but stare?”
Henthas gave a short sharp laugh. “You think you’ve won already? You’re a fool. Carden’s whore won’t give in to you so easily.”
“When all is said and done, she’ll have no choice,” Grigor told him. “But rest assured, brother, I’ve no intention of declaring victory yet.”
Henthas looked away and drained his goblet of wine. “Actually, I almost wish you would,” he said, as a servant poured him more. “I’d enjoy watching her humiliate you.”
“In that case you’ll be disappointed.”
His brother grunted, his eyes on the queen. Grigor knew that Henthas was trying to anger him, as he so often did. But on this night it wasn’t going to work. Not with Carden’s crown so close at hand.
If he could have done this without his brothers he would gladly have done so. Neither man was of much help to him, and Ean knew that the three of them had little affection for one another. Mostly Grigor needed to control both men, to keep either of them from undermining his intentions.
He would have had to be deaf and blind not to know how the three of them were perceived throughout Aneira, indeed, throughout the Forelands. The Jackals and the Fool. The names weren’t flattering, to be sure, particularly to poor Numar, but they did offer the brothers Renbrere a certain notoriety. As it happened, though, they were hopelessly inaccurate. Jackals were pack hunters, like wolves. Grigor and Henthas had never been bound by any common interest. Grigor had always been guided by ambition and his unwavering belief that his fate would one day match his formidable talents. Henthas dreamed of nothing, loved nothing, and feared nothing. He was the third son of House Solkara; power lay too far from his grasp to give him purpose. Even after Grigor took the throne, Henthas would gain only the marquessate in Renbrere, a small step up from the viscountcy he held already. The Solkaran dukedom would go to Grigor’s eldest son, leaving nothing for the brother or his boys. Grigor did not believe that Henthas had designs on his life, though he couldn’t risk ignoring the possibility. He thought it more likely that the man would oppose him, either openly or in secret. For while ambition didn’t drive Henthas, bitterness and envy did. He would gladly trade the marquessate and its small luxuries for the pleasure of seeing Grigor fail. And if that failure cost Grigor his life, all the better.
No, Henthas was no jackal. A viper perhaps, or some demon from Bian’s realm. But the name they had given him implied social skills that the man simply did not possess.
Calling Numar a fool made even less sense. True, he had little more ambition than Henthas. He seemed perfectly content with his viscountcy and he rarely involved himself with any matters of state beyond its boundaries. But to mistake his reticence for simplicity carried risks as well. He had a keen mind and a troublesome sense of moral propriety. If he chose to oppose Grigor’s bid for the crown, he would, Grigor knew, be a far more formidable foe than Henthas, if for no other reason than because Grigor had little sense of what tactics he might use. Whereas Henthas could always be counted on to resort to lies, betrayal, and brutality, Numar relied on reason and persuasion. He’d seek out allies, building bridges to Aneira’s other major houses. In doing so, he’d try to show the entire kingdom that he was no fool, that in fact, he was the Solkaran they most wanted to see on the throne.
The Jackals and the Fool. It was an illusion, but one he needed to maintain. Though he and Henthas hated one another, the notion that they worked together aided his cause. Grigor had utter confidence in his ability to win the crown for himself, by himself, but so long as the kingdom’s other nobles saw him as part of a deadly pair, they’d be less likely to challenge him. And so long as they dismissed Tomaz’s youngest son as a dullard, they wouldn’t realize that they could choose as their king someone other than Grigor without risking war with House Solkara.
“She must have the support of the dukes,” Henthas muttered. “She wouldn’t dare oppose you otherwise.”
Grigor glanced toward the front of the hall, where Tebeo of Dantnelle and Brail of Orvinti sat together. “She may have some of them,” he said. “I can’t imagine that Mertesse or Rassor has offered support. And with Bertin, Vidor, and the boy-duke still not here, I would guess that Noltierre, Tounstrel, and Bistari are hoping that Carden’s death will end Solkara’s rule. They’re not about to support her either. Kett might, but Ansis is easily cowed. I can win him over. That leaves Chofya with Dantnelle and Orvinti.”
Henthas faced him again. “Both are major houses. If she can win Bistari over, you’ll have no chance at all.”
“I just told you-”
“She’s not Solkaran. Not by birth, anyway. Her father held land in a barony near Tounstrel. It may be that Vidor will back her for that reason alone. And with all his father’s old allies backing the queen, the new duke of Bistari-the boy-duke, as you call him-might very well do the same.”
It was a point worth considering.
“Even without Bistari,” Henthas went on, “she has Solkara’s army, along with Tebeo’s and Brail’s. You can’t fight such a force and hope to win. I know that Renbrere is strong for a marquessate, but it’s not that strong.”
Grigor frowned. “You don’t really expect the army of Solkara to follow her, do you? Not if they know that I’ve laid claim to the crown.”
Henthas smiled darkly and shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to say one way or the other. Who knows what goes through a soldier’s mind when his kingdom is divided? It does raise interesting possibilities though, doesn’t it?”
The man was enjoying himself far too much for Grigor’s taste. The duke turned to his other brother, who was watching them both with interest, though he had kept his silence.
“And what do you think of all this?” Grigor asked.
Numar stared back at him impassively, absently running a finger around the rim of his goblet. “Do you really care?”
“Enough to have asked.”
The younger man shrugged, his brown eyes Hicking toward Chofya for just an instant. “I think you’re both misjudging her.”
Henthas raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Do you?”
“You’re thinking of her as you would another noble, a duke or a marquess.”
“She is queen, Numar,” Grigor said. “She may not have been born to a noble family, but she’s been in the courts now for a good many years.”
“No doubt. But I believe she’s a mother before she’s a noble. That’s where her ambitions lie.”
Grigor sat forward. “With the daughter?”
“You live up to your name, brother,” Henthas said, shaking his head. “The girl can’t yet rule. Chofya would have little choice but to name one of us as regent. Probably Grigor.”
Numar appeared to ignore Henthas, keeping his brown eyes fixed on Grigor instead.
Grigor said nothing, though he didn’t look away either. Numar was right. A regency for the girl made far more sense than a direct challenge from the queen. Chofya had no real claim on the throne, but as Carden’s only child, Kalyi did. Mertesse, Rassor, and some of the others might be reluctant to accept a queen under any circumstances, but for those who distrusted the men of Solkara, the child would seem preferable to both Grigor and a protracted struggle to establish a new supremacy.
“Do you know this for certain?” Grigor asked, his voice low.
Numar shook his head. “It’s just a guess.”
Grigor nodded, a thin smile touching his lips and vanishing. “A good one, I’d say. Do you think she already has Tebeo and Brail?”
“You can’t seriously believe she’d try such a thing,” Henthas said, his voice rising.
Several of the nobles sitting nearby looked over at them. Grigor glared at him. “Quiet down!” He faced Numar once more. “Well?”
“I expect that she has Brail’s support. He’s been in Solkara for several days now. Tebeo only arrived this evening, and this will take some time, even for those who hate you.”
“They all hate me, Numar. You know that as well as anyone.”
His brother sipped some wine, but said nothing.
“And where do you stand?” Grigor asked. “Will you support me or the girl?”
“Does it matter? Either way, no one listens to a fool.”
Grigor frowned. This was definitely not the answer he wanted.
“I would think,” Numar continued a moment later, his voice dropping to a whisper, “that you’d find regency a most attractive proposition. It would give you time to consolidate your power, make pacts with the other houses, and win over the army’s commanders. Eventually, you could have the girl killed and assume the throne with no fear of opposition.”
The duke narrowed his eyes. Such a scheme would have sounded perfectly natural coming from Henthas or himself. But he had never known Numar to think this way.
“Do you really think I’d do such a thing to a mere child, my niece, no less?”
Again the man shrugged, lifting his goblet to his lips once more, and leaving Grigor to wonder if he hoped to be named regent himself.
A regency did have its advantages, most of which Numar had described quite succinctly. Ridding himself of the girl when the time came would present difficulties, but none of them were insuperable. The greatest danger lay in the fact that Chofya herself would remain in the castle with Grigor and the girl, as would Carden’s Qirsi. Even if they chose Grigor as regent, which custom dictated they should, these two would know better than to trust him. Any plan to kill or exile Kalyi would have to make provisions for them as well. Better to claim the throne as his own now.
“I think in this case, Henthas is right,” Grigor said at last. “Aneira isn’t ready for a queen, even if she is Carden’s daughter. In the end, I’m certain that most of the dukes will agree with me.”
Numar nodded and smiled, though the look in his eyes remained grim. “Then you’ve nothing to fear.”
Once more, Grigor wasn’t sure what to make of his younger brother’s words, but before he could say anything more, Carden’s Qirsi approached them, his narrow face looking pale and birdlike in the glow of the torches.
“May I sit with you a moment, my lords?” the minister asked, stopping just beside Numar and hovering over them like a harrier.
“If we had wanted to speak with you, we would have sat with your queen,” Henthas said, not bothering to look up at the man.
Grigor would have liked to laugh aloud. With Henthas nearby, spitting venom at everyone he met, Grigor could appear civil and reasonable without making himself seem weak.
“Please sit, Archminister,” the duke said, waving a hand at an empty chair. “You’ll have to forgive my brother. He’s deeply saddened by Carden’s death, as we all are.”
“Of course, my lord,” the minister said, lowering himself into the seat, his gaze alighting on one brother after another until it came to rest at last on Grigor. “All Aneira suffers as you do. Which is why we need to settle the matter of Carden’s successor as quickly as possible.”
Grigor nodded. “I quite agree. As soon as the other dukes reach Solkara, we should meet with them and make it clear that, even though Carden had no heir, the Solkaran Supremacy will continue.”