Shapers of Darkness: Book Four of Winds of the Forelands (Winds of the Forelands Tetralogy)

by David B. Coe

  Cresenne was asleep when she arrived, and the old Qirsi nurse who had been caring for Bryntelle during the days since Grinsa’s departure was walking slowly around the sparse chamber humming softly to the baby. The guards unlocked the door for Keziah, and the minister approached the nurse.

  “Is she sleeping?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Aye. It’s been some time now. She’ll be wakin’ soon an’ wantin’ her mother.”

  “All right. I’ll take her.”

  “Of course, Minister.” The woman smiled at Bryntelle and kissed the child lightly on the forehead. “Until tomorrow, little one.”

  She handed the baby to Keziah and curtsied before leaving the chamber. Cresenne stirred when the guard closed and locked the steel door, but she didn’t wake and for the better part of an hour both mother and daughter remained asleep. Keziah walked in slow circles holding her niece, much as the nurse had done. She didn’t have much of a singing voice, but she sang anyway, keeping her voice so low that only Bryntelle could hear her.

  Eventually, as the chamber began to grow dark, she heard Cresenne moving once more. Turning toward the sound, she saw the woman sit up and run a hand through her tangled white hair.

  “How long have you been here?” she asked through a yawn.

  “An hour perhaps. Since the prior’s bells.”

  Cresenne glanced at the torches mounted on the wall near the door. A moment later they jumped to life, bright flames lighting the chamber. Their glow woke Bryntelle and she began to cry. Keziah carried her to her mother and in a moment Cresenne was nursing the child.

  “You look awful,” Cresenne said, glancing at Keziah once more. “Like you’ve been crying—” She stopped, all color draining from her face. “Has something happened? Have you heard from Grinsa?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.”

  Cresenne closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again passing her free hand through her hair a second time. “Then what?”

  Keziah cast a quick look toward the door. The guards in the corridor were talking quietly to each other. She sat beside Cresenne and keeping her voice to a whisper, described her conversations with Gershon and the king.

  “So now Kearney knows. Isn’t that good?”

  Keziah gave a small shrug. “Maybe it is. I don’t know. The more people who know, the greater the chances that the Weaver will learn of my deception.”

  “But surely you can’t think that the king would betray your confidence.”

  “Not intentionally, no. But knowing what I’ve risked on his behalf, he’ll find it hard to grow angry with me when I provoke him. And I needn’t tell you that even something that subtle won’t escape the notice of those who serve the movement.”

  Cresenne eyed her briefly, but said nothing. For some time, even before the Weaver’s attack and the abrupt changes it had brought to Cresenne’s life, Keziah and the woman had begun to build a strong friendship. But though they had told each other a good deal about their lives, Keziah hadn’t spoken to Cresenne of her affair with Kearney, nor had she admitted that she was Grinsa’s sister. Indeed, on more than one occasion Cresenne had wondered aloud if the minister and Grinsa had ever been lovers; it had been all Keziah could do to keep from laughing at the very idea of it. Sitting with her now, Keziah briefly considered telling her of the love she had shared with the king. Doing so might have helped Cresenne understand her concerns about all that had happened this day. Once again, however, something stopped her. Perhaps she was merely being overly cautious, or perhaps she feared the woman’s judgment. Many people of her race were no more accepting of love affairs between Eandi and Qirsi than were Ean’s children.

  Instead she raised another matter. “A moment ago, when I told you what Gershon, Kearney, and I had discussed, I left out one detail. The king also spoke of moving you to Glyndwr. That was to be the pretext for sending me away.”

  “I can’t say that I’m surprised. Before the Weaver tried to kill me His Majesty offered to grant me asylum in the highlands as an alternative to keeping me here as a prisoner.”

  “Yes, I remember.” When they had first discussed the possibility, Keziah had thought it a fine idea. So long as Cresenne remained in the City of Kings, she would never have any freedom at all. At least in Glyndwr, she would be free to roam the castle grounds whenever she liked without fear of having to return to this chamber every time a noble came to visit the king.

  “So are Bryntelle and I to leave then?” Cresenne asked, her tone surprisingly light.

  “I told the king that I thought you should remain here, where we can protect you. But I have to admit that this was somewhat selfish on my part. So long as the Weaver believes that I intend to make an attempt on your life, he won’t do so himself. As soon as he hears that you’ve left, he’ll try to kill you, and then he’ll punish me for failing to do as he instructed.”

  “That’s not selfish, it’s sensible.”

  The archminister stared at the narrow window near Cresenne’s bed. “It seemed selfish to me,” she said softly. “My point in raising all this is that if you would rather leave the castle now, I think I can still prevail upon the king to let you go.”

  “Do you think I should?”

  “As I said, once you’re away from here—away from me—the Weaver will come for you himself. But it may take him some time to find you.”

  Cresenne smiled grimly. “It never has before. Besides, he knows that I’m the king’s prisoner. If he doesn’t find me here, Glyndwr will be the next place he looks.”

  “You’re probably right. Leaving here would be quite dangerous, but it might also allow you a bit more freedom.”

  “There is no freedom when you’re afraid for your life.” Cresenne pushed the hair back from her brow. “Grinsa left me—left us—in your care. I have to trust that he did so for good reason. We’ll stay here.”

  Keziah smiled. “I’m glad.”

  “Have you heard anything from him?” Cresenne asked after a lengthy silence.

  It had been only a few days since the two women last spoke, but this was a question they asked each other every time they were together.

  “No, nothing. You?”

  “The last I heard he was on his way here,” Cresenne said. “But that was some time ago.”

  The minister put her hand on Cresenne’s. “I’m sure he’s all right. He’s probably just intent on getting back here as quickly as possible, so that he can see you and Bryntelle.”

  The woman grimaced in response. It took Keziah a moment to understand that she was trying to smile.

  “You fear for him.”

  “Of course, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but I sense that there’s more to what you’re feeling than you admit.” Keziah gave a slight shudder. “Have you seen something?”

  “No.”

  She knew immediately that the woman was lying. Keziah clasped her hands together in her lap, and hunched her shoulders as if against a chill wind.

  “Grinsa told me before he left that you had dreamed he’d be going. What else did you see, Cresenne?”

  “Nothing I can name,” she said, an admission in the words. It seemed to Keziah that she wanted to say more, but she merely pressed her lips together in a tight line and gazed down at Bryntelle. A single tear rolled slowly down her cheek.

  The archminister would have liked to press her on this, but she was a gleaner as well, and she knew how great a burden incomplete visions of the future could be.

  “Perhaps I should leave you.”

  Cresenne nodded, wiped the tear away.

  Keziah stood, but Cresenne took her hand before she could walk away from the bed.

  “I think Grinsa will make it back here safely,” she said. “But I’m afraid that I won’t be alive when he does.”

  The archminister knelt before her, forcing the woman to meet her gaze. “Are you certain you don’t want to leave here? Isn’t it possible that you could hide from the Weaver long enough for Grinsa to learn
his identity and destroy him?”

  “It doesn’t matter where I am. You should know that as well as anyone.” Cresenne’s tears were falling freely now. Was there no end to the anguish the Weaver had caused?

  “I’ve told you what Grinsa explained to me about the Weaver’s magic. When he’s in your dreams and he’s hurting you, he’s using your own magic against you. He can’t do anything to us—”

  “That we don’t allow him to do.” Cresenne nodded. “You’ve told me. But even knowing that, I’m not certain that I can stop him. Grinsa told you that it’s all an illusion, but look at me.” She gestured at the scars on her face. They were fading slowly, but they still stood out, stark against her fair skin. “What he did to me was real. It doesn’t matter whose magic he used, he was able to hurt me. Had it not been for Grinsa, he would have killed me.”

  “I know what he can do. I’ve felt it, just as you have.” The memory of her first encounter with the Weaver still made Keziah’s blood run cold. He had appeared before her, an imposing black figure framed against a blazing white light that pained her eyes. And when she resisted his attempts to read her thoughts, when she tried to hide the fact that Grinsa was in her dreams as well, the Weaver brought the full weight of his power down upon her mind. The pain was searing, unbearable. At that moment, she would have preferred to die than endure the man’s wrath for a moment longer. She understood Cresenne’s fear all too well. “He didn’t scar me as he did you, and he wasn’t trying to kill me. But I know what it is to have him turn my power against me. I remember how helpless I felt. And that’s the illusion, Cresenne. The pain is real, the marks he leaves on us are real. But we’re not helpless. That’s what Grinsa was trying to say.”

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

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

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

  “What is it?” Keziah asked the man.

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

  “Damn,” she muttered.

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

  “I’ll come back later.”

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

  “Where is His Majesty?” she asked.

  “His presence chamber, Archminister.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

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

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

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

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

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

  “And you preferred that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “But surely in our private conversations—”

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

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

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

  “I don’t believe you.”

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

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

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

  “Cresenne?”

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

  “And you trust her to keep this secret?”

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

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

  She winced. “Your Majesty—”

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

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

  The king nodded, as if suddenly unable to speak.

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

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

  “But this Weaver—”

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

  “You said before that he had hurt you.”

  “Not as much as he has others.”

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, all right.”

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

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

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

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

  Keziah hurried from the chamber, afraid as well.

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

  “Is His Majesty alone?”

  “Yes, my lord. He is now.”

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

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

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

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