the traitorous minister from Kentigern, thus striking a blow at the Qirsi conspiracy, she so thirsted for more blood that she could not wait for the warmth of the growing.
Beginning the very day she received the assassin’s cryptic message telling her that the traitor in Mertesse had been killed, Evanthya had been of two minds about what she and Fetnalla had done. From the moment she paid the assassin at the Red Boar Inn in Dantrielle city, the minister had wondered if they had been justified in killing the man, if indeed such an act could ever be forgiven, no matter the justness of their cause. She knew the dead man’s name now. Shurik jal Marcine. She had learned it soon after the arrival of the assassin’s note, as word spread southward of the man’s mysterious death, and it served only to deepen her doubts.
But even as she wrestled with her guilt, Evanthya also found herself wanting desperately to continue her private war with the conspiracy, to open a new front somewhere in the Forelands. Like a battle-crazed warrior, she was suddenly avid for more violence. A part of her, deep in the dark recesses of her mind, wondered if she might even take up a weapon herself. According to what she had heard whispered in the marketplace among traveling merchants, the traitor died at the hands of a drunken lutenist who also was killed in their struggle. Evanthya knew better of course, but though she shuddered just to think about it, she could not help being curious as to how the singer had made it appear so. How did one kill two men and escape blame for both murders? What kind of person devoted his life to mastering such a dark art?
Upon hearing from the assassin, Evanthya sent a missive to Fetnallain Orvinti, informing her of their success. Her love’s gold had paid for the assassination and Shurik’s murder had been as much Fetnalla’s idea as her own. Truth be told, Fetnalla had been more eager than she for the man’s death. But would she be satisfied at having purchased Shurik’s death, or would she, like Evanthya, see this as but an opening salvo in a far longer struggle? Evanthya had yet to receive any response, and with each day that passed she grew more impatient. In the last day or two, she had come to a startling decision: no matter what Fetnalla wrote in her reply, Evanthya intended to proceed with her war on the conspiracy. She didn’t know where she would find the gold to pay another assassin, or how she would choose her next target, but she could not sit by idly and allow the conspiracy to destroy the Forelands, not after having tasted success.
There was an irony here, and bitter though it was, she still managed to find some humor in it. Despite the role she had played in Shurik’s death, and notwithstanding her resolve to send other conspirators to the Underrealm, her duke still suspected her of being a part of the conspiracy. Tebeo’s doubts about her loyalty were not nearly so deep as those the duke of Orvinti openly expressed about Fetnalla, but they rankled nevertheless. And she knew—a deeper irony—that as she plotted her next assault on the Qirsi traitors, she would only fuel her duke’s fears.
He hadn’t yet turned from her entirely—nor, to his credit, had Brall of Orvinti turned from Fetnalla—but across the Forelands Eandi nobles who had lost faith in their Qirsi ministers were barring the advisors from their chambers or banishing them from their castles entirely. It seemed only a matter of time before Tebeo and Brall did the same.
On this morning, though, her duke had summoned her to his chambers as he always did, just as the midmorning bells rang in the city, their echoes softened by the winds and snow. When Evanthya entered the duke’s room, she found him pacing, which he often did when agitated. In the past few turns he had been agitated nearly all the time.
“Good day, my lord,” she said, trying to keep her voice bright.
He looked up at her briefly and grunted a greeting. She
Beginning the very day she received the assassin’s cryptic message telling her that the traitor in Mertesse had been killed, Evanthya had been of two minds about what she and Fetnalla had done. From the moment she paid the assassin at the Red Boar Inn in Dantrielle city, the minister had wondered if they had been justified in killing the man, if indeed such an act could ever be forgiven, no matter the justness of their cause. She knew the dead man’s name now. Shurik jal Marcine. She had learned it soon after the arrival of the assassin’s note, as word spread southward of the man’s mysterious death, and it served only to deepen her doubts.
But even as she wrestled with her guilt, Evanthya also found herself wanting desperately to continue her private war with the conspiracy, to open a new front somewhere in the Forelands. Like a battle-crazed warrior, she was suddenly avid for more violence. A part of her, deep in the dark recesses of her mind, wondered if she might even take up a weapon herself. According to what she had heard whispered in the marketplace among traveling merchants, the traitor died at the hands of a drunken lutenist who also was killed in their struggle. Evanthya knew better of course, but though she shuddered just to think about it, she could not help being curious as to how the singer had made it appear so. How did one kill two men and escape blame for both murders? What kind of person devoted his life to mastering such a dark art?
Upon hearing from the assassin, Evanthya sent a missive to Fetnallain Orvinti, informing her of their success. Her love’s gold had paid for the assassination and Shurik’s murder had been as much Fetnalla’s idea as her own. Truth be told, Fetnalla had been more eager than she for the man’s death. But would she be satisfied at having purchased Shurik’s death, or would she, like Evanthya, see this as but an opening salvo in a far longer struggle? Evanthya had yet to receive any response, and with each day that passed she grew more impatient. In the last day or two, she had come to a startling decision: no matter what Fetnalla wrote in her reply, Evanthya intended to proceed with her war on the conspiracy. She didn’t know where she would find the gold to pay another assassin, or how she would choose her next target, but she could not sit by idly and allow the conspiracy to destroy the Forelands, not after having tasted success.
There was an irony here, and bitter though it was, she still managed to find some humor in it. Despite the role she had played in Shurik’s death, and notwithstanding her resolve to send other conspirators to the Underrealm, her duke still suspected her of being a part of the conspiracy. Tebeo’s doubts about her loyalty were not nearly so deep as those the duke of Orvinti openly expressed about Fetnalla, but they rankled nevertheless. And she knew—a deeper irony—that as she plotted her next assault on the Qirsi traitors, she would only fuel her duke’s fears.
He hadn’t yet turned from her entirely—nor, to his credit, had Brall of Orvinti turned from Fetnalla—but across the Forelands Eandi nobles who had lost faith in their Qirsi ministers were barring the advisors from their chambers or banishing them from their castles entirely. It seemed only a matter of time before Tebeo and Brall did the same.
On this morning, though, her duke had summoned her to his chambers as he always did, just as the midmorning bells rang in the city, their echoes softened by the winds and snow. When Evanthya entered the duke’s room, she found him pacing, which he often did when agitated. In the past few turns he had been agitated nearly all the time.
“Good day, my lord,” she said, trying to keep her voice bright.
He looked up at her briefly and grunted a greeting. She
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