by David B. Coe
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.
Chapter
Ten
Galdasten, Eibithar, Elined’s Moon waxing
rom so great a distance, even on as clear and bright a day as this one, they might have been merchant ships gathering together on the open sea in some strange waterborne marketplace. Their sails were down, and though Renald, duke of Galdasten, thought he could see sweeps bristling on the sides of the vessels, he couldn’t be certain. Or perhaps he didn’t wish to be.
They had sailed into view two days before, the first morning of the new waxing. The clouds that had covered the sky on Amon’s Pitch Night had still darkened the horizon that morning, and the waters of Falcon Bay were dotted with whitecaps. The vessels had quickly arrayed themselves across the mouth of the bay—a defensive posture. They hadn’t moved since. They simply waited there, no doubt for the other cluster of ships to move into position opposite them.
Renald had first noticed this second group of vessels some time ago, and though at so great a distance he could say nothing about them with any confidence, the duke felt reasonably certain that they represented the bulk of the Braedon fleet. From this vantage point in Galdasten Castle, atop the tor that had been the seat of his family’s power for centuries, on the ramparts of what his forebears had named the eagle tower, Renald would have a fine view of the coming naval war. And if the weather held, the first battles would begin soon, probably within the next day or two.
Eibithar’s fleet had long been a source of great pride for Renald’s people. Most of the realm’s ships had been built in either Galdasten or Thorald, and though they were not considered quite as swift or sturdy as those constructed in Braedon or Wethyrn, they were as fine as any others in the Forelands. But next to that of the empire, Eibithar’s navy appeared pitifully small. Braedon had half again as many ships, and if there was any truth to the tales told by the sailing men who gathered in Galdasten’s port, they were captained by some of the finest seamen on Amon’s Ocean. “The sun of the empire,” it was said, referring to Braedon’s flag, which bore a golden sun from which flew great red arrows, “rises and falls on the waters of Amon.” There was a reason why the empire had managed to claim as its own most of the important islands off the shores of the Forelands. Her soldiers might not have been any more formidable than those of Aneira or Eibithar, but her fleet had no equal.
Certainly the duke had little doubt that Braedon’s navy would prevail in the battles that were about to be waged within sight of his castle. He just couldn’t decide whether to rejoice at this, or to quail.
“It’s ironic that they would choose to begin this war in Falcon Bay,” the duchess said softly, the ocean wind stirring her dark hair, a hand raised to her brow to shield her eyes from the sun.
Ewan Traylee, Galdasten’s swordmaster, glanced at her, a frown on his broad face. “Irony has nothing to do with it, my lady. Braedon’s ships will seek to drop anchor off the shores of Galdasten. The cliffs are low here. If they have it in mind to invade the realm, this is the best place to begin their assault.”
Elspeth smiled thinly. “Of course, swordmaster.”
Renald, who knew precisely what she meant, feared that she might say more. Fortunately, his wife seemed content to mutter the word “idiot” under her breath, and leave it at that.
“We should discuss your plans for the defense of the strand, my lord,” Ewan said a moment later, seeming not to have heard. “If the naval battle goes as I fear it might, we’ll have to be ready to repel Braedon’s invasion sooner rather than later.”
Renald kept his eyes on the bay and the ships, refusing to look at either the swordmaster or his wife. He felt queasy, and he wished that both of them would simply leave him alone.
“My lord?”
Elspeth placed her hand in his, something she rarely did, though he knew better than to mistake this for affection. Her skin was hot, as if she had been stricken with a fever.
“Yes, Ewan. We’ll speak later today. Perhaps you can come to my chamber at the ringing of the prior’s bells.”
“Of course, my lord.”
She squeezed his hand, so that his signet ring dug painfully into the finger next to it.
“You can go, swordmaster. I’m certain that you have much to do.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Ewan bowed to Renald and Elspeth in turn, before leaving them alone atop the tower.
She dropped his hand. “You haven’t told him,” she said, an accusation.
“There’s nothing to tell him. I’ve made no decisions as of yet.” The words were brave, but even he could hear the flutter in his voice. Damn her.
The duchess actually smiled, sharp white teeth gleaming in the sun. There could be no questioning her beauty. If only he had been wise enough to marry a plainer woman.
“You want me to believe that you’ve considered riding to war?” She laughed cruelly. “Come now, Renald. You’re no warrior. You’re afraid of me. You’d never raise your sword against the emperor’s army.”
How he would have liked to prove her wrong, to strap a blade to his belt, swing himself onto his mount, and lead the Galdasten army into battle. But Elspeth was as brilliant as she was lovely, and she knew him all too well.
“You want to be king, don’t you?” she went on. “You want our sons to aspire to more than this dukedom and the worthless thaneships in Lynde and Greyshyre. Both of us do.”
He turned his gaze back to the ships. The Revel was in Galdasten City this turn. How strange to think that war could begin amid the music and spectacle of the festival. “It’s one thing to side with Aindreas,” he said. “It’s another thing entirely to sit by idly as the realm is attacked.”
“No, it’s not! The one leads naturally to the other. Siding with Kentigern has no purpose if you intend to turn around and fight beside Kearney in defense of his kingdom.”
“His kingdom is my kingdom! If I allow it to be destroyed—”
She closed her eyes briefly, the w
ay she did when she lost patience with one of their boys. “No one’s suggesting that you allow it to be destroyed, Renald. Even now men march toward Galdasten from Curgh, Thorald, and Heneagh, as well as from the City of Kings.”
Had she overheard the reports he received from Ewan’s scouts? He could almost imagine her standing in the corridor outside his ducal chambers, an ear to his door. He had every right to be angry with her, but he just nodded dully, unable to say anything.
“The realm isn’t about to fall, at least not yet. And before it does, you can step in and save it. But for now, your first duty is to the defense of this castle, and the people of Galdasten City. Rather than marching out to battle with Ewan, you should be readying your fortress for a siege.”
“Kearney would see through that in a moment.”
“I don’t care about Kearney, and neither should you. The question is, what will the people of Galdasten think? Do you believe that they wish to give their sons and husbands over to this king? What will our allies in Eardley and Sussyn think? What will they say in Domnall and Rennach?”
“Some of them may join with Kearney.”
“Perhaps. But isn’t it just as possible that they’ll look to Galdasten before deciding what to do?”
The duke glanced at her. Sunlight shone in her brown eyes, making them appear warm, almost loving. He looked away quickly. It seemed likely that the other houses were doing just what she said: waiting for Galdasten to choose its course so that they might follow. She questioned whether he had courage enough to fight a war. Didn’t it require just as much nerve to lead a rebellion?
“What if Ewan won’t follow me? What if his men won’t?”