“Where is Enid now?” Fotir asked.
“She’s dead. We tried to imprison her, hoping to learn something of her allies in the movement, but she took her own life before we could.”
“The movement?” Cerri asked, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you call it when you speak with Shanstead?”
Xivled frowned. “The conspiracy then.”
“I’m serious, cousin,” Eardley’s minister said. She looked at the rest of them. “When the rest of you speak with your dukes about these Qirsi, what do you say about them?”
Fotir shook his head. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Of course you don’t, cousin,” Ottah laughed. “The great Fotir jal Salene doesn’t concern himself with such trifles. No one would ever doubt where his loyalties lie. The rest of us don’t have that luxury, though. We have to watch every word when it comes to the conspiracy.” He looked at Cerri. “I know I do.”
“So how do you handle it?” she asked.
The man shrugged. “I tread lightly. What else can I do? I always use ‘we’ when speaking of Labruinn, or the courts, or sometimes even the Eandi. And of course I refer to the Qirsi in the movement as ‘they.’ Lately I’ve found myself avoiding the use of my magic at all costs. Just half a turn ago, I had a dream that I’m quite certain was a vision. It wasn’t anything too important-there were no lives at stake. But I saw something that may affect the next harvest in the Labruinn countryside. The point is, though, I’ve yet to mention it to my duke. I’m afraid that any mention of my powers will make me suspect in his eyes.”
Fotir stared at the minister, not quite believing what he was hearing. “But that makes no sense. We’re Qirsi. The nobles of Eibithar-indeed, of all the realms of the Forelands-have relied on our magic for centuries.
That’s why your duke brought you to Labruinn in the first place, to wield your powers on his behalf.“
“As I already said, cousin, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Why not? Am I any less Qirsi than you are? Are my eyes less yellow, my hair less white?”
“It’s not your eyes and hair that concern us, Fotir,” Cerri said. “It’s your blood. From what I’ve heard, it runs more Eandi than Qirsi. It doesn’t surprise me at all that you never worry about your duke’s suspicions.”
Fotir’s cheeks burned, and he struggled to keep from storming out of the chamber. Such remarks about a sorcerer’s blood dated to the days of Carthach and his betrayal of the Qirsi people during the early wars. Any white-hair at whom they were directed could not help but take offense. More to the point, however, they echoed similar comments made to him by Shurik jal Marcine, during their conversations in Kentigern during the growing turns, and by a Revel Qirsi named Trin the night of Tavis’s Fating. Somehow, during his years of service to the House of Curgh, Fotir had acquired a reputation as a man more devoted to his lord than to his people. All he had done was serve Javan and his house loyally for nine years. Was there a crime in that? Certainly his father would have thought so. His father, who had cursed Carthach’s name every day of his life, and had stopped speaking with his only son the night of Fotir’s Fating, which showed him serving an Eandi noble. He could almost hear the man saying,
You see? This is what comes of serving the Eandi
.
“I don’t fear my duke’s suspicions,” he said, measuring each word, “because he harbors none. And if he did, he’d bring them to me. There’s no secret to my friendship with Javan. We speak with each other honestly. If you and your duke did the same, you could be true to yourself and your heritage.”
He expected Ottah to respond in anger, but the minister merely laughed. “You truly believe that your duke harbors no suspicions of you?” He glanced briefly at Cerri, who was grinning as well, then faced Fotir again. “Perhaps you’re more simple than I thought, cousin.”
Xivled cleared his throat. “Actually, Ottah, I don’t believe Marston is suspicious of me.”
“Well, you’ve known him since you were children,” Cerri said. “That’s hardly the same thing.”
“Isn’t it? I’m Qirsi, he’s Eandi. The way you and Ottah speak of it, one would think that nothing else matters. I’m forced to wonder if you’re not the simple ones, assuming that every Qirsi minister feels about his or her noble as you do about yours.”
Cerri pressed her lips in a thin line and stared at the fire. Ottah didn’t respond either.
“How did you learn of Enid’s betrayal?” Fotir asked after a lengthy silence.
“Marston and I contrived to have me speak with her in private. While in her chambers I led her to believe that I hated the thane and wished to join the conspiracy. She didn’t believe me right away, but it didn’t take me long to convince her. I gathered from what she told me that Thorald had once been a center of conspiracy activity, but that its time had passed. I think she believed that bringing me to the movement’s leaders would enhance her stature once more.”
“So you had an opportunity to join the conspiracy?” Fotir asked in amazement. The other two ministers were staring at Xivled, as if he had transformed himself into a Weaver before their eyes.
“Yes, I did.”
“And what happened?”
The younger man looked away. “My thane and I exposed her treason to the duke that very night. She killed herself as they took her to the dungeon.”
“A pity,” Fotir said.
“I know. I said as much to Marston that night, but he wished to protect me from harm.” He looked up again, eyeing Ottah and Cerri. “An irony, given our conversation. Wouldn’t you say?”
Neither of them answered, and the ministers lapsed into silence again.
“So Enid was a traitor,” Ottah finally said, shaking his head. “That’s only going to make matters worse for the rest of us. My duke is likely to be even less trusting than before.” He grinned at Fotir. “Who knows, cousin? Even Javan might have his doubts now.”
Fotir merely stared at the minister.
“Come on, Cerri,” Ottah said, pushing himself from his chair. “I don’t know about our friends here, but I for one could use some wine.”
“By all means,” Xivled said, as Cerri stood. “Visit our cellars. Tell the cellarmaster I sent you.”
Ottah pulled the door open and held it for Eardley’s minister. “Thank you, cousin. We will.” He nodded at Fotir. “First Minister.”
A moment later they were gone. Fotir closed his eyes and exhaled through his teeth.
Xivled sat in the chair beside Fotir’s. “I feel I should apologize for them, First Minister. They have no right speaking to you so.”
“It’s all right, Minister. It’s not your fault, nor is it anything I haven’t heard before.” He regarded the other man briefly. “You should know that it’s only a matter of time before other Qirsi speak of you as they do of me. You’re in line to be First Minister to Eibithar’s most powerful house, and you leave no doubt as to where your loyalties lie. Most other ministers will envy you. Some, like Ottah and Cerri, will compare you to Carthach, if not to your face, then when your back is turned.”
Xivled gazed at the fire, looking thoughtful and quite young. “I suppose they might. You know as well as I that the jealousies of loyal Qirsi are the least of our worries.”
“Usually I’d agree with you, cousin. But we live in strange times. Every conflict weakens us, no matter how petty it might be. Noble houses are threatening each other with war, not only here, but in Aneira and Sanbira as well. The Aneirans still threaten us from the south, and we’ve noticed a good deal of activity from Braedon’s fleet. Eandi lords have grown afraid of their ministers, and now it seems Qirsi are hiding their powers to allay those fears. Ottah’s envy may seem a trifle, but it’s one more fissure in a kingdom that’s already crumbling. I fear for us, cousin. We know so little about our enemies that we’re turning on each other.” He paused, unsure as to whether to give voice to all that he was thinking. “It may not be my place to say this,” he went on at last, “but I wish your thane had allowed you to join the conspiracy.”
The minister’s gaze flicked in his direction for just an instant, but that was long enough for Fotir to see the pained expression in Xivled’s pale eyes. “I could have learned so much.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Kentigern, Eibithar
There might have been another way to accomplish his goals, had he only taken the time to look for one. Aindreas tried to tell himself that his choices were limited, that there was only so much a duke could do under such extraordinary circumstances. Indeed, there was more than a bit of truth to this. He couldn’t tell Villyd what he had in mind, for the swordmaster would never have approved. He might even have forsaken his oath of service and left Kentigern for good, or worse, informed Ioanna of what Aindreas was doing so that she might dissuade the duke with her rage and disgust. Certainly Aindreas couldn’t have told Barret, his prelate, and the only other man in the castle he could trust. And he couldn’t very well inquire in the city on his own, not without raising a swarm of questions.
The fact of the matter was, however, he was glad to be in the dungeon again, torturing once more. He had a thirst for it, just as he did for Sanbin red. Even the stench of the place didn’t bother him anymore. There was comfort to be found here: in the screams, in the smell of the torches, in the feel of his sword cutting into another man’s flesh. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that he was hurting Tavis again, exacting a measure of revenge for what the boy did to Brienne.
It was only when he opened his eyes, and saw yet another Qirsi face distorted with pain, that he remembered.
He didn’t allow any of the guards down here with him. Not even they could know what he sought in the answers he wrung from the white-hairs.
He had started with his former underministers, the other Qirsi who served him when Shurik was still in the castle. It struck him as logical that the first minister wouldn’t have been working alone, and where better to look for the traitor’s accomplice than his own circle of advisors?
Only when he turned his attention to the first man, however-a young Qirsi named Goel-did Aindreas begin to realize how greatly torturing a sorcerer would differ from hurting an Eandi. He had kept records of all the Qirsi he brought to his castle as ministers, so he knew this man was a shaper, and he took elaborate precautions to protect himself and render the Qirsi helpless.
He invited the man to the castle, slipped some sweetwort into his wine, and after the minister lost consciousness, had him taken to the castle dungeon. There he bound the man’s wrists and ankles with satin ties, which the Qirsi couldn’t shatter as he could iron shackles. Aindreas then hung him by his hands and feet like a calf being carried to slaughter, and suspended him high over a fire. When the Qirsi awoke, he was as helpless as a babe. If he managed to shatter the chains from which he hung, he’d fall to the flames below.
Still, the duke soon discovered that the Qirsi had resources beyond his reckoning. Aindreas began to ask him questions about the conspiracy, and as the man denied having any knowledge of the renegade Qirsi or their activities, the duke used a windlass to lower him toward the flames. When the handle splintered in his hand, the sound of rending wood echoing sharply off the dungeon walls, Aindreas nearly shrieked like a frightened girl.
“Next time I shatter your skull,” the man said. “I swear it. Now get me down from here.”
Shaken and unwilling to risk asking any more questions, Aindreas fled the prison and sent eight of his archers to kill the man.
“No more shapers,” he whispered to himself. “The others don’t scare me, but no more shapers.”
He soon found, however, that healers could be trouble as well. One woman healed herself for more than an hour as he tortured her with his blade, until at last she just failed, dying almost instantly. She answered not one of his questions. Another woman used magic to set his sleeve on fire and threatened to burn his hair and beard, before he ran her through with his sword. He learned nothing more from her than he had from the others.
After a time, however, he began to enjoy a bit more success. He found no conspirators, but he did learn that the Qirsi could be tortured, provided one was patient and imaginative.
He began to blindfold his victims, so that they couldn’t anticipate his attacks or direct their magic at him with such ease. He also relied more heavily on torches and the breaking of bones, particularly with the healers, who seemed far more adept at closing cuts than soothing other injuries. Finally, he learned to use a lighter hand, for once their magical defenses failed, the Qirsi proved far more delicate than Tavis and other Eandi.
Still, even as he honed his skills, Aindreas learned little from those he brought to his prison. A few told him that they were with the conspiracy after he had hurt them for some time. But when he questioned them more thoroughly, he invariably found that they had been lying, hoping to end their misery.
Before long he had killed off all those Qirsi who once served in his castle, save for one minister who had shaping magic, and had begun to comb the city for other Qirsi to question. He began with the taverns, of course: the Silver Bear, the Grey Boar, and the rest of the establishments that catered to white-hairs. No doubt he was making enemies of all the local Qirsi, but he no longer cared. He was desperate to find someone from their damned movement, and he intended to spare no effort in doing so. As failure followed upon failure, however, he found himself losing hope as well as his appetite for torture. Perhaps Shurik had been working alone here in Kentigern. Perhaps there was less to this conspiracy than the nobles of Eibithar thought. Eager as he was to find a Qirsi who could tell him about their movement, this last possibility held some appeal for him, since it undermined the claims of Javan and others that the conspiracy was behind not only the weakening of Kentigern’s defenses, but also Brienne’s murder.
He was weighing these possibilities while using torches on a slight Qirsi man, with an uncommonly round face and close-cropped white hair. It was late in the day-he had already killed one Qirsi that morning-and this second man had denied repeatedly knowing anything about the conspiracy. The Qirsi’s voice was growing ragged from screaming, and Aindreas sensed that he wouldn’t last much longer, which was fine with the duke. The time had come to rethink his methods.