“Nine centuries ago, when invaders came to the Forelands, the ancient clans put aside their differences and joined forces to protect themselves and preserve their sovereignty. Out of their triumph grew the seven realms of the Forelands, and all that we have accomplished since.”
He was speaking of the Qirsi Wars, of course, and though Wenda thought Aneira and Braedon greater threats to Eibithar than the Qirsi conspiracy, she could hardly blame the king for drawing on that chapter in the kingdom’s history. She stole a glance at Keziah, wondering if the king’s words would enrage her. But while the archminister looked wan and young as she watched the king, her expression revealed nothing.
“We have endured wars since,” Kearney went on, “and times of darkness. But always we have prevailed, and through the centuries one truth has stood out above all others: never are we stronger than when we are united and at peace.” He lifted his glass high and looked first at Rouvin and then at Grinnyd. “My Lord Dukes, I drink to friendships, old and new.”
“To friendships!” the others in the hall echoed.
“We have more food and wine,” the king said, smiling as he placed his goblet on the table. “And we have music to dance. I hope all will join us.”
He nodded to the musicians standing near his table on the dais and they began to play. Then he took Leilia’s hand and led her down the small stairway to the open floor just in front of his table. For a few moments, as was appropriate, others in the hall simply watched the king dance with his queen. Then, slowly, couples joined them on the floor.
“He does seem a fine king, swordmaster,” the duke of Grinnyd said, regarding Kearney. “One cannot help but be impressed with him.”
“He’s been that way since I met him, my lord, and that was many years before he became duke of Glyndwr.”
Grinnyd nodded. “You expect that he’ll survive Kentigern’s challenge?”
Wenda sensed Gershon bristling.
“I do,” the swordmaster said, steel in his voice.
The duke turned to him. “Forgive the question, swordmaster. But before I ask my archduke to swear himself to an alliance with this man I must know that he’ll still wear the crown a year from now. Wethyrn places great value on its ties to Eibithar. I daresay we rely on Eibithar’s friendship more than you do on ours, even now. If we pledge ourselves to your king, only to find in a few turns that his place on the throne has been taken by a man who despises him, where will that leave Wethyrn?” His eyes strayed briefly to Keziah. “As formidable as Kearney may be, I see many perils in his path, some distant, and some quite near. We’ll be watching to see how he navigates them.” The duke smiled and faced Wenda. “High Minister, I find myself drawn to this music. Would you join me in a dance?”
Wenda returned his smile. She wasn’t fond of dancing, but she could hardly refuse an invitation from one of the king’s guests. “Of course, my Lord Grinnyd. It would be an honor.”
The duke rose, pulling out Wenda’s chair and taking the minister’s hand when she stood. She didn’t look back at Keziah and Gershon, but she felt their eyes following her as she left them alone together. She would have given all the gold Kearney paid her to be a mouse under the table during the conversation they were about to have.
She couldn’t take her eyes off of them, though Qirsar knew she wanted to. It seemed that everyone in this shining hall was staring at the king and queen, though Keziah was certain that the sight of them dancing didn’t do to others what it did to her. Kearney looked as he always did, wearing his usual battle garb, the Glyndwr baldric-silver, red, and black-strapped to his back. The silver in his hair and the youthfulness of his face made him appear ageless and regal, as a true king should. Leilia, on the other hand, looked even older and sadder than usual. Keziah had expected that the end of her affair with Kearney would give new life to the queen, but clearly it hadn’t. Perhaps she realized now that Keziah hadn’t destroyed their marriage or stopped Kearney from loving her; she had done all of that herself.
“What did you say to the duke?” Gershon asked in a low voice, his eyes on the king as well.
“Not much, really. I complained about Kearney not following my counsel and remarked that Eandi nobles were quick to question the loyalty of their Qirsi. Other than that I said nothing offensive, though I’m sure I proved a rather poor dinner companion.”
“Do you think you might be taking this too far?”
“They’ve given me gold, but I’ve heard nothing from them since,” she said. “This isn’t a time to temper my behavior.”
“Nor is it a time to get yourself banished from the king’s court. You heard Grinnyd. He thinks that you’re a threat to the king, and he won’t hesitate to say so to Kearney.”
“I know. To be honest, I don’t know if I can stop myself anymore. I don’t plan any of the things I say. They just come to me. It’s almost as if I’ve actually started to believe them.”
She knew that Gershon was staring at her, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the king.
“Are you a threat to the king?”
Keziah managed a small smile. “No, it’s not that bad.”
“Not yet.”
At that she did look at him. “I’ll do nothing to harm him or the kingdom. You have my word.” Her eyes drifted to Kearney again. “I’m more a danger to myself than to anyone else.”
She sensed him frowning. “What does that mean?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Nothing.” She closed her eyes. “Have I stayed long enough yet? I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
“Yes, you can go. The way you’ve been lately, you’re likely to draw more attention remaining to the end than leaving early.”
“Do we need to have words first?”
“You’ve done enough tonight. I think a simple ‘goodnight’ will do it. Just make it convincing.”
“That doesn’t seem to be a problem. Be well, Gershon. We’ll speak again soon.”
He nodded, saying nothing.
Keziah stood abruptly, draining her goblet and setting it on the table smartly. “Goodnight, swordmaster,” she said, her tone heavy with sarcasm. She turned and strode from the great hall, certain that most of those who remained were staring after her.
She returned directly to her chamber, only allowing the scowl to leave her face when she had closed and locked the door behind her. Crossing to her bed, she lay down and, as she had every night for the last half turn, began to cry, muffling her sobs with her pillow. She had thought that this deception would become easier with time, but it hadn’t. Just the opposite was true. Every day that drove her further from Kearney brought new, deeper grief, until she began to fear for her sanity. She missed Paegar almost as much as she did her brother, though she knew that had it not been for the minister’s treachery, she would never have found herself in these circumstances.
After a time, when she was too weary even to cry anymore, Keziah forced herself up, splashed some cold water on her face, and put on her sleeping gown. The fire in her hearth had burned down, and she added two logs before climbing back into bed.
She must have fallen asleep instantly, for it seemed the next moment she was dreaming.
She stood on a plain, a cold wind cutting through her sleeping gown and making her hair dance. Tall grasses bowed like novices in a sanctuary and hulking boulders loomed like great grey beasts in some child’s tale. There was something both familiar and alien about the scene and for a moment she wondered if her brother had come to speak with her. Except that this wasn’t the moor near Eardley, and in all the visions Grinsa created for her, there had been daylight. It was night here on this plain.
Or so she thought. Looking up at the blackened sky, straining her eyes to see something, she realized that there was nothing. No stars, no moons, no clouds. Just darkness, as absolute as death.