The woman’s eyes widened. “All of them? Even her first minister?”
“Yes. I’ve prevailed upon her to have them freed at once.”
“Why?”
The queen stared at her a moment, wondering if she had heard correctly. “What?”
“Why would you have the duchess free them? It seems a logical precaution to me. Until she knows which of them is the traitor, none of them should be free to roam the castle and city. To do less is to invite additional mischief.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Abeni shrugged. “I realize it’s a bit extreme-”
“Extreme? It’s unconscionable! Surely you of all people can see that!”
The minister smiled, albeit sadly. “I’m a Qirsi who serves loyally in the royal house of Sanbira, Your Highness. I have as much cause as any Eandi noble to hate the Qirsi conspiracy. In many ways more. I understand your concerns, but I have great sympathy for what the duchess has done. Respectfully, I believe you should reconsider your request that she have the Qirsi released, at least until we learn the identity of Curlinte’s traitor.”
The queen exhaled heavily. “Well, Archminister, I can’t say that I expected this. I’ll consider what you’ve said, but in the meantime I still want you to find eight riders.”
Abeni bowed. “Yes, Your Highness. Is that all?”
Olesya didn’t respond for several moments. She merely stared at the woman, grappling with an overwhelming sense of sadness and, even more, utter confusion. As a young girl, the queen had been taught by her mother to see beyond race and realm, profession and status. “There is as much nobility in those who till fields and pound steel to earn their gold as there is in any woman or man of the courts,” her mother often said. “There is as much goodness and inhumanity in Sanbira as there is in Wethyrn or Aneira, and there is as much capacity for both fealty and treachery in the Eandi heart as in the Qirsi heart. A queen sees people as they are, not as she assumes them to be.” Olesya had tried to live and rule by these words, to meet her mother’s expectations even after the old queen’s death. Yet now her archminister stood before her, suggesting that she treat men and women of her own race as criminals simply because their hair was white and their eyes yellow. And what frightened her most was that her world had become a place in which this counsel seemed perfectly reasonable.
“You understand, Abeni, that were I to apply Diani’s logic to my own court, I would have to imprison you, as well as the others?”
That same sad smile lingered on the archminister’s face. “Of course, Your Highness. To do less would make no sense at all.”
“And still you counsel me to allow her action to stand?”
“I do so with a heavy heart, Your Highness, but yes, I do. The conspiracy threatens all. From what I understand, its leaders have as much contempt for court Qirsi as they do for the nobles we serve. If they prevail in this fight, I imagine I’ll be tortured and executed. Next to that, your prison seems rather inviting.”
The queen gave a wry smile and nodded. “I see. Thank you, Archminister. That will be all.”
Abeni bowed again and left her.
Glancing down at the scrolls before her, Olesya picked up her quill and began trying to compose a message she could send to her duchesses and dukes. Edamo would be looking for signs of fear or weakness, anything he could use to Brugaosa’s advantage. Hence, she would offer none. This would be a challenge to her writing skills, for she was afraid, and she felt powerless to halt the conspiracy’s advance across the southern Forelands.
Chapter Twelve
Ailwyck, Wethyrn
He had pushed himself hard after leaving Mertesse, driven in equal measure by his fear of being captured and imprisoned for the murder of Dario Henfuerta, his last partner, and by his desire to begin a new life for himself, free of the Qirsi and their insatiable demand for his deadly talents. If all went as he hoped, he would never again be known as Cadel Nistaad, assassin. Instead, he would simply be Corbin, a traveling singer with an uncommonly fine voice.
In many ways, Wethyrn was a dangerous place to begin his pursuit of this new profession. Even the largest of the realm’s festivals did not rival those of Sanbira, Eibithar, or even Aneira. A musician of his ability might easily draw too much attention to himself, particularly if he spent a good deal of time searching for others with whom to perform. As a lone singer he would be a curiosity, prompting difficult questions. Where are you from? How could a man of your talents have no partners? What happened to the people with whom you used to perform?
The safest course of action, Cadel decided, as he crossed the Caerissan Steppe, skirting the southern edge of the Glyndwr Highlands on his way to the Wethy border, was to visit several of Wethyrn’s major cities until he found a group in need of a male singer. Best to answer the inevitable questions only once.
He reached the Wethy border with the beginning of the new turn, entering the walled city of Grinnyd on the third morning of the waxing. He took a room at a small inn and spent several nights wandering the city streets, stopping in tavern after tavern in his search for other musicians. By the end of his fourth night in the city, Cadel’s spirits had fallen. He had expected to face risks, but he hadn’t expected to have so much trouble finding any musicians at all. Surely there were singers somewhere in Wethyrn. Clearly, however, they weren’t in Grinnyd.
He left the city the next morning, continuing on to Ailwyck. Located on the Ailwyck River, in the center of lower Wethyrn, just north of the Grey Hills, the city of Ailwyck was the third largest in the realm. Only the royal city of Duvenry, and Jistingham on the eastern shore, were larger, and together the three great cities formed what the people of Wethyrn called the Granite Triangle. Wethyrn was generally regarded as the weakest of the seven realms of the Forelands, though Cadel thought it more likely that his native Caerisse deserved that dubious distinction. The Wethy army was smaller than those of its rivals, and its weaponry of only middling quality. But Wethyrn’s men were well trained, and the Wethy fleet was renowned for its fine ships and skilled crews. She was no rival for Braedon or Aneira, Sanbira or Eibithar, but Wethyrn would be a valuable ally in any conflict. Anyone who thought otherwise had only to look at the mighty of walls of Ailwyck to understand the undeniable strength of the Wethy people. The cities of the Granite Triangle had never once been occupied by a hostile force. No other realm in the Forelands could say that about its three greatest cities.
Once in Ailwyck, Cadel’s fortunes quickly changed. His very first night in the city, he found a group of musicians of great ability who were desperately in need of a male singer. He was wandering the narrow byways west of the city marketplace when he heard strains of music coming from a small tavern. He recognized the piece immediately. “Panya’s Devotion” from The Paean to the Moons. The Paean had long been one of his favorite pieces both to sing and to hear. It was also one of the most difficult to play, much less to play well. And even from a distance, he could tell that these musicians were playing it beautifully.
He entered the tavern, more out of curiosity than anything else. Musicians accomplished enough today the Paean like this probably would not be looking to add to their group. The tavern, though on a small street and tucked away in a remote corner of the city, was filled near to bursting. Seeing no place to sit, Cadel remained by the door, listening and watching. There were four musicians in all. Two men, one playing the lute, the other the pipes, and two women, one of them singing at that moment, the other standing beside her. Since this second woman held no instrument, Cadel assumed she was a singer as well.