Shapers of Darkness (50 page)

He looked up sharply, then strode toward her. Pausing at a torch, he lifted it out of its brace and continued down the corridor, holding the flame high to light his way. Halfway to where she stood, he cast a quick look over his shoulder. Cresenne wondered if he had an accomplice. She thought about running, but with Bryntelle in her arms, she wouldn’t have gotten far, and she wasn’t certain it was wise to turn her back on the man. Instead she stood her ground. She possessed fire power, and she reached for it now, readying herself for battle, should it come to that.

As the man drew nearer she saw that despite his slight build, he was young, with ghostly pale eyes, a severe, angular face, and close-cropped white hair.

“Stop where you are,” she said, when he was still a few strides away from her.

He slowed, looking confused. “What?” He switched the torch to his other hand and reached for something on his belt.

“Stop there!” She held out a hand in warning, clutching Bryntelle to her side with her other arm until the child cried out a second time.

The man halted, raising both hands, as if to show her that he carried no weapon. He still clutched in his hand the object he had taken from his belt, but Cresenne couldn’t tell what it was. “All right, I’ve stopped.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Nurle jal Danteffe. I’m a healer here in the castle.”

“What’s that in your hand?”

He looked at the object, then held it out to her on an open palm. It was a vial of some sort.

“What is that? Poison?”

“Poison? No. It’s a tonic, for the man I was just treating. I thought you were his wife. I sent her away with their child, but I thought perhaps she had returned.” He frowned. “Poison?” he said again. “I told you, I’m a healer.”

She scrutinized his face. “I don’t recognize you.”

“Well, I haven’t been here very long. I came with the king from Glyndwr.”

Glyndwr?
Cresenne felt herself begin to relax. He didn’t even know who she was, or else he would have realized that she had come to Audun’s Castle well after he did. “I suppose that must be why.”

Nurle glanced back over his shoulder. “Do you live on this corridor?”

“No, I—” She shook her head. “Our chamber is near the stock house. We were just walking.”

“Well, you might want to consider a different corridor. There’s a man in the chamber at the far end—one of the older courtiers. He has a fever, and a rash. I fear it may be Caerissan pox.” He nodded toward Bryntelle. “It wouldn’t be good if the little one got it.”

A different kind of fear gripped Cresenne’s heart and she looked past the healer, as if expecting the sick man to step out of his chamber and join their conversation. “Yes, of course.”

“What’s his name?” Nurle asked.

“What? Oh, actually, she’s a girl. Her name is Bryntelle.”

The man smiled. “My apologies, Bryntelle.” He shifted his gaze to Cresenne, the smile lingering. “And yours?”

She looked down at her child, not wanting to answer, but not knowing how to extricate herself from the conversation. In the end she decided that it was best just to tell him and be done with it. “My name is Cresenne.”

“Cres—” He faltered, recognition flashing in his eyes. “You’re her, aren’t you? I should have known. I’ve heard of
the attack on you, and of your wanderings at night.” Abruptly his eyes widened. “That’s why you thought it was poison! You thought I was . . . I’m sorry I frightened you.”

“It’s all right.”

He took a step forward, then halted again. “May I?”

Cresenne hesitated, then nodded.

The healer came closer, and examined her face. “You’ve healed well,” he said. “The scars are hardly noticeable.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “We should probably go.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t. I just know . . .” She shook her head. “Most people prefer to avoid us.”

He frowned again. “Why?”

She looked at him as if he were simple. “Because of all that I’ve done. I’m a traitor.”

“You were a traitor. It seems to me that you’re not anymore.”

“You’re more generous than most.”

He shrugged again, suddenly looking bashful. “Maybe. But I think you’re very brave.”

She couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the first time a young Qirsi man had been taken with her. “Thank you. Still, I think it’s time we were going.”

“I guess I should as well.” He flashed another grin. “I have to get my sleep at night.” He started back toward the ill man’s chamber, then stopped himself. “If you see any others heading this way, tell them about the pox. I don’t want anyone walking the corridor who doesn’t have to be here.”

“I will.”

He nodded before turning again and walking back to the sick man’s chamber.

It wasn’t until after Nurle had left her that Cresenne realized she was trembling, her heart pounding. She tried to laugh at her foolishness, but abruptly found that tears were coursing down her cheeks.

“Damn him!” Not Nurle, of course, but the Weaver. There had been a time when Cresenne thought herself fearless, when she had been content to wander the land on her own as a member of the festivals. In the wake of the Weaver’s attack, she feared for her life every day, though she never ventured
beyond the walls of the strongest fortress in the northern Forelands. Even now, knowing that she had been wrong to distrust the healer, she could not resist the urge to hurry back to her chamber. She tried to tell herself that she did so to feed Bryntelle in privacy, but she knew better, having nursed the child in the courtyards, as well as in empty galleries and corridors. Still, only when she had reached her bedchamber, closed the door, and pushed the bolt home did she feel herself beginning to grow calm again. Soon, she was sitting by the lone, narrow window in her chamber, listening to the rain as Bryntelle suckled at her breast. But just remembering that instant when she first saw Nurle in the corridor was enough to send a shudder through her body.

“I miss your father, little one,” she said, her eyes misting.

She passed the rest of the night singing to her daughter within the confines of the tiny room. Only when the sky finally began to brighten to a pale silver grey, did she venture out once more, descending the nearest of the tower stairways to the kitchen, where she ate a small supper. Then she returned to the chamber, locked the door again, and sang Bryntelle to sleep. Reluctantly, Cresenne lay down beside the child, knowing she needed to sleep, but fearing even this. After only a few moments, she rose once more to check the bolt on her door. Satisfied that it was secure she crossed back to her bed and eventually fell asleep.

She found herself on a sunlit plain, grasses dancing in a soft wind that carried a hint of brine.

Grinsa!
she had time to think, turning to look for him.

At first she didn’t recognize the man who loomed before her so suddenly, wrapping a powerful hand around her throat and lifting her off the ground. Bright golden eyes, hair like a lion’s mane, a square, chiseled face. But as soon as he spoke, she knew, hearing her doom in the powerful voice.

“You thought you could escape me!” His eyes were wide, his lips pulled back in a feral grin. “You thought that I wouldn’t find you if you slept away the last of your days. You’re a fool, and so is Grinsa.”

She clawed at his hand, fighting for breath. But his fingers
were like steel. In a distant corner of her mind, she marveled that he would let her see his face and this plain.
He has nothing to fear from you anymore. He has no reason to hide himself
.

“I want you to beg me for your life.”

She merely stared at him, unable to speak, and unwilling.

He balled his free hand into a fist and hammered it into her cheek. “Beg me!”

Her vision swam, tears stinging her eyes as the pain reached her.

“You think you’re brave. You’re not. I smell your fear; you stink of it.”

He hit her again, and a third time. Pain exploded in her mind, white and hot and merciless. She felt blood on her cheek, but couldn’t bring herself to reach up a hand. Her lungs burned for air and her throat ached.

Oh, Grinsa . . .

“He can’t help you. He’s leagues away, riding to a war he can’t win.” He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you find that strange? He claims to love you and that child of yours. Certainly he’s the only one who can protect you. Yet when you need him most, he’s off with his Eandi friends. How very sad.”

She was kicking her feet, her eyes feeling as if they might burst from her skull at any moment. Consciousness began to slip away, and Cresenne welcomed the darkness as she would rest after an overlong journey.

“No,” the Weaver said, the word seeming to come from a great distance. “I won’t let you die yet. Your love can’t stop me—I can do with you what I like.”

He released her, allowing her to tumble to the ground. Cresenne curled herself into a ball, sobbing and gasping for breath. What was it Grinsa and Keziah had told her?

“I once thought to make you my queen.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Now look at you, the whore of another Qirsi, mother of his bastard child.”

“She’s not a bastard,” Cresenne said, her chest still heaving for lack of air, her words coming out as no more than a whisper. “And I’m no whore.”

“Aren’t you? You took to his bed because I paid you gold to
do so. And then you betrayed me—you betrayed this movement—just to save yourself and your child. If you’re not a whore, then I don’t know who is.”

The Weaver was standing over her, and now he reached down, grabbed her shift, and tore it with one violent motion, so that she lay naked beneath him. He dropped down on top of her, grabbing her breasts viciously and squeezing them until she cried out in pain. Then he forced his knee between her legs. Panic took hold of her and she fought him as best she could, slapping and clawing at his face, clenching her thighs together. He struck her twice, even harder than he had before, leaving her addled and weeping. He forced her legs wide and though she tried to resist, there was nothing she could do. An instant later he plunged into her, tearing her flesh, ripping a scream from her lips.

Again she fought him, but he had a hand on her throat again, and with the other grabbed a handful of her hair. She tried to summon her magic, but she couldn’t. It almost seemed that she had lost all her power. She closed her eyes tight and turned her face away, choking back a sob, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry. She tried to send her mind away, to think of Bryntelle, of Grinsa, of anything but what he was doing to her. But she couldn’t escape the pain, or his hot breath on her neck, or his animal grunts as he drove into her again and again.

After an eternity, marked by the awful rhythm of his movements and the sharp repetition of agony, he finally climaxed with one last racking thrust. He rested for a moment, his full weight bearing down on her, his breath heavy.

“There,” he whispered, as if a lover. “Now you’re my whore as well.”

She turned at that, looking up at his face. And she spat.

The Weaver recoiled, pulling out of her roughly, spittle dripping down his cheek. Seeing him back away emboldened her. Eager now to hurt him, she tried once more to reach for her fire magic. But almost before she could form the thought, he was on her once more, one hand around her neck yet again, and the other, alive with white flame, searing the flesh on her face.

“You’ll pay dearly for that!”

Cresenne howled, trying to pull away. But even as she did, a thought came to her, a memory.
He uses your magic against you
. That’s what Grinsa had told her, so long ago it might have been another lifetime. Is that what the Weaver had just done? She had thought to summon fire magic, but he did it instead. Then another thought.
He let himself be seen, he brought sunlight to this plain not because he knew he had nothing to fear, but because he didn ‘t want me to know right off that it was him. He was afraid I would resist
.

The Weaver held the flaming hand to her face again. But rather than fight to break free of him, she reached for her power.
Her
power. And this time she found it. The flame sputtered suddenly, then went out.

Cresenne sensed him grasping for the magic again, felt him struggling to reassert his control over her, and she clung to her power with all the strength she had left. He raised a hand to strike her.

“No,” she said. Healing magic. That was the other power he had used against her. That was how he had cut her face last time. No doubt that was how he had hurt her tonight, perhaps that was how he had raped her. It didn’t matter. The magic was hers, and she would not let him have it again.

“You think that I can’t hurt you?” He slapped her across the burned cheek.

Anguish. She felt her certainty crumble. The flame jumped to life in his hand.

“No,” she said again. It was her magic. Grinsa had told her so, and she would die believing him if it came to that. The fire died again. “Perhaps you can hurt me,” she said. “But you’ll not use my magic to do it.”

“I don’t need your magic.” A blade flashed in his hand and he stabbed down at her chest.

She felt the steel pierce her heart, her back arching in agony, despair and horror clawing at her mind. But still she clung to her magic. It was all she had left. If this was to be the end, she would perish fighting him, forcing him to use whatever power he possessed to kill her. But she wouldn’t die by
her own magic, not if she could help it. And staring at the knife, she saw her skin seal itself around the blade. There was no blood at all.

“He was right,” she said breathlessly.

The Weaver roared his rage, pulled his dagger from her, and lifted it to strike again.

But now she knew. It was her power. More to the point, it was her dream. “You’ll not kill me today,” she said. “You won’t kill me at all.”

He just stared at her, as if she had transformed herself into a goddess before his eyes.

“You’ll die by Grinsa’s hand,” she said. “There’s nothing you can do to save yourself. I’m a gleaner. That’s the other magic I possess. And that’s the fate I foresee for you.”