Shapers of Darkness

Chapter Twenty-five

Kentigern, Eibithar, Adriel’s Moon waxing

The smells of the siege had become as familiar to him as the scent of Ioanna’s perfume, as ordinary as the aroma of freshly baked bread rising from the kitchens. Burning tar and oil, boiled sweetwort and betony, gangrene and blood, sweat and fear. There were sounds as well-death cries, the moaning of the wounded, the distant singing of the Aneiran soldiers-and, of course, so many horrors to see. But the smells were what stuck in Aindreas’s mind. Long after the siege ended, either with the fall of his castle or the defeat of his enemy, the duke would remember breathing in this air that blanketed Kentigern, redolent with the stench of war.

After the successes his men enjoyed during the first day or two of the siege, Aindreas had begun to think that he might break the siege with ease. And though he had known that his Qirsi allies would not be pleased by this, he had secretly rejoiced at the possibility, seeing in the Aneirans’ failure a setback for the conspiracy as well. If the armies of Mertesse and Solkara could not maintain their siege, they certainly couldn’t send any men northward to join the fighting near Galdasten. There was nothing he could do to atone for his crime. He had allied himself with the renegade white-hairs; he was a traitor. But perhaps, merely by fighting to protect his house, he could thwart the Qirsi’s plans and thus undo some of what he had wrought.

But after losing so many men, and seeing their hurling arms burned beyond use, the Aneiran army rallied. Redoubling their assault on the gates and walls, they broke through the drawbridge at the Tarbin gate and turned their rams against the portcullises. During the second night of the siege, hours after the ringing of the midnight bells, a large group of Solkaran soldiers gained the top of the outer wall and held it into the morning before being overrun by Aindreas’s men. The did no lasting damage to the castle and Kentigern’s losses were not great, but the duke could see that his men were shaken by the incursion. Up until the previous year, Kentigern Castle had enjoyed a centuries-old reputation as one of the most unassailable fortresses in the Forelands. The near success of Mertesse’s siege the year before was a black mark on the castle’s history, but one that could be explained away by Shurik’s betrayal. Now, however, as the Aneirans began to exact a toll on the defenders, Aindreas sensed that doubt was growing in the minds of his men.

By the end of the eighth day, the Aneirans had managed to build four new hurling arms. As soon as all four were functioning, the men of Mertesse and Solkara began their assault on the castle battlements, heaving great stones, pots of burning oil, and dead animal carcasses at the walls. Aindreas sent out a raiding party, hoping to destroy these siege engines as he had the last, but the Aneirans were watching for this, and Kentigern’s men, suffering heavy losses, were driven back.

The following morning, the first of the Tarbin gate portcullises fell, and though three more remained, this further eroded the confidence of the duke’s men. His bowmen, using the archer chambers built into the walls of the gate, and the murder holes built into the ceiling, kept up a withering assault on the attackers. But the enemy’s rams still offered the Aneirans some protection, enough to allow them to begin their attack on the next portcullis.

By nightfall, the wood and iron were groaning. Aindreas knew that it wouldn’t be long before the second portcullis was defeated as well. The men stationed on his battlements had been forced to seek shelter within the towers, emerging only long enough to loose their arrows and quarrels before being chased back inside by the bombardment from Aneira’s hurling arms. The only saving grace was that with the arms constantly striking at the walls, the enemy soldiers could not risk raising ladders to climb to the ramparts.

Aindreas could do little but watch the siege unfold from his chamber. He would have preferred to fight; despite his girth, he remained a formidable presence on the battlefield, powerful, yet quick with a blade. But this type of war demanded patience, a virtue he had always lacked. Sitting at his desk, the smell of smoke stinging his nostrils, it was all he could do to keep from drowning himself in Sanbiri red.

Early the next morning, as the duke finished a small breakfast, Villyd Temsten, his swordmaster, came to his chamber, face grim, eyes smoldering. He had a bandage on his forearm and an untreated gash above his left eye, but these only served to make him appear even more fearsome than usual.

“What news, swordmaster?” the duke asked, rising from his chair and stepping around his writing table.

“Little has changed, my lord. The second portcullis still stands, though it won’t last the day. Our archers have had some success from the ramparts, but they’re still being chased back to the towers by Rowan’s hurling arms.”

“How are our stores?”

Villyd’s mouth twisted sourly for a moment. “Shrinking, my lord. Slowly, to be sure, but we can’t hold out indefinitely.”

“Neither can they.”

“Actually, Mertesse is near enough that they can reprovision more readily than we can.”

Aindreas frowned. “Is this why you’ve come? To tell me that our stores are running low?”

“No, my lord. There’s something else. I think you should come see for yourself.”

“What is it?”

“Please, my lord. Come with me.”

Aindreas took a long breath, then indicated the door with an open hand and followed Villyd into the corridor. The swordmaster led him from the inner keep to the nearest of the towers on the outer wall. They climbed to the battlements, then strode to the northeast corner of the castle.

“Look,” he said, pointing toward the farmland beyond the city walls.

The duke had known while still in his chamber what it was Villyd intended to show him. Still, he couldn’t keep from muttering a curse.

A long column of Aneiran soldiers was marching north toward Kentigern Wood, some in the black and gold of Mertesse, many in the red and gold of Solkara. They had set fire to two of the nearer farmhouses and were in the process of setting ablaze a field of grain.

“Bastards,” the duke said, staring down at them, feeling helpless and foolish.

They’ll wait until the siege is well under way, Jastanne had said, with the prescience one would expect from a Qirsi. In all likelihood you’ll have little choice but to use all your men in the defense of your city and castle. But just in case you have it in mind to stop them, don’t.

He could hear her voice, so calm and sure of herself. He would have liked to scream her name, and he found himself glancing due north, to the rise on which he had seen her the day the siege began. No one was there now.

“We should stop them, my lord. We should protect the people in your dukedom, and we should keep them from reaching the Moorlands.”

“We can’t,” Aindreas said, his voice thick.

“But, my lord-”

“We can’t!” The words echoed off the fortress walls, drawing the stares of his men. “It’s what they want us to do,” he went on, more quietly this time. “That’s why they’re burning the houses and crops, to draw us into the open.” He knew this was so, just as he knew that if he divided his army his castle would be at risk. Just as he knew that Villyd was right, that he should have been willing to risk Kentigern to save Eibithar.

“What are your orders, my lord?” the swordmaster asked, his voice so flat, it made Aindreas’s throat constrict just to hear it.

“We’ll go after the hurling arms again. If we can destroy them, we might be able to break the siege. Rowan has fewer men now.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Villyd turned and walked away, his shoulders hunched and his head low. Protocol demanded that he await permission from Aindreas before leaving, but the duke hadn’t the heart to call him back.

“People are dying, father.”

Aindreas turned to see Brienne standing beside him, her golden hair rising and falling in the warm wind.

“They’re dying because of you. And because of you, the kingdom is in peril of being overrun.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Tell them the truth.”

“I’ll be hanged, and Ennis will be left to rule a shamed house.”

“Yes. But still, you have to.”

He turned away from her, searching the rise once more for Jastanne, fearing that he might see her.

“Our best hope now lies with the Qirsi. As long as they prevail, we’ll be fine.”

“The Qirsi killed me. You know they did, and yet you continue to help them.”

Tears stung his eyes and he squeezed them shut rather than look at her, rather than allow any of his men to see him weep.

“You should be ashamed,” he heard her whisper.

You ‘re a ghost. You ‘re not real.

When at last he opened his eyes, she was gone. Several of his soldiers were eyeing him, some with open curiosity, others more discreetly, though with apprehensive looks on their faces.

In the next instant, the castle shook, and their attention was drawn once more to the Aneirans and their ram, which was hammering again at the Tarbin gate. A moment later, several of the men shouted warnings, pointing toward the sky. Mertesse’s soldiers had returned to the hurling arms as well. One of the great stones crashed harmlessly against the outer wall, and another passed over the ramparts and landed in the castle’s outer ward. But two clay oil pots found their mark, shattering on the walkways atop the wall and splattering flaming oil in all directions. Several men dropped to the stone, rolling frantically back and forth, trying to put out the fires on their uniforms and hair. Aindreas rushed to help them, batting at the blazes with his hands, tearing off his cape and throwing it over one man whose clothes were fully engulfed.

When the flames had finally been put out and healers summoned, an uninjured soldier approached the duke.

“You must leave the walls, my lord. They’re certain to attack again, and you could be killed.”

Aindreas glared at the man, ready to tell him to mind his own affairs. But he knew the soldier was right. He was no good to the army dead. Indeed, his death might well hasten the castle’s fall.

“Fine,” he said. “Where’s the swordmaster?”

“I don’t know, my lord.”

He glanced toward Kentigern Wood once more. Smoke continued to rise from farmhouses and fields, and the column of Solkaran soldiers was still in view, farther from the castle, but near enough to be overtaken by an army on foot.

They’ll tell the world what you ‘ve done. Think of Ennis and Affery. Think of Ioanna.

Aindreas entered the nearest tower, descended the stairway to the outer ward, and crossed the courtyard to where Villyd stood, speaking with three of his captains.

“My lord,” the swordmaster said, seeing him approach. The captains fell silent.

Aindreas had intended to pursue the Solkarans. He had been ready to confess all to Villyd, to explain what would happen when the Qirsi learned that he had stopped the Aneirans’ march northward. But faced with the prospect of doing so, seeing the way the captains looked at him, the duke couldn’t bring himself to speak the words.

“Was there something you wanted, my lord?”

“Yes. Yes, I–I want you to send out raiding parties against those hurling arms immediately. They’re striking at the battlements again, and I want it to stop.”

“Yes, my lord. We were just discussing that. We had thought to send twice the number of men this time, half through the south sally port, half through the west. Perhaps if we flank them, they’ll have a more difficult time driving back the assault.”

“Very good, swordmaster. That sounds like a fine plan.” His hands were trembling. What he would have given for some wine.

“Very well, my lord. We’ll prepare the raiding parties immediately.”

Aindreas nodded. “Good. I’ll be in my chamber.”

He hurried away, certain that Villyd and the others were staring after him, but too eager to be back in his chamber to care.

Brienne was waiting for him in the corridor outside his door, but he ignored her, reaching for the door handle with his eyes fixed on the stone floor.

“Father.”

He opened the door.

“Father!”

He chanced a glance at the girl, then blinked and looked again. It was Affery, not Brienne. She was frowning at him, looking more peeved than hurt.

“I’m sorry, Affery. I. . I’m sorry.” He walked over to her and pulled her close in a quick embrace. “What is it you need?”

“Mother was asking for you. We felt the castle shake and I think she was afraid.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face. She’d be beautiful, too, just as her sister and mother had been. “How is she?”

Affery shrugged. “Not too bad. She sings with us, which she hasn’t done in a long time. And she’s been eating. I know that you worry when she doesn’t.”

Clever child, like her brother. She’d make a fine duchess someday.

Who will marry a girl from a disgraced house?

“Tell her not to worry. The Aneirans are using their hurling arms again, but we’re sending out men to destroy them. Can you remember all that?”

“Yes, but she’ll want to hear it from you.”

“I know. I’ll come to the cloister later.”

“When?”

“This evening. I’ll try to be there for dinner. Tell her that.”

Affery nodded, looking terribly sad. “Yes, Father.”

Aindreas knew that he should say more. Perhaps he should have gone with her immediately back to the cloister, but all he could think about was his wine and the Qirsi and what a mess he had made of everything.

“That’s a good girl,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

She gave a half smile before walking back down the corridor toward the cloister. Aindreas watched her go, waiting until she had turned the corner before entering his chamber, bolting the door, and pouring himself a cup of Sanbiri red.

By the time the prior’s bell sounded in the city, Aindreas had gone through two flagons of wine and was well on his way to finishing a third. He wasn’t drunk-he had consumed so much wine in the year since Brienne’s death that he wasn’t certain he was capable of getting drunk anymore-but he had grown sleepy. Sitting by his window, his goblet in his hand, he nearly dozed off, but was pulled awake again by a knock at his door.

His first thought was that it must be Jastanne, and he kept silent, hoping that she would leave him. But then he heard Villyd calling for him.

The duke stood, feeling a bit unsteady on his feet, and crossed to the door. He unlocked it and pulled it open, but then retreated to his writing table, not wanting the swordmaster to smell wine on his breath.

“Report,” he said, sitting once more. “You sent out the raiding parties?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And?”

As if in answer, the castle shuddered, and cries went up from the ramparts.

“Our men managed to destroy one of them, my lord, but they were driven back before they could do more.”

“How many did we lose?”

“Fourteen, my lord. And eight others wounded.”

“Demons and fire.” The fortress shook again. “Do we dare try again?”

“We can, my lord, but I doubt we’ll be any more successful.”

“What if we tried at night? Give the men flints to light their arrows so they wouldn’t need to carry torches.”

“That might-” Villyd stopped, eyes narrowing.

Aindreas heard it as well. More cries from the walls, though these were different from those that had come before. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, my lord.”

The duke stood and together they strode to the closest tower and climbed the stairs to the battlements. Kentigern’s men were gathered at the eastern end of the outer wall, and several of them were pointing toward the lower edge of the wood. For a moment, hurrying toward the east end of the walkway, he wondered if the Solkarans had returned, but they would have had no reason to do so.

Reaching the wall, looking down where his men were pointing, the duke felt his stomach heave. A tremendous column of soldiers was approaching the tor-at least three thousand men. Some marched under the green and white banner of Labruinn, others under the tawny and black of Tremain. Even from a distance, the duke recognized the sigils on their banners. But his eyes were drawn to the lead group, all of them dressed in purple and gold, all of them marching under the flag of the realm. These were Kearney’s men, the King’s Guard.

“They’ve come to save us!” one of the soldiers shouted, drawing cheers from the others.

Aindreas wanted to believe this, but he had defied the king at every turn, refusing to pay his ducal fees, ignoring Kearney’s demand that he journey to the City of Kings. He had even allowed Jastanne to murder Kearney’s emissary in his chamber. Had he been king, he wouldn’t have sent his army to aid such a duke. He would have sent it to destroy him.

Gershon had pushed his men hard since leaving the City of Kings, and to their credit, the dukes of Tremain and Labruinn had done the same with their soldiers, matching the King’s Guard league for league even though neither house was known for its military prowess. Lathrop, the duke of Tremain, who was a good deal older than Gershon and Caius, had been particularly impressive. He was a heavy man, and he looked too soft to command an army, much less travel with one covering nearly thirty leagues in but five days. Yet this was just what he had done. Caius, one of the realm’s younger dukes, had actually journeyed twenty leagues farther than had Gershon, crossing both the Thorald River and Binthar’s Wash before joining the swordmaster outside the walls of the royal city.

Gershon had long dismissed Eibithar’s minor houses as being of little consequence when it came to matters of state or war. The Rules of Ascension gave the minors only a small role in the selection of new kings, and all military men knew that the strength of the realm came from its major houses-Thorald and Galdasten, Curgh, Kentigern, and Glyndwr. But marching with these two men and their soldiers, watching how Caius and Lathrop shouldered the burdens of leadership, the swordmaster found himself wondering if the distance between the houses might not be nearly so great as he had thought.

He had also feared that one or the other of the two men might challenge his leadership of the army. True they ruled minor houses, while Gershon was the king’s man, but they were both noble born, educated in the courts, wealthy. The swordmaster was none of these things. Yet from the beginning, both men deferred to him, willingly placing their armies under his command, and following his instructions without question. Even more improbably, the swordmaster and Caius quickly developed an easy friendship. The duke was at least ten years Gershon’s junior, but despite their different ages and upbringings, it seemed they had a good deal in common. Like Gershon, the duke was a quiet man. He had studied combat under his father, long renowned as one of the realm’s finest swordsmen, and had obviously taken an interest in all matters related to warfare. Each day, as they rode at the front of the armies, the duke peppered Gershon with questions about swordplay, military tactics, and weaponry. At first Gershon had thought that the young duke was merely making conversation, but his lines of questioning quickly revealed a thorough understanding of the subtleties of all matters related to battle. Labruinn’s swordmaster, who was even younger than his duke, rode with them as well, listening intently to their discussion, and occasionally asking questions of his own.

Sulwen would have teased Gershon mercilessly about their conversations. “You’re like little boys playing at war and ogling fancy blades,” she would have said. “How can you not find it tiresome talking about the same thing day after day?”

The fact was, Gershon didn’t find it the least bit tiresome. The march from the royal city to Tremain, which the swordmaster had expected to be endless, went by all too quickly. After spending the last several turns consumed by talk of war and the conspiracy and the archminister’s attempt to draw the Weaver’s attention, Gershon could not help but enjoy himself, even as he marched toward battle.

After reaching Tremain and adding Lathrop’s army to their force, Gershon and the duke of Labruinn grew more sober. And with every league they covered, drawing ever nearer to Kentigern Tor, the swordmaster’s apprehension grew. His scouts had informed him of the siege and its progress; from all they had told him it seemed that the Aneirans were exacting a toll, but that Kentigern Castle was not in imminent danger of falling to the enemy. They couldn’t tell him, however-they had no way of knowing-how Aindreas and his men would receive them. Would he and the dukes reach the tor only to find themselves under attack from both Kentigern and the Aneirans?

Lathrop, it seemed, harbored similar fears. “Forgive me for asking, swordmaster,” he said, as they rode in the shade of Kentigern Wood, less than a full day’s ride from the castle. “But are you and His Majesty certain that Aindreas will accept aid from the King’s Guard, or, for that matter, from the armies of His Majesty’s allies?”

“He’s fighting the Aneirans, Lord Tremain,” Caius answered before Gershon could say anything. “Of course he’ll accept our aid.” He glanced at Gershon. “Don’t you agree?”

“I wish I did.”

“But all the realm is at risk. Surely Aindreas can see that as clearly as we can.”

Lathrop gave a small shrug. “I don’t know if Aindreas cares about the realm anymore. He’ll do all he can to save the tor, but if it comes to keeping the Aneiran army from advancing beyond Kentigern, I doubt very much that he’ll try to stop them.”

“Then why should we bother with him at all?” Caius demanded. He passed a hand over his yellow beard, rage in his dark eyes. “I hope you won’t think me disrespectful for saying so, Sir Trasker, but I wonder sometimes if our king isn’t too kindhearted for his own good.”

“We’re not here to defend Aindreas,” Gershon said. “We’ve come to keep the Aneirans from taking Kentigern and striking deeper into the heart of Eibithar.”

Caius said nothing, his lips pressed thin, but after a moment he nodded.

Not long after, they began to smell smoke. They were getting close. An uneasy silence fell over the army, the dense wood muffling the sound of the soldiers’ steps and the jangling of their swords. Gershon would never have thought that over three thousand men could make so little noise.

Even after they first smelled the fires, which the swordmaster assumed had to be burning at Kentigern, it was several hours more before Gershon and his army emerged from Kentigern Wood.

“Damn,” Gershon muttered gazing toward the tor. Smoke rose from Kentigern Castle, which he had expected. No doubt the Aneirans had used hurling arms to assail the fortress with burning oil and fiery projectiles. However, he hadn’t thought to see the smoldering remains of farmhouses and crop fields.

“Do you think Kentigern has fallen already?” Caius asked.

Gershon shook his head, staring up at the castle. They were a long way off, but he could see banners of blue, silver, and white flying atop the castle’s-towers. “No, Aindreas still holds the tor.”

Lathrop glanced at the swordmaster. “Has he made a pact with the Aneirans, then? Did he let them pass?”

Gershon was wondering this as well. But even as he opened his mouth to answer, he saw a flaming ball rise from the south side of the tor and arc across the sky toward the battlements.

“It seems they’re still under attack.”

“Then what happened to those farmhouses?”

“I don’t know,” Gershon said. “But that can wait. His Majesty sent us to break the siege, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

At the swordmaster’s signal, the army started forward again, advancing on the tor.

“When we reach the city walls, we’ll turn to the south and follow them to the Aneiran camp. I want your archers ready as quickly as possible.”

“Shall we divide the army?” Lathrop asked. “Half of us could cut toward the river and flank them if they try to withdraw.”

Gershon shook his head. “No. I want them to withdraw. Our force is a good deal larger than theirs. I’m hoping that when they see this, they’ll retreat across the Tarbin without much of a fight. Our aim should be to lose as few men as possible, so that we’ll be near full strength when we join the king on the Moorlands.”

“And if Aindreas turns his bowmen on us?”

The swordmaster glanced at Lathrop. “I’m hoping he won’t.”

The duke nodded. If he thought Gershon a fool, he had the good grace not to say so.

They soon reached the city walls, and encountering no resistance from the men of Kentigern, they turned southward, advancing on the Aneiran army. It even seemed to Gershon that he heard cheers from the castle, though he wasn’t certain, and he wasn’t about to place any faith in Kentigern’s goodwill. As they drew nearer to the Aneirans, the captains brought the archers forward, instructing them to be ready to loose their arrows as soon as they were within range of the enemy camp.

Before the bowmen could fire, however, cries reached them from the castle and Gershon shouted a warning to his men. The Aneirans had turned one of their hurling arms so that it faced his army, and they had launched a huge vat of flaming oil in his direction. Men scattered in all directions. Gershon and the dukes spurred their mounts trying to escape the fiery mass plummeting toward them.

By sheer good fortune, much of the oil fell short of the king’s army, and most of Gershon’s men were able to avoid the rest. A few soldiers fell, writhing in the flames, but losses were minor.

“Archers!” the swordmaster called. “Quickly! Before they can ready another attack!”

The bowmen surged forward, arrows nocked, and when they were close enough, they fired. Screams rose from the Aneiran side.

“Again!”

The bowmen let loose with a second volley.

“Swordsmen!” Gershon called. “Attack!”

With a deafening cry and the ringing of three thousand blades, his army rushed the Aneiran lines. And raising his own blade, the swordmaster kicked at his horse’s flanks, plunging into the fray with his men.

He saw flames jump to life in the distance, and for a moment Gershon feared that the soldiers of Mertesse would manage to send another mass of flaming oil at his army. But his warriors closed the distance too quickly. In only a few seconds they had crashed into the Aneiran army, the ground seeming to tremble with the impact. It appeared briefly that the enemy would hold their ground, but Gershon’s force was simply too vast. The men of Mertesse began to give way, slowly at first, then more quickly. When a large raiding party emerged from the castle and swept down the tor in their direction, the Aneirans broke formation and fled toward the river. Those who remained, including the soldiers manning the hurling arms, were overrun. Many of the rest perished under a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts.

Kentigern’s men let loose with a cheer that threatened to topple the fortress, and Gershon’s soldiers shouted triumphantly in response. For that moment, at least, it was easy to forget that the realm still tottered on the cusp of civil war.

Then the moment passed and a tense stillness descended on the armies.

“Where’s your duke?” Gershon called to the nearest of Aindreas’s soldiers. “Is he still alive?”

“Yes, my lord. He’s in the castle.”

Gershon didn’t bother to tell the man that he wasn’t anybody’s lord. In this instance, it behooved him to have Kentigern’s soldiers think him more than he really was. He looked at Lathrop and Caius, both of whom had come through the battle unscathed. They nodded in return. “Take us to him,” he said, facing the soldier once more.

“Yes, my lord.”

Aindreas’s man started up the road, along with at least a dozen of his comrades. Gershon and the dukes followed warily, accompanied by a small contingent of the king’s soldiers.

Another cheer went up behind them and Gershon turned to look. The hurling arms had been set ablaze. It was hard to distinguish Kentigern’s men from his own, but it seemed that they had done this together.

“Should one of us go back?” Caius asked quietly.

Gershon shook his head. “No. Let them have their fun. Who knows when they’ll have cause to celebrate again?”

They continued up the road, finally reaching what once had been the famed Tarbin gate. The drawbridge lay in charred pieces by the side of the lane, and two of the portcullises had been destroyed, the iron twisted into grotesque shapes, the wood splintered and blackened by fire. The third portcullis had been damaged as well, though it still stood. The fourth had not been touched.

The soldiers led them through the wicket gate and into the first of the castle wards. Aindreas awaited them there.

It had been nearly a year since Gershon had last seen the duke. The turns had taken their toll on the man. He was still huge; indeed, if anything, he looked heavier than he had at Kearney’s investiture. But his eyes were sunken, his skin blotchy, unnaturally flushed in some places, ghostly pale in others. It seemed to the swordmaster that the duke was being consumed from within, as if his grief and hatred had loosed a demon in his heart.

The duke didn’t move as Gershon and the others approached. His sword was sheathed on his belt, and his feet were firmly planted in the grass, as though he were daring his guests to step past him.

“Trasker,” Aindreas said, his voice taut. He eyed the dukes. “Tremain, Labruinn.”

Gershon gave a small bow, though a part of him felt that the man didn’t even deserve that much. “Lord Kentigern.”

“Have you come to take my castle?”

“Had it been up to me, I would have. But Kearney sent me to drive back the Aneirans and to offer what aid we could. Are you in need of provisions, healers, arms?”

Aindreas narrowed his eyes, his gaze shifting from Gershon to Caius to Lathrop and back to the swordmaster. “Kearney told you to do all that?”

“He did.”

A man approached the duke, his face bloodied, his uniform torn and stained. He was powerfully built, like the duke of Labruinn, but shorter of stature. It took Gershon a moment to recognize him as Villyd Temsten, Aindreas’s swordmaster. He whispered something to the duke, who eyed him briefly before nodding and dismissing him with a wave of his hand. Villyd hesitated, then walked away.

Aindreas raked a hand through his red hair, his pale eyes fixed on the ground before him, as if he were deep in thought.

Watching him, Gershon began to feel uneasy. He glanced about the ward, as if expecting to see Kentigern’s soldiers closing on them, but he saw only a few men lingering near the gates to the inner keep. “Lord Kent-”

“I have something to tell you.”

“By all means.”

“A large contingent of the Aneiran force that had been laying siege to my castle marched northward this morning.”

“The farmhouses,” Gershon whispered.

Aindreas looked up at that, meeting the swordmaster’s gaze. “Yes. They burned the farmhouses and fields as they went.”

“How many men?”

“Well over a thousand, most of them from Solkara. I believe they were headed toward Galdasten.”

Gershon nodded. Of course they were. A thousand men wasn’t many, but with enough bowmen, they could inflict heavy losses on Kearney’s army from the south as the king battled the men from Braedon to the north.

“There was nothing I could do to stop them,” the duke said, seeming to misinterpret Gershon’s silence. “They sought to draw me out of the castle with the fires they set, but I couldn’t risk compromising the safety of the tor. You understand.”

“I do, my lord. But we need to go after them. They’re already nearly a full day’s march ahead of us.” He turned to Lathrop and Caius. “My lords, please ready your men, and inform my captains of what’s happened. We march within the hour.”

Both men nodded. “Of course, swordmaster,” Lathrop said.

Facing Aindreas once more, Gershon said, “Thank you, Lord Kentigern. I’m sorry that we can’t do more for you, but my first duty is to the king.”

“I want to go with you.”

Gershon stared at the man. Lathrop and Caius, who were nearly to the gate, had stopped and were eyeing him as well.

“But after all the damage that your castle sustained-”

“Mertesse is in retreat. He’s lost too many men, and he no longer has the Solkarans by his side. I’ll leave a few hundred men here to guard the tor, but he won’t attack again, at least not soon.”

“My lord-”

“Kearney thinks me a traitor.” He faltered, looking to the side for just an instant, almost as if he had spotted something out of the corner of his eye. “I want to win back his trust,” he said at last. “You can’t tell me that several hundred more men wouldn’t help your cause.”

“Of course they would, my lord.” He took a breath, then pressed on, knowing that he was about to put his life and that of his companions at risk. “But I don’t know if I trust you to ride with us. You’ve made no secret of your hatred for the king, and you’ve done nothing in the turns leading up to this war to indicate that you care a whit for the welfare of this realm. I fear that if you march with us, you may betray us.”

Aindreas’s face shaded to scarlet, but rather than flying into a rage, he merely shook his head. “I won’t. Everything you say about me is true. But this siege has. . has opened my eyes. And so has your arrival here. I’m in debt to the king, and to you, even more than you know. I’d be grateful for the opportunity to repay that debt.” His eyes darted to the side, once more, and he licked his lips. “I swear to you on the memory of my daughter, Brienne, that I will not betray you or defy the king again.”

Unsure of what to do, Gershon looked over at Lathrop and Caius. Labruinn held himself still, but after a moment the duke of Tremain gave a single nod.

“Very well, Lord Kentigern. Ready your men. They’ll be marching under the king’s banner, and so will be under my command. Are you prepared to follow my orders?”

“I am, swordmaster.”

Gershon nodded. He still wasn’t certain that he was doing the right thing; he dearly wished that the king were here. But something in Kentigern’s manner convinced him that the man wouldn’t betray them. After a moment he turned and followed Caius and Lathrop out of the castle and back down the road toward the king’s army.

“I don’t trust him,” Caius said quietly.

Gershon glanced back at Aindreas, who was watching them walk away. “Neither do I, Lord Labruinn. But he swore on the memory of his daughter. He wouldn’t have done so lightly.”

“So we’re placing our faith in a ghost?”

“No,” Lathrop said. “We’re placing our faith in a father’s love. And I, for one, feel quite confident that our trust will be rewarded.”

Yaella was by the river when the siege failed. She had heard shouting and screams, and had watched as the blazing pots of oil flew from the hurling arms, but she had merely assumed that the duke of Kentigern had sent out another raiding party. Only when the cries of Aneira’s men turned desperate did she begin to understand that another army had come to break the siege.

Soon men were streaming down the road toward the Tarbin, many of them falling as arrows and bolts pelted down upon them. She heard her duke shouting orders, urging his men to stand and fight, but the soldiers would not listen, and soon Rowan gave up. She saw him at the rear of his army, fleeing as well.

And she knew that the time had come.

All around her was bedlam-panicked men, horses straining against their reins, healers and their wounded desperate to cross the river before the men of Eibithar descended upon them. It was perfect.

A small part of her grieved at the thought of leaving Mertesse. She had served in Rouel’s court for nine years, and had been with Rowan for another. A decade. Not much to an Eandi, but nearly a third of her life. She had possessions in her chamber in Castle Mertesse that she would never see again. Gold she had earned in the Weaver’s service, clothes and baubles she had accumulated over the years, gifts Shurik had given to her. She regretted having to give these up, particularly the gifts from her beloved. She knew as well that she would have some need of gold in the coming days.

But if she returned to Mertesse she would never find another opportunity to slip away. On the other hand, if she left now, amid the tumult of the retreat, no one would miss her for hours, not even the duke. Eventually they would conclude that she had been killed in the Eibitharian assault, or had drowned as she tried to cross the river. Certainly they wouldn’t bother searching for her, at least not for long. She would become a walking wraith.

Those had been the Weaver’s words. A walking wraith. “No one will know you,” he had said, the night he entered her dreams and spoke to her of his movement, and of her special place in his plans. “No one will think to stop you. You’ll be able to go anywhere you choose, anywhere I tell you.”

“Yes, Weaver,” she had said.

He had told her to go east. There lay glory and revenge and peace; all that she sought.

“Yes, Weaver.”

And so, as the Eandi soldiers ran toward the river, followed by their duke, pursued by the enemy, Yaella ja Banvel, first minister to House Mertesse, slipped into the brush by the north bank of the Tarbin and crept slowly away. At one point she thought she heard Rowan calling for her, but by then she had put some distance between herself and the army’s camp. She knew that he would never find her. Still, she stayed low, keeping herself hidden, always in motion, always putting more distance between herself and the life she had known for so long.

Only when night fell, bringing darkness and safety, did she stand and begin to walk. She would have preferred to ride, but her mount had been taken from her by one of Kentigern’s bowmen. She was truly alone. There was nothing for her here anymore.

She kept her eyes fixed on the eastern sky, where the moons were climbing into the night. White Panya and red Ilias, guiding her. Eastward, toward glory.