Shapers of Darkness (24 page)

“I know you don’t,” Aindreas said at last. “I’m sorry; truly I am. But I can’t tell you any more than I have. I want to make right all I’ve done, but it’s going to take some time.”

“Perhaps I can help you, my lord.” He sounded so earnest. What had Aindreas done to deserve such fealty?

The duke laid a meaty hand on the man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Villyd. But no one can help me. This is something I have to do alone.” He glanced back toward the doorway. “See to the cleaning of my presence chamber. Please.”

Villyd gave a small bow, still looking displeased. “Yes, my lord.”

That had been a half turn ago—nearly all the waning had passed—and still the castle servants had been unable to clean away the reek of the dead man’s blood. Aindreas had ordered them back to the floor with their buckets and cloths a dozen times; he had ordered them to use perfumed soaps of the kind used by his wife and her ladies. Nothing worked. Every time he opened the door to his presence chamber, the odor reached him, reminding him of that night, forcing him to envision it all again.

As one might expect, upon being told that their leader had been imprisoned, the other eight riders sent by Kearney demanded to see the man. When Villyd refused, they requested an audience with the duke. Following Aindreas’s instructions, the swordmaster denied them this as well, at which point the soldiers broke camp and started back toward the City of
Kings, vowing to inform the king of just how poorly they had been treated since reaching Kentigern’s gates. Aindreas had heard nothing from Audun’s Castle since.

It was only a matter of time, though. Aindreas had yet to submit to the king’s authority as demanded by the soldier. He still owed tribute to the Crown—four turns’ worth now. With this last act of defiance he had left no doubt: Kentigern was in rebellion. The Qirsi wanted him to break with the king, to make it plain that Kentigern would fight before it recognized Glyndwr’s claim to the throne. And though he had been reluctant to carry his defiance that far, Jastanne, who was one of the leaders of the Qirsi conspiracy, had left him little choice.

As it happened, since that bloody night he hadn’t heard anything from the Qirsi, either. Nor was Aindreas surprised by this. They had gotten from him what they wanted. Civil war was inevitable. The realm would be weakened. When Braedon and Aneira attacked, Kearney would be unable to marshal a force strong enough to withstand their assault. Soon, the western half of the Forelands would be engulfed in warfare, and when the white-hairs attacked, Eibithar, Braedon, and Aneira would fall. Wethyrn, Caerisse, Sanbira, and Uulraan would be left standing, but Wethyrn and Caerisse were the weakest of the seven realms, and Uulrann’s suzerain had long refused to concern himself with affairs beyond the mountains that bounded his domain. In essence, the warriors of Sanbira’s matriarchy would be all that remained of the Eandi armies. It would fall to them to keep the conspiracy from gaining complete dominion over the Forelands. Aindreas didn’t believe that Sanbira could hold off the Qirsi by herself for more than a few turns.

He wasn’t so vain as to think that the white-hairs wouldn’t have succeeded without him. The more he dealt with Jastanne, the more he recognized just how formidable a woman she was. She might be slight as a reed and so young as to make him feel like a wasted old man, but it seemed that she anticipated his every move. She could gauge his moods and fears better than he could himself. He tried to tell himself that her insights were born of magic, that they were little more than a
sorcerer’s trick, much like the dancing flames he saw in the streets of Kentigern when the Revel came to his city. Yet, even if this was so, it did nothing to diminish their effect. From his first encounter with the woman, she had controlled him, turning to her advantage his grief and his blind certainty that Tavis and Javan were to blame for all that had befallen his house. If all the leaders of the conspiracy were like Jastanne, the Eandi were doomed, and had been from the start. His betrayal merely made matters a bit easier for the renegades.

Yet, knowing this did little to lessen his shame at the ease with which the Qirsi had ensnared him. A thousand times he had made up his mind to seek out Ioanna and confess all, and on each occasion, he hadn’t gotten as far as the corridor outside his chamber.

It would kill her
, he had told himself.
She would be lost once more to the blackness that gripped her after Brienne ‘s death
. She had taken to her bed again after Aindreas tried to tell her of the woman Kearney held in the prison tower of Audun’s Castle, the Qirsi traitor who claimed to have paid gold for Brienne’s murder. How far would she fall if he told her of this wicked pact he had forged with the traitors?

He knew, though, that he didn’t remain silent out of concern for his wife, at least not entirely. Even had she been strong, her mind whole, he would have kept this from her. He couldn’t bear the thought of what she would say to him, what she would call him. And what if his children overheard? How would he explain to Ennis that he had disgraced their house, leaving the boy heir to his infamy? What answer could he possibly find for the tears Affery would shed upon learning of his treason?

Sitting at his writing table, the scent of blood filling his nostrils, Aindreas could think of no way to escape his ignominy, except of course the one he had turned to so many times before.

“Wine!” he bellowed, his voice echoing in the chamber. He glanced behind him at the shuttered window. No light seeped past the edges. It wasn’t even dawn, and already he was calling for his beloved Sanbiri red.

“They deserve better than this, Father.”

He turned at the sound of the voice, though reluctantly. It wasn’t really Brienne. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t yet Pitch Night, and even if it was, this was no sanctuary. But there she stood, her golden hair shimmering in the lamplight, a look of pity on her lovely face.

“Wine!” he called again, even as he continued to stare at her.

“It’s still not too late to end this, to make right all that you’ve done.”

“But it is too late,” he said. “Don’t you see? There’ll soon be civil war, all because of me. Can’t you smell the blood?”

“Do something, Father. You must.”

Before he could answer, there came a knock at his door. Brienne began to vanish, shaking her head slowly as she faded from view.

Aindreas let out a long, shuddering breath. “That had better be my wine.”

The door opened, revealing a frightened boy bearing two flasks of wine. The cellarmaster had learned not to send just one.

“Bring it here, boy,” the duke said. “Then be gone.”

The servant did as he was told, and for the next hour or two, past the ringing of the dawn bells, Aindreas did little more than sit at his table and drink his wine. After some time, he heard Villyd begin to work the men in the ward below his window, but still the duke didn’t leave his chair, though by now both flasks were empty.

Eventually, he must have dozed off, for another knock at his door made him start and overturn his empty goblet.

“Yes! Who is it?”

Ennis poked his head into the chamber, wide-eyed, an impish grin on his round face.

“Can I come in, Father?”

Aindreas stood quickly, stepping around the table to block his son’s view of the flagons. But he smiled, pleased to see the boy. “Of course you can.” The duke waved the boy into the chamber, crossing to one of the great chairs by his hearth. “Come sit with me,” he said, indicating the chair opposite his own with an open hand. Instead, the boy ran to the duke’s
throne and climbed into it, looking every bit the Little Duke, as Aindreas’s soldiers called him.

“Did you sleep well?”

Ennis nodded.

“And have you already eaten?”

“Yes. Mother and Affery have, too.”

“Your mother’s up and about?” Aindreas asked, hoping he didn’t sound too surprised.

Again the lad nodded. “She said she needed to be preparing the castle for the rains.”

The duke frowned. “The rains?”

“Yes. Tonight.” Ennis regarded his father as if the duke were simple. “It’s going to flood tonight, like it does every year.”

Aindreas merely stared at the boy. It was the last day of Amon’s Turn. Tonight would be Pitch Night after all. He glanced about the chamber, as if expecting to see Brienne once more. How had he managed to lose track of the days? Apparently even Ioanna had known, though she had barely left her bedchamber since the Night of Two Moons.

As the boy said, there would be floods this night all across the Forelands. Atop the tor, of course, none in the castle had cause for concern, and even in the city there was little risk that the rains would do serious damage. But in the surrounding countryside, particularly near Harrier Fen, and in the northern baronies of his dukedom nearest the Heneagh River, many would be forced from their homes until the waters receded. Hundreds from the closer villages would seek refuge in the city this night. No doubt they would be heartened to see their duke and his duchess in the city with them, offering what comfort was theirs to give. He and his wife had gone to the city every year since his investiture as duke. The previous year, Brienne had gone with them. But this year . . . Aindreas wasn’t certain that Ioanna was fit to be seen in public by so many, nor did he have it in his heart to be there himself.

“Father?”

He now realized that Ennis had been saying something all this time, though he had no idea what.

“I’m sorry, son. I was thinking of something else. What did you say?”

“I asked you whether the castle has ever flooded.”

Aindreas made himself smile. “No. We’re up on the tor. Water runs down to the lands below and eventually to the Tarbin. There’ll be no flooding here tonight.”

Ennis nodded gravely. “That’s good. I don’t want a flood.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do.”

“Will you and Mother go down to the city again?”

Aindreas looked away. “I’m not certain. We might.”

“I think you should.”

“You do? Why?”

Ennis shrugged, looking so much older than his nine years. “I think Mother should be out of the castle for a time. I don’t think she’s left it since . . .” He dropped his gaze. “You know.”

He was uncommonly clever, and far wiser than most children several years his senior.

“You’re right, she hasn’t,” the duke said. “And it might well do her some good to walk among her people.”
I just don’t know if she can do so without humiliating herself
. “I’ll think about it, all right?”

“All right.”

“Now, don’t you have lessons to attend?”

“Not until midmorning bells.”

But even as he spoke the words, the bells in the city began to toll. Ennis covered his mouth and laughed, his eyes wide once more.

Aindreas couldn’t help but grin. “You’d best be on your way.”

“Yes, Father,” the boy said, scrambling off the throne and running to the door.

Brienne stood by the doorway, watching her brother leave. Then she turned her gaze accusingly toward the duke.

“You must do something, Father.”

Aindreas closed his eyes tightly, refusing to look at her. “You’re not real. I know you’re not.”

“But I can be.”

At that his eyes flew open, but the apparition was already
gone. The duke felt dizzy, and he wished that he’d eaten before drinking all that wine.

I can be
.

A short time later, Villyd came to the duke’s presence chamber, as he did most mornings. Aindreas expected the usual dull report on the day’s training, but as soon as the swordmaster entered the chamber it became clear to the duke that this discussion would be different. Villyd looked unusually grim, his stout frame coiled and tense, a troubled expression in his pale blue eyes. He bowed to the duke, but then began to pace rather than standing at attention near the hearth, as he often did.

“Something’s troubling you, swordmaster,” Aindreas said after a brief silence.

“Aye, my lord,” the man said, clearly distracted.

“Do you care to tell me what it is, or shall we just remain here in silence for the rest of the day?”

Villyd halted, meeting the duke’s gaze, an embarrassed grin on his face. “Forgive me, my lord. I’ve only just received the tidings myself. I’m still trying to make sense of them. Seems there’s been a good deal of movement along the south bank of the Tarbin.”

“The Aneirans have been gathering men there for more than a turn now. It’s not that surprising, is it?”

“This is more than just men, my lord. We have reports of carts leaving Mertesse this very morning, of laborers marching from the city as well.”

“Do you trust what you’re hearing?”

“Normally I would, my lord. These reports come from peddlers we’ve trusted in the past—several of them, mind you; not just one or two. But with the rains coming tonight, it makes no sense. They have time yet to cross the river, but Pitch Night in Amon’s Turn is about as poor a time to begin a siege as I can imagine, especially one that’s likely to begin so close to the Tarbin.”

“Maybe the peddlers were wrong this time.”

“Perhaps,” Villyd said, in a way that made it clear he didn’t believe this for a moment.

“Do you think they were trying to deceive us?”

The swordmaster nodded, resuming his pacing. “That did occur to me. If they were, if we can’t depend on them anymore, it makes it far more difficult to guard against an assault from the south.”

No doubt that was the point. Aindreas muttered a curse, then stood and opened the shutters that darkened his window. It was a windy day, cold for so late in Amon’s Turn, though clear. He could see no sign of the dark clouds that would cover the sky by nightfall, though there could be no doubt that they would come.

“There will be no attack today,” the duke said at last, knowing in his heart that it was so. “But soon, tomorrow perhaps, certainly within the next half turn.”

“I agree, my lord.”

Aindreas turned to face him, leaving the window unshuttered. “Begin your preparations for a siege, swordmaster. Tell the kitchenmaster and quartermaster that you’re to have their complete cooperation, on my orders.”