Shapers of Darkness (53 page)

Arrows whistled past, making the man carrying her flinch and lower his head. Yaella cowered against his chest, trying to curl herself into a tight ball. That may have been why the arrow that hit her dug into the back of her shoulder rather than her chest. As it was she had never imagined that anything could hurt this much. It almost seemed that the head of the arrow had been made of molten steel, the wound burned so. Agony lanced through her back with every step taken by the soldier who carried her. The man knew she had been hurt, for his companion was already telling her in reassuring tones that the injury didn’t look too bad. He might even have slowed his pace to avoid jarring her. Yet each step increased her suffering until she wanted to holler at him to stop and put her down. At last, he did just that, laying her on her side on as gently as he could under the circumstances before both of them rushed to join the battle.

Already, though, it seemed to be too late. Kentigern’s archers had killed a number of Aneirans with the first arrows they loosed, and managed to fire off several more volleys before they had to fall back toward the brush. There, guarded by the Eibitharian swordsmen, they brought forth more arrows, the heads of which were wrapped like torches. More quickly than Yaella would have thought possible, they lit the arrows and loosed them at the hurling arms, striking three of the machines and setting them ablaze.

Yaella watched all of this through a haze of pain, gritting her teeth to keep from being ill and blinking her eyes to keep her vision clear. She couldn’t move, of course, not with her leg injured and the arrow jutting from her back, and so she could only hope that the fighting wouldn’t reach her. Watching the soldiers, she cringed at every arrow that struck true, every sword stroke that bit into mail and flesh, and she muttered a curse as the siege machines began to burn. But she didn’t notice the lone Eibitharian swordsman until he was nearly on her. He approached her cautiously, no doubt wary of her magic. She knew, though, that fear wouldn’t stay his hand. Qirsi ministers were prized targets in any war, even those who were wounded, even those who were too old and weak to turn the tide of battle.

“Don’t come any closer,” she said, trying to sound menacing, knowing that she failed.

The man hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he grinned.

Yaella reached for her magic again—fire this time, which was easier to wield than mists and winds. But with her wounds, she felt even weaker than she had by the gates. Sounding the depths of her power, she found the merest residue of what she once had possessed, and she felt shame at what she had become. Still the Eibitharian approached, his sword glinting in the sunlight. Already there was blood on the steel. He had killed this day, and wouldn’t hesitate to do so again. Again she reached, and with an effort that tore a cry from her throat, she summoned a flame, trying to direct it at the man’s chest.

Instead, she found his arm, setting his sleeve on fire. Still, that was enough to make him halt. He dropped his blade, crying out and flailing at the flames with his other hand. In just a few seconds he had extinguished the fire, but by then one of the Aneiran soldiers had seen him and was sprinting to Yaella’s defense. The Eibitharian died before he could reclaim his weapon.

The hurling arms, however, could not be saved. The three that the Eibitharians had managed to set afire were now fully engulfed, frenzied flames crackling and swirling, dark smoke pouring into the midday sky.

Yaella heard more voices and, turning toward the tor, saw more Aneiran soldiers running down the road, reinforcements from the castle gate and walls. Before the men reached the hurling arms, Kentigern’s soldiers melted back into the woods and brush, vanishing almost as suddenly as they had appeared. By the time the duke arrived, the fighting had long since ended.

“Damn!” he said, glowering at the raging fires. “How many men did we lose?”

“We’re not certain yet, my lord,” one of the soldiers answered. “We’re making a count now.”

“Whatever the number, it’s too many. Demons and fire! How did this happen?”

“We had no warning, my lord. They must have snuck around from the north end of the castle.”

Rowan nodded, staring at the fires again, clearly struggling to control his ire. “Get started building new ones. I want them ready by sundown tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The duke walked to Yaella and squatted beside her. “You’ll live?”

“I expect so, my lord,” she managed to say, her voice as thin as parchment.

“Good. I’m going to have some men take you to the healers, again. This time see that you get there.”

It was something his father would have said. Yaella couldn’t keep the smile from her lips. “Yes, my lord.”

He called for the same two men who had carried her this far, to take her the rest of the way to the river. Then, as if an afterthought, he added two more men. Yaella wondered if he would have been so eager to protect her had he truly understood how weak she had grown.

The soldiers conveyed her down to the river without further incident. Rather than finding comfort in the prospect of a healer’s soothing touch, however, the minister was horrified by what she saw along the banks of the Tarbin. Everywhere she looked wounded soldiers awaited the Qirsi healers, some of them moaning, others silent, their eyes fixed on the sky and
so sunken that they might have been dead already. A few had lost limbs, and most had suffered wounds so bloody that Yaella gagged just to look at them.

The soldiers tried to take her directly into one of the tents, but the minister shook her head. “No. We have to wait. These men were here before me.”

“Duke’s orders, First Minister,” said the one carrying her. “We were to take you to the healers right off.”

“But they need help more than I do.”

Before he could answer, one of the healers emerged from the tent, a Qirsi woman Yaella recognized from the castle. She was stout for a Qirsi, with short white hair and a round face. Yaella couldn’t remember her name.

“What’s this about?” the woman demanded, immediately examining Yaella’s injuries, gently probing the wound around the arrow shaft with her hands.

“This is the first minister. She—”

“I know who she is, you dolt. Why are you arguing with her?”

“It was my fault,” Yaella said, wincing under the woman’s touch. “I didn’t want him to take me into the tent, not with all these others waiting.”

“But the duke wants us to care for you first, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“What powers do you possess?”

“What? What does that—”

“What powers? Mists and winds? Fire? Language of beasts? Any of those will help end this siege sooner, and frankly, First Minister, that will save more lives than would any delay in your treatment. So stop wasting my time and let this man put you in my tent.”

She could do nothing but nod her agreement and remain silent as the soldier carried her into the tent.

It was warm within, and the air smelled of blood and rot, betony and sweetwort. Again the minister gagged.

“Put her there,” the woman said, following them into the tent and pointing at a pallet near the entrance. “Then get out.”

The soldier did as he was told and was gone before the minister could thank him.

“Does it hurt much?” the healer asked, kneeling next to her.

“Yes, and my leg is almost as bad.”

The woman laid her hands gently on Yaella’s leg, frowning. “How did this happen?”

“My horse—” She broke off, fearing that she would cry, knowing that if she did, the woman would think her weak and stupid.

“He fell on you?”

She nodded, her eyes stinging.

“All right. I need a tonic here!” she said, raising her voice for just an instant. “You’re going to be fine, but you need to rest, and I don’t want you conscious when I set this bone. Do you understand?”

A few moments later a second Qirsi brought a cup of steaming liquid to the healer, who sniffed it once before handing it to Yaella.

“Drink it all,” she said. “You’ll soon start feeling drowsy. Be sure you’re lying on your side. I don’t want you falling back on that arrow.”

The minister shuddered. “Of course.”

Both healers left her and Yaella downed the tonic, despite its sickly sweet taste. As the woman had warned, she began to feel sleepy almost immediately. She lay down on the pallet, positioning herself as comfortably as she could.

She was aware of little after that. She remembered hearing voices, feeling something in her leg akin to pain, though the sensation was fleeting. Later she dreamed of Shurik and the Weaver and another shadowy figure she assumed was Grinsa. But even with the tonic still in her blood, she could tell that none of these visions carried the weight of prophecy, nor did she believe that the Weaver’s presence in her dreams was anything more than an illusion.

When Yaella awoke, there were three healers nearby, none of them paying the slightest attention to her. She could tell that it was dark outside, though she had no sense of the time. The tent appeared even more crowded with wounded men than it had when she first entered, and she could hear wails
and sobs coming from outside. She pushed herself up on one arm, feeling surprisingly clearheaded.

“What’s happened?” she asked.

One of the healers turned, an older man. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Much better, thank you.”

He nodded, turning back to the soldier whose injuries he had been tending. “Good. It’s been a busy night. It seems Kentigern’s men attacked the last of the hurling arms and also made a run at our stores. The fighting spread all the way to the river, just east of here. Some thought that they might cross and press on to Mertesse, but at last, our soldiers managed to push them back. Good thing, too. There would have been no way for us to move all of you in time.”

“Did they destroy the other hurling arm?”

“Yes,” he said, still intent on the soldier. “Word is they nearly burned our provisions, too. But just a short while ago we caught most of the raiding party between the river and the castle. Most of them were killed, a few were captured. Some of the men you hear outside are from Kentigern.”

She wanted to ask if the duke had survived the night, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. She wasn’t even certain what answer she wanted to hear. Besides, if Rowan had died, the siege would probably be over. Surely the healer would have included such tidings in his description of the night’s events.

Yaella moved her arm cautiously, testing her shoulder. It felt stiff where the arrow had hit, but there was no pain. Her leg still throbbed, however, and when she tried to swing herself off the pallet, making the wood creak, the old healer glanced at her, frowned, and shook his head.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’re not ready to be walking about.”

“How long until I can?”

“I’m not the one who set the bone. But I heard it was broken in two places—clean breaks, mind you. Two of them, though. That will take a couple of days to heal well enough.”

“So I have to remain in here?”

“Didn’t say that. We need the space. I’ll have someone take you out in the morning. I just don’t want you doing it on your own.”

Once more, he turned back to the soldier. After a few moments, Yaella lay down again and closed her eyes.

For some time she drifted in and out of sleep, vaguely aware of the comings and goings of healers and wounded men. Eventually she fell into a deeper slumber and began to dream once more. And this time there could be no mistaking the source of her vision.

The Weaver didn’t make her walk far, appearing to her, black as pitch against the blinding white, long before she reached the rise he usually forced her to climb.

“You’re wounded,” he said. There was no concern in his voice, but she sensed that this was more than an idle observation.

“Yes, Weaver. A broken bone in my leg and an arrow in my shoulder.”

“You’ll be all right?”

“Yes, Weaver. Thank you for asking.”

“How goes the siege?”

“Not well. Aindreas’s army has destroyed all of my lord’s hurling arms and has killed many more of our soldiers than I believe the duke expected.”

“Is the siege in danger of being broken?”

“I don’t believe so, Weaver. Without the Solkaran soldiers it might have failed already, but with them we have enough men to continue for some time.”

“Good. That’s good.” He seemed to hesitate. For the first time in all her conversations with the man, Yaella sensed on his part a lack of resolve, as if he weren’t quite confident in what he intended to say next. When finally he did speak again, he surprised her with the direction of his questioning. “How are you feeling, Yaella?”

“Weaver?”

“I don’t refer to your wounds. I sense that they’re healing well already. But I sense as well that Shurik’s death still weighs heavy on your heart. Isn’t that so?”

She lowered her gaze, her throat tightening. “Yes, Weaver.”

“Do you still feel as you once did, that I had a hand in his death?”

Fear gripped her heart. “No, Weaver! You told me that you had no part in it and I believe you.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I trust then that you blame Grinsa jal Arriet.”

She nodded, uncertain still as to where he was going with all this. “Shurik feared that Grinsa would kill him. It seems he was right.”

“Yes, it does.” A brief silence followed, and then, “How old are you, Yaella?”

“How old?” she repeated, knowing that she sounded dull-witted. “I’ve just turned thirty-two, Weaver.”

“But you feel older, don’t you?”

Again, she grew frightened. How much could he sense of her thoughts and feelings? Did he know how her powers had failed her this day? “I . . . I don’t know what to say, Weaver.”

“It’s all right. I’m not angry with you. How could I be? Qirsar has ordained that all of his children will die young, at least when compared with the Eandi. That’s the price we pay for the powers he gave us.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“I remember you telling me once that your mother died at a young age. You fear that you might as well?”

“I don’t know. Yes, I suppose I do.”