“He’s a thoughtful man, and he commands the strongest army in Aneira. Indeed, he’s that much stronger for having kept his house out of this war.”
“Won’t that make him suspect in the eyes of Kett and the rest?”
“I doubt it. He’s a Bistari. No one doubts that he hates the Solkarans. And by remaining neutral, he’s made himself more acceptable to Mertesse.”
Grestos gave a small shrug. “Very well, Tebeo. I’ve given you my word. If Silbron’s your choice then so be it. He’ll have my vote in the council.”
Tebeo nodded and crossed to the door. “Thank you, Lord Rassor.”
“I think you’re mistaken about one thing, though,” Grestos said, drawing Tebeo’s gaze once more. “You have more skill with politics than you think. If you can truly manage to convince Kett to agree to all this, you’d make a fine king indeed.”
Tebeo grinned and left the chamber, with Evanthya following close behind. This time, she knew enough to say nothing until they were in the stairway, and even then she kept her voice to a whisper.
“Silbron, my lord? Are you certain?”
“There is no one else, First Minister. If Brall still lived, he’d be my first choice. But his death leaves Silbron and me, and having led the rebellion against House Solkara, I can’t take the throne for Dantrielle without making it seem that all I’ve done was driven by ambition. That’s not how I wish to be remembered.”
Evanthya had to smile. This was why she continued to serve her duke. Any Qirsi who dared say that all Eandi nobles were alike had only to listen to Tebeo of Dantrielle to be proven wrong. “Yes, my lord,” she said.
The sound of tolling bells reached them in the stairway, echoing softly.
“Is that the prior’s bell already?” the duke asked.
“It is, my lord.” Perhaps he would postpone his conversation with Pronjed until the next day. Perhaps, given a bit more time, he would think better of speaking with the archminister at all. Would that he were so easily dissuaded.
“We’d better hurry then,” her duke said. “I dine with the other dukes this evening, and first I want to meet with Numar’s minister.”
The prison was nothing. Stone and iron. He could shatter both with a mere thought, and would when the time came. They had bound his wrists and ankles with silk, fearing that he would shatter iron manacles, but he would find a way to free himself from these bonds as well. Nor did he concern himself with the guards who stood beyond the chamber door. With his mind-bending magic he could turn the Eandi brutes to his purposes whenever he chose. For those who proved less pliable, he still had his shaping power, which worked just as well on bone as it did on rock and steel. The army that awaited him beyond the tower presented a somewhat more formidable challenge, but Pronjed felt certain that he could find his way past a thousand men if he had to.
And he did have to. The Weaver had ordered him north, to Eibithar, where fighting between Kearney’s army and the soldiers of the empire had already begun, and where, quite soon, the Weaver intended to commence his own war.
“The time is at hand, Pronjed,” the man had said to him, looming in his dreams like a god, or a demon, black as pitch against the brilliant white sun that was always at his back. “All for which we have worked is about to come to fruition. All past failures will be forgiven. Even the breaking of your siege will soon mean nothing. Meet me on the Eibithar Moorlands, give your power to me to wield as a weapon, and I shall give in return the future of which we’ve spoken so many times.”
There had been nothing for him to say, except, “Yes, Weaver.”
He had, of course, been planning to escape even before the Weaver came to him. At first he intended to shatter the walls of his prison the night he was captured, but Dantrielle’s duke, uncertain as to what powers he possessed, had posted eight archers in the corridor outside his chamber, too many even for a man of Pronjed’s considerable powers to defeat. Over the past several days, however, as the archminister gave no indication that he was a threat to the castle or its duke, the number of guards outside his chamber had been reduced. This morning, the last of the archers had been removed. He had only to wait until nightfall.
Pronjed still wasn’t certain how he would reach the Moorlands in time to join the Weaver’s battle. His horse had been taken by Tebeo’s men, and though he would do what was necessary to win his own freedom, he didn’t know if he could risk a visit to the stables before he fled the castle. But the Weaver wouldn’t tolerate excuses, and Pronjed, spurred on by the promise of wealth and power should the Weaver’s plan succeed, had worked too hard on behalf of the movement to be absent at its culmination. Somehow, he would make his way to Eibithar and fight alongside the Weaver. He would share in the Qirsi victory, and when the Weaver swept away the Eandi courts and began to reward his most faithful servants, Pronjed would be among the new nobility.
Not long after the ringing of the prior’s bell, he heard footsteps on the stairs leading to his corridor. He assumed at first that this was merely a guard bringing what passed for his evening meal a bit earlier than usual. Only when he heard a woman speaking in hushed tones did he understand that the duke had come, and with him his lovely first minister.
Pronjed stood and faced the door, holding himself as proudly as he could under the circumstances. He would not allow them to think that he had been broken, no matter how much it might aid his escape.
He heard Tebeo order the guards to open the door. A moment later the lock turned loudly and the door swung open.
Tebeo had never looked like the duke of a major house. He was fat and short, with a face that was far too pleasant to be imposing. Still, the minister knew that he possessed a keen mind, and in the past half turn, as he withstood Numar’s assault, he had more than proved his mettle.
His first minister was the perfect complement to the duke. Pale where he was dark, lithe where he was round, reserved where he was affable. Yet Pronjed also knew her to be formidable in her own way. He had clashed with the woman on more than one occasion and had no doubts as to her loyalty to the duke and the realm.
“Archminister,” the duke said, eyeing him, a tight smile on his face.
He’s afraid. She’s warned him against you. “My lord Dantrielle. To what do I owe this courtesy?”
“Curiosity, I suppose,” Tebeo answered, surprising Pronjed with his candor. “I have certain questions, and I know better than to expect honest answers from the regent.”
“You expect that I’ll be more forthcoming?”
“I hope that you will.”
“And what can I expect in return?”
“Clemency. Perhaps, eventually, your release from this prison.”
Pronjed glanced at the first minister, who was watching him with obvious interest. “I’ll tell you what I can, my lord.”
Tebeo began to pace in front of him, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “How many men did Numar send north to the Tarbin?”
“About a thousand. He expected the army of Mertesse to make up the rest of the force. The rest of his men he divided between guarding Solkara and attacking you.”
“Has he been in contact with the duke of Bistari?”
“Bistari?” Pronjed said, with a small breathless laugh. “Surely you jest, my lord.”
“No, but never mind the question.”
The archminister narrowed his eyes, wondering why Tebeo would ask about Bistari’s young duke. Had they been alone, he would have used mind-bending magic to force the duke to explain himself, but with Evanthya watching, he didn’t dare.
Tebeo paced in silence for a moment. Then, “Tell me, Arch-minister, what do you know of the Qirsi conspiracy?”
“Not much, my lord. Probably no more than you do. I know what it’s reputed to have done. The murders in Eibithar, the assassination of Lord Bistari. There are rumors of an attempt on the life of Curlinte’s duchess in Sanbira, though of course we can’t be certain if this is true.”