Shapers of Darkness

Chapter Twenty-three

Dantrielle, Aneira

That they both survived until nightfall was, in Evanthya’s mind, nothing short of miraculous. They fought as if possessed, the duke wielding his sword as the first minister imagined he must have as a far younger man. She had overheard the soldiers speaking in hushed voices of how clumsily he had fought when the siege began, and of how often one or the other of their brethren had been forced to rescue him. And of course, she had seen for herself the wound inflicted on his side by the Solkaran invader.

On this day, however, she saw no sign of the awkward old duke Tebeo himself claimed to have become. Perhaps it was the imminent threat to his castle and family. Perhaps his outrage at all that Numar had done since the siege began finally boiled over into battle lust. Whatever the explanation, Tebeo acquitted himself valiantly. Moreover, his men, seeing how the duke fought, redoubled their efforts on his behalf, driving many of the men of Solkara and Rassor out of the castle and slaughtering those who dared to remain.

For her part, Evanthya benefited from Eandi fears of her people, and their ignorance of Qirsi powers. Her magics-gleaning, mists and winds, language of beasts-did her little good in close combat with larger, stronger warriors. But because the men she fought couldn’t be certain that she wouldn’t set them ablaze or shatter their bones with shaping power, they approached her warily. Tebeo, who knew precisely what powers she possessed, and who insisted that they remain back-to-back, made certain that she was always facing away from the fiercest fighting. When she was forced into combat, she fought competently. She had learned the rudiments of swordplay long ago-the duke had required this of all his ministers-and what she lacked in strength she made up for in quickness and skill. Nevertheless, she didn’t kill a single man, and when forced to parry some of the heavier blows, she nearly fell to the ground. Fortunately, several of Dantrielle’s men had positioned themselves around her and the duke, and on those occasions when her life was truly in danger, at least one of them managed to come to her aid.

Dark smoke hung over the castle, stinging Evanthya’s eyes and throat. It had shown no sign at all of abating, leading her to believe that the fires still burned in the Great Forest. This was confirmed for her late in the day when one of Dantrielle’s captains descended from the castle ramparts to give the duke a report on the fighting atop the walls.

“They keep coming with their ladders, my lord,” the man said, as a Qirsi healer mended a gash on his arm. “But they’ve yet to take any part of the wall.”

Tebeo leaned against a stone archway, enjoying a brief respite from the fighting. His face was scarlet and sweat dripped from his cheeks and chin. “Good work, Captain. Please convey my thanks to the men under your command.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Have you any sense of how the battle goes beyond our walls?”

“No, my lord. None. We can’t see for the smoke and the trees. We hear things occasionally-they’re still fighting-but it’s hard to say who’s got the advantage.”

The duke nodded, grim-faced. “Very well, Captain. Return to your men. We’ll do our best to hold the gates and ports here.”

“Yes, my lord.” The man bowed and hurried back to the nearest tower.

Gabrys stood nearby, bleeding from a dozen cuts on his arms, face, and neck, but still looking fresher than Tebeo. “The fires were a desperate measure, my lord. Numar couldn’t have attacked us so fiercely and still inflicted many casualties on the armies of Kett and Tounstrel. He simply hasn’t enough men.”

“You sound very confident, armsmaster.”

“I remain convinced that the walls will hold, and that our allies will win through.”

Tebeo straightened and examined his blade. “I’d like very much to share your certainty.”

The master of arms stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t?”

“I know that I should,” the duke, his voice dropping as well, “that it’s important that I do, not only for myself, but also for the men.” He took a long breath. “I’ll feel better when Orvinti arrives.”

“We can prevail without Orvinti if we have to.”

“We shouldn’t have to.”

Gabrys gave a sad, small smile. “Yes, my lord.”

“You don’t think he’ll come.”

“It’s not that, my lord,” the master of arms said, shifting uncomfortably.

“Then what? Come now, Gabrys, this is no time to be timid.”

“Forgive me, my lord. But I fear that you’re staking all on the actions of your allies. You’re convinced that if they arrive, the siege will be broken, and I sense that you believe their failure to do so dooms us to defeat.”

Tebeo opened his mouth, faltered, then frowned. “That’s not entirely true,” he said, an admission in the words. “But I understand why you might think it is.”

“You said a moment ago that we could prevail without Orvinti,” Evanthya said, drawing the master of arms’s gaze. “How?”

“By continuing to fight as we have been. It may not seem like it, but we’ve had a good day. The regent has sent raiding party after raiding party, and we’ve yet to cede any part of the castle. Yes, we’ve suffered losses, but Rassor and Solkara have lost as many men as we have, perhaps more.”

The duke appeared troubled and Evanthya thought she understood why. The master of arms spoke this way with some frequency, measuring Dantrielle’s losses against those of the enemy. He was a warrior, no doubt a good one. But Tebeo was not. The loss of life on both sides appalled him. More to the point, he recognized that this war was but a prelude to a much more significant and dangerous conflict. The casualties that Gabrys counted so blithely left them weakened and more deeply divided than ever, just as the leaders of the Qirsi movement wanted.

“You may well be right, armsmaster,” the duke said. “But still, I’d like to know what’s become of the dukes of Tounstrel and Kett. Can we send out-”

“Look to the skies!”

The three of them spun toward the north wall in time to see another of the great flaming stones crash down the ramparts.

“Damn!” the duke said through clenched teeth.

“I thought the hurling arms had been burned,” Gabrys said, sounding more alarmed than he had in some time.

Tebeo nodded, still staring up at the wall. “As did I.”

“I’m afraid that may be your answer, my lord. If the Solkarans have managed to repair the arms-”

“Look to the skies!”

Two more burning spheres plummeted toward the castle, one of them hitting the same wall, not far from where the first had landed. The second soared over the wall and landed in the ward, making the ground tremble and splattering flaming pitch in all directions.

Shouts went up from the north and west gates, and an instant later soldiers of Solkara and Rassor swarmed into the castle courtyard.

“Archers!” Gabrys roared, raising his blade and rushing toward the attackers.

Arrows whistled from the walls. Many of the enemy raised shields to guard themselves, but a good number fell anyway, only to be replaced by dozens more storming through the gate.

“What’s happened to our defenses?” the duke demanded, readying his sword as well.

“Look to the skies!”

Tebeo looked up once more, his expression more desperate than grim. “He’d kill his own men just to strike harder at me.”

Two more boulders smashed down on the ramparts. At the same time, more of Dantrielle’s men rushed into the ward from the tower stairways, apparently sent from the walls to meet this newest threat.

“Come with me, First Minister,” the duke said, sounding weary as he strode toward the combat. “We’ll do this the same way: back-to-back, you facing toward the inner half of the ward.”

“Are you certain you’re fit to fight, my lord?”

He glanced at her, a hint of anger in his eyes. “What choice do I have?”

“Of course, my lord.”

She followed him, wondering how their luck could possibly hold through another fight. Already her arms and shoulders ached from the previous battle and she felt certain that the duke was no better off than she. Still, he didn’t hesitate to throw himself into the fray. Evanthya actually had to run to keep up with him, and before she knew it they were surrounded by Solkaran soldiers.

Once more the duke wielded his blade like a man who had been waging war all his life, his steel seeming to dance in the torchlight. The two of them were quickly joined by the master of arms and several of his men and together they formed a phalanx that withstood wave after wave of enemy attacks. Before long, however, Tebeo’s breathing began to grow labored, his parries less sure. Evanthya was guarded on both sides by the duke’s men; she barely had to fight at all, and when she did, it was only to keep a single man from striking at the duke from behind. But she could do nothing to bolster Tebeo’s strength or drive back the men of Solkara and Rassor. She had never envied the powers of other Qirsi, not even Fetnalla, who was a shaper and a healer. But on this night, caught in the tumult of battle, she would have given all that she possessed to break a blade with magic or set afire the flesh and hair of Dantrielle’s attackers.

She lost all sense of time, measuring the passage of the night in screams and the ringing of swords, in the thunder of the flaming stones that crashed down on the ramparts, and in the ever-growing number of dead strewn about the wards of Castle Dantrielle. The minister had little experience with warfare, and immersed in this frenzy she had little sense of what was happening elsewhere in the fortress. But there could be no denying the inexorable retreat of the duke and his men. They gave ground grudgingly, exacting from their foes a dear cost in blood for every backward step. But fall back they did.

It seemed to Evanthya that the regent had to have sent through Dantrielle’s gates all of his soldiers save for those few who continued to man the hurling arms. And indeed, in the midst of the fighting, as she glanced over her shoulder to check on Tebeo and the others, she thought she caught sight of Numar himself commanding his men from near the north barbican.

“They’re driving us toward the lower ward, my lord,” Gabrys said a short while later, his voice strained and tight.

“I know,” the duke called back. “If they take the upper ward, we lose the armory, not to mention a good deal of our stores, and the cloister, where I’ve left my family. If you’ve an idea for stopping them, this would be a fine time to tell me about it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t, my lord.”

“Can we order the archers to aim at Numar?”

“Most of your archers remain on the walls, my lord. And the regent is keeping himself shielded at the back of the barbican.”

“First Minister, is there anything-?”

Before Tebeo could finish, an arrow buried itself in the throat of the man next to him. A instant later, arrows were pelting down on Dantrielle’s men. Evanthya raised her shield just in time to stop two darts from striking her in the head.

“To the towers!” Tebeo cried as his men scattered like panicked mice.

Evanthya followed him to the nearest of the tower entrances, peering warily up at the ramparts as she ran. Fighting continued on three of the walls, but one of them was now held by the regent’s men. And unlike Dantrielle’s archers, who still struggled to keep the Solkarans from climbing onto the ramparts, Numar’s men were free to loose their arrows at the soldiers fighting below them in the wards.

“Your castle is falling, Tebeo!” came a voice from the north gate, echoing across the courtyard. “Surrender now, and I’ll spare the lives of your warriors. Fight on and you doom them as well as yourself.”

“I’ll die before I surrender to you, Numar! And the men of Dantrielle will gladly give their lives rather than give in to Solkaran tyranny!” The duke stared across at the regent, his expression belying his brave words. “Do we have any hope of stopping them, armsmaster?” he asked, his voice low.

“Only if our men can retake the west wall, my lord.”

“Damn. And we can do nothing to help them?”

“No, my lord. Not without ceding the wards to the regent and his men.”

“Then, perhaps I should surrender.”

“No, my lord!” Evanthya said, before Gabrys could speak. “You can’t!”

“I don’t want to either, First Minister, but if it means saving the lives of my men-”

“You don’t know that he’ll keep his word! Think of the things he’s done already! Do you really believe this is a man capable of showing mercy to any who have stood against him?”

“No, I don’t. But he has other battles to wage, and he needs soldiers. He can’t afford to kill my men if he doesn’t have to.” Tebeo looked at Gabrys, who was listening intently to their exchange. “Isn’t that so, armsmaster?”

“It is, my lord. But still, I agree with the first minister. You shouldn’t surrender. Not yet, not while we still have some hope of defeating him.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to end this folly and spare my army?”

“I can’t speak for all of the men, my lord. I’ve no doubt that there are some out there-a few-who at this moment would trade your life for theirs. But as a warrior, I can tell you that I would rather die for a cause, even a futile one, than live knowing that my friends and my duke had died for nothing.”

Tebeo nodded. “All right. Then what in Ean’s name do we do now?”

Gabrys surveyed the ward, shaking his head slowly. Once more Numar was shouting orders from the shelter of the barbican, marshaling his men, who now moved about the courtyard with relative freedom. “We need to divert our archers from the ramparts,” he said at last. “Some of them at least. We need to counter their advantage.”

“Won’t your captains on the wall realize that?”

“Their orders are to hold the walls at all cost. They’ve already lost one. They won’t spare a single man if it means endangering the others.”

“Unless we tell them to.”

“Yes, my lord. But I’m not certain that we should. If we lose the walls, none of the rest matters.”

“I can help, my lord.”

Both men turned to Evanthya.

“What do you suggest, First Minister?”

“A mist, my lord. It wouldn’t have helped before, when we were just fighting hand-to-hand. It might have made matters worse. But now, with the archers above us, it may be our only hope.”

“Can you make it hover above us?” Gabrys asked. “So that we can see who we’re fighting here on the ground?”

“I believe so.”

He looked at Tebeo. “In that case I think it a fine idea.”

“Agreed,” the duke said. “Weave your mist, Evanthya. Quickly.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The minister closed her eyes, reaching for her magic. She was weary from her battles, but no more so than the men who would be raising their swords beneath the mist she was conjuring. She ignored her fatigue, losing herself in the flow of power.

Opening her eyes once more, she saw tendrils of pale grey fog rising from the grass before her like thin, ghostly limbs. The mist gathered slowly at first, but then began to build, until it blanketed the ward.

Almost immediately, a wind rose from the north, threatening to sweep away all she had done. Pronjed jal Drenthe, Numar’s archminister.

“What’s happening?” the duke demanded.

But already Evanthya had summoned a wind of her own, at the same time drawing forth even more mist. Pronjed’s gale strengthened, but she matched it. He was stronger than she; probably she would fail before he did. She didn’t care. At last she was fighting a battle with a weapon she had mastered, on terrain that felt familiar, even comfortable.

“Evanthya?”

“It’s the archminister, my lord. He has mists and winds as well.”

“Can you defeat him?”

“I don’t have to, my lord. The question is, can he defeat me. I intend to do all I can to resist him.”

“How long can you keep the mist above us?”

“I don’t know.” Power was flowing through her body like melting snow pouring off the Caerissan Steppe, cool and strong. It wouldn’t last forever-every Qirsi had his or her limits-but at that moment she felt as though she could keep fighting Pronjed until the first cool breezes of the harvest returned to the Great Forest. “Go and fight them, my lord. I’ll hold the mist as long as I must.”

She sensed him smiling, though she didn’t dare look away from the mist, lest the archminister change the direction of his wind, or attempt some other trickery. “Thank you, Evanthya. The people of Dantrielle will remember what you do here long after you and I are gone.”

“Yes, my lord.”

A moment later the duke and the master of arms left the shelter of the tower, leading Dantrielle’s men back into battle, perhaps for the last time. Evanthya wanted desperately to watch the fighting, to make certain that Tebeo survived, but she kept her gaze fixed on her conjuring. And in the next instant, Pronjed did just what she feared he might. Releasing his wind abruptly, he allowed hers to blow the mist away. She reined in her gale as quickly as she could, still drawing mist from the earth. And the archminister called forth his wind again, from a different direction. She met his gust with her own, only to find that he had switched his yet again. Around and around they went, Pronjed changing the direction of his gale almost continually, feinting in one direction and then turning it full force the opposite way, Evanthya struggling to counter whatever wind he summoned while at the same time maintaining her mist over the entire ward. Before long, the cloud she had created was swirling and seething, like some great storm called forth in anger by Morna herself. But always her mist held.

It seemed to Evanthya that their battle of winds and mist went on for an eternity. Soon she was sweating like an overworked horse. Her limbs shivered as if from cold, and her breath came in great gasps. Not long before, she had felt that her power had no bounds. Now she wondered from one moment to the next if her body would fail. Pronjed had to be growing weary as well, though she couldn’t sense any flagging of his magic. If anything, he was pushing her harder than before, his gale becoming something akin to a whirlwind, he changed directions so swiftly.

“How are you bearing up, First Minister?”

The duke. Evanthya could hear the concern in his voice and she could only imagine how she must have looked to him. Still, she didn’t so much as glance in his direction, so determined was she to keep watch on her mist.

“I’m doing my best, my lord. How goes the battle?”

“Poorly. We’ve had to fall back to the towers again.”

Her eyes flicked toward him, only for an instant, but that was enough. Like her, he was soaked with sweat. There were bloody gashes on both his arms, as well as on his temple and thigh. Still, he didn’t appear broken, not yet.

“You’re hurt,” she said, staring once more at the roiling cloud.

“Not as badly as some. As I say, we’ve fallen back to the towers, but we’re not ready to cede the ward to them. How much longer can you keep your mists above us?”

“I’m not certain, my lord. Not long, I fear. Pronjed is stronger than I am and he’s cunning.”

“You’ve done well, Evanthya,” he said, his voice so gentle she could have wept. “I’m grateful to you. Give us what you can, and we’ll fight as long as we’re able.”

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered, feeling a tear on her face.

An instant later, she sensed that he was gone, back to the battle, no doubt. The minister wondered if she’d ever see him alive again.

Grief and rage welled up within her, and she tried to pour them into her magic, that she might overwhelm the archminister with one final surge of power. But she was too weary, and rather than bolstering her strength, her despair seemed to sap it. Perhaps sensing her weakness, Pronjed struck at her conjuring with what must have been all that remained of his power. The mist billowed, like smoke when it’s met by a sudden gust. And then it began to dissipate.

Desperate now, Evanthya tried to draw it forth once more, to answer this newest challenge. But she had nothing left. Within moments her mist was gone, and the archminister’s wind howled through the castle courtyard, uncontested, triumphant.

Panic gripped her. Eyeing the ramparts, she saw that the enemy now held two of the walls, and she saw as well that their archers were already nocking arrow to bow. It would be a slaughter, the last of this bloody siege.

Even as she continued to look up at the walls, she heard men crying “Look to the skies!” and watched as a flaming stone, the first to be thrown at the castle in some time, dropped toward the ramparts. It was only when she saw the men of Solkara and Rassor scrambling to get away that she realized where the stone would hit. Most of them did manage to escape the fiery impact, but several perished. Perhaps the gods were watching over Dantrielle and its people, Evanthya thought. How else to explain such a mishap?

Only when a second ball of flame arced into view and struck the other wall held by the regent’s men did she begin to understand that this was neither good fortune nor a divine act.

More shouts from the ward, more men streaming in through the gates. Seeing the uniforms-green and blue, the colors of Orvinti-Evanthya’s heart leaped as she thought it never would again. Fetnalla had come, and with her Brall and his army. There were other uniforms as well. Grey and black for Tounstrel, blue and silver for Kett, purple and black for Noltierre. In the end, they all had come, just as Tebeo had hoped, just as Brall and Vistaan and Ansis and Bertin the Younger had promised.

It didn’t take long for the battle to turn. Against the siege-weary soldiers of Dantrielle, Numar’s army held sway. But against the armies of Tebeo’s allies, unhurt, hungry for combat after their long marches, the regent’s men didn’t have a chance. Within what seemed like moments, the men of Solkara and Rassor had been overwhelmed. Many died, many more surrendered, and soon Numar and his archminister stood in the middle of the ward, disarmed, surrounded by hostile swordsmen, each held by two guards, their arms pinned at their sides.

Evanthya strode into the ward to join her duke, who appeared grim despite his sudden, unexpected victory. Pronjed, she was pleased to see, looked every bit as weary as she felt. His narrow, bony face was bathed with sweat, his skin even more pallid than usual. But his pale yellow eyes remained alert, darting about, as if seeking some path to freedom.

For his part, Numar showed no outward sign of being troubled by his defeat. With all that had happened in the past turn, Evanthya found it easy to forget how young the regent was. But standing beside even the younger dukes-Bertin and Vistaan-he seemed a mere lad, only a year or two past his Fating. He wore a sardonic smile on his lips and his brown eyes were fixed on Tebeo, as if he were daring the duke to strike him down.

“Congratulations, Tebeo,” the regent said, his head held high. “You and your fellow traitors have managed to win. Because of you, Aneira is weakened. Even now, our armies in the north fight for Kentigern. You’ve just doomed them to failure. A fine day’s work for all of you.”

“Kill him now, Tebeo.” Ansis drew his blade, stepping forward, so that he stood just before Numar. “Or better yet, let me do it.”

“No,” Tebeo said, his voice thick. “He’ll be imprisoned, along with his archminister and any of his captains who remain alive. The rest of his men are to be released-the wounded will be cared for.”

Numar clapped his hands, his smirk deepening as the sound echoed loudly off the walls. “How noble. Do you honestly believe that these little mercies remove the stain of your treason?”

Faster than she had ever seen him move-faster than she had thought possible-her duke swept his sword free and laid it against the regent’s face so that its tip was poised at the corner of Numar’s eye. The regent’s smile vanished, leaving him looking even younger, and deeply frightened.

“I’m not the one who brought this war to Dantrielle,” the duke said, his voice low and hard. “Nor am I the one who has weakened the realm by tying us to the emperor and his ambitions. All I’ve done today is put an end to the Solkara Supremacy, and if you ask me, that should have been done long ago. Now, I’ve said that I intend to imprison you-you’re a noble, the leader of one of Aneira’s great houses, and you deserve a certain amount of consideration. But if you dare to call me a traitor again, I’ll kill you where you stand. Do I make myself clear?”

The man swallowed. “Yes,” he whispered.

Tebeo lowered his blade. “Take them both to the prison tower. I want them in separate chambers.”

“My lord,” Evanthya said, before the soldiers could lead the two men away. “I recommend that the archminister’s watch be doubled and that his hands and ankles be bound with silk rather than irons.”

Tebeo frowned. “Explain, First Minister.”

“I don’t know what powers he possesses, but it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he’s a shaper, in which case he can shatter manacles and swords with a thought. He won’t be an easy man to hold no matter what we do. But his power will be less effective against silk, and the more men guarding him, the less chance he’ll have of disarming all of them.”

The duke nodded slowly. “Very well. See to it,” he said to one of the guards.

The man bowed. Then he and several other soldiers led the prisoners toward the prison tower.

“I still think he should be executed,” Ansis said, his light blue eyes fixed on the regent.

Bertin the Younger nodded. “I tend to agree. Not only does he deserve to die, but he’s too dangerous to keep alive.”

“I won’t make a martyr of him,” Tebeo said. “As a prisoner, he’s humiliated, diminished. He may be dangerous now, but every day he spends in my prison tower makes him less so.” He glanced about the ward, his brow furrowing once more. “I’m certain that Brall would agree with me. Where is he?”

Ansis and Bertin exchanged a look that made Evanthya’s stomach turn to stone.

“Come with us for a moment,” the duke of Kett said, taking Tebeo gently by the arm, and leading him to a dour, tall soldier who stood a short distance away. It took Evanthya a moment to recognize him as Orvinti’s master of arms.

Evanthya watched them talk, saw Tebeo cover his mouth with a hand in a gesture oddly reminiscent of his duchess. A moment later he glanced back her way, wide-eyed, his cheeks devoid of color.

And in that moment it hit her. Fetnalla. She turned a quick circle, frantically searching for her love. There were a few Qirsi in the ward. The ministers of the other dukes, several Qirsi healers. But Fetnalla wasn’t there. Her heart was pounding; fear gripped her throat so tightly that she could barely draw breath.

She can’t be dead. I’d know if she was dead.

She was crying. She didn’t even know why, but she couldn’t stop.

At last, unable to stand it any longer, she started walking to where Tebeo still stood talking to the other men. An instant later she was running, unable to reach them fast enough.

As she approached however, Brall’s master of arms stepped apart from the dukes and raised his sword, leveling it at her heart.

“Not another step, white-hair!”

Evanthya slowed, her eyes straying to her duke.

“It’s all right, Traefan,” Tebeo said, laying a hand on the man’s arm. “Lower your blade.”

“But, Lord Dantrielle-”

“Do as I say, armsmaster. Evanthya has spent the better part of this night fighting to save my castle. She’s no traitor.”

Clearly Traefan remained unconvinced, but after a moment he lowered his sword. He continued to watch her, though, murder in his eyes.

“Please, my lord,” she said, facing Tebeo, her tears still flowing. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“Brall is dead, Evanthya. That’s why it took his men so long to reach us.”

“I’m sorry, my lord.” She wanted to ask about Fetnalla, but the words stuck in her throat. At last she managed just to speak her love’s name. “Fetnalla?”

“The first minister killed the duke,” Traefan said, in a voice as bitter as wolfsbane.

Evanthya felt her world buck and shift, as if another boulder had struck the castle. She had expected to hear of Fetnalla’s death. Of course she had hoped that her love was all right, that somehow she had escaped Brall’s fate, but she had been bracing herself for the worst. The whole land was descending into bedlam and blood. All across the Forelands lovers were learning of such loss. Why should she have been spared? Fetnalla is dead. Those were the words she had been dreading, that she had been certain she would hear. But this. . “That’s impossible,” she whispered.

“She killed three of his guards as well.”

“But she wouldn’t-”

“Did your friend possess shaping magic?” the man demanded, his eyes boring into hers.

The question stopped her short, for of course Fetnalla did. Shaping, healing, and gleaning. Fine magics for the minister of a powerful house. Just this night, Evanthya had wished for her love’s shaping power. How often had Fetnalla said that she would gladly trade shaping for language of beasts, which was one of Evanthya’s magics? They had laughed about it many times, offering to swap powers like merchants in a marketplace comparing wares. In one of their beds. In each other’s arms.

Evanthya felt her stomach heave and bit down against the bile.

I will not be sick here, not in front of these men.

“Your silence is answer enough,” Traefan said, disgust in his voice. “Their necks were broken. There was no sign they’d been garroted or attacked in any way. Just four broken necks, neat as you please. Explain that. Explain why she fled.”

“My lord, you know Fetnalla. She’s no murderer.” But hadn’t Fetnalla pushed her to have Shurik killed? Hadn’t she given Evanthya gold to pay the assassin?

“We searched the forest for her all that night,” Traefan said, “but we didn’t dare delay any longer. She’d already kept us away from Dantrielle long enough.”

Evanthya stared at her duke, shaking her head in confusion.

She didn’t follow much of what Traefan told her then. There was something about provisions and archers and a broken wheel on one of Orvinti’s carts. But she understood enough. Fetnalla had been slowing their march to Dantrielle. If this Eandi warrior was to be believed, she had been doing all she could to keep Brall from breaking Numar’s siege. Which meant that she was willing to let Tebeo die in this war. And Evanthya as well.

She wouldn’t.

How strangely her love had behaved the last time they were together. How distant she had been, how evasive the night she awoke from some dark terrible dream that had her speaking of Weavers in her sleep.

It’s Brall’s fault, Evanthya wanted to say. If all this is true-could it be? — he drove her to it with his mistrust, his accusations. But she knew better. Traefan spoke of treason, of murder. There could be no justification for that, no matter how poorly her duke might have treated her.

Fetnalla is no traitor.

During the snows, the last time Evanthya and Tebeo journeyed to Orvinti, Fetnalla had given her a pendant, a glimmering sapphire on a finely wrought silver chain. Evanthya wore it still; even now her hand wandered to her chest to feel the pendant beneath her clothes and mail. She had questioned the gift then, wondering how her love could afford to give such a gift when she had given all her gold for Shurik’s murder. Fetnalla had grown angry, of course. It seemed recently that they were always angry at one another for something. You sound like Brall, she had said. I’ve been paid my wage since then. And rather than argue further, Evanthya had accepted this explanation, along with the necklace.

Now, though. . What if the gold had come from a different source? It was said that the conspiracy had a good deal of gold, that those who joined it were paid quite well.

“First Minister?”

She stared at the duke, trying to make herself remember what he had been saying to her, trying to focus on his face. It seemed she was in a mist-yet another, on what was becoming a night of mists.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I was. . I was thinking.”

They were alone, or as much alone as two people could hope to be in this castle, with the maimed and dead lying everywhere, with healers moving from wound to wound with swift precision, with conquerors and the conquered coming to grips with an uneasy peace.

“I asked if you thought it possible that Traefan was right about Fetnalla.”

No, it couldn ‘t be! Her heart screamed for her to give voice to its denial. But Tebeo deserved better. “I’m not certain what to believe, my lord.”

“The rift between them had grown too wide,” he said, his voice low, his dark eyes fixed on some distant torch. Evanthya had to remind herself that he had lost his oldest friend and closest ally. “There was a time when I blamed Brall for that. .” He left the thought unfinished.

“As did I, my lord. I still believe that his suspicions were unjustified. At least at first.”

“You think he drove her to it?”

She regarded him briefly, wondering if he was challenging her to make such an accusation, or if he asked the question innocently. Deciding at last that he was as desperate to understand as she, Evanthya nodded. “I think it’s possible.”

“Then you do believe that she killed him.”

“I don’t want to believe any of this,” she said. “I want to wake up and find that the siege never happened, that Brall and Fetnalla are still alive in Orvinti, bickering like children.”

Tebeo said nothing. He merely gazed at her, looking sad and old and so weary that he seemed to be in pain. The truth was that she did believe it, despite the ache in her heart, or perhaps because of it.

“Yes,” she finally said, the admission feeling like a betrayal, “I believe it.”

“Did she ever speak to you of the conspiracy?”

“Of course she did, my lord. We spoke of it quite often. How could we not? I’ve told you already. . what we did. But if you mean, did she ever try to turn me to their cause, the answer is no.”

“What would you have done if she had?”

There was a right answer to this. She was certain of it. But she had no idea what it might have been. “I don’t know, my lord. I. . I love her very much.” She was crying again, tears pouring from her eyes. “I want to tell you that I would have come to you and told you immediately of her betrayal.” She nearly choked on the word. “But I just don’t know.”

Tebeo actually smiled. He stepped forward and gathered Evanthya in his arms so that she could sob like a babe against his chest. “Thank you,” he whispered, “for being honest with me.”

After what seemed a long time, Tebeo released her. Evanthya stepped back, wiping tears from her face, embarrassed that she should carry on so in front of her duke. She meant to apologize, but he didn’t give her the chance.

“I’m sorry to have to ask this, First Minister, but do you have any idea where Fetnalla might have gone?”

Strange that it hadn’t even occurred to her to wonder. “No, my lord, none.”

“She must know that we’ll be looking for her, and she must know that if we find her, we’ll have no choice but to execute her.”

The answer came with such force that she knew it had to be true. “She’ll go north, my lord.”

“How do you know?”

“You’ve believed for some time now that there was more to this siege and the war with Eibithar than just imperial ambition. And you’ve believed as well that there was a larger conflict looming, between Eandi and Qirsi. What if the leaders of the conspiracy are waiting for the armies in the north to destroy one another before beginning their own attack?”

“You think she’s riding to war?”

“Qirsi warriors and Eandi warriors are quite different, my lord. Fetnalla is a shaper, as well as a healer. Her powers would serve a Qirsi army quite well. So would mine, actually, though you may not believe it. One Qirsi can do quite a bit with mists and winds. Ten working together could overwhelm an entire Eandi army.” Another realization, the seed of it planted so long ago by Fetnalla’s dream. And abruptly it all made sense. Horrible, terrifying sense. “And,” she said, a tremor in her voice, “with a Weaver binding their powers into a single weapon, an army of Qirsi could defeat all the warriors of the Forelands.”

His eyes grew wide. “You believe they’re led by a Weaver?”

“Fetnalla spoke of one.” She blushed. “In her sleep actually, in the throes of a terrible dream. But how else could these Qirsi hope to prevail? In a battle of swords and arrows, they wouldn’t have a chance. But with a Weaver leading them, forging together their powers, they would be an imposing force.”

“A Weaver,” the duke said again, breathless and awed. “I didn’t even think such people still walked the Forelands.”

“I fear they do, my lord. Or at least one does. I believe Fetnalla has gone to him. If she truly did murder her duke, she’d think nothing of waging war beside a Weaver.”