“Don’t be a fool! We are the future of the Forelands, and our victory is far closer than you think.” She paused, and when she spoke again, it was in a softer tone. “But you can be a part of that, Kreazur.”
“If your movement is so strong, why do you need me?”
“We don’t. I’m offering you a last chance at redemption. You can join us now, this very night. Or you can die.”
The assassin looked at her, though Abeni kept her eyes on the first minister.
“You’d like to earn the rest of that gold, wouldn’t you?” she asked. She didn’t bother waiting for a reply. “Don’t make me kill you, Kreazur. Your duchess doesn’t trust you anymore. She never will again. Wouldn’t it be better to join us, to cast your fate with your own people?”
“I’m not a traitor.”
Her eyes narrowed at that, the smile finally vanishing. “There are those who would beg to differ. You serve an Eandi noble who treats the Qirsi in her castle like animals. I believe I speak for many of us when I say that you’re the worst kind of traitor. You hide your treachery behind empty claims of fealty and honor.”
“Just as you’re doing now, Archminister?”
“This man will kill you. All I need to do is give the command.”
“Then give it. I’ll take my chances with your assassin. And I promise you, I’ll prevail.” Kreazur wasn’t nearly as confident of this as he sounded. He could raise a mist and slip away, and given the man’s size, he felt reasonably certain that he could outrun him. But his other powers-gleaning and language of beasts-were useless to him here. And he didn’t know if he could make it all the way back to the castle, running the entire time, and maintaining his mists. As a younger man he might have, but he was nearly thirty-seven now, old for a Qirsi.
She took a step toward him. “I don’t want to give such a command, Kreazur. Don’t you see? I want your help.”
“No. You want to keep me from exposing you to the queen. That’s all that matters to you now. And there’s little you can do about it.”
“You think they’ll take your word over mine?” She laughed. “Your own duchess doesn’t even trust you. How can you hope to convince any of the others?”
It was a fair point. His only hope was to beat her back to the castle. He began to back away slowly, preparing to summon a mist.
The assassin pulled a large knife from his belt.
“No!” the archminister said quickly. “Not here. I have another idea.”
Kreazur spun away, intending to run. But before he could take a step, pain exploded in his leg, white hot, as if the assassin had hacked through the bone with a sword. The first minister collapsed to the ground, clutching his thigh. Neither Abeni nor the man beside her had moved. Only as an afterthought did Kreazur realize that he had heard a strange noise, like the snapping of a dry tree limb.
“You didn’t know that I was a shaper, did you?” the archminister asked, stepping to where he lay.
An instant later, new agony. His arm, and this time there could be no mistaking the sound of shattering bone. He cried out, clutching the mangled limb to his chest.
Abeni squatted beside him. “I gave you a chance, but you refused me. And now you’re going to die, just as I promised.”
“They’ll learn of what you’ve done,” he gasped through gritted teeth.
“No, they won’t. They’ll find you near here, dead in an alley, your neck broken along with your arm and your leg. There will be an empty coin pouch beside you and two gold rounds under your body where the men who killed you wouldn’t have thought to look. It will take them a bit of time to sort it all out, but the queen’s archminister will be quite helpful in that regard.” She smiled, though only for a moment. “You see, this part of the city is infamous for attracting brigands and assassins. Just the sort of place a traitor would come to hire a new blade to kill his duchess. Just the sort of place a traitor might die, offering too little gold to the wrong men.”
She glanced back at the assassin. “You’ll take him elsewhere, to a place they won’t think to look for a day or two. Make it look convincing.”
“Is he. .” The man faltered briefly. “As long as he’s alive, he has his magic, doesn’t he?”
Abeni looked down at him again. “Yes, but that’s not a problem.”
Again, the cracking of bone. Then blackness.
Chapter Sixteen
Kentigern, Eibithar
“What does it say?”
Aindreas could scarcely hear her for the windstorm howling in his head. His hand had begun to tremble and he gripped the scroll with his other as well. But even with both hands on the parchment, he couldn’t hold it steady.
“Aindreas, what does it say?”
The duke looked up. His wife was staring at him from across the table, concern creasing her brow. Her face appeared fuller than it had at any time since the previous growing season, her brown eyes clearer, less sunken. Her cheeks were pallid still, but tinged with pink, rather than the sickly, sallow hue that had suffused her skin since Brienne’s death. It had taken the better part of a year, but he finally had his wife back. Earlier this very day, he had even heard her singing with Affery, their surviving daughter. He wasn’t about to drive her back into her solitude and the grief bordering on madness that had consumed her mind for so long.
“Well?” Ioanna demanded again.
“It’s nothing. A missive from Kearney, a waste of good parchment.”
A turn ago she might have left it at that. Aindreas took it as another sign of her recovery that she didn’t this day.
“What does he say?” Her expression hardened noticeably at the mention of the king’s name.
“Nothing of importance.”
“A message from the king, delivered to the one man in all Eibithar who has most cause to hate him. And you want me to believe that it says nothing of importance?”
“Please, wife, peace! It needn’t concern you.” He took a breath, knowing this wouldn’t appease her. Before Brienne’s murder, she had been interested in all matters of state, and truth be told, as likely to offer him sound advice as any Qirsi minister who had ever stalked the corridors of Kentigern Castle. “He seeks a parley,” he added after a moment.
“A parley,” she repeated. “And is it the mere thought of meeting with our king that makes your hands shake so?”
“My hands shake with rage, madam. Though whether at our king or at my meddlesome wife, I can’t say just now.”
Ioanna smiled at that. “What does he wish to discuss?”
Aindreas stared at the parchment again, the neat letters making him wish that he hadn’t eaten any of this meal. What have I done? Kearney wasn’t actually requesting a parley so much as ordering him to Audun’s Castle. But it was the king’s stated reason for doing so that had conjured this storm that roared in his heart and head. “He wishes to speak of Kentigern’s grievances against the throne.” He said this officiously, as if repeating it from the message.
“For how long does he propose you meet? Anything less than a full turn would be inadequate to the task.” She shook her head, so that her golden curls flew. “The time for parleys is long past. You should tell him that if he wishes to address our grievances, he should simply abdicate and be done with it.”
He grinned. She was indeed a splendid woman, a credit to their house. Even as he thought this, however, he felt his chest tightening, as if the Deceiver had taken hold of his heart. Looking past his wife, he saw Brienne standing in the doorway, shaking her head slowly, a sad smile on her lovely face. He squeezed his eyes shut for just an instant. When he looked again, she was gone.
“I suppose Javan will be there as well,” Ioanna said. “Curgh keeps the king on a short leash.”