Shapers of Darkness (8 page)

“Do you know how to resist him? Do you know how to take back control of your powers so that he can’t use them? Because I don’t, and I have no time to learn. The next time he comes for me, I’m dead.”

She tried to say more, but her words were lost amid her sobbing. Bryntelle stopped suckling and began to cry as well. Keziah stood and took the baby, so that Cresenne might have a moment to gather herself.

She hadn’t been holding Bryntelle for long, however, when she heard footsteps in the corridor outside her chamber. Both women looked toward the steel grate at the top of the door. A guard was looking in at them.

“What is it?” Keziah asked the man.

“The king wishes to speak with you, Archminister.”

“Damn,” she muttered.

“It’s all right,” Cresenne said, reaching for her child. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll come back later.”

The woman nodded. Keziah felt that she should say more, but the guard was waiting, and so, it seemed, was the king. The guard opened the door and Keziah stepped into the corridor.

“Where is His Majesty?” she asked.

“His presence chamber, Archminister.”

She glanced back at Cresenne one last time, then descended the stairs and hurried across the ward toward Kearney’s chamber.

She had thought to find the king with Gershon, or, far worse, with Marston of Shanstead. But Kearney was alone, standing near his writing table when she entered the chamber.

He gestured stiffly at a nearby chair. “Please sit.”

She bowed, then stepped to the chair, lowering herself into it, her eyes fixed on his face.

“I thought we should speak a bit more about . . . about all that’s happened.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“It took Gershon pointing it out to me, but I think I finally understand how difficult all of this has been for you.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

He gave a deep frown, shaking his head. “Why is it that everyone speaks to me as if I were some fearsome tyrant?”

In spite of everything, she had to fight to keep from smiling. “Is that what I’m doing, Your Majesty?”

“Yes! You and Gershon used to be candid to the point of impertinence.”

“And you preferred that?”

“To this constant obeisance? I should say so.”

“Perhaps he and I should go back to fighting with each other as well.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“Not really.” She passed a hand through her hair, feeling awkward and unsure of just what he wanted from her. “I haven’t really known how to talk to you since your ascension to the throne. So much has changed.”

“I’d still like to be your friend, Keziah. That hasn’t changed at all.”

“But you can’t be. That’s why I concealed all this from you. Until we’ve defeated the conspiracy, we have to make it seem to everyone who sees us together that we’re suspicious of one another, that while we appear to be working together, neither of us is happy about it.”

“But surely in our private conversations—”

“There can’t be many of those. Occasionally we can contrive an opportunity for one. I can give offense in some way, and you can summon me here. It will seem that you’re reproaching me for my behavior. But we can’t do that too often, or Marston and others will wonder why you haven’t banished me from the castle.”

He gave a slight shake of his head. “Is this what it’s been like for you since Paegar died? Lies and contrivances?”

Keziah looked away, a sudden pain in her chest making her breath catch. “It hasn’t been so bad.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I have to believe it,” she whispered. “Or else it’ll kill me.”

“Have you been able to speak with anyone about this?”

“Gershon, Cresenne, Grinsa while he was here.”

“Cresenne?”

She smiled, glancing at him once more. “Yes. She and I have become good friends.”

“And you trust her to keep this secret?”

“She doesn’t speak with anyone else, and since she turned against the Weaver she has no reason to betray me.”

“So you could trust a traitor with this, but not me.”

She winced. “Your Majesty—”

“I understand, Keziah. Truly, I do. But we’re living in . . . difficult times.”

“You said that you had spoken to Gershon, and that you had a sense of how dear a price I’ve paid for all this. If that’s so, then you must also realize that I still love you, that I’ve never stopped loving you.”

The king nodded, as if suddenly unable to speak.

“Good.” She made herself smile. “As long as you know that, as long as you remember it when I seem to be defying you or offering questionable counsel, the rest will be easy.” She laughed, though it sounded forced, almost desperate. “Well, easier.”

Kearney looked skeptical, but Keziah actually believed this to be true. Either the Weaver would kill her or he wouldn’t. Either she could learn something of value, or she couldn’t. But at least she no longer had to live with the fear that Kearney
hated her, that she had destroyed beyond hope of repair all that they had once shared.

“But this Weaver—”

She shook her head. “Don’t. Please. The less I tell you about all this, the better for both of us.”

“You said before that he had hurt you.”

“Not as much as he has others.”

“I’ll kill him if he does again.” He looked off to the side, a rueful smile on his lips. “I suppose that sounds terribly foolish.”

“Maybe a little foolish, but I’m grateful anyway.”

They fell into a long silence. Keziah knew that she should leave him, but she couldn’t bring herself even to stand. And Kearney seemed content to let her remain there.

“Perhaps I should be going, Your Majesty,” she said at last, pushing herself out of the chair.

“Yes, all right.”

She started to walk past him, but he caught her hand and their eyes met.

“You know that I love you, too. And always will.”

“Yes,” she murmured, unable to say more. It seemed that the hand he held was ablaze.

They stood that way for a moment. Then he let go and looked away, as if frightened by what had just passed between them.

Keziah hurried from the chamber, afraid as well.

Marston was just stepping into the corridor when he saw the archminister emerge from Kearney’s presence chamber. Ducking back out of view and then peering cautiously into the hallway, he watched her make her way to the next tower and disappear into the stairwell. Only then did he step into the corridor himself and walk to the king’s door. He raised a hand to knock, then glanced at one of the guards standing on either side of the door.

“Is His Majesty alone?”

“Yes, my lord. He is now.”

Marston nodded, feeling rage well up in his chest, like
blood from a wound. It had taken him the better part of a turn to prevail upon the king to banish the woman from his court. He had fought to overcome the king’s admirable loyalty to those who served him, he had argued the point on a number of occasions with Gershon Trasker, and if the rumors of Kearney’s love affair with the woman were true—and he felt certain that they were—he had even had to overcome the king’s lingering affection for the woman.

And at long last, that very morning, he had finally seen all of his hard work rewarded. He believed the archminister to be the most dangerous person in the realm. Not only was he certain that she had betrayed the king, but he believed that she had been using what remained of his passion for her to bend him to her will. She had openly defied Kearney’s authority, insulted his guests, and repeatedly offered poor counsel; there was no other explanation for her continued presence in the castle.

He had barely been able to conceal his pleasure when the king ordered Gershon to send her away, and he had been even more pleased later in the morning when she failed to appear at the gate to bid farewell to the dukes of Heneagh, Tremain, and Curgh. Clearly the swordmaster had informed her of Kearney’s decision and even after their audience with the king, Kearney had not changed his mind.

But now, somehow, the woman had been allowed to speak with Kearney in private. There was no telling what she had said or done. She might have seduced or ensorcelled him. Perhaps she had done both. Even before Marston entered the presence chamber, he sensed his victory slipping away.

He knocked once on the door, awaited the king’s reply, then pushed open the door and entered the chamber.

Kearney sat on his throne, his face white as a Qirsi’s save for the bright red spots high on his cheeks.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” the thane said, bowing.

The king nodded to him. “Lord Shanstead. I take it preparations for your departure go well.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. We ride with first light.”

“I’m grateful to you for making the journey from Thorald,
and I appreciate as well your candor and your insight. A lesser man in your position might have sought to undermine my authority, seeing in present circumstance a path to power. As long as I live, the House of Thorald will have a friend on the Oaken Throne.”

Marston bowed a second time. “Thank you, Your Majesty. You honor me, and my people.”

Kearney took a breath, seeming to gather himself. “You should know that I’ve changed my mind about the archminister,” he said, pressing his fingertips together and staring straight ahead. “I realize that you believe she should be sent away, that she’s a danger to the realm and to me. I even understand why you might feel this way. But I’ve come to believe that there are compelling reasons to keep her here with me.” He glanced up at Marston. “And that’s what I intend to do.”

“Can I ask Your Majesty what these reasons might be?”

“No. You’ll just have to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

“I saw the archminister leaving your chamber just now, as I stepped into the corridor. Can you at least tell me if you made this decision in the last few moments?”

The king smiled, as if amused. “You fear that she’s enchanted me?”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I was just—”

“It’s all right, Marston. As it happens, I made this decision earlier today and Gershon was with me. I’m not under some Qirsi spell. I’ve done what I feel is best for all concerned, and I trust that if you were in my position, knowing all that I do, you would do the same.”

The thane stared at the floor, trying to control his anger, groping for the right words. “Your Majesty, with all respect, I must ask if you . . . if you’re capable of thinking clearly where the archminister is concerned.”

“Meaning what?” Kearney demanded, his voice like a blade.

Marston started to respond, then stopped himself, shaking his head. “It was nothing, Your Majesty. I merely know how long the archminister has been in your service, and how steadfast you are in support of those who have earned your trust. Forgive me.”

“I assure you, Lord Shanstead, that where the safety of the realm is concerned, I allow nothing—
nothing
—to cloud my judgment. If I thought that the archminister’s presence in this castle endangered my life or represented any sort of threat to Eibithar, I would not hesitate to banish her from the castle, or, if necessary, to imprison her. I’d do the same to Gershon if I had to, or to you, or to any of my nobles. Do I honor those who have served me well over the years? Of course. What kind of sovereign would I be if I didn’t? But I do not allow sentiment to get in the way of exigency. I hope that you’ll remember that.”

“I will, Your Majesty.”

Kearney stood. “Good. Please convey to your father my regrets that he couldn’t make the journey himself.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Marston bowed, hearing a dismissal in the king’s words.

The king’s expression softened. “Please also tell him that I said his son acquitted himself extremely well in the duke’s absence.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I’ll do that.”

“I’ll see you to the city gate in the morning.”

“You honor me, Your Majesty.” He turned and left the chamber, knowing that his father would have been angry with him for speaking to the king as he had. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to let the matter drop. Clearly he couldn’t speak of this with Kearney, but there was nothing to stop him from approaching the swordmaster.

He had one of the guards direct him to Gershon’s chamber and hurried through the castle corridors, his ire growing with each step. The thane could see how Kearney might be unable to dismiss the woman, but how could Gershon Trasker, who from all accounts had once been wary of all Qirsi, counsel the king to let her remain?

Reaching the swordmaster’s door, Marston rapped hard on the wood, readying himself to rail at the man. But when the door opened a crack, it revealed not the swordmaster, but rather a small girl with bright blue eyes and thick brown curls.

“Hello,” she said, staring up at him solemnly.

“Uh . . . I’m looking for your father.”

“Who is it, Trina?” came a voice from within.

“A man,” she called over her shoulder.

Gershon strode into view, frowning at the sight of the thane.

“Run along, love,” he said.

The girl glanced up at Marston once more, then ran from the door. Gershon opened it farther, but he didn’t step into the corridor, nor did he ask the thane into his chamber.

“What can I do for you, Lord Shanstead?”

“I was hoping we might speak in private for a moment.”

“About the archminister?”

He looked past the swordmaster and saw a woman watching them—Gershon’s wife, no doubt.

“Can we do this in private?”

The man’s frown deepened, but after a moment he stepped into the corridor and closed the door. “What is it you want?”

“I want to know why the king changed his mind about sending the archminister to Glyndwr.”

“Did you ask him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He told me nothing.”

“Then why would you expect me to do more?”

“Because I know how you feel about the Qirsi, or at least how you used to feel about them.”

Gershon shrugged. “My feelings have nothing to do with this. It was the king’s decision, and if he chose not to explain his reasoning to you, I’m certainly not going to try.”

“Fine. He told me that he made this decision with you present. Will you at least tell me what you counseled him to do?”