by David B. Coe
He heard a dull thud as something struck the grass nearby. At the same time, he realized that Numar’s men had resumed their singing.
Two of his men walked to where the object had landed and bent to look at it, lowering their torches. Then, both of them jumped back, one of the men crying out like a frightened child. Tebeo hurried to where they stood, hearing another object hit the grass as he did. But already he knew what he would find. He had heard of attacking armies doing such things—in past sieges, it had proved quite effective in breaking the spirit of defending soldiers. Still, he had hoped that Numar was incapable of such cruelty, such ruthlessness. But the man was a Solkaran, and Tebeo should have known better. The duke’s stomach heaved and he willed himself not to be sick, even as he tasted bile.
“My lord,” one of the soldiers sobbed. “It’s . . . I know him.”
Tebeo knelt in the grass and stared down at the severed head of one of his men. He, too, recognized the soldier, though he had never learned the man’s name. Yet another head hit the grass behind him, and a moment later two more. There had been sixteen archers in all, and, of course, Bausef as well. And so eventually there would be seventeen of them in the courtyard of his castle, grisly reminders of the armsmaster’s warning. It may be more of a risk to send them out of the castle than it is to keep them here. The words echoed in the duke’s mind, like bells calling mourners to funeral rites.
“Clean them up,” he said quietly, knowing he ought to say more, but having no words that could possibly have any meaning in the face of this.
He returned to the ramparts, looking out toward the Solkaran army once more. There was a great fire burning near the siege engines—perhaps a pyre for his men. A moment later he saw that something loomed in front of the flames, and he knew that he had been wrong a moment before. There would only be sixteen thrown back into his castle. The seventeenth head, no doubt that of his master of arms, had been impaled upon a pike and raised above the Solkaran camp. A monument to Tebeo’s folly.
Chapter
Fifteen
Curtell, Braedon, Elined’s Moon waning
t had been more than half a turn since Kayiv’s death, since Nitara had killed him. In the days since, those who lived in the palace of Emperor Harel the Fourth had spoken of little else. Whispered conjecture about their love affair and Kayiv’s ties to the shadowy Qirsi conspiracy drifted among the corridors and bedchambers of the great palace like smoke from a distant fire. And just as the smell of a fire will linger long after the last flame is extinguished, the subtle scent of fear that accompanied these whispers clung to every bed linen, every tapestry, every shred of clothing until the palace reeked of it.
Yet in all this time, and in all these conversations, no one had attempted to cast any doubt on her story. He tried to force himself on me, she had said that day. He loved me still and couldn’t bear the thought that I no longer loved him. For how could I love any man who had betrayed the realm? Knife wounds on her shoulder and breast and hand, a bloodied lip, her clothes torn and stained with the minister’s blood, she had looked every bit the victim of frustrated passion and rage. None of them thought to question her. Certainly it never occurred to any of them that she would wound herself, that she would draw Kayiv to her with the promise of a kiss, only to drive a hidden dagger into his chest.
Yet she had done all of that and more. Such was the power of her love for the Weaver. And though she knew that they couldn’t be together yet, that Dusaan’s heart and brilliant mind were intent on his plans for the coming war, she knew as well that someday she would be his queen. He had all but said it in the days following the minister’s death. She had only to wait. She had killed for him, and she would be rewarded.
Were it not for her memory of Kayiv’s last words to her, murmured as his life’s blood flowed over her clothes and his breath against her face slackened, she would have been content merely to wait for their victory.
“I loved you so.”
She could hear the words in the keening of the winds that blew down from the Crying Hills, as they always did during the growing turns. She could hear them in the distant rumble of thunder from yet another storm and in the steady rhythm of the rain on the palace roof. They haunted her dreams and seemed to wake her in the morning, like the whispered greeting of a lover.
“I loved you so.”
Nitara still wasn’t certain why Kayiv had risked so much in the days before his death. Surely he must have known that Dusaan would punish him for his betrayal. She could only guess that perhaps he had thought to win back her love by destroying the high chancellor. If so, he had misjudged her and the depth of her feelings for the Weaver. Without having shared her bed, Dusaan already was more to her than Kayiv had ever been. He was her hope, her dream, her promise of a day when Qirsi would rule the Forelands. No matter what Kayiv might have been to her—no matter what he had desired to be to her again—he could never be all that.
And yet, this very morning she had awakened to the minister’s voice again, and without thinking had answered, “I love another now,” as if he were still alive, as if she could wound him with the words. “I love the high chancellor.”
She nearly laughed at her own foolishness, though her hands trembled as she dressed and her stomach felt too sour to eat any breakfast. Making her way to the high chancellor’s chamber for the daily discussion among all of Harel’s Qirsi advisors she walked swiftly, as if pursued by Kayiv’s wraith. Seeing the Weaver would make her feel better. It always did.
“I loved you so.”
She nearly ran the rest of the way, listening to the slap of her feet on the stone floor—anything to drown out the minister’s voice. Breathing a sigh of relief when she finally reached Dusaan’s ministerial chambers, she took her usual place near the high chancellor and waited for the discussion to begin. Yet, even after Dusaan started speaking, she thought she could hear Kayiv, his voice as soft as a planting breeze.
Nitara tried to occupy her mind with thoughts of Dusaan, of what it would be like to have him love her, to feel him inside her, aflame with desire, wild and rampant. But when she closed her eyes briefly, trying to hold in her thoughts the image of the Weaver above her, moving with her in a cresting rhythm, she found not Dusaan’s face, but Kayiv’s, the familiar gentle smile on his lips.
She opened her eyes abruptly, shaking herself, as a cat emerges from a dream. The high chancellor eyed her for just an instant, a frown on his lean, square face. She made herself watch him, drinking him in as she would a dazzling sunrise: his broad shoulders and powerful chest, his glorious mane of white hair, his high cheekbones and gleaming golden eyes. If the gods themselves had ordained that a Qirsi should rule the Forelands—and who was to say that they hadn’t?—they would have chosen a man who looked thus to be the first sorcerer king.
She realized that he was glowering at her, and too late she remembered him cautioning her against gazing at him too intently during these audiences.
“Anything you do to draw attention to your feelings for me,” he had said, shortly after Kayiv died, “endangers all of our lives, endangers the movement itself.”
Nitara looked away, forcing herself to train her mind on what was being said.
“You have no idea why he’s summoned you?” Stavel was asking, looking frail and fearful, like an old dog.
Dusaan shook his head. “None. But he hasn’t wanted to speak with me in quite some time, so I’ll take the mere fact of his summons as a sign that perhaps matters are improving.”
“Improving for whom?”
The high chancellor stared at Gorlan, his eyes narrowed. When Kayiv tried to turn the other ministers to his purposes, hoping that they would go together to the emperor and reveal Dusaan’s lies, Gorlan had been the most eager. It seemed the minister didn’t fear the high chancellor as much as the others did. In fact, in his own way Gorlan was impressive as well. Like Dusaan, he was tall and broad, particularly for a Qirsi. His eyes were the color of old parchment, and he wore
his white hair short. Nitara didn’t know what powers the minister possessed, but she had no doubt that he wielded at least three, and that one or more of them were among the deeper magics. He looked like a man who had tasted power and desired more.
“Did you have something you wanted to add to our discussion, Minister?” Dusaan asked, after eyeing Gorlan for some time.
Though he stood out among the other Qirsi in Harel’s palace, it seemed that Gorlan knew better than to challenge the high chancellor directly. Nitara sensed that he would have liked to say a great many things. But confronted with Dusaan’s icy glare, his resolve withered like leaves late in the harvest. Though everyone knew that she had killed Kayiv and appeared to believe that she had done so defending herself from his advances, all knew as well that Kayiv had been plotting against the high chancellor just prior to his death. Fear of Dusaan had never been so great.
“I merely wonder if the emperor intends to take us into his confidence again, High Chancellor.” Gorlan lowered his gaze. “It may be that he has some other purpose in mind.”
“I suppose that’s possible. We’ll know soon enough.” Dusaan hesitated, glancing at Nitara again. “Still, Minister, you raise an interesting point. It seems that recent events have given the emperor cause to doubt our loyalty, though in truth I can’t see why one man’s attempted assault on a fellow minister should do so. I won’t lie to you: I find myself offended by the emperor’s lack of confidence. I’ve served in his court for nine years, and I feel that I’ve earned his trust.”
“But the conspiracy,” Stavel said. “Surely you understand his fear. Nitara told us that Kayiv tried to turn her. And he tried to convince me, as well as some of the others, that you were a traitor to the empire.”
Dusaan smiled as if in sympathy. “I understand that the emperor is afraid, that many of us are. But what does it say about him—indeed, about all the Eandi—that their faith in us should be so easily shaken?”
“Is that a question you intend to ask Harel?” Gorlan’s face colored, as if he hadn’t intended to give voice to the thought.
But the high chancellor just grinned. “An interesting suggestion, Minister. Perhaps I will. My point is this, however. Loyalty and treachery are always spoken of with regard to the Qirsi. We hear of Qirsi traitors, or of ministers who remain loyal to the courts. But isn’t it also incumbent upon the Eandi to keep their faith with us? Doesn’t our service to the emperor entitle us to something? I know that I would never betray any of you, nor do I believe any of you would knowingly betray me. We share that, perhaps because of the color of our eyes and hair, the fact that all of us know what it is to wield magic.”
“So you’re saying that the emperor owes fealty to us, just as we do to him?”
“In essence, yes.”
Gorlan raised an eyebrow. “An interesting notion, High Chancellor. Do you truly believe that the emperor would agree? Do you think he’d even approve?”
“I don’t think he would agree. As to whether he would approve, I can’t say that I care. I have little fear that he’ll ever know I feel this way.”
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence, as the other ministers and chancellors glanced furtively at one another.
“Yes,” Dusaan said. “There’s another measure of loyalty as well, isn’t there? How do we keep faith with each other? Would the emperor approve of all that’s said here? Of course not. But I believe that in times like these, we must be able to speak among ourselves with absolute candor, without worrying that one of us might run to the emperor like a tattling child to a parent. I would never reveal any of what you say to me in these discussions without your permission, and I expect the same courtesy.”
The words were velvet, but none of them could miss the steel lurking beneath. Yet the high chancellor wasn’t done.
“I don’t know how far the emperor’s distrust will take him. It may be that he hopes to begin our reconciliation today, or he may wish to inform me of his decision to banish all of us from his palace. I honestly don’t know. But you have my word that no matter his intentions, I won’t break faith with you. If we’re to leave Curtell, we’ll do so as one, and if we remain, we will all be stronger for having endured this ordeal together.”
“Do you really think it will come to that?” Stavel asked.
“I don’t know, Chancellor. I hope that it doesn’t, but I won’t try to mislead you with false assurances.”
The old Qirsi nodded, clearly unsettled by the entire conversation.
“And now if you’ll all excuse me, I’d like some time to prepare for my audience with the emperor. We’ll speak again, tomorrow.”
The other Qirsi rose from their seats and began to make their way toward the door, Stavel and many of the older chancellors looking as if they would have liked to ask more questions of Dusaan.
“Minister,” the high chancellor called to Gorlan. “I’d like you to remain here for a moment.” Then he turned to Nitara. “You as well, Minister.”
“Of course, High Chancellor.”
Once the rest had gone, Dusaan indicated the two chairs nearest his own with an open hand.
“Please sit.”
“I’m sorry if I angered you, High Chancellor,” Gorlan said, as if finally realizing just who it was he had thought to challenge a few moments before.
“Think nothing of it, Minister. I didn’t ask you to remain in order to wring an apology from you.”
“Then why?”
“Tell me what you think of the emperor.”
Gorlan’s brow creased with puzzlement. After a moment he shrugged. “I think him a fine leader. I’m honored to serve in his court, just as all of us are.”
Dusaan gave a small grin. “I see. And you, Nitara?” he asked, facing her.
She sensed what he wanted, and so answered accordingly. “I think him a fat fool who knows as little about statecraft as he does about the Qirsi. I serve him because he is, by dint of his birth, the most powerful and wealthy of Braedon’s Eandi. But I have little respect for him or his court.”
Gorlan just stared at her, as if unsure that he had heard her correctly.
“Our young friend here knows that she can speak her mind, that I betray no trust.”
“So you want to hear the same from me,” Gorlan said.
“I want to hear the truth from you.”
“All right. I find the emperor a difficult man to serve. His limitations are apparent enough to those who know him, and in the past turn he’s compounded these by treating his Qirsi with contempt.”
“Yet you were appalled when Kayiv told you that I had lied to the emperor about our counsel regarding the timing of the invasion.”
Gorlan looked at Nitara. “So much for trust.”
“There were several of you in that discussion, Minister. Any one of your companions could have told me that much.”
“Of course,” Gorlan said, though clearly he remained convinced that Nitara was the one who had.
“The point remains, however, that you were disturbed by the counsel I gave to Harel.”
“Your counsel had nothing to do with it, High Minister, nor did the fact that you lied to the man. What bothered me was your misrepresentation of the rest of us. If you believed that the emperor needed to start the invasion earlier than originally planned, you should have just advised him to do so, without mentioning the rest of us. That you didn’t do this tells me you were uncertain of the counsel you offered.”
Nitara glanced at the Weaver, expecting that he would be crimson with rage. Instead he was smiling, albeit with a hard look in his brilliant eyes.
“You don’t miss much, do you, Minister?”
“No, High Chancellor, I don’t.”
“What powers do you possess?”
Gorlan’s eyes narrowed. “Gleaning, mists and winds, and shaping. Why do you ask?”
Because he doesn’t wish you to know that he’s a Weaver. As a Weaver, Dusaan could discern the magics of all Qirsi near him. Apparently whatev
er he hoped to accomplish with this meeting did not include revealing his true powers to the minister.
“Why do you think?” Before Gorlan could answer, Dusaan turned to Nitara again. “Why do you think I asked, Minister?”
She hesitated. “I’m not certain, High Chancellor.”
“It’s all right. I think you do know, and you can speak freely. I intend to.”
She nodded, her hands abruptly trembling. “I think you asked because you want to know what powers Minister Gorlan might bring to the movement.”
Gorlan looked from one of them to the other. “The movement?”
“Very good, Nitara.”
“The movement,” the minister said again, still trying to work it out. “You mean the conspiracy, don’t you?”
“A crude term. Certainly it wouldn’t have been my choice. Then again, it does sound somewhat menacing, which can be useful.”
“You’re both with the conspiracy. Kayiv was right.”
“Kayiv is dead.”
“And is that why?”
“Kayiv was a fool. His death was incidental. He failed to see beyond his dislike of me, to the greater meaning of the movement. He couldn’t grasp all that it would mean to our people to overthrow the Eandi courts and rule the Forelands. I don’t expect you to make the same mistake. I believe you have far greater vision than he ever did. I hope I’m not mistaken.”
“Are you asking me to join? Are you telling me that if I don’t, I’ll end up dead as well?”
“Let’s just concern ourselves with your first question. Yes, I’d like you to join. We’re on the verge of victory. The invasion has begun, there’s civil war in Aneira, the queen of Sanbira is riding north to Eibithar, and Kearney of Glyndwr rules a land divided against itself. All the major powers of the Forelands will soon be tearing each other apart. And when they’re through, the Qirsi will rise up and destroy what’s left of them.”