Shapers of Darkness (52 page)

“What does it say?” Nurle asked.

“It’s from a friend. She writes to warn me that the Weaver intends to make an attempt on my life.”

Chapter
Twenty

Kentigern, Eibithar

here is my first minister?”

Yaella ja Banvel could hear the duke bellowing for her down at the river, though he stood a full third of the way up the road to Kentigern’s western gate. She felt the soldiers nearby watching her, waiting for her to respond, but she pretended that she hadn’t heard, continuing to watch the swirl and flow of the Tarbin’s dark waters.

She had raised mists for him, and winds as well, risking her life to shield his army from Kentigern’s archers. Once the army reached the castle gate, she had thrown fire on the raised drawbridge in order to weaken the thick oak for Rowan’s ram. What more could the boy-duke want of her?

She had done much the same for Rowan’s father only a year before, when Shurik’s magic had done far more to bring down the gates than any power she could offer. And though she had been no less a traitor then, no less contemptuous of the Eandi courts, she had harbored a certain affection for Rouel. The son she hated. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t begrudged the use of her magic then as she did now. Maybe that was why she didn’t remember feeling so weary during the first siege, why this time she wished only to rest, to close her eyes beside the river and sleep until the war was over.

Or perhaps it was all that had befallen her in the past year. The death of her duke, which saddened her more than she had thought possible. The poisoning in Solkara, which left her weakened and feeling far older than her years. And of course,
the murder of Shurik, the one man she had ever loved, which, she remained convinced, had come at the hands of an assassin sent by Grinsa jal Arriet. Too late, she had come to understand that the gods had smiled upon her throughout her life, blessing her with love and power, a strong body and able mind, and even an Eandi lord who was wiser and kinder than most. In the last year, however, perhaps as punishment for her betrayal, or for taking their gifts for granted, the gods had taken it all away.

Yaella felt worn, like a dulled blade. It seemed that she had never recovered entirely from the effects of the oleander placed in her wine by Grigor of Renbrere. The mists and winds she had conjured for Rowan as the army of Mertesse approached Kentigern Tor had taken too much effort. She had barely been able to muster enough fire magic to set the gate ablaze; she doubted that her flame would weaken the oak. Yet her physical suffering was but a trifle compared to the grief that lay on her heart. She still mourned Shurik’s death as if it had happened just the day before. Kentigern’s former first minister had been her confidant as well as her lover, and she longed for the sound of his voice, the touch of his hands, the caress of his lips. The days they spent together after he sought asylum in Mertesse had been the happiest of her life. Since his death, she had cared for nothing—not the realm, not the Weaver’s movement, not even her own survival.

If she could have struck a blow for Shurik, she would have. She had never considered herself a vengeful person, yet she would have given all she had left in this world to see Grinsa dead. But Shurik had suspected the man was a Weaver, and though Yaella had never thought to see the day when two Weavers lived in the Forelands, she had come to believe that he was right. Even as a younger woman, when her magic flowed as easily as the Tarbin, she could not have hoped to best a Weaver. She could hardly expect to do so now. All that was left for her was to follow the Weaver she served and hope that his victory would bring Grinsa’s doom.

For now, serving her Weaver meant serving her duke as he made war on the Eibitharians. So when Rowan shouted her
name again, steering his mount down the road toward the riverbank, Yaella stood and faced him, smoothing her hair with a thin hand.

“First Minister,” he said, halting his horse before her but not bothering to dismount.

“You called for me, my lord?”

“Several times.”

“My mind must have been elsewhere, my lord. Forgive me.” He was as foolish as his father had been clever, as much a brute as the old duke had been a true noble.

“Well, I need you with me at the gate. Fetch your horse and join me on the road.”

“Of course, my lord.”

The duke rode back toward Kentigern, and Yaella walked up the bank to where she had tied Pon, her mount. The horse whinnied as she approached and Yaella kissed his nose before untying him and climbing into her saddle. Then she started after her duke, riding slowly and eyeing the castle ramparts far above her.

Soon the road began to bend, curving back on itself as it climbed the tor. She came first to the hurling arms, which were positioned along a portion of the road that offered a clear view of the castle. Rowan’s planning for this siege had been uninspired, save for his decision to build the four hurling arms. It was an extravagance, one that had slowed their preparations, as well as their advance across the Tarbin. But defeating a castle as formidable as Kentigern demanded a certain amount of extravagant thinking. For two days now, Rowan’s men and those from the regent’s army had kept up a constant barrage against the fortress, and while the walls remained whole, they had sustained a good deal of damage. No doubt the bombardment was also taking a toll on the minds of Aindreas’s men. Even more than the harm done to the castle walls, that might well prove decisive before the siege was over.

Once past the hurling arms, however, matters began to look far more grim for the Aneiran forces. With every step her mount took, the minister saw increasing numbers of dead and wounded lying beside the lane, most with arrows
and quarrels jutting from bloody wounds. Ahead she could see the gate, still burning, but still standing despite repeated blows from the ram. More arrows, some of them afire, rained down on the engine and the men within it. The sharp odor of burning pitch and oil brought tears to her eyes and made her throat hurt.

As far as she could see around the base of the castle, the soldiers of Mertesse and Solkara were raising ladders, trying to scale the walls to the ramparts. But again, dead blanketed the ground, like some grim harvest from the Underrealm, and every few moments another of the ladders would topple back, sending men tumbling to the rocky slopes of the tor.

“I need your mists, Minister!” the duke called from near the ram. “Kentigern’s archers are taking too great a toll on my army.” He kicked at his horse’s flanks and galloped back to her. “How long can you sustain a mist for me?”

“To be honest, my lord, not very long. The approach to the tor taxed me near to my limits, and setting fire to the gate only made matters worse.”

“Come now, First Minister. We’re at war. All of us are weary. I need you to do this.”

“Forgive me for saying so, my lord, but it’s not at all the same. A Qirsi’s magic can only be stretched so far. This isn’t a matter of me being lazy. If I push myself too far beyond my limits, I could render myself entirely powerless. Qirsi have even been known to die from abusing their powers.”

Rowan frowned, looking so much like his father that Yaella had to look away.

“I’m not even certain that a mist would be wise at this time,” she went on after a moment’s pause. “The men need to be able to see, particularly the archers providing cover for those raising the ladders. Shroud them in a mist, and they’re liable to kill our own men.”

“Then what should I do?” For just a moment, he sounded less like the brash duke she had come to hate over the past year, and more like a young man beyond his depth.

“Concentrate your efforts on the gate, my lord. These are just the outer walls. Even if your men gain the top, they’ve
still the inner walls to climb. Continue to use your hurling arms against the inner keep, but everything depends on defeating this gate. If it fails, the castle will fall. If it doesn’t, we have no hope of winning.”

He nodded. “Yes, of course. Thank you, First Minister.” He actually managed a small smile that again brought to mind the older duke. “I can see why my father valued you so.”

She didn’t want his praise or his kindness. It was far easier simply to despise him. Still, now that Yaella had heard his uncertainty, she found herself thinking of him as a boy, as Rouel’s son, desperate and frightened.
Damn him
. “My lord is too kind.”

“Return to the river, First Minister. Rest there and await my commands.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Yaella turned Pon and started back down the lane. Before she had gotten very far, however, a cry went up from Rowan’s men. Twisting around in her saddle, she saw a swarm of flaming arrows arcing high into the sky and descending toward the duke’s army, the ram, and the road itself.

“Minister!” the duke shouted.

“I see them, my lord!” she called back, never taking her eyes off the arrows.

Intending to raise a gale, she reached for her power, and despaired at how little was there. She gritted her teeth, drawing on all the magic that remained within her, feeling the effort consume her, like some ravenous beast gnawing at her heart. Yet the wind that she summoned was barely strong enough to stir her hair. And even as she struggled with her weakness, a second volley rose from the castle walls.

“Shields!” the duke called.

The first of the arrows plunged toward them, toward her, the flames snapping in their descent like pennons in a storm. Her wind began to build, though too slowly to do much good. Her head ached and her vision was blurring. She could hear her duke calling to her again, though whether to demand that she do more or to warn her to get away she couldn’t say for certain.

An instant later the first volley of darts struck. Several men screamed out, though not as many as Yaella had feared. Flaming
shafts pierced the ground all around her, making her mount rear. The minister nearly lost her balance, but she clung to Pon’s neck, expecting at any moment to feel an arrow imbed itself in her back.

Get off the road!

Men were shouting everywhere and she couldn’t tell if the voice she heard was in her mind or belonged to one of them. Not that it mattered. She kicked at the horse’s flanks to steer him off the road. More arrows hit, and judging from the cry that went up from the duke’s men, more still were in the air. Two struck in quick succession just in front of her, and again Pon reared. He took the next arrow square in the chest.

The horse screamed as might a wounded soldier, twisting against his reins before crashing down onto his side, and onto Yaella’s leg. Her head hit hard, but on the dirt next to the road, rather than on the lane itself. Still, she was dazed, though not so much that she wasn’t aware of the crushing pain in her leg, or the smell of Pon’s burning flesh. The horse jerked violently, as if trying to get up, but he couldn’t seem to move. Yaella had to drag herself out from beneath him as still more arrows struck. Small fires erupted in the brush.

A second arrow buried in Pon’s flank and the beast convulsed, then was still. Yaella crawled to where the horse lay and stroked his nose. He was breathing still, in wet gasps, and bloody foam gathered at his mouth. His eyes looked dull, glazed. A sob escaped her and she put a hand to her mouth as tears spilled from her eyes. Was it foolish to shed tears for a horse when all around her men were dying? Did she dishonor her memory of Shurik by weeping for Pon as she had for her love?

“First Minister!” Two soldiers were running to where she knelt. “Are you hurt?” one of them asked.

She nodded. “My leg. I think the bone’s broken.”

“We’ll get you to the healers.”

The one who had spoken lifted her off the ground as if she weighed nothing and, accompanied by the other man, who had drawn his sword, they started down the road.

“Goodbye,” she whispered, gazing back at Pon and wiping her eyes.

The pain in her leg was manageable, though she was sweating and her limbs were trembling. She was certain the duke would tell her that she was fortunate to be alive at all. She didn’t feel that way.

Yet it seemed that her ordeal wasn’t yet over. Just as they reached the hurling arms, shouts went up from the nearby brush, to be answered by cries of alarm from the men at the siege engines. A large party of soldiers dressed in the colors of Kentigern burst from among the trees, many of them carrying swords, the rest with bows. Abruptly the minister found herself in the midst of a battle. She had time to consider that the flaming arrows had been but a diversion to allow Aindreas’s men to strike at the hurling arms. After that she could think of nothing but the combat that raged on all sides.