Shapers of Darkness

Chapter Nine

Kentigern, Eibithar

He was awake before daybreak, driven from his slumber by visions that made him tremble with rage and terror. Aindreas of Kentigern, the tor atop the tor, duke of one of Eibithar’s great houses, had been frightened from his bed by wraiths. Again. It almost seemed that his castle was haunted, that the tor had been swallowed by Bian’s realm and that shades walked everywhere. Brienne, his beautiful daughter, whose murder had started this spiral down into misery and hatred and, ultimately, betrayal, hovered at his shoulder. The king’s man, the soldier of Glyndwr, killed in Aindreas’s ducal chambers by Jastanne ja Triln, lurked in corners, silent and grim, his eyes following the duke’s every movement, his very presence an accusation. The duke’s wife, Ioanna, had fallen back into the dark torpor that first gripped her in the turns following Brienne’s murder. She lived still, but as a mere ghost of the woman he once loved.

As always, Aindreas sought shelter in his pursuit of vengeance and his stores of Sanbiri red. But in recent days, he had come to understand that revenge was further from his grasp than it ever had been and that the flagons of wine brought to him by his servants were no longer adequate to ease his mind. Walking through the dimly lit corridors of his fortress with two soldiers in tow, the duke found himself wondering if he wouldn’t be better off taking his own life, and joining the specters roaming about his castle. He dismissed the notion immediately, horrified by the workings of his mind, ashamed of his cowardice. But he also took as a measure of how desperate he had grown that such an idea should even occur to him.

Reaching his presence chamber, taking hold of the door handle Aindreas hesitated for just an instant, suddenly aware of the two men behind him. As soon as he opened the door, the smell hit him like a fist, just as he had known it would. He was amazed that the guards didn’t notice, so strong was the stench. Blood.

The smell had lingered in the chamber since the murder of the soldier Kearney sent to speak with him. He could still see it all so clearly-the way the soldier fell when the Qirsi woman used her magic to shatter the bone in his leg, the glint of firelight on Jastanne’s blade as she raised it to cut open his throat, the man’s blood flowing like an ocean tide over the floor of Aindreas’s chamber. Jastanne had walked out a moment later, seemingly unaffected by what she had done. And though Aindreas knew that he should stop her, that she deserved to be imprisoned and executed for what she had done, he let her go.

Unwilling to reveal to anyone what truly had happened, Aindreas made it seem that he had killed the man himself, going so far as to pull the man’s dagger from its sheath and drop it in the crimson puddle that had formed around his body.

“He insulted me and our house,” the duke told Villyd Temsten, his swordmaster, when Villyd arrived in the chamber with several of his soldiers. Aindreas’s hands were trembling, and he felt unsteady on his feet, but that served only to make his story more convincing. “When I took offense and ordered him from the castle, he pulled his weapon. I had no choice but to defend myself.”

“Of course, my lord,” Villyd had said at the time, though his tone left Aindreas wondering if the swordmaster believed him. After making certain that the duke was unhurt he eyed the corpse for several moments, his brow furrowed. When next he spoke, he surprised Aindreas with the direction his thoughts had taken. “Under the circumstances, my lord, we might be best served to keep his death a secret. If the king learns that he’s dead, he’ll march against us.”

“That may be.” The duke hesitated. “What would you suggest we do?”

“We should tell the king’s other men that he offended you, that he threatened you with his blade in hand. But we’ll say that you overpowered him and placed him in your dungeons, and there he’ll remain until the king offers a formal apology for the soldier’s behavior. That should give us a bit of time to decide. . how to proceed from here.”

“Yes, of course. A fine suggestion, swordmaster.”

“That leaves us with the question of what to do with his body.”

Aindreas considered this for but a moment. “Is there anyone in the dungeon right now?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then we’ll put him in the forgetting chamber. Let him molder with the corpses there.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Villyd ordered his men to dispose of the corpse and clean the blood from the duke’s chamber. Then he approached Aindreas again.

“A word, my lord?”

He stepped from the chamber, giving Aindreas little choice but to follow.

“You must understand, my lord,” Villyd said, turning to face the duke once more. “I seek only to understand the circumstances of his death. But I have to ask you: what happened to the soldier’s leg?”

Aindreas just stared him. “His leg?” he managed at last.

“I couldn’t help but notice that his right leg was broken. I’m just wondering how that happened.”

“It. . it must have broken as we struggled. At one point I fell on top of him.” He tried to grin, failed. “It isn’t that hard to imagine, is it? A man of my size. . ”

Villyd frowned. Clearly he knew the duke was lying to him. “Yes, my lord.” He paused. Then, “Forgive me, my lord. But I heard talk of a woman-”

“Don’t, Villyd.” The duke rubbed a hand over his face, thirsting for his wine. “Some things are best left unsaid. Kearney’s man is dead-I killed him. Nothing else matters. Do you understand?”

“No, my lord. I don’t.”

At another time, Aindreas might have taken offense. Villyd, though, was not a man given to impertinence, and in this instance he deserved more than Aindreas’s lies. How was the duke to explain? He had betrayed his kingdom, his house, his people. He had tied himself to the Qirsi conspiracy, thinking that they might help him strike at Kearney and Javan. He had given his word in writing-in writing! — expecting that he could turn the renegades to his purposes. That, he had believed at the time, was his path to vengeance. Only recently had he come to realize the truth.

Tavis of Curgh hadn’t killed his beloved Brienne. It galled him to think it-he hadn’t yet found the courage to speak the words aloud. Even alone in his chambers late at night, drunk on Sanbiri red, wrestling with his grief and fury, he hadn’t been able to give voice to this horrid truth. Yet he knew it to be so. Brienne was a victim of the conspiracy, and-gods be damned for forcing him to confront this truth as well-so was the boy. The conspiracy had been deceiving them all, making them see enemies in the other courts when in fact the white-hairs were the danger. Others had been saying this to Aindreas for the better part of a year now-Javan of Curgh, Kearney, the strange gleaner whom the duke suspected of having helped Tavis win his freedom. But for so long Aindreas had refused to hear them. He still hadn’t found the strength to tell his wife all of this. How could he tell the swordmaster?

“I know you don’t,” Aindreas said at last. “I’m sorry; truly I am. But I can’t tell you any more than I have. I want to make right all I’ve done, but it’s going to take some time.”

“Perhaps I can help you, my lord.” He sounded so earnest. What had Aindreas done to deserve such fealty?

The duke laid a meaty hand on the man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Villyd. But no one can help me. This is something I have to do alone.” He glanced back toward the doorway. “See to the cleaning of my presence chamber. Please.”

Villyd gave a small bow, still looking displeased. “Yes, my lord.”

That had been a half turn ago-nearly all the waning had passed-and still the castle servants had been unable to clean away the reek of the dead man’s blood. Aindreas had ordered them back to the floor with their buckets and cloths a dozen times; he had ordered them to use perfumed soaps of the kind used by his wife and her ladies. Nothing worked. Every time he opened the door to his presence chamber, the odor reached him, reminding him of that night, forcing him to envision it all again.

As one might expect, upon being told that their leader had been imprisoned, the other eight riders sent by Kearney demanded to see the man. When Villyd refused, they requested an audience with the duke. Following Aindreas’s instructions, the swordmaster denied them this as well, at which point the soldiers broke camp and started back toward the City of Kings, vowing to inform the king of just how poorly they had been treated since reaching Kentigern’s gates. Aindreas had heard nothing from Audun’s Castle since.

It was only a matter of time, though. Aindreas had yet to submit to the king’s authority as demanded by the soldier. He still owed tribute to the Crown-four turns’ worth now. With this last act of defiance he had left no doubt: Kentigern was in rebellion. The Qirsi wanted him to break with the king, to make it plain that Kentigern would fight before it recognized Glyndwr’s claim to the throne. And though he had been reluctant to carry his defiance that far, Jastanne, who was one of the leaders of the Qirsi conspiracy, had left him little choice.

As it happened, since that bloody night he hadn’t heard anything from the Qirsi, either. Nor was Aindreas surprised by this. They had gotten from him what they wanted. Civil war was inevitable. The realm would be weakened. When Braedon and Aneira attacked, Kearney would be unable to marshal a force strong enough to withstand their assault. Soon, the western half of the Forelands would be engulfed in warfare, and when the white-hairs attacked, Eibithar, Braedon, and Aneira would fall. Wethyrn, Caerisse, Sanbira, and Uulraan would be left standing, but Wethyrn and Caerisse were the weakest of the seven realms, and Uulrann’s suzerain had long refused to concern himself with affairs beyond the mountains that bounded his domain. In essence, the warriors of Sanbira’s matriarchy would be all that remained of the Eandi armies. It would fall to them to keep the conspiracy from gaining complete dominion over the Forelands. Aindreas didn’t believe that Sanbira could hold off the Qirsi by herself for more than a few turns.

He wasn’t so vain as to think that the white-hairs wouldn’t have succeeded without him. The more he dealt with Jastanne, the more he recognized just how formidable a woman she was. She might be slight as a reed and so young as to make him feel like a wasted old man, but it seemed that she anticipated his every move. She could gauge his moods and fears better than he could himself. He tried to tell himself that her insights were born of magic, that they were little more than a sorcerer’s trick, much like the dancing flames he saw in the streets of Kentigern when the Revel came to his city. Yet, even if this was so, it did nothing to diminish their effect. From his first encounter with the woman, she had controlled him, turning to her advantage his grief and his blind certainty that Tavis and Javan were to blame for all that had befallen his house. If all the leaders of the conspiracy were like Jastanne, the Eandi were doomed, and had been from the start. His betrayal merely made matters a bit easier for the renegades.

Yet, knowing this did little to lessen his shame at the ease with which the Qirsi had ensnared him. A thousand times he had made up his mind to seek out Ioanna and confess all, and on each occasion, he hadn’t gotten as far as the corridor outside his chamber.

It would kill her, he had told himself. She would be lost once more to the blackness that gripped her after Brienne ‘s death. She had taken to her bed again after Aindreas tried to tell her of the woman Kearney held in the prison tower of Audun’s Castle, the Qirsi traitor who claimed to have paid gold for Brienne’s murder. How far would she fall if he told her of this wicked pact he had forged with the traitors?

He knew, though, that he didn’t remain silent out of concern for his wife, at least not entirely. Even had she been strong, her mind whole, he would have kept this from her. He couldn’t bear the thought of what she would say to him, what she would call him. And what if his children overheard? How would he explain to Ennis that he had disgraced their house, leaving the boy heir to his infamy? What answer could he possibly find for the tears Affery would shed upon learning of his treason?

Sitting at his writing table, the scent of blood filling his nostrils, Aindreas could think of no way to escape his ignominy, except of course the one he had turned to so many times before.

“Wine!” he bellowed, his voice echoing in the chamber. He glanced behind him at the shuttered window. No light seeped past the edges. It wasn’t even dawn, and already he was calling for his beloved Sanbiri red.

“They deserve better than this, Father.”

He turned at the sound of the voice, though reluctantly. It wasn’t really Brienne. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t yet Pitch Night, and even if it was, this was no sanctuary. But there she stood, her golden hair shimmering in the lamplight, a look of pity on her lovely face.

“Wine!” he called again, even as he continued to stare at her.

“It’s still not too late to end this, to make right all that you’ve done.”

“But it is too late,” he said. “Don’t you see? There’ll soon be civil war, all because of me. Can’t you smell the blood?”

“Do something, Father. You must.”

Before he could answer, there came a knock at his door. Brienne began to vanish, shaking her head slowly as she faded from view.

Aindreas let out a long, shuddering breath. “That had better be my wine.”

The door opened, revealing a frightened boy bearing two flasks of wine. The cellarmaster had learned not to send just one.

“Bring it here, boy,” the duke said. “Then be gone.”

The servant did as he was told, and for the next hour or two, past the ringing of the dawn bells, Aindreas did little more than sit at his table and drink his wine. After some time, he heard Villyd begin to work the men in the ward below his window, but still the duke didn’t leave his chair, though by now both flasks were empty.

Eventually, he must have dozed off, for another knock at his door made him start and overturn his empty goblet.

“Yes! Who is it?”

Ennis poked his head into the chamber, wide-eyed, an impish grin on his round face.

“Can I come in, Father?”

Aindreas stood quickly, stepping around the table to block his son’s view of the flagons. But he smiled, pleased to see the boy. “Of course you can.” The duke waved the boy into the chamber, crossing to one of the great chairs by his hearth. “Come sit with me,” he said, indicating the chair opposite his own with an open hand. Instead, the boy ran to the duke’s throne and climbed into it, looking every bit the Little Duke, as Aindreas’s soldiers called him.

“Did you sleep well?”

Ennis nodded.

“And have you already eaten?”

“Yes. Mother and Affery have, too.”

“Your mother’s up and about?” Aindreas asked, hoping he didn’t sound too surprised.

Again the lad nodded. “She said she needed to be preparing the castle for the rains.”

The duke frowned. “The rains?”

“Yes. Tonight.” Ennis regarded his father as if the duke were simple. “It’s going to flood tonight, like it does every year.”

Aindreas merely stared at the boy. It was the last day of Amon’s Turn. Tonight would be Pitch Night after all. He glanced about the chamber, as if expecting to see Brienne once more. How had he managed to lose track of the days? Apparently even Ioanna had known, though she had barely left her bedchamber since the Night of Two Moons.

As the boy said, there would be floods this night all across the Forelands. Atop the tor, of course, none in the castle had cause for concern, and even in the city there was little risk that the rains would do serious damage. But in the surrounding countryside, particularly near Harrier Fen, and in the northern baronies of his dukedom nearest the Heneagh River, many would be forced from their homes until the waters receded. Hundreds from the closer villages would seek refuge in the city this night. No doubt they would be heartened to see their duke and his duchess in the city with them, offering what comfort was theirs to give. He and his wife had gone to the city every year since his investiture as duke. The previous year, Brienne had gone with them. But this year. . Aindreas wasn’t certain that Ioanna was fit to be seen in public by so many, nor did he have it in his heart to be there himself.

“Father?”

He now realized that Ennis had been saying something all this time, though he had no idea what.

“I’m sorry, son. I was thinking of something else. What did you say?”

“I asked you whether the castle has ever flooded.”

Aindreas made himself smile. “No. We’re up on the tor. Water runs down to the lands below and eventually to the Tarbin. There’ll be no flooding here tonight.”

Ennis nodded gravely. “That’s good. I don’t want a flood.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do.”

“Will you and Mother go down to the city again?”

Aindreas looked away. “I’m not certain. We might.”

“I think you should.”

“You do? Why?”

Ennis shrugged, looking so much older than his nine years. “I think Mother should be out of the castle for a time. I don’t think she’s left it since. .” He dropped his gaze. “You know.”

He was uncommonly clever, and far wiser than most children several years his senior.

“You’re right, she hasn’t,” the duke said. “And it might well do her some good to walk among her people.” I just don’t know if she can do so without humiliating herself. “I’ll think about it, all right?”

“All right.”

“Now, don’t you have lessons to attend?”

“Not until midmorning bells.”

But even as he spoke the words, the bells in the city began to toll. Ennis covered his mouth and laughed, his eyes wide once more.

Aindreas couldn’t help but grin. “You’d best be on your way.”

“Yes, Father,” the boy said, scrambling off the throne and running to the door.

Brienne stood by the doorway, watching her brother leave. Then she turned her gaze accusingly toward the duke.

“You must do something, Father.”

Aindreas closed his eyes tightly, refusing to look at her. “You’re not real. I know you’re not.”

“But I can be.”

At that his eyes flew open, but the apparition was already gone. The duke felt dizzy, and he wished that he’d eaten before drinking all that wine.

I can be.

A short time later, Villyd came to the duke’s presence chamber, as he did most mornings. Aindreas expected the usual dull report on the day’s training, but as soon as the swordmaster entered the chamber it became clear to the duke that this discussion would be different. Villyd looked unusually grim, his stout frame coiled and tense, a troubled expression in his pale blue eyes. He bowed to the duke, but then began to pace rather than standing at attention near the hearth, as he often did.

“Something’s troubling you, swordmaster,” Aindreas said after a brief silence.

“Aye, my lord,” the man said, clearly distracted.

“Do you care to tell me what it is, or shall we just remain here in silence for the rest of the day?”

Villyd halted, meeting the duke’s gaze, an embarrassed grin on his face. “Forgive me, my lord. I’ve only just received the tidings myself. I’m still trying to make sense of them. Seems there’s been a good deal of movement along the south bank of the Tarbin.”

“The Aneirans have been gathering men there for more than a turn now. It’s not that surprising, is it?”

“This is more than just men, my lord. We have reports of carts leaving Mertesse this very morning, of laborers marching from the city as well.”

“Do you trust what you’re hearing?”

“Normally I would, my lord. These reports come from peddlers we’ve trusted in the past-several of them, mind you; not just one or two. But with the rains coming tonight, it makes no sense. They have time yet to cross the river, but Pitch Night in Amon’s Turn is about as poor a time to begin a siege as I can imagine, especially one that’s likely to begin so close to the Tarbin.”

“Maybe the peddlers were wrong this time.”

“Perhaps,” Villyd said, in a way that made it clear he didn’t believe this for a moment.

“Do you think they were trying to deceive us?”

The swordmaster nodded, resuming his pacing. “That did occur to me. If they were, if we can’t depend on them anymore, it makes it far more difficult to guard against an assault from the south.”

No doubt that was the point. Aindreas muttered a curse, then stood and opened the shutters that darkened his window. It was a windy day, cold for so late in Amon’s Turn, though clear. He could see no sign of the dark clouds that would cover the sky by nightfall, though there could be no doubt that they would come.

“There will be no attack today,” the duke said at last, knowing in his heart that it was so. “But soon, tomorrow perhaps, certainly within the next half turn.”

“I agree, my lord.”

Aindreas turned to face him, leaving the window unshuttered. “Begin your preparations for a siege, swordmaster. Tell the kitchenmaster and quartermaster that you’re to have their complete cooperation, on my orders.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“How goes your training of the men we’ve added since the last siege?”

“Well, my lord.” The swordmaster smiled faintly.

“They remain a bit raw, do they?”

The man nodded, his expression souring. “A bit, my lord. I intend to work them twice each day until the attack comes. They’ll be ready.”

“I have no doubt of that. We’ll speak again later, Villyd. Let me know if you have any trouble making your preparations.”

“Very good, my lord. Thank you.” The swordmaster bowed and left the chamber.

Once he was alone, Aindreas fell back into his chair, rubbing his eyes. A siege. He had been expecting it; he was no fool, after all. Nor did he have much doubt as to what the Qirsi would expect of him. He opened his mouth to call for more wine, but then thought better of it, choosing instead to seek out Ioanna. She would be wanting to speak with him.

He found her in the great hall with the prelate, surrounded by piles of blankets, no doubt intended for the unfortunates who would crowd into the city after sundown.

Aindreas crossed to where she stood and bent to kiss her cheek. She looked in poor health, her cheeks sunken and her skin sallow. Aindreas could only imagine what the city folk would think upon seeing her. But she smiled at the sight of him, and appeared to have regained a good deal of her strength.

“I want to bring them food as well,” she said, as Aindreas glanced about at the blankets. “I’ve already sent word to the kitchenmaster.”

“He can give you some,” the duke said, sighing and facing her. “Not a lot.”

“Whyever not?”

He glanced at the prelate, who had paused in what he was doing. The man would know soon enough. Best to let him hear as well.

“Because there’s to be a siege.”

Ioanna raised a shaking hand to her mouth. “Ean guard us all! You know this? They’re coming already?”

“Not yet, no. But Villyd and I are quite certain. I expect they’ll come in the next few days. Certainly before the Night of Two Moons in Elined’s Turn.”

At least she didn’t ask him who would be coming. At that moment he wasn’t sure which force would arrive first: Kearney’s guard or the army of Mertesse.

“Perhaps I should bring only the blankets then.” She looked up at him, looking so frightened. “Or will we need those, too?”

They would, but he hadn’t the heart to say so. Planning for this night had done her so much good. “Tomorrow begins Elined’s Turn. We shouldn’t need the blankets. And I think we can also spare a bit of food. Just not as much as we might in other years.”

“All right.”

He took her hands, lifting one to his lips. “We’ll be all right. The gates will hold.”

She nodded.

“We’ll ride down to the city at twilight,” he said, knowing that he had to go, that she needed him to. Even as he spoke the words, though, he saw movement behind Ioanna, near the entrance to the hall. Looking past her, he saw Brienne again, watching him, nodding slightly.

“Aindreas? What is it?”

He shook his head, forcing himself to meet his wife’s gaze. “It’s nothing. I should join Villyd in the ward. He’s having trouble with some of the new men. I might be able to help.”

“Of course.”

The duke kissed her cheek, then hurried off, refusing to look at Brienne, though he could feel her eyes following him.

He found the swordmaster in the castle courtyard, just as he expected, and he spent much of what remained of the day alongside Villyd, working the men. Many of the younger soldiers did need a good deal more training, but they weren’t nearly as unskilled as he had feared they might be. He was glad to be out of his chamber, away from his wine and the smell of blood. No doubt his own swordwork needed polishing, though the swordmaster would never presume to say so. It felt good to feel the hilt of a blade in his hand, to work muscles that had been idle for so many turns.

As the day went on, the sky began to cloud over, and by the time Aindreas and Ioanna rode forth from the castle, followed by nearly a hundred men and several carts loaded high with blankets and provisions, the rain had started to fall, driven by a chill wind. Already, the streets of the city were filling with men, women, and children, a good number of them carrying what few possessions they had chosen to save from the rising waters. Most were making their way to the Sanctuary of Bian at the southern end of the city.

As if realizing this, Ioanna abruptly reined her mount to a halt.

“No,” she said. “I can’t.”

“Ioanna?”

“I can’t go there!” she said, turning terrified eyes on the duke. “I can’t. I don’t want to. . to see. .”

He saw Brienne again, standing in the rain, watching them, her golden hair soaked, water running down her cheeks like tears.

And at last he understood.

You ‘re not real, he had told her earlier that very day.

To which she had replied, I can be.

Ioanna was sobbing, her entire body convulsing.

“You don’t have to,” Aindreas said, as gently as he could. But I do. He reached out to her, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “I’ll go. You return to the castle.”

“But-”

“It’s all right. She’ll. . she’ll understand.”

Ioanna actually smiled, though an instant later she was sobbing again.

Aindreas waved one of his captains forward. “Take eight of your men, and escort the duchess back to the castle.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Go with him, loanna. I’ll be back before long.”

She seemed to hear him, but she did nothing. After several moments Aindreas nodded to the man, who took her reins in hand, turned her mount, and began to lead her back toward the tor. The duke watched her go, then rode back to another captain.

“See these people to the sanctuary. I have. . matters to discuss with the prioress.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Aindreas spurred his mount forward. He was shaking now, like a boy awaiting his Fating. But he didn’t slow his horse. He had put off this encounter for far too long.

The sanctuary gates were open when he reached them, and hundreds of people had already crowded into the courtyard outside the shrine. Seeing this, Aindreas hesitated.

“Lord Kentigern.”

The prioress strode toward him on long legs, her black robe billowing in the wind. She had a hood over her head, but wisps of red and silver hair framed her face.

“Good evening, Prioress. Men from the castle are on their way. They bear food and blankets.”

“You have our thanks, my lord.”

His eyes flitted toward the shrine. “I had hoped. .” He swallowed, unable to speak the words.

“I’ve wondered when you would come to speak with her, my lord. I expected you long ago.”

Aindreas glared at her. “You would presume-”

“I presume nothing, my lord. And I serve the god, not you.”

“You serve in my realm!”

“The great ones care nothing for realms and titles. You know that as well as I do, my lord.”

She was right, of course. The sanctuaries had always existed outside the jurisdiction of the noble courts. When Tavis escaped his dungeon, Aindreas knew that the boy took refuge in the sanctuary. Still, he didn’t dare try to take him back by force. Not from here. The cloisters might hold sway in the castles of the Forelands, but only a fool would invite Bian’s wrath by violating the Deceiver’s sanctuary.

“Do you wish to enter the shrine, my lord?” the prioress asked.

“I. . I had intended to. But with all these people here, I’m not sure anymore.”

“There are always people in the sanctuary on this night, my lord. We shelter them in the novitiate and the clerics’ refectory. The shrine is yours, if you so wish it.”

Despite the anger he had felt only moments before, he was grateful to her. “I do. Thank you, Mother Prioress.”

“Of course, my lord. One of the brothers will see to your mount.”

Aindreas swung himself off his horse, but then merely stood there, gazing toward the shrine, heedless of the rain and wind.

“She’ll be pleased to see you, my lord. It’s been so long since any came to speak with her.”

It took him a moment. “Others have come?” he demanded, whirling toward her.

She regarded him placidly, torchlight glittering in her dark eyes. “You know one has.”

“Tavis!” he whispered.

“Lord Curgh spoke to her just days after her murder.”

“Did you hear them? Do you know what she said to him?”

“The words of the dead are beyond my hearing.” She smiled for just a moment. “Except of course for the words of my dead. I could only hear what Lord Curgh said to your daughter.”

“And what was that?”

“It’s not my place to say. I will tell you, though, that he spoke to her of his love, of his grief at losing her. I didn’t think much of the boy when I met him, but I don’t believe that he killed Lady Brienne.”

He’d known this already. Yet hearing her say it made his stomach heave. He could only nod.

“Speak to her, my lord. Facing one’s dead is never easy, but there is some comfort to be found in the Deceiver’s shrine.”

“Yes,” he said dully. “Thank you, Mother Prioress.”

He turned once more, gazing up at the narrow spire atop the great building. Shuddering, he forced himself forward, crossing the courtyard to the shrine’s marble stairway. He hesitated at the base of the stairs, but then climbed them and entered the shrine. It was empty of people, just as the prioress had assured him it would be. Tapered candles stood at either end of the altar, and between them a stone bowl and knife for blood offerings. Dozens of candles also flickered along the walls, lighting the shrine and making shadows shift and dance like demons from the Underrealm. Behind the altar, looming over it like storm clouds above the tor, the stained-glass image of the Deceiver glimmered dimly, illuminated from without by torches in the sanctuary’s inner courtyard.

Aindreas stepped to the altar, his gaze falling briefly to the knife.

“Hello?” he called, his voice echoing loudly through the shrine.

No answer. Would she refuse to come to him? Had he waited too long to speak with her?

“Brienne?”

“Father!” The reply seemed to come from a great distance, soft as a sigh. Still, the very sound of her voice made him flinch as might the hammering of a siege engine against Kentigern’s gates. He took a step back, struggling with an overwhelming urge to run.

Before he could, however, she appeared before him, just on the other side of the altar. Her form was insubstantial at first, a shimmering pale mist. But it quickly coalesced, his daughter seeming to come to life before his eyes. Her golden hair, her soft grey eyes, glowing as if lit from within. She wore the same sapphire gown he remembered from the night of her death, though it was now unbloodied and whole.

“Brienne,” he sobbed, tears coursing down his face.

“Poor Father,” she said, a sad smile on her lips. She looked so much like her mother had at the same age.

“Forgive me!” he cried.

“For what, Father?”

“For. .” He stopped himself. It was so easy to forget that the Brienne he saw in his presence chamber and the corridors of his castle was but a creation of his mind, a false image brought on by grief and guilt. This was the real Brienne, or at least what remained of her. “For not coming sooner,” he said at last, silently cursing himself for giving in to weakness and lies, even here, in front of his lost child.

“It’s all right. I know how you’ve mourned me.”

He felt as though she had taken hold of his heart. Did she really know? Had she seen all he had done in the name of vengeance? “Your mother wished to come” was all he could think to say. “She’s suffered greatly since your. . since we lost you.”

“I understand.”

They stood in silence for several moments. Aindreas managed to compose himself, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the wraith. She had been so lovely, so young. And though she looked much as he remembered her, there was something cold and distant in her appearance now. It was as if she had aged centuries without actually being touched by the passage of time. Was this what happened in the Underrealm?

“You have questions for me,” she said at last.

He nodded. “So many.”

“He didn’t do it, Father.” There could be no mistaking the rebuke in her voice. “Tavis didn’t kill me.”

Aindreas so wanted to look away, but her gleaming eyes held his. “I know that now.”

“You tortured him.”

“Yes.”

“You nearly started a civil war.” I might still. “It seemed so clear what had happened.”

“I could have told you the truth, had you only come to me and asked.”

The duke was crying again. “I know,” he whispered.

“He’s dead now, the man who killed me.”

“What?”

“He’s here, in the god’s realm. I’ve seen him.”

The god’s realm. The Underrealm. Aindreas shivered, his breath catching, as if Bian himself had wrapped an icy hand around his throat.

“How?” he managed to ask.

“Tavis killed him, just as he promised he would.”

“Tavis did?”

“Yes. He swore that he would avenge me, and he has. He’s suffered enough, Father. He deserved a far better fate.”

“So did you,” Aindreas said, his voice hardening. He still couldn’t bring himself to forgive the boy, though for what he couldn’t say. “At least Tavis is alive. At least Javan still has his son.”

Brienne stared at him, saying nothing.

“Who was he?” the duke asked after some time, discomfitted by her silence. “Who was this man who murdered you?”

“An assassin, hired by the Qirsi. He posed as a servant during the feast that night. But you know all this already, don’t you, Father?”

“Not all of it, no.”

“Enough. I know what you’ve done. I gave you the chance to confess all to me just now, but you wouldn’t. Now I’m telling you: I know.”

She had been testing him, as if he were but a boy. He didn’t know whether to be offended or ashamed. He wanted to beg her forgiveness, and also to rail at her for speaking to him so. You ‘re still my daughter, he would have liked to say. You can’t possibly know what it’s like for a parent to lose a child. But he couldn’t bring himself to respond at all, at least not at first.

“How could you join them, Father? You’ve made yourself a traitor. You’ll bring disgrace to all who love you-Mother, Affery, Ennis.”

“How is it that you know all this?” he asked.

“We can see much from the god’s realm. And we speak among ourselves. You sent many Qirsi to the Underrealm before you found those who could help you join their conspiracy. They’ve told me a great deal.”

“Is it. . Have you suffered much?”

A faint smile touched her face and was gone. “Not much, no.”

“Is the god kind to you? Do you walk with the honored dead?”

“He forbids us from speaking of it with the living.” For the first time, finally, tears appeared on her cheeks, glistening like dew in the light of early morning. “You needn’t worry about me. You should think only of Mother and the others. You have to end this, Father.” How many times had he heard her speak those words in his mind? “You can’t help the conspiracy anymore.”

“It’s more complicated than you know.”

“Is it? I think you’re just frightened of disgracing yourself. I think you’re afraid to tell Mother the truth.”

“Disgrace is no small thing, Brienne. Shall I leave your brother to rule a dishonored house? Shall I doom Kentigern to centuries of disrepute and irrelevance?”

“If that’s what it takes, then yes.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes, Father, I do! You-”

“Enough!”

She winced, her entire body seeming to ripple, like a candle flame that sputters in a sudden gust of wind. For just an instant Aindreas feared that she would leave him.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Please, don’t go.”

She had lowered her gaze, as she often did when chastised. The assassin’s blade might as well have found the duke’s heart, so much did it ache as he looked upon her. “You were always headstrong as a child. Your mother said it was because you were so like me, but I think you favored her in every way.”

The wraith looked up and smiled, radiant and so alive he wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms, as he had when she was just a babe.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to tell you,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Do you remember when I was seven, and I went riding and fell off Cirde?”

“Yes, of course. You broke your arm in two places. Your mother was ready to prohibit you from riding again until you were past your Fating.”

“But you told her that all riders get thrown, that it would only serve to make me a better horsewoman.”

He grinned, his eyes stinging with tears at the memory. “I remember it well.”

“I never told you the reason I fell.”

“You said that Cirde reared for no reason.”

“I lied. I was standing in the saddle.”

His eyes widened. “Brienne!”

“I’d seen a rider do it during the Revel, and I wanted to try.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck. You could have-” He stopped. You could have been killed, he was going to say. Was it folly to speak so to a wraith? “It’s something I would have done,” he muttered instead.

“I know. I was more like you than you think, even then. And I was always proud of that.”

Aindreas nodded, unable to speak.

“I’m sorry I angered you, Father. But I don’t want my death to be the cause of any more killing, and I certainly don’t want it to bring our house to ruin.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. He swallowed, took a long breath. “I’ll find a way to undo all that I’ve done,” he told her. “You have my word.”

“You’ll confess all to Mother?”

“I. . I’ll think about it.” But already he was wondering if there might be another way out of this, one that made such a confession unnecessary.

“She loves you, Father. She’ll forgive you.”

If she survives hearing what I’ve done. “And you? Can you forgive me?”

She smiled, looking almost shy. “Of course I can.”

Aindreas smiled as well. In that single moment nothing else mattered. “Thank you.”

The enormous image of Bian behind her flashed for just an instant, the colors in the stained glass vivid and brilliant. Thunder rumbled a few seconds later, making the stone beneath his feet pulse. No doubt it was raining in earnest by now.

“I should return to the castle,” he said. “Your mother will want to hear all about you. I’m sorry to have to go.”

“It’s all right, Father. We can speak again next turn, and every one after that, if you like.”

A turn from now his castle would most likely be under siege. Two turns from now he might well be dead. But he just smiled and nodded. “I’d like that very much.”

She began to fade from view, slowly, like morning stars disappearing in a brightening sky. “Farewell, Father.”

“Goodbye, Brienne,” he said, through fresh tears. “I love you.”

She said nothing, but he thought he saw her smile one last time before vanishing altogether.

He began to sob once more, standing alone beside the god’s altar. He remained there for some time, until he was finally able to compose himself. Then he turned and left the shrine, suddenly eager to be away from the sanctuary and back in his castle, though all that awaited him there was lies and ghosts and the promise of war.