Weavers of War (22 page)

“Now, I rest, and those of you with mists and winds steer us into the port of Galdasten. If you meet resistance, call for me. Otherwise, come for me when we’ve tied on to the pier. We’ll take Galdasten tonight. Two of my chancellors await us in the city, to join our assault on the castle and add their number to my army. Tomorrow we ride to the Moorlands. And there, we’ll destroy what’s left of the Eandi armies.”

Chapter Nine

Galdasten, Eibithar

It had been two days since Renald led his soldiers out of the castle in pursuit of Braedon’s army, four since he defied her, choosing to follow the counsel of his fool of a swordmaster and the first minister who, Elspeth was certain, had betrayed them all to the conspiracy. The duchess tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter, that Renald would have made a poor king whose reign would do more to sully the Galdasten name than glorify it. But it wasn’t her husband for whom she had harbored ambitions; the fact that none of her sons would ever wear the crown made her seethe like Amon’s Ocean on a stormy day. If only she had been born into the Matriarchy of Sanbira where her keen mind would have allowed her to do more than merely recognize her duke’s many flaws, and her path to power wouldn’t have been blocked by the man’s weakness and timidity.

Even if he returned from this battle to which he had ridden, she would never again allow him into her bed. Let him fill his court with bastards, he’d take no more pleasure in her flesh. She would gladly take a lover herself and bear him a child, announcing to all that the babe wasn’t Renald’s, if the punishment for such a thing were not so severe. A part of her wanted just to kill Renald and be done with it, and not for the first time she found herself hoping that he wouldn’t survive the war. She knew, however, that the man’s death would do little to enhance the station of her sons. Renald the Younger would become duke a bit sooner, but he’d never have more. And Adler and Rory would both still be tied to their paltry thaneships. They deserved better fates.

More to the point, Galdasten deserved to be led by a great man. Elspeth had lived in the dukedom all her life and was as devoted to the house as any soldier or noble could be. Her father, the thane of Prindyr, whose title Rory would one day inherit, had been a great friend of Kell, the duke before Renald. Indeed, her father had planned to attend the feast that Kell hosted in Galdasten Castle during Morna’s turn in 872. At the last moment, however, amid fears that Elspeth, at the time a young lady just past her Fating, had come down with the pestilence, he remained in Prindyr. Hers turned out to be an ordinary fever, one that saved her father’s life. For that was the feast to which a madman brought vermin infected with the pestilence, killing the duke and his family, and dooming Galdasten to four generations of inconsequence. The House of Eagles should have been leading this realm, its banner flying above Audun’s Castle along with the purple and gold of Eibithar. Instead, its people bowed to a false king from Glyndwr, the weakest of the five major houses, and its foolish duke rode to fight on behalf of that king, thus preserving the very laws that barred his sons from the throne.

It all made Elspeth want to scream. Of course the duchess of a great house didn’t resort to such displays, so she spent her days on the castle walls, staring out at Falcon Bay and the Braedony war ships that controlled its waters. The guards stationed atop the battlements usually ignored her, having learned that they invited a sharp rebuke if they chose to offer her even the mildest greeting. She had to admit that Galdasten’s soldiers seemed in far better spirits since retaking the city. They gave little indication that they minded the presence of the emperor’s ships off their shores, as if they expected that once the war on the moors had been won, driving off the Braedony navy would be but a small matter. Elspeth doubted it would be so simple, but she kept this to herself.

It was late in the day; sunlight slanted sharply across the castle walls, casting long shadows and making the stone glow like gold. Liked winged wraiths, gulls circled lazily over Galdasten’s port, their cries plaintive and haunting. The air was still and the surface of the bay looked as smooth as polished steel.

Which made the sudden appearance of the lone ship that much stranger.

It sailed into the mouth of the bay as if pushed by Morna’s hand, skimming lightly across the surface, its sails full, its hull leaning so steeply that the straining cloth nearly touched the water. The ship flew no colors, but it sailed directly at the Braedony ships, leading Elspeth to believe that it had been sent by the emperor. Perhaps it carried a message to his commanders, or provisions of some sort, or additional men for combat.

But how could it be moving so quickly? Then it turned slightly, adjusting its course for just an instant, allowing the sun to hit its decks. And Elspeth gasped. Every person she saw aboard the vessel had white hair. Sorcerers, of course.

She should have run for help. She should at least have pointed out the ship to the soldiers standing nearby. But all the duchess could do was watch.

A sudden wind swept toward the first of the empire’s ships—she could actually see the gale move across the water. It seemed that the vessels were attempting to turn so that they might ram the Qirsi ship, but the wind hindered their movements. An instant later the ships were crushed, as if the same goddess that had guided this strange vessel into the harbor now smote the others. In mere moments the entire imperial navy had been destroyed; what Eibithar’s fleet had fought for days to do, to no avail, these Qirsi accomplished in the span of a few heartbeats.

Yet that was nothing compared with what they did next. It started as a faint golden glimmering along the surface of the bay, but it quickly built into a curling wall of flame that rose from the brine like Eilidh herself, indomitable, insatiable, merciless. Higher and higher it grew, racing toward the Wethy fleet. Elspeth heard herself cry out, was aware of the guards turning to look at her. But she couldn’t bring herself to look away as that wall of flame fell upon the vessels, in an eruption of fire and steam and charred fragments of wood.

“Demons and fire!” one of the man muttered. “What in Ean’s name was that?”

“It’s a Qirsi army,” Elspeth said, knowing as she spoke that it was true, that for all the dire warnings she had heard of a coming war with the renegades, she had not believed it until now. She faced the man. “Go find your captain! Have him place all his archers on the battlements and all his swordsmen at the north gate!” She glanced out at the bay again. The ship was already turning southward, toward the port. “Quickly! They’ll make land soon!”

Never before had she given a command to one of Renald’s men, but this soldier responded as if the order had come from the duke himself. He and his comrade bowed to her and strode, swords jangling, toward the arched entrance to the nearest tower.

Elspeth turned back to the bay, and saw that the Qirsi ship was speeding toward the city piers, driven once more by its phantom wind. She shook her head, terror gripping her heart. There wasn’t nearly enough time. They would be at the docks in mere moments. She crossed to the inner side of the wall and looked down on the ward in time to see the two soldiers emerge from the tower and run toward the armory.

“Hurry!” she shouted. The men didn’t even look up at her.
They’re doing the best they can,
a voice told her. Renald’s, naturally.
Besides, what good will swords and arrows do against such magic?
That question, for which she had no answer at all, forced her into motion.

The boys would be in the cloister for their devotions. All three of them had swords, and wore them proudly on their belts, but she didn’t want them fighting. Once more she saw in her mind that hideous wall of flame and she shuddered. She had ordered Galdasten’s warriors to their deaths, but she wouldn’t have her sons fighting a hopeless battle, not if there might still be some way to save them.

Men in the courtyard were shouting to one another and to the soldiers on the ramparts even before she entered the winding stairway, and before she reached the second level of the castle, where the cloister was, she heard soldiers entering the tower from the ward to make their way up to the top of the wall. Elspeth managed to leave the stairway before any of the men saw her. She ran through the corridor to the cloister.

The prelate had his back to the entrance as she entered the shrine, but he whirled on her, drawing a blade. Elspeth had to smile, despite her fear. The man was new to Galdasten—the old prelate had died during the previous harvest and this young man, Coulson Fendsar, who had once been an adherent in this very cloister, was elevated to the prelacy. He still seemed a bit unsure of himself at times, but the boys liked him a good deal and Elspeth thought his approach to the devotions refreshing if a bit unconventional. More to the point, she could hardly imagine the old prelate raising a weapon at all, much less putting himself between her children and armed invaders.

Seeing her, the prelate let out a long breath and lowered his sword. “My lady. I heard voices in the ward and feared the worst.”

“And with good reason, Father Prelate.”

“Have the empire’s men returned?”

She looked past him, saw her sons watching, the youngest, Rory, looking pale and frightened, as if he had just awakened from a terrible dream.

“No,” she said, lowering her voice. “A ship bearing a Qirsi army has just destroyed the fleets of Braedon and Wethyrn. They sail toward our piers even as we speak.”

“Ean save us all!”

“I don’t know that he can, Father.”

“Do you wish to take shelter here, my lady?” He straightened. “I’m not much with a blade, but I’d give my life in your defense.”

Again Elspeth smiled. “Thank you. I’ve come for my boys. I’m going to take them from the castle while there’s still time.”

Coulson nodded. “I understand, my lady. The duke would want no less. If I may be so bold, I’d suggest that you make your way to the Sanctuary of Amon. Most Qirsi still adhere to the Old Faith. Even these renegades may respect its walls.”

“Thank you, Father Prelate,” she said with surprise. “I hadn’t expected such … sound counsel to come from the cloister.”

A grin flashed across his youthful face and was gone. An instant later, he turned and beckoned to her sons. “Come, my lords,” he called. “Quickly now. You need to follow your mother.”

“What is it, Mother?” Renald the Younger asked. He was the image of his father, straight and thin as a blade, with unruly red hair and bright blue eyes. But he had Elspeth’s strength and nerve, and he looked eager for battle. “Braedon’s men again?”

“Not this time,” she said, ushering them all toward the doorway.

“Then who?”

“I bet it’s the Qirsi.”

She stopped for just an instant, staring at Adler, who had spoken. He was still a year shy of his Determining, but already he showed signs of being the cleverest of them all.

“What makes you say that?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Who else would it be, if it’s not the empire?”

“I’m scared, Mother,” Rory said.

She put an arm around him and kissed the top of his head. “Hush, child. Everything will be all right. Just come with me and do as I say. Can you do that?”

He nodded solemnly.

She urged them forward once more, stopping on the threshold to look back at the prelate.

“Thank you, Father Prelate. Ean keep you safe.”

“And you, my lady.”

She tried to smile, but failed, certain in that moment that she would never again see the man alive.

A moment later, fear for her sons overmastered all other concerns, and she was again in the corridors, hurrying the boys along toward the nearest of the sally ports. Everywhere she looked soldiers ran toward gates or towers, many with bows and quivers filled with arrows, others with swords and gleaming shields.

“Where are you taking us?” Renald asked, a frown creasing his smooth brow.

“Away from here.”

He stopped. “No! In Father’s absence I lead our house! I can’t flee, like a child or a woman!”

Elspeth gritted her teeth. She hadn’t time for this.

“Your father would be very proud,” she said thickly. “But he’d also tell you that you can’t fight this enemy.”

“Why not?” the boy demanded, proud, stubborn, defiant. Hadn’t she nurtured these very qualities, trying to make him more like his grandfather, more like her?

“Because this army is Qirsi. They’ll destroy this castle, and they’ll kill all who defend it.”

“I’m not afraid of dying.”

But I’m afraid of losing you!
She remembered what it was to be this young, though the memory seemed to grow dimmer with each passing day.

“I know how brave you are,” she said, forcing a smile. “How brave all three of you are. It makes me very proud. But the fact is that all of you are still boys. Even you, Renald,” she said, raising a hand to keep him silent. “You’ve another year until your Fating, which means that you can’t yet lead this house, not even in your father’s absence. That responsibility falls to me, and I’m commanding you to follow me.” The smile returned for just an instant. “I need you to protect me, as well as your brothers. Father would tell you that your first duty is to our family.”

He stared at her a moment longer, his mouth twisting as it always had when he was deep in thought. Surely the Qirsi ship had reached the port by now. She wanted to grab the boy’s arm and pull him along behind her as she might a child half his age, but she knew how important it was that Renald accept this for himself.

“All right,” he said at last, reluctantly sheathing his sword.

“Come on then. We haven’t much time.”

They continued on to the sally port at the southern end of the fortress. The south gate road wasn’t the quickest way to the sanctuary, but it kept them a good distance from the pier and, Elspeth hoped, offered them their best chance of eluding the Qirsi.

By the time they were outside, however, the duchess could hear screams coming from the city, and before they were off Galdasten Tor, she could see the first of the white-hairs advancing on the castle. It occurred to her that she should have had them all change into plainer clothes, but by then it was too late.