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

by David B. Coe

  “Then you’re a fool, Seamus. If Javan had wished to do such a thing, he would have done so in a way that enabled him to keep the crown for himself and his line. Remember, he abdicated, just as Aindreas did.”

  “He had no choice in the matter. Had he attempted to take the throne after what his son did, it would have led immediately to civil war.”

  “The boy didn’t do anything! We hold in the prison tower of Audun’s Castle a Qirsi woman who admits to hiring the assassin who killed Brienne. Demons and fire, man! Didn’t you even bother to read the missive I sent?”

  “One more Qirsi deception. They’ve shown time and again that they can’t be trusted, and yet you’re so ready to believe this woman who came to your castle. You would seek any evidence, no matter how weak, to justify your faith in the Butcher of Curgh.”

  Kearney closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “Why would she lie about this? The conspiracy wants you and Aindreas and the others to believe in Tavis’s guilt. They have no reason to offer proof to the contrary.”

  “The Qirsi have been lying to us for too long, deluding us with false counsel, striking at us with hidden blades.” The duke’s eyes flicked toward Keziah. “We can only guess at what their purpose might be. Our only recourse is to stop relying on white-hairs entirely. Nothing they say can be trusted, and that includes this woman in your prison tower. Perhaps she seeks to save herself by telling you what you wish to hear. Or maybe she’s been ordered by her leaders to say these things. I don’t know. But I will not believe in Tavis’s innocence simply because a traitorous Qirsi says that I should.”

  “Is that why your first minister isn’t here, Seamus? Have you lost faith in all your Qirsi?”

  “Yes. To be honest, Your Majesty, I’m surprised and disappointed to find that you haven’t.”

  Kearney opened his mouth, then stopped himself, glancing at Keziah with an apology in his green eyes. She knew that he wanted to defend her. “I still don’t understand this show of defiance,” he said instead. “Why not remain in your castle, and let us march past?”

  “That,” the duke said, his eyes meeting the king’s, “would have been an act of cowardice.”

  It seemed that Kearney didn’t know what to say. For as long as Keziah had known him, he had prided himself on his honor, his refusal to compromise his principles under any circumstance. Though Seamus had committed treason, and then had chosen to flaunt his defiance, there was a certain perverse dignity in this display. At last the king shook his head once more, a bitter smile on his lips. “You’re an ass, Seamus,” he muttered, and sheathed his sword.

  The duke’s face reddened, but before he could answer, they heard voices raised in anger at the front of the column.

  Kearney leveled a finger at Seamus. “Any blood spilled here is on your head!” Then he kicked at his mount and raced toward the commotion, Keziah and the duke following in his wake.

  Near the front of the column, two men were wrestling on the ground, one wearing the colors of the king, the other obviously from Domnall. They had their daggers drawn and the duke’s man bore a deep gash on his shoulder. A large group of men, many of them with their swords drawn, had formed a ring around the two combatants. Kearney’s captains were shouting for the king’s men to stand down, but they had done nothing to separate the two who were fighting, and already other men were pairing off, preparing for combat. It wouldn’t take much for the confrontation to escalate into a full battle.

  Reaching the ring of soldiers, Kearney didn’t hesitate. He swung himself off of his mount, pushed his way through the bystanders, and, drawing his sword, plunged the blade into the earth just beside the men’s heads.

  The two fighters froze, twisting their necks to stare up at the king. All other conversations stopped.

  “Get up!” Kearney said, his tone a match for the ice in his eyes.

  Slowly, the two soldiers untangled themselves and stood, both of them looking as sheepish as chastised boys.

  “Captain!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  “Didn’t I tell you that these men were not to respond in any way to the duke’s soldiers?”

  “You did, Your Majesty.”

  “And did you convey those orders to the men?”

  “Of course I did, Your Majesty.”

  “Did you think that your captain’s commands didn’t apply to you?” Kearney asked the soldier.

  “No, Your Majesty! But this man called you a milksop and—”

  “I don’t care what he called me, and neither should you. This man and his duke intend to hide in their castle while we fight to defend the realm.” Kearney grinned and looked up at Seamus, who remained on his mount. “Why should it matter to us what any of them say?”

  The soldier grinned in return. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Get these men moving again, Captain. We’ve wasted enough time here.”

  Seamus’s men were glaring at the king, but none of them said a word, nor did any dare to raise a weapon against him. Still, Keziah wished that Kearney would take to his mount again; he’d be safer in his saddle. The king appeared unconcerned.

  “Lord Domnall,” he said, allowing his voice to carry. “I hereby declare you and your house to be in rebellion. I’ll take no action against you so long as your army remains in the dukedom, but any effort you make to journey beyond your lands will be considered an act of war against the realm and will be met appropriately. With one exception. You may march with us now to meet the invaders at Galdasten. If you do so, all this will be forgotten.”

  The duke stared at him a moment, then clicked his tongue at his mount and steered the beast away, back toward his castle. He called out to one of his commanders, who began to shout commands at Domnall’s soldiers. Soon all of them were following their duke.

  Kearney watched them go, his expression as bleak as Keziah had ever seen it, his sword lowered and seemingly forgotten.

  “You were right when you called him an ass,” she said softly.

  “Perhaps. But there’ll be others like him. And they may cost us everything.” He walked past her, and climbed onto his mount. “I suppose we should ride apart again.”

  “It’s safest if we do.”

  He nodded, casting one final look at Domnall castle before returning to the front of the column. Keziah turned her mount and started down the road with the last of Kearney’s soldiers. A moment later her guard fell in just behind her, still silent, his face like a stone wall. It was all Keziah could do not to rail at the man.

  Kearney and his army managed to put several leagues between themselves and Domnall by the time daylight started to fail and they were forced to make camp. As usual, Keziah ate her supper alone, save for the reticent guard. After, she unrolled her sleeping roll and lay down, conscious of the guard doing the same a short distance away. Prior to leaving the City of Kings, Kearney had offered to have his men carry a tent for her, but the archminister refused. If the soldiers had to sleep beneath open skies, she reasoned, so would she. They carried a tent for Wenda, but the high minister was by far the oldest of the king’s Qirsi—Keziah didn’t begrudge her this small comfort. Indeed, had she realized how bothersome she would find the guard’s constant presence, she might have accepted Kearney’s offer herself.

  The clouds that had covered the skies for the past several days had finally started to break up, and as they drifted overhead, like ice in the northern rivers, she could see an occasional star shining bright in the blackness beyond. The moons offered some light as well, Ilias’s.red glow blending with Panya’s white to give a rose cast to the grasses and boulders of the moor.

  When sleep finally came to her, Keziah began to dream, seeing once more the armies of Domnall and Eibithar’s king arrayed against each other. This time, however, Kearney could not keep them from fighting and soon Keziah was surrounded by mayhem and carnage. Everywhere she looked, men were dying, their blood flowing from ghastly wounds until it seemed that the entire moor had been stained red
. Keziah shouted for them to stop, but they ignored her. She tried to raise a mist, hoping that if they couldn’t see one another, they might break off their combat, but her power failed her. Hearing hoofbeats behind her, she turned to see her guard bearing down on her, his blade raised and a fierce grin on his face. She threw up an arm to shield herself and cried out for Kearney, but the soldier was closing the distance between them far too swiftly.

  Abruptly, everything went dark, as if the sun had been extinguished. Her footing changed as well, and she nearly stumbled. It took her a moment to realize that she was still dreaming, and another to understand that the Weaver had come to her. Without even thinking, Keziah began to walk, trudging up the incline to where she knew she would find him. The climb was more difficult than she remembered, the hill steeper, the terrain rougher. In the short time she had known the Weaver, she had come to understand that his moods could be measured in such things. This hill was the man’s way of telling her that he was displeased. And Keziah knew why.

  She was winded and sweating when she reached the summit. Almost the moment she stopped climbing white light flared before her, and the Weaver appeared, framed as always against the harsh radiance so that she couldn’t see his features.

  “I heard you cry out,” he said. “You were dreaming even before I came to you.”

  “Yes, Weaver.”

  “Of what?”

  Keziah hesitated. She was dazed, her mind addled by the sudden shift to this second far more dangerous dream. Under any circumstances facing the Weaver terrified her, but to do so without her wits . . .

  “Of what?” he demanded again, his voice like iron.

  “A battle,” she said. “We marched past Domnall today and the duke had his army on the road as a show of defiance. The two armies nearly did battle, and that’s what I was dreaming. Only in my dream, one of Kearney’s men was trying to kill me.”

  In this case, she realized only after she had finished, the truth served her purposes quite well, making it seem that she and the king remained at odds.

  “You march to Galdasten?”

  “Yes, Weaver.”

  “But Domnall does not.”

  “No.”

  “What of the others?”

  “We can’t be certain yet, but we believe Eardley, Sussyn, Rennach, and Galdasten will also refuse to fight alongside the king.”

  “Thorald will fight?”

  “It seems so. Tobbar’s son has allied himself with the king, even though his father refuses to take sides in Kearney’s dispute with Kentigern.”

  “I suppose that can’t be helped,” the Weaver said, as much to himself as to her. Then the question she had been dreading. “Was Cresenne still alive when you left Audun’s Castle?”

  She lowered her gaze. “Yes, Weaver.”

  “Have you made arrangements to have her killed before you return?”

  “No, Weaver. I didn’t know who to trust with such a task. And I never had the opportunity before we left. Kearney keeps her well guarded. Any time I went to see her—”

  Agony. Her chest seemed to be seared by flames. She couldn’t breathe; she certainly couldn’t speak. She tried to remember what Grinsa had told her, that whenever the Weaver hurt her it was an illusion, a trick of the mind. Her magic and her body were her own. The Weaver might have access to her thoughts, but that was all. She had only to take control of them.

  Except that she couldn’t. Terror gripped her mind. She could think of nothing but her pain and her desperate need to draw breath.

  “You failed me,” the Weaver said, his voice low and shockingly cold. “I told you I wanted her dead, that her murder would be a test of your loyalty, and still she lives. Your excuses mean nothing to me; your failure is all that matters.”

  At that moment she could offer no argument. She had failed him and she would have given anything to be able to beg his forgiveness, to fall at his feet and grovel for mercy. But even this bitter comfort was denied her.

  “I sensed your reluctance when I first assigned this task to you. Did you even want to succeed? Or did you think to delay until Kearney marched to war? Was that what happened?”

  She shook her head, still fighting for breath. Her vision began to fail her, the figure of the Weaver starting to swim. She wondered how much longer she could remain on her feet.

  “I should kill you now, make you an example to all those who would defy my commands. You’d be a message to Kearney as well, lest he think that the movement can be taken lightly.”

  Keziah dropped to her knees, clutching at her chest.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t afford to lose even one servant just now, and with your king marching to war you may still prove to be of some value to me.”

  He released her and she fell onto her side, gasping, greedily sucking sweet air into her lungs, her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth wide. Each breath seemed to soothe the fire in her chest, easing the pain. Her fear lingered, however. The Weaver had only to form the thought and her suffering would begin anew.

  “I trust you won’t fail me again.”

  “No, Weaver.” She could barely manage to speak the words. “As soon as we return to the City of Kings, I’ll take care of the woman. I swear it.” And at that very moment, she almost meant it.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Even prone on the ground in her dreams, afraid for her life and still struggling to shake off the effects of what he had done to her, Keziah had the presence of mind to mute her response to this.

  “But I promised you that I’d do it.”

  “Your promises were worth little in that regard. Now I have little choice but to see to the matter myself. But don’t fear, Archminister. I have other tasks for you. One in particular that I believe you’ll enjoy. I had been planning to have another do this—an assassin of some renown. It seems now that he’s dead, and so I have to turn elsewhere. As it happens, it’s just as fine a test of your loyalty to me as Cresenne’s murder would have been. It might even be better.”

  Keziah sensed that he wanted her to ask, that he would be watching her closely to gauge her response. She sat up, then forced herself to her feet.

  “What is this task, Weaver?”

  “I think you know.” She couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was smiling. And she did know. Gods help her, she knew exactly what it was, though she couldn’t imagine how he expected her do this without being caught and executed herself.

  “You want me to kill Kearney.”

  “Very good, Keziah. Very good indeed.”

  She didn’t bother to conceal her fear and the ache in her heart.

  “You still love him, I know. This won’t be easy for you. But it must be done. I won’t accept failure a second time.”

  “But how can I possibly—?”

  “I don’t expect you to do it yet, and I don’t want anyone to know it was you. He should die in battle, near Galdasten, if possible.”

  Of course. What better way to prolong the war and weaken Eibithar than to leave her leaderless in the middle of this conflict? No doubt he hoped that in the wake of Kearney’s death Renald, Javan, and Aindreas would all vie for the crown.

  “You understand. I sense it.”

  “Yes, Weaver.”

  “Good. There may be some hope for you yet.”

  “Kearney still doesn’t trust me entirely. I may not be able to get close enough to him.”

  “Well, see that you do. You possess both language of beasts and mists and winds. They should serve you quite well in this regard.”

  “Yes, Weaver,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps you’ll be fortunate and he’ll be killed in battle without any help from you. But one way or another, I want him dead.”

  “It shall be done.”

  “I expect no less.”

  She awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright, her chest heaving. Her hair and clothes and sleeping roll were soaked with sweat, and her head spun so violently that she feared she might throw up. Gl
ancing to the side, she saw that her guard was awake, propped up on one arm, eyeing her in the dim light of the moons.

  She briefly considered sending the man to Kearney’s tent with word that she needed to speak with the king immediately. But in the next moment she dismissed the idea. It would serve only to draw attention to her and it might convince others working for the Weaver that she remained loyal to the king. Certainly she needed to tell Kearney what the Weaver expected her to do, just as she needed to dispatch a message to Cresenne warning her of the Weaver’s intent to kill her himself. But she had some time. It would be days before Kearney would lead the men into battle, and Cresenne spent her nights awake, sleeping by day so that she might avoid dreams of the Weaver. Keziah could wait until morning with little risk to either of them.

  The archminister lay back down, turning her back to the guard. A gust of wind swept over the Moorlands, scything through her damp clothes and making her shiver. She wasn’t fool enough to think that she could get back to sleep, but if she sat up again, or changed clothes, or took a walk, which is what she really longed to do, the guard would follow, watching her, dogging her every step. So Keziah lay there, trembling in the chill air, jerking occasionally as she recalled the Weaver’s assault, staring at the swaying grasses.

  When at last the dawn broke, the eastern sky glowing gold, she rose and, heedless of the stares of the men around her, changed her clothes. Then she walked to the guard.

  “Tell the king his archminister requests a word with him.”

  She thought he might argue with her, but he seemed to hear something in her tone. He nodded once, then set off across the camp.

  When he returned a short while later, one of Kearney’s captains was with him.

  “I’m to escort you to the king, Archminister.”

  Keziah nodded. It was a nice touch. It would seem to those watching that Kearney didn’t trust her enough to allow her to approach him unguarded. “Very well, Captain. Lead the way.”

  When they reached Kearney’s tent, the captain had the archminister and her guard wait outside while he stepped within and spoke to the king. A moment later he pushed the tent flap aside and motioned for her to enter.