“Actually, it seems quite clear to me,” Paegar said. “Tobbar has two sons in Shanstead, both of whom have much to gain from Thorald’s return to supremacy. I expect that if Tobbar dies any time soon, they’ll immediately throw the weight of their house behind Aindreas.” He turned to Gershon. “Wouldn’t you agree, swordmaster?”
Keziah might as well have not been in the room. She might have been archminister to the king of Eibithar, but to Kearney’s other advisors, she was nothing. Wenda, Paegar, and Dyre had all served as ministers under Aylyn the Second, the late king. Natan jal Samara, Aylyn’s archminister, left Audun’s Castle when the old king died, having served him for nearly seventeen years. One might have expected the other ministers to do the same, but Kearney chose to keep them on, and at the time it seemed a wise decision. Kearney, the former duke of Glyndwr, ascended to the throne under the most extraordinary of circumstances, agreeing to lead the land after it became clear that this was the only way to avoid a war between
Javan of Curgh and Aindreas of Kentigern. Recognizing that some might question his claim to the throne, since under Eibithar’s Rules of Ascension he was not the rightful king, Kearney thought it best to continue the practices of his predecessor as much as possible.
But rather than raising Wenda to archmimster, making Paegar and Dyre his high ministers, and bringing in his own Qirsi as underministers, Kearney made Keziah his lead advisor, just as she had been in Glyndwr. No one could find fault with the king for doing this. He also made Gershon Trasker, his swordmaster in Glyndwr, the commander of the King’s Guard. Such was the prerogative of a new ruler.
While the other Qirsi accepted the new king’s choice, however, they did not accept her. When she spoke, they listened, and when Kearney agreed with her counsel, they yielded to his judgment. But they never asked her opinion, and they never deferred to her in discussions such as this one, though it would have been proper, given her position. They wouldn’t even look at her, unless it was to glare at her responses to the king’s questions. In recent days, over the past turn or so, Paegar had begun to show some signs of accepting her. But this was just a beginning, and a small one at that. Kearney had made her the most powerful Qirsi in the kingdom, and Keziah found herself afraid to so much as speak without leave from the king.
Gershon, who distrusted all Qirsi, hated her most of all, and did nothing to help her. Indeed, he seemed to relish her discomfort. While they still lived in Glyndwr, Kearney and Keziah had been lovers, sharing a dangerous and forbidden love for which the swordmaster blamed her and not his duke. Keziah had hoped that coming to the City of Kings might force them to put their differences aside and allow them to build on the progress they made during their ride to Kentigern, meager though it was. But if anything, the swordmaster had grown more protective of Kearney and thus more hostile toward her.
For his part, the king appeared to be oblivious of the politics of his court, or perhaps he just felt that it was up to Keziah and the others to make peace with each other without compromising their oaths to serve him. Their love affair ended with Kearney’s ascension-it was one thing for an Eandi duke in the remote highlands of Glyndwr to love a Qirsi woman, he explained at the time, but it was quite another for a king to do so. She still remembered their last night together, in the Glyndwr Highlands, shortly before Kearney’s army marched to Kentigern, with a vividness that made her skin tingle.
“I agree that Tobbar’s sons have less interest than he in recognizing Glyndwr’s claim to the throne,” Gershon said, glancing at Paegar before turning his gaze to the king. “But they have much to lose if this comes to civil war.”
Kearney looked up from the fire. “Explain.”
“When you ascended to the throne, we assumed that both Javan and Aindreas had abdicated in your favor. That’s what you and the others agreed to in Kentigern. And so it followed that your investiture was consistent with the Rules of Ascension. But since then, Aindreas has claimed that he never agreed to this, that the bargain struck that night involved only you and Javan. In effect, Kentigern claims that you and Curgh stole his crown, and he’s convinced the duke of Galdasten of this as well. In their eyes, with you as king, the Rules of Ascension are dead. This leaves them free to challenge your authority and even wage war against you without it being treason under the law.”
Dyre nodded. “It also allows the lords of Galdasten to lay claim to the throne again, without waiting any longer.”
Keziah had to agree that this made a good deal of sense, though she still found Aindreas’s deception infuriating. Not only did it allow Aindreas to justify his defiance of the new king, but it allowed the House of Galdasten to move beyond the tragedy of 872, when a madman brought the pestilence to Galdasten Castle, killing the duke and duchess as well as their children. Under the Rules of Ascension, the House of Galdasten would have had to wait four generations before being recognized once more in the Order of Ascension. Abandoning the rules ended their wait.
“All this may be true,” Wenda said. “But where does that leave Thorald.?”
“Under the Rules of Ascension,” Gershon answered, “Thorald has been Eibithar’s preeminent house. Tobbar’s sons, particularly the older one, won’t be inclined to give up that standing.”
Keziah cleared her throat awkwardly, drawing their gazes, including Kearney’s. Feeling their eyes upon her, she nearly held her tongue.
I’m archminister
, she told herself.
I have a right to speak here, and a responsibility as well
.
“With the deaths of the elder and younger Filib,” she said, “Thorald has no immediate claim to the throne either-that’s why Javan was in line to be king. Won’t Tobbar’s sons be as willing as the duke of Galdasten to turn away from the rules?”
“Maybe,” Gershon said. “It depends upon whether their own ambitions outweigh their loyalty to the house and their ambitions for their children. Their situation is different from that in Galdasten. Kell of Galdasten had no brother. His death nearly killed the entire family line. Filib the Elder had Tobbar, so the damage wasn’t as great. Tobbar’s sons can’t claim the throne, but they need only wait one generation more. Marston’s son can rule the land, and if he does, the younger boy’s son becomes duke of Thorald rather than merely thane of Shanstead.”
Keziah nodded, then rubbed a hand across her brow. Since Kearney became king, she had spent a good deal of time poring over the Rules of Ascension, trying to anticipate ways in which Glyndwr’s enemies might seek to subvert the house’s new power. Yet she still found the rules arcane beyond comprehension. They were inordinately detailed, providing for nearly every contingency, and therein lay their strength. The rules assured that the noble houses of Eibithar would always have a method by which to select a new king, even under the most trying of circumstances. At the same time, they allowed for some sharing of power among the kingdom’s major houses, so that one family would not be able to hold the throne for centuries at a time, as had the Solkarans in Aneira and the Enharfes in Caerisse. Recently though, Keziah had begun to wonder if all the time the nobles of Eibithar spent fighting over the rules did more to undermine the kingdom’s stability than the rules did to guard it.
“Do we have someone speaking with Tobbar’s sons?” the king asked, looking first at Gershon, and then at the ministers, his eyes finally coming to rest on Keziah.
“We send messages to Tobbar regularly, Your Majesty,” the archminister said. “We rely on the duke to see to his sons.”
Kearney frowned. “But the duke is ill. From all I’ve heard, he may be dying. Wouldn’t we be foolish to ignore the sons until after the father is dead?”
“It would be… inappropriate for us to send messages directly to either the thane of Shanstead or his brother, Your Majesty,” Wenda said. “It might imply that we distrust the duke. At the very least it would indicate that we no longer consider him the leader of the House of Thorald.”
Kearney threw up his hands. “Then don’t allow the message to come directly from the throne. Use one of our allies. Use Lathrop.”
“The duke of Tremain, Your Majesty?”
“Yes. Ask him to contact Marston. He shouldn’t mention that he’s acting at my behest, but we need him to get some sense of where the thane and his brother stand.”
“Tobbar will see through that immediately,” Gershon said.
“No doubt,” the king agreed. “But he’ll also understand why we’re doing it. We don’t need Thorald and his sons as allies in this. As long as Thorald refuses to take sides, Aindreas can’t challenge us. But if the brothers Shanstead sympathize with Kentigern and Galdasten, we need to know, so that we can make plans to defend ourselves and the houses standing with us.”
Wenda nodded. “That seems a wise course, Your Majesty.”
“Will you see to it, Archminister?” Kearney asked, facing Keziah once more. “I’d like the message dispatched before nightfall.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Very good,” the king said. He glanced around the chamber. “Is there anything else?”
No one spoke, and after a moment Kearney gave a single nod. “Then we’ll meet again in the morning.”
The ministers stood and started to leave, as did Gershon.
“Archminister,” the king called as Keziah reached the door. “A word? ”
She cast an uneasy look at the others, all of whom were staring at her. “Of course, Your Majesty,” she said, returning to her chair.
“You understand what I want in this message?” the king asked when he and Keziah were alone.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said, knowing this couldn’t be the only reason he had called her back.
Kearney opened his mouth as if to say something, then shook his head and turned away, looking hurt and just a bit angry.
He had told her several times that he didn’t like her calling him “Your Majesty.”
“It makes me feel that I’ve lost you,” he told her on one occasion. “When we’re with others, I understand that you have to. But when we’re alone…”
When we’re alone
, she wanted to say,
it’s the only way I can remind myself that you don’t love me anymore
. He still looked the same, with a youthful face and brilliant green eyes beneath a shock of silver hair. They still saw each other every day and she still dreamed of his touch at night. Yes, they were in Audun’s Castle, and yes, Kearney wore the jeweled circlet on his brow, but it would have been so easy for her to forget that their love had ended. She needed to address him formally for the same reason Kearney hated it: so that she’d know she had lost him forever.
“I trust you’re well,” he said after a brief silence.
“Yes, Your-” She let out a slow breath. “I’m fine.”
“Good.” He glanced at her briefly, looking uncertain. “Do you think Thorald can be convinced to support us?”
“Only if it serves them. You’re a young man, and you have an heir. Under the rules, Glyndwr will hold the throne for as long as the line of heirs continues uninterrupted. Already they can see that their wait will be a long one. Gershon may believe they’ll be slow to abandon the rules because of Thorald’s position among the houses, but I’m less certain.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
She shrugged, gazing toward the fire. Five turns ago she could have explained it to him, but now he had other burdens. Her problems paled beside those of Eibithar and her king.
“It’s not like you to lower your sword, Kez, especially where Gershon is concerned.”
Keziah smiled. He hadn’t called her that in a long time.
“I saw no reason to argue the point,” she said. “The truth is, none of us knows what Tobbar will do, much less Marston and his brother. Perhaps after we’ve heard back from Lathrop we’ll have a better sense of what we can expect from Thorald and Shanstead.”
The king nodded, his brow furrowing beneath the violet jewel on his crown. “Perhaps.”
They fell silent again, the king standing near his desk, and Keziah watching him from the chair. Whatever it was he had called her back to discuss clearly made him uneasy. But it wasn’t until he finally spoke that she understood why.
“Have you had word from your friend?” he asked, his eyes flicking in her direction for just an instant.
“My friend?” she repeated.
“The gleaner.”
It took her a moment to realize that he meant Grinsa, who was more than just her friend and a good deal more than a mere gleaner. Grinsa jal Arriet was a Weaver, a Qirsi who could bind together the powers of many Qirsi and wield all their magic as if it were his own. Such was the fear of Weavers among the Eandi that ever since the Qirsi Wars centuries ago, Weavers and their families had been executed upon being discovered. This explained why even Kearney, whom Keziah still loved as she had no other man, only knew Grinsa as her friend. In fact he was her brother, though, because of Qirsi naming customs, by which sons carried their mother’s name, and daughters their father’s, this was easy to conceal.
When Kearney first met Grinsa in Tremain during the growing turns, the king had sensed the power of the love they shared, and had actually been jealous. Keziah couldn’t help but notice, just from the way he asked about Grinsa, that a residue of that jealousy remained to this day. Maybe she hadn’t lost him entirely after all.
“No, I’ve heard nothing from him in some time.”
Kearney twisted his mouth, as if uncertain whether to be relieved or disappointed.
“I thought maybe with the Revel in the city…”
“He’s not with the Revel anymore. He’s with Lord Tavis.”
The king nodded. “I know. Do you have any way of contacting him?”
He contacts me in my dreams, as Weavers do
. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” She watched him as he squatted to stir the fire. “You’re concerned about Tavis?”
“Of course,” the king said without looking at her. “But more than that, I’m eager to learn if they’ve found Brienne’s killer. If they can prove Tavis’s innocence, we might end this conflict between Curgh and Kentigern before it turns to war.”