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

by David B. Coe

  “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 si
gn 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.