“I will, Your Majesty.”
Kearney stood. “Good. Please convey to your father my regrets that he couldn’t make the journey himself.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Marston bowed, hearing a dismissal in the king’s words.
The king’s expression softened. “Please also tell him that I said his son acquitted himself extremely well in the duke’s absence.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I’ll do that.”
“I’ll see you to the city gate in the morning.”
“You honor me, Your Majesty.” He turned and left the chamber, knowing that his father would have been angry with him for speaking to the king as he had. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to let the matter drop. Clearly he couldn’t speak of this with Kearney, but there was nothing to stop him from approaching the swordmaster.
He had one of the guards direct him to Gershon’s chamber and hurried through the castle corridors, his ire growing with each step. The thane could see how Kearney might be unable to dismiss the woman, but how could Gershon Trasker, who from all accounts had once been wary of all Qirsi, counsel the king to let her remain?
Reaching the swordmaster’s door, Marston rapped hard on the wood, readying himself to rail at the man. But when the door opened a crack, it revealed not the swordmaster, but rather a small girl with bright blue eyes and thick brown curls.
“Hello,” she said, staring up at him solemnly.
“Uh. . I’m looking for your father.”
“Who is it, Trina?” came a voice from within.
“A man,” she called over her shoulder.
Gershon strode into view, frowning at the sight of the thane.
“Run along, love,” he said.
The girl glanced up at Marston once more, then ran from the door. Gershon opened it farther, but he didn’t step into the corridor, nor did he ask the thane into his chamber.
“What can I do for you, Lord Shanstead?”
“I was hoping we might speak in private for a moment.”
“About the archminister?”
He looked past the swordmaster and saw a woman watching them-Gershon’s wife, no doubt.
“Can we do this in private?”
The man’s frown deepened, but after a moment he stepped into the corridor and closed the door. “What is it you want?”
“I want to know why the king changed his mind about sending the archminister to Glyndwr.”
“Did you ask him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He told me nothing.”
“Then why would you expect me to do more?”
“Because I know how you feel about the Qirsi, or at least how you used to feel about them.”
Gershon shrugged. “My feelings have nothing to do with this. It was the king’s decision, and if he chose not to explain his reasoning to you, I’m certainly not going to try.”
“Fine. He told me that he made this decision with you present. Will you at least tell me what you counseled him to do?”
“I told him to let her remain here.”
“Why?”
“I won’t tell you that, either. It’s enough for you to know that King Kearney has chosen to keep his archminister with him, and that I agree with that choice. The rest is none of your concern.”
“Don’t you see how dangerous she is? The king can’t think clearly when it comes to this woman.”
“Just as you can’t think clearly when it comes to any Qirsi.”
“That’s not true!”
“I think it is. It seems that Enid ja Kovar’s betrayal of your father has affected you as well. You see treachery lurking in every pair of yellow eyes, and you see weakness in any Eandi who trusts a Qirsi.”
“That’s ridiculous. I trust my own minister.”
“Yes,” Gershon said, his eyebrows going up. “I’ve noticed that. Am I to gather then that you’re the only man in the Forelands with enough sense to know which Qirsi can be trusted and which can’t? Does your arrogance run that deep?”
“You forget yourself, swordmaster!”
The man grinned, though not with his eyes. “Kearney said the same thing to me earlier today. Perhaps I’m getting impudent in my old age. But in this case I haven’t forgotten myself at all. You may be a thane, Lord Shanstead, but you’re young, and you’ve a good deal to learn. And since you’re the one who’s questioning the king’s judgment in the corridors of Audun’s Castle, I think I’m justified in what I’ve said. Now if there’s nothing else, I’d like to return to my family.”
He reached for the door handle.
“This isn’t over, swordmaster.”
Gershon stopped and faced him again. “Oh, but it is. The king has made his decision, and that is the final word. If I learn that you have done anything to undermine his faith in the archminister, I’ll consider it an act of treason and will respond accordingly. I don’t care if we have to fight the empire without the army of Thorald. I will not have a whelp like you meddling in the affairs of my king.” He pushed the door open. “Good night, Lord Shanstead.” And entering the chamber once more, he closed the door smartly, the sound echoing through the corridor.
Fool!
Marston stood in the hallway for several moments, unable to move, his fists clenched so tightly that his hands began to ache. At last he forced himself into motion, striding back toward his own chamber. There was nothing left to be done here. The archminister had managed somehow to turn both Kearney and the swordmaster to her purposes, and Marston hadn’t enough influence with the king to oppose her. If he had had more time in the City of Kings, perhaps he could have swayed the king back to the side of reason, but with his departure planned for the next day, he had no choice but to allow her this victory. Still, he wasn’t ready yet to give up the fight. A time would come when the woman would reveal her true intentions, when her sorcery would not reach quite so far and the king’s vision would clear. And when that happened, Marston would be ready, with every weapon he could bring to bear.
Chapter Four
Glyndwr Highlands, Eibithar
Tavis of Curgh and Grinsa jal Arriet were less than a day’s ride from Glyndwr Castle when the storm hit. They had awakened that morning to a freshening wind and dark, angry skies. In the time it took them to eat a small breakfast and break camp, the rain began, accompanied by distant echoes of thunder, and gusts of wind that flattened the grasses and made their riding cloaks snap. Still, they climbed onto their mounts and resumed their journey northward, hoping to reach the rim of the steppe before dusk, perhaps with time enough to begin their descent.
Even as they rode, though, Grinsa repeatedly cast anxious glances to the west, marking the progress of the storm. The thunder quickly grew louder and the sky flashed continuously. Soon it was raining so hard, Tavis could hardly see. Lightning arced overhead, sinuous and brilliant, making the young lord flinch. He could feel his horse straining against the reins, the beast’s dark eyes wide and wild.
“It’s no good!” the gleaner shouted to him, his voice barely carrying over the gale.
He reined his mount to a halt and Tavis did the same.
“We have to stop!”
“Do you want to turn back?” Tavis asked. They were closer to Glyndwr Castle than they were to the end of the steppe, and the young lord felt certain that Kearney the Younger, the king’s son, who was now duke in the House of Wolves, would welcome them and offer shelter and food until the weather cleared.
But Grinsa shook his head, blinking the rain from his pale yellow eyes. “We can’t ride in this!” he said.