Shapers of Darkness (49 page)

“Yes, my lord. I’ll see to it right away.” He sketched a quick bow and returned to the men.

Aindreas looked down at the Aneirans again as yet another jolt from the ram forced him to grip the stone wall. Then he glanced northward, at the rise. There was no sign of the Qirsi woman.

Leaving the walls, the duke descended the stairs again, hurrying back to the inner keep. He had intended to make his way to the cloister, to check on Ioanna and the children. Somehow, however, he ended up back at the door to his presence chamber. Shaking his head, he turned away, again intending to walk to the cloister.

It was the wine that stopped him. He could never admit as much to anyone, certainly not the duchess. A duke shouldn’t drink during a siege, not while his men were fighting and dying. But Aindreas knew that the flagon of Sanbiri red was still there on his writing table, just where he had left it.

He rubbed a hand over his face, wanting to walk away, unable to make himself leave.

“Go to them, Father. Mother and Affery and Ennis. They’re all waiting for you.”

He gave Brienne a sad smile. She was so beautiful, just as her mother once had been. His heart ached at the mere sight of her. “I want to,” he said. “Truly I do.”

“Then go. Walk away now. Leave the wine.”

“It’s not as easy as all that. You know the things I’ve done.”

“Yes, Father, I do. And I know as well that it doesn’t matter. Go to them, while there’s still time.”

“I will,” he told her, taking hold of the door handle. “Soon. I swear it.”

He turned his back to her, knowing that she’d go away. She always did.

“Oh, Father,” he heard her sigh as he pushed the door open and stepped into his presence chamber.

Crossing to the table, he grabbed the flagon and filled his goblet.

“I thought there was someone with you.”

He spun, spilling wine on his table and on the stone floor.

Jastanne stood before him, an insolent smirk on her youthful face. “I heard you speaking just before you opened the door.”

“How did you get in here?”

The smirk broadened into a grin. “Does it really matter?”

He pulled his sword from its sheath. “Yes, it does.”

Her golden eyes dropped to the blade for just an instant before locking on his again. All traces of mirth had fled her face. “You realize that I can shatter that sword with a thought. And I can do the same to every bone in your body.”

In his rage, he had forgotten that she was a shaper. He longed to kill her, but he didn’t dare chance an attempt. He knew all too well what a Qirsi with shaping power could do, be it to the gates of his castle or to his neck. After a moment, he returned the sword to his belt. “I want to know how you got in,” he said, though he could do nothing to compel a reply.

To her credit, Jastanne seemed to sense how important this was to him. “I used one of the sally ports. Your guards are more concerned just now with parties of Aneirans than they are with a lone Qirsi.”

“How did you know about the sally port?”

“Before you banished all the Qirsi from your castle, we had . . . allies in your court. Our knowledge of Kentigern Castle is extensive.” Then, as if to soften the words, she added, “Though no more extensive than our knowledge of the castles in Thorald, Galdasten, even the City of Kings.”

“So you can come here unbidden any time you like. You could kill me in my sleep if you wanted to.”

The smile sprang to her lips again. “Why would we want to?” When he said nothing, she gave a small shrug. “I suppose we could. As I said, with the siege under way, your guards are intent on the Aneirans. They know me from my previous visits, so even if they saw me, they probably would let me pass. Under other circumstances, that might not be the case.”

Aindreas wasn’t satisfied by this, but he hadn’t the time to pursue the matter further. “Why are you here?” He stopped, eyeing her closely. “Was that you I saw just a short time ago, on the rise north of the castle?”

“Yes, it was. Word of the Aneirans’ advance reached the piers a short time ago. I came here to make certain that you know what we want of you.”

“I intend to defend my castle.”

“Of course you do, Lord Kentigern. We’d expect no less.” Something, a catch in the voice. He knew what she’d say next. “But we also expect no more.”

“The Aneirans are going to march north, to Galdasten.”

Her eyebrows went up. “I’m impressed.”

Aindreas looked away, feeling ill. “Actually,” he said, not certain why he bothered, “my swordmaster suggested that they would.”

“Really? Who’d have thought that an Eandi warrior could be so clever?”

“You want me to let them go.”

“Yes. They’ll wait until the siege is well under way—I imagine you’ll have little choice but to use all your men in the defense of your city and castle. But just in case you have it in mind to stop them, don’t.”

“You have allies in Mertesse, as well. Or perhaps in Solkara.”
Or is it both?
When she didn’t answer, he said, “My swordmaster all but begged me to divide my army in order to keep the Aneirans from getting past Kentigern.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That I was most concerned with the defense of the tor, and that I wouldn’t take even a single man off the castle walls until I was certain that Aneira’s siege had been broken.”

“Excellent. Then you have nothing to worry about.” But
there was a brittle quality to her voice, as though she sensed that he was wavering.

“We’re nearing the end of all this, aren’t we?”

“The end of what?” she asked, in a way that made him certain that they were.

“This is what your leaders have been waiting for. This siege, the naval war in Falcon Bay.” He forced a smile, despite the pain in his gut. “We’re allies, Jastanne. Surely you can tell me this much.”

She regarded him briefly, before stepping to the door. “Guard your castle, Lord Kentigern. There may be more to this siege than there appears, but that doesn’t mean that the Aneirans are any less earnest in their desire to destroy you. You’d be wise to remain true to your word. Defend your castle, and leave the rest to us.” She left him then, her words hanging in the air, pungent as black smoke. And she closed the door so softly that he never heard the latch slip back in place.

Chapter
Nineteen

City of Kings, Eibithar

t had taken her some time to adjust to all the changes in her life. Not just bearing a child, watching as her body was transformed to accommodate the tiny life within her, and watching now as she slowly returned to what she remembered as normal. Not just the swelling of her breasts and what seemed to be the doubling of her appetite, as she started to nurse Bryntelle. In order to ensure her survival and that of her daughter, Cresenne ja Terba had altered the rhythm of their existence.

The scars from her last encounter with the Weaver had
faded almost to white. They would always be visible, but they didn’t mar her face as once they had. Her hand, which the Weaver had shattered with a mere thought, no longer pained her. She could move the fingers almost as she had before that night, and from what Grinsa had told her, she knew that eventually even this small amount of stiffness would vanish. The Weaver had dealt her other injuries as well, but they too had mended, either on their own or under her beloved gleaner’s healing touch. Yet, while the pain the Weaver had caused her was but a memory, and the physical evidence of his attack a shadow of what it once had been, the terror instilled in her by that horrible night remained as raw and crippling as a fresh battle wound.

At Grinsa’s urging, she had turned her life topsy-turvy, sleeping by day and keeping herself awake throughout the night. The gleaner had explained that contacting another Qirsi through his or her dreams demanded a great deal of any Weaver, requiring time to prepare beforehand, a tremendous expenditure of magic during the dream itself, and more time to recover afterward. Grinsa believed that the Weaver who led the Qirsi movement was a court Qirsi serving a duke, maybe even a sovereign. And because of the demands placed on such a man by the Eandi noble he served, he would have little opportunity during the day to make a second attempt on her life.

“Sleeping during the day won’t keep you safe forever,” Grinsa had told her while he was still with her in the City of Kings, “but it will protect you for a time, and perhaps that will be enough.”

At the time, Cresenne had wanted desperately to believe him, and in the turns since she had come to accept that he was right. Yet every morning, as the castle began to bustle with activity, and she and her child lay down to rest, she wondered if this would be the day when she closed her eyes for the last time.

She had come to enjoy the solitude of her nights. With the king leading his army to war in the north, and Eibithar’s other nobles long since gone, Cresenne and Bryntelle were no longer confined to the chamber in the castle’s prison tower. Though they could not leave Audun’s Castle, they were free to
wander its corridors and courtyards. There were guards on duty at all hours, of course, and they eyed her with manifest distrust. But she saw few people aside from them. Occasionally she sat in one of the wards, staring up at the moons or Morna’s stars. Mostly, though, she just walked, singing to Bryntelle, or speaking to her of Grinsa, of her own mother and father, of the world that awaited the girl.

Once, when Cresenne still belonged to the Weaver’s movement, she had cursed this world, where the Eandi ruled in all the noble courts, and the success of a Qirsi was measured by how far she advanced in the ministerial ranks or which of the traveling festivals she managed to join. Holding Bryntelle in her arms, however, she found that the world no longer seemed quite so bleak. There was beauty to be found here, and joy, and, yes, love. It wasn’t just that she no longer shared the Weaver’s desire to change the Forelands. Rather, she feared what might be lost if he and his movement prevailed.

Had she found virtue in the Eandi courts? No, far from it. She had merely come to understand that there was more to the world than nobles and ministers, Qirsi and Eandi.

For her part, Bryntelle seemed perfectly content to listen to her mother’s prattle and poor singing. She could stare up at the moons for hours without growing bored or distracted. And on more than one occasion Cresenne had noticed that the child grew especially animated when she heard tales of Grinsa, cooing loudly and giving a wide toothless grin.

On this particular night, they had been forced by rain and a chill wind to remain within the corridors. Cresenne kept to the south end of the castle, away from the queen’s tower. Leilia, the queen, apparently had little use for Qirsi and had instructed the guards to keep “the traitor” as far from her as possible. Cresenne was more than happy to comply, having no more wish to encounter the queen than the woman had to cross paths with her.

The midnight bells tolled in the city as she and Bryntelle turned yet another corner onto a torchlit corridor. She had only taken a few steps when she caught sight of the man at the far end of the passageway, lurking near one of the chamber doors. She halted, then took a step back.

He was Qirsi. Cresenne could tell that much. He was tall and
so lean that he looked frail. But something about him frightened her. Perhaps it was merely his presence here in the hallway. She saw so few people during the night that any encounter struck her as odd. But more than that, he was one of her people, and she didn’t recognize him. A voice in her mind screamed at her to flee. The Weaver had servants throughout the Forelands, including men and women right here in the City of Kings, perhaps even in Audun’s Castle. If he couldn’t reach her by entering her dreams, he could send any one of them to kill her.

She was in a dark portion of the hallway and she took another step back, hoping that he hadn’t seen her, wondering if she could slip back into the corridor she had just left and return to the safety of her chamber. Before Cresenne could take another step, however, Bryntelle let out a small cry. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to draw the attention of the strange man.