Brail drew his sword. “You’ll have my blade, Your Highness.”

“And mine,” Tebeo said, raising his weapon as well.

The queen managed a smile. “My thanks to you both.”

Evanthya looked at Fetnalla, and found the minister already staring back at her, an apology in her eyes. When she next glanced at Pronjed, however, she saw something quite different. He was staring at her as well, his face deathly pale and his eyes filled with rage.

Gngor was walking so fast his brothers could barely keep pace with him. He said nothing, fearing that others might hear-he knew that once he loosed his ire he would be unable to control it.

He led them out of the castle to a remote and deserted corner of the gardens, which had long since turned brown. Only then, when he was certain that he was beyond the sight and hearing of all in the castle, did he whirl toward his youngest brother, his short sword drawn.

“I should kill you here and now!” he said, laying the blade along the side of Numar’s neck. “How dare you oppose me in front of Chofya and her little dukes!”

“I didn’t oppose you, brother,” Numar said, looking and sounding maddeningly calm. “I merely tried to point out that the castle is large enough to accommodate both you and the queen.”

“There was more to it than that!”

“Yes, there was. I also tried to make you see that by angering the Council, you invite rebellion. Strong as our house may be, we cannot stand against all the dukedoms of Aneira. You may be the oldest, Grigor, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stand by and let you ruin House Solkara in your pursuit of the throne.”

“I’ve warned you once, brother. Don’t get in my way, or I’ll destroy you.”

Numar smiled. Even with the sword still at his throat, he actually smiled. “I’m not afraid of you, Grigor.” He glanced at Henthas. “I’m not even afraid of the two of you together. You need to convince the Council that you can be trusted with the kingdom. If you kill me, you’ll be undermining all that you’ve worked for.”

Grigor glared at him a moment longer before lowering his sword and grinning.

“You may be right, Numar,” he said, sheathing the blade again. “But that only protects you now. Once I’m king, there won’t be anyone in the Forelands who can save you, and there won’t be anywhere you can hide.”

Numar gave a small shrug, the smile still on his lips. “Then I’ll just have to see to it that you never take the throne.”

Chapter Fifteen

The funeral of King Carden the Third began with the tolling of the dawn bells on the eighth day of Bohdan’s waning. Nobles from across the land crowded into the wards of Castle Solkara to watch as the king’s body was carried forth from the castle cloister, set upon an ornate golden cart, and pulled toward the city streets by four white Caenssan steeds.

As the cart passed through the castle gates, beginning its long winding procession through the streets of Solkara, the nobles fell in step behind, like soldiers following their king to war. Out of the castle they walked, and into streets that were lined six deep on both sides for as far as the eye could see. Fetnalla saw few tears on the faces of those braving the cold to watch the procession; Carden had been feared, perhaps respected, but he was never loved. Mostly, she thought she read apprehension in the sunken eyes and begrimed faces of Solkara’s people. One didn’t have to be a duke or minister to understand that the kingdom faced a time of profound uncertainty. A prolonged struggle for the crown seemed imminent, war seemed likely. And though the people in the city streets might not have known precisely what was coming, or even the names of those most likely to shape their futures, they appeared to be steeling themselves for the worst.

The procession moved slowly, stopped more than once by mourners placing dried flowers in the path of Carden’s cart and bards standing in the lane to sing an elegy that they hoped would bring them fame and the good grace of Aneira’s ruling family. It was late in the morning, almost midday, before Carden’s final journey ended where it began, at the base of the castle’s cloister tower.

As the last of the nobles entered the castle ward once more, eight Solkaran soldiers in full battle raiment lifted the pallet holding the king’s body and bore it into the castle’s great hall. Inside, Solkara’s prelate led the kingdom’s most powerful men and women in prayer for their fallen leader. When the ceremonies ended, Garden was carried back out to the ward and placed upon a great pyre. Chofya and her daughter stepped forward, each bearing a lighted torch which they tossed onto the mountain of wood. Grigor, Henthas, and Numar followed, and finally the eight surviving dukes added their torches to the blaze. Soon the fire raged like a storm, warming the entire courtyard, bathing the stone walls with its yellow glow, and claiming the body of the dead king in a maelstrom of flame and smoke.

A feast followed the funeral, as was customary, but the mood in the hall seemed even more glum than one might have expected. Great platters of food sat uneaten on the tables as dukes and marquesses gathered in small groups around the periphery of the great chamber, speaking in hushed tones and eyeing rival nobles warily.

Tebeo and Brail stood together, as they always seemed to do under such circumstances, watching the rest, concern etched on both their faces. Usually, Fetnalla would have taken some comfort in having Evanthya nearby, but they had barely spoken since their fight several nights before. They stood as far as possible from one another; they didn’t even allow their eyes to meet.

Fetnalla knew that she had been wrong. Evanthya had every right to disagree with her. Had it not been for Brail’s persistent distrust of everything she did and said, she never would have reacted as she did. But having lost her temper, having dismissed Evanthya with such cold disdain, Fetnalla didn’t know how to heal the rift she had created. She had always been stubborn. Her mother had told her so in her youth, and Evanthya had done the same in the beds they shared. Now that willfulness and pride had cost her the one love she had ever known.

“Do you see how Gngor moves from one cluster of nobles to the next?” Brail asked quietly. “Before the night is over, he may have won over all the houses he needs to claim the throne.”

“Perhaps we should be doing the same,” Tebeo said.

“To what end? We have nothing to offer, no reason to make them listen to us.”

“We speak for the queen and her daughter. Isn’t that reason enough?

Brail shook his head. “It’s the queen’s place to speak for herself. And instead she sits with Kalyi, drying the child’s tears.”

“Isn’t that what she should be doing, Lord Orvinti?” Evanthya asked. “Wouldn’t you expect the same of your duchess, were this your funeral?”

Brail eyed her briefly, then nodded, looking away. “Yes. I suppose I would.”

Grigor did not bother to speak with the dukes of Orvinti and Dantnelle, no doubt knowing that their loyalties lay firmly with the queen. Fetnalla noticed as well that he didn’t circle the room in the company of his brothers. Henthas and Numar stood at the far end of the hall, watching Grigor, but keeping themselves apart from all the nobles. At least for a time. After Grigor stepped past Brail and Tebeo, an icy smile on his lips, Numar left his middle brother and approached the dukes.

“A word, my lords?” he said quietly, his gaze flicking from one of them to the other.

“Of course, Lord Renbrere,” Tebeo answered.

Numar glanced over his shoulder, as if making certain that Grigor wouldn’t hear him. “I wish to apologize for my brother’s behavior during our conversation the other day. His disrespect for the Council and his indifference to your concerns was inexcusable.”