Brail’s eyes widened. “What?”
“My husband ordered it. At the time I didn’t understand why he had done it, except to guess that the surgeon had given the king cause to grieve. There’s an old expression: ‘When a Solkaran grieves, others will as well.’ ”
“Was the king dying, Your Highness?” Fetnalla asked.
The queen let out a brittle, desperate laugh that chilled Fetnalla as much as the wind.
“It would seem so, wouldn’t it? Carden and I barely spoke after the surgeon was killed, but how else am I to explain all this?”
Brail shook his head. “But to take his own life…”
“My husband was a proud man, Lord Orvinti. Too proud to allow himself to grow weak and frail at so young an age. I think he decided it was better to choose the time of his own death than to linger while the kingdom watched him fade.”
“You truly think that he’d kill himself?” Pronjed asked.
“You surprise me, Archminister,” Chofya said. “You knew the king nearly as well as I. All he did was driven by his pride and his belief in his own power. Without those, he would have been lost. It may not have been your solution or mine, and perhaps if he hadn’t drunk so much wine, he would have thought better of it. But that was Carden, for better or for worse. I’d be lying if I said I could have expected him to… to do what he did. But I’d also be lying if I told you that I was astonished by it.” She looked at Brail again. “This was not your doing, Lord Orvinti. Neither your blade nor your words killed my husband. Be at ease, and mourn with the rest of us.”
The duke bowed his head. “You have shown me nothing but kindness since I arrived here, Your Highness. I am your humble servant. If there is anything I can do on your behalf, you need only name it and consider it done.”
“My thanks, Brail. As it happens, there is something.”
“Your Highness?”
“Perhaps we can speak of it later,” she said. “For now, I have a funeral to see to, and messages to dispatch to the other dukes. Worst of all, I have to try to explain to Kalyi what’s happened.” She paused briefly, staring back at the castle, her expression pained. Then, as if remembering the rest of them, she looked at Brail again. “You and your company are free to remain here until the funeral. As our guests, of course,” she added, with a sidelong glance at the archminister.
“Thank you, Your Highness. With your permission, I’ll send word of… of what’s happened to my duchess and have her inform the other nobles of my dukedom.”
Chofya nodded absently, as if her thoughts had already turned to other matters. “Yes, Brail, that will be fine. We’ll speak again later.”
She turned to Pronjed, giving the impression that their conversation had ended.
Brail led his company a short distance from the queen and archminister and looked at his soldiers, his brow furrowing as it often did when he was thinking. “Return our mounts to the stables,” he said at last. “Then report to the captain of the king’s guard. Tell him that your duke has placed you under his command for the next few days, to be used as he sees fit. You’re to consider an order from him as coming from me. Do you understand?”
The senior man among the Orvinti guards nodded. “Yes, my lord.” The soldiers bowed to him, before leading the horses back to the stables.
“What about me, my lord?” Fetnalla asked, fearing for just an instant that he might assign her to Pronjed.
“I want you with me,” the duke said, much to her relief. “We have a good deal to discuss.”
“Very well. You wish to return to your chamber.”
Brail hesitated. “My father used to say that no conversation was ever private in a castle. Why don’t we walk?” He gestured toward a stone path and they followed it through the central ward to a smaller courtyard, which held the castle gardens. Nothing grew there now, of course, and the pools had been emptied in anticipation of the snows, but the courtyard was empty, and sheltered from the fiercer winds.
Fetnalla watched her duke, waiting for him to speak, but for a long time, he merely stood by one of the dry stone pools, seemingly lost in thought. She guessed that he was still shaken by news of the king’s death, but when he finally spoke, he surprised her with the direction his musings had taken.
“Something about this bothers me,” he said, his voice low, as if he had forgotten she was even there.
“My lord?”
He looked up at her. “The time for games has passed. Aneira’s king is dead, as is its most powerful duke. I can’t spend my days wondering what to share with you and what to hide. I have to know right now, can I trust you?”
She felt as though he had kicked her in the chest. “You have to ask?”
“Yes,” he said. “In these times, every noble in the land has to ask. Are you a part of this conspiracy I’ve heard so much about?”
Fetnalla wanted to cry, but she refused to let him see how much he’d hurt her. She would have liked to rail at him for doubting her, or better yet, to just leave her life in Orvinti, never to return. She and Evanthya could go to Caerisse or Sanbira and find a noble who wished to employ both of them.
Instead, mustering what pride she could, the minister met his gaze and said, “No, I’ve no part in the conspiracy. I have served you as well as I could for six years, and will for as many more as you’ll have me.”
“I want to believe you,” he said.
“Then do. What cause have I given you to doubt me?”
The duke shrugged. “You’re Qirsi.”
“And you’re an Eandi noble. Does that mean you’re just like the king, or Mertesse, or the dukes of Eibithar? Not every Qirsi is a traitor.”
“Some are.”
“Yes. And some nobles are tyrants.”
“It’s not the same. A tyrant makes himself known with every act. He’s easy to spot. A traitor is more insidious, and therefore more dangerous.”
She started to argue the point, then stopped. Thinking of it from the perspective of an Eandi and a duke, she had to concede that this was probably true. “I’m not a traitor,” she said after a brief pause. “But if you don’t believe me, you should find another Qirsi to serve as your first minister.”
Brail looked away and shook his head. “I’m not certain that would solve anything.”
This she understood as well. Until the conspiracy was defeated-or until it succeeded-every Qirsi in the Forelands would be viewed with even more mistrust than usual, whether or not it was deserved. The duke had little choice but to keep her as his minister.
“Why don’t you tell me what you meant before when you said something was bothering you,” she said, as if coaxing an answer from a reluctant child.
His eyes met hers for an instant and darted away. “It’s probably nothing. I don’t know what to believe anymore, even when it should be obvious.”
“Just because I’m not part of the conspiracy, that doesn’t mean it’s not real, or that it can’t strike here in Aneira.”
“Do you think it has?”
Fetnalla hesitated. She didn’t know anything for certain, and she and Evanthya had agreed that they should do nothing to alarm their dukes until they had more information. But if she wanted Brail to trust her, she had to start confiding in him.
“I fear so, yes,” she admitted.
“Chago?”
The minister nodded.
“Tebeo and I think so as well.”
Her eyes widened at that, and she wondered if Evanthya had already spoken of this with her duke.
“And now you think the king has fallen victim to it as well?” she asked.
Brail rubbed a hand across his brow. “I don’t know. I find it hard to believe that he’d take his own life.”
“The queen believes it.”
“Yes,” the duke said. “And so does the archminister. I’m probably just being foolish. But even if he was dying, why would he do this so soon, before he had the chance to name a successor? As it is, he’s placed the very future of the kingdom at risk. It makes no sense.”
“Much as I agree with you, my lord, I must also say that such a death would be difficult to fabricate. If he did take his own life with a blade, there would be blood on his hands, his clothes, his knife. There are far easier ways to hide a murder, my lord, even for a skilled assassin.”