Seeds of Betrayal (53 page)

“What is it you’re looking at?” he asked, his voice tight.

“A man I thought I knew, but didn’t. A brother who has managed to become more than I ever was. But mostly, I expect I’m looking at Aneira’s next king.”

At that, the smile returned. “Yes,” Numar said. “I believe you are.”

The door to the prison tower of Castle Solkara opened just as the dawn bells began to ring in the city. Two guards emerged from the arched stone doorway, followed by the traitor, and then a second pair of soldiers. Chofya stood just in front of the doorway with her daughter, the future queen, beside her. The traitor’s brothers stood behind her, and Brail and the rest of the dukes with their ministers stood in a line behind them. More than a thousand soldiers, most from Solkara, but many from Aneira’s other dukedoms were also there, blades drawn, their young faces grave. It was a cold, still morning. The sky was the color of dull armor and a few small flakes of snow fell softly upon the castle and its wards.

Grigor wore a soldier’s garb-a dun shirt, matching trousers, boots, and an empty scabbard on his belt. He held himself straight, his head raised, defiance in his eyes. Stopping before the queen, with soldiers on either side of him, he appeared to tower over her, as if he were an inquisitor, and she the prisoner. For her part, Chofya looked to have recovered sufficiently from the attempt upon her life. Her face remained as colorless as a Qirsi’s, and she appeared thin almost to the point of frailty. But she stood without aid and when she spoke it was in a voice both clear and strong.

“Grigor, duke of Solkara, marquess of Renbrere, you are hereby accused of murder by poison, treason against the queen of Aneira, and violence against the Council of Dukes. Do you wish to be heard before sentence is passed?”

“Only to repeat what I have already said. I am innocent in this matter, made to appear a murderer by those who have the most to gain from my execution. I speak of my brothers, though it grieves me to say so. I’m as much their victim as you are, Your Highness. Indeed more so, since you will survive this day, and I will not.”

An angry murmur swept through the formation of soldiers.

“Hang him now!” one man cried.

Several of the others cheered.

Chofya allowed herself a grim smile. “As you can hear, your denials carry little weight with the men of Aneira. You are not fit to be king, nor even to walk among the living of this great kingdom. Thus, with the consent of the Council of Dukes and the support of my people, and in the sight of Ean and his servants here in the living world, I decree that you shall be hanged as a traitor, then drawn and quartered as all are who betray the crown and the land. May Bian show you mercy.”

Grigor’s expression did not change, but his face blanched, and his knees appeared to buckle, so that the guards standing on either side of him had to keep him from falling.

Chofya nodded once, then turned, and taking her daughter’s hand, started walking toward the castle’s city gate. Numar and Henthas followed, as did the guards escorting Grigor, the dukes and ministers, and finally the soldiers.

“Have you ever witnessed an execution, First Minister?” Brail asked Fetnalla, who was walking next to him.

“No, my lord.”

“I find them… disturbing. Even in a circumstance like this one, I believe there’s little satisfaction to be found in them.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The procession slowed as the dukes began to file through the gate.

“I couldn’t help overhearing you, Brail,” Tebeo said from behind them. “Do you mean to say that you don’t think Grigor should be put to death?”

The duke shook his head, though he didn’t look back at Dantrielle. “I don’t mean that at all. I just don’t believe there’s anything to be gained from making his hanging into a public event. It’s an execution, not a festival.”

Tebeo nodded, falling silent. In another few moments they passed through the gate and into the city of Solkara. Even here, on the steep incline nearest the castle, people lined the street, shouting obscenities at Grigor and cheering the queen, her daughter, and the dukes.

Brail couldn’t help but frown, even as city folk waved to him or reached out to touch him, as if he were some sort of hero. He could understand the importance of punishing a traitor, particularly one as dangerous as Grigor. But he found the fevered behavior of the throng unsettling.

“You’ve seen many executions, my lord?” Fetnalla asked.

“I’ve seen a few. I wouldn’t say many.”

“Do the condemned always maintain their innocence to the very end?”

He glanced at her. She was watching him, looking surprisingly young.

“Some do, most really. Not all. Why?”

The woman shrugged, facing forward again. “The duke seems determined to accuse his brothers, though he has nothing to gain from this anymore.”

“You think him innocent?”

“I haven’t before today. I just expected him to relent. Faced with… with this, I thought he would confess and make peace with the gods.”

“You can’t expect this man to behave as you or I would, Minister. He’s a murderer and a traitor. Perhaps you heard that an Eibitharian spy was found in Solkara a few days ago.”

“Yes, my lord, I had heard.”

“All along we’ve wondered if there might have been more to what happened in the queen’s chamber than we realized. I think it’s clear now that there was, though not as we thought at first. Grigor wasn’t working with the Qirsi conspiracy, but rather with our enemies to the north.”

“Has Grigor admitted this?”

Brail turned once more. Tebeo’s first minister was watching him with widened eyes.

“No,” the duke told her. “He hasn’t.”

“Have the soldiers found the… the spies yet?” she asked.

Again, Brail shook his head. “Not yet. But I’m confident that they will.”

Evanthya nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

It seemed to the duke that Tebeo’s Qirsi was disappointed, that she wanted Grigor to be in league with the conspiracy rather than the Eibitharlans, as if one were any better than the other. He couldn’t imagine why she might feel this way, but he no longer pretended to understand any of the white-hairs, even his own. In recent days he had come to believe once again that Fetnalla was loyal to him, though he remained wary. Beyond that, as far as he was concerned, they were unfathomable, an unfortunate necessity in a land whose courts had come to rely too heavily on magic and dubious visions of the future.

“The point is, Fetnalla,” he said, turning his attention back to his minister, “we can’t hope to understand a man like Grigor. It may be that he still holds out hope of redemption. Perhaps he believes, by some perverse logic, that his acts are justified and that the gods will reward him for his defiance. Whatever his reasoning, I’m certain that the land will be safer after he’s dead.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They continued toward the marketplace in silence. Well before they reached the first of the peddler’s carts, Brail saw the gallows standing on a broad wooden platform and towering over the crowded lanes and stalls. It looked solid, if crudely fashioned, the warm tones of the fresh wood a stark contrast to the cold grey sky. Hordes awaited them there, chanting for the traitor’s death and cheering loudly at their first glimpse of the queen and her child.

Soldiers rushed forward to clear a path though the throng for Chofya, Kalyi, and the dukes. They were also forced to beat back the city folk, who, catching sight of Grigor, attempted to drag the man away from his escort.

It took some time, but at last, Pronjed, the castle prelate, and the four guards led Grigor up a long flight of wooden steps to the gallows. Amid screams from the people below, the prelate offered the traitor a final opportunity to confess. When he refused, tight-lipped and ashen, the crowd jeered him lustily and shouted for his death.

The executioner, a tall, burly man in a brown hooded robe, climbed slowly to the platform, and as he did the soldiers tied Grigor’s hands behind his back and slipped the noose around his neck. The cheers grew louder.

Fetnalla turned away.

“An execution can be difficult to watch,” Brail told her, “particularly the first one. But none of the people here is likely to forget this. Other traitors will think twice before taking on the royal house, and those who seek vengeance for what was done to their queen and the Council of Dukes will leave here satisfied that justice was done.”

The Qirsi offered no response.

At the base of the gallows, the executioner grabbed hold of the rope and, with a quick glance toward Pronjed, who nodded once, gave a mighty pull. Grigor was lifted off the platform, to the roared approval of the crowd. The traitor kicked his feet several times, his body swinging back and forth, his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth bared. The executioner left him up there for some time, until his features started to slacken. Only then, when the man was broken, but not yet dead, did the executioner lower him again, removing the noose and cutting the bonds that held his hands. They laid him down on the bare wood platform, and brought forth the knives.

Even Brail had to look away after that, though from the shouting, and the cries of some, he knew that they were disemboweling him. At last he heard the executioner call out the ritual words, “See in my hand, the heart of a traitor.” It was nearly over.

In another few moments, the guards descended the steps again, each one of them bearing part of the man’s body. The executioner followed, carrying Grigor’s head on a pike. The horsemen who were to bear the traitor’s body to the four corners of the kingdom waited just beyond the mass of people, and already some were leaving the marketplace for the castle, so that they might see the man’s head mounted there.

“Justice,” it was said, “is both patient and swift, curative and cruel, equitable and absolute.”

Never had Brail thought the words more apt that they were this day.

With the execution ended, Brail and Fetnalla followed Chofya back to the castle. There, just after midday, in the queen’s presence chamber, the Council of Dukes met for the first time since the poisoning.

Chofya was there, of course, as were her daughter and Grigor’s two surviving brothers. Henthas, Brail was disturbed to see, wore the red, black, and gold of Solkara and took a seat at the table with the rest of the dukes. Numar stood at the head of the table with the queen, Pronjed, and Kalyi.

When all the dukes and their ministers had arrived and were seated, Chofya stood. “After the darkness of the past several days,” she began, “I am pleased to have tidings of a different sort. Numar, marquess of Renbrere, youngest brother of my husband the king, has agreed to serve as regent to my daughter Kalyi when she is invested as queen of Aneira.”

Brail glanced at Tebeo, who was already looking his way, relief written plainly on his round face.

“He has agreed to accept Carden’s archminister, Pronjed jal Drenthe, as his archminister, and he has already sent word to his home in Renbrere to have his possessions brought here so that he might live in the royal city.”

She stepped to the side as Numar stood, a smile on his face.

“I am honored that Queen Chofya has deemed me worthy to serve as regent to her daughter until our new queen is old enough to rule Aneira on her own. With all that’s happened since we first arrived for my brother’s funeral, it would have been only natural for this council to turn away from House Solkara and toward the uncertainty and dangers of civil war. I’m grateful to all of you for your patience and your commitment to peace. I hope that I prove myself worthy of your trust.”

“Forgive me, Lord Renbrere,” the duke of Rassor interrupted, “but I must ask why your brother is here. We bear you no ill will, but Henthas has always been at Grigor’s right hand. He has no place in this council.”

Several of the others nodded in agreement, including both Ansis and Tebeo.

“I assure you, my lord duke, Henthas had no part in Grigor’s crime. He gives me his word as both my brother and a noble of Solkara, and I believe him. I intend to devote myself wholly to my duties as regent, and will have little time for the Solkaran dukedom. As none of my brothers nor I have sons who are of age, the title of duke must fall to Henthas.”

Rassor still did not look pleased and though Brail had little affection for the man, he had to agree with him in this instance. Numar seemed to sense that the other dukes remained unconvinced as well.

“My lords, please. You have entrusted me with the well-being of your kingdom and the care of your child-queen. This is but a trifle by comparison. My brother and I will be living together in this castle. I give you my word that I will see to it that he rules Solkara with a steady hand.”

Henthas appeared to bristle at this.

“I’m not some horse to be tamed and fitted with a bridle,” he said, his voice low and bitter. “I’m the oldest living son of Tomaz. By all rights, the kingdom should be mine. Isn’t it enough that I’ve given that up and the regency, too? Would you have me throw down my sword as well?”

Numar turned to his brother, a smile on his lips, obviously forced. “You make your point plainly, brother. As always.”

“I don’t like him being in the castle with the girl,” Rassor said. He glanced at the queen. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but I fear for her safety.”

“We all do, Lord Rassor,” Chofya said. “Not because of Henthas, but because she is a child, and the kingdom has many enemies. That’s why I’m so pleased that Numar has agreed to be her regent and to keep Pronjed as archminister. I trust my husband’s brother in this matter, as in all matters. I have no doubt that Henthas will be a fine duke and that House Solkara will flourish under his leadership.”

With that, the queen effectively ended their discussion. Many of Brail’s doubts remained, and he felt certain that he wasn’t alone in this regard. But Chofya had spoken. To press the matter further would have been to question her judgment, and none of the dukes was willing to do that.