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

by David B. Coe

  “Of course, my lord.”

  She fell in behind him and they rode in silence to where the cart sat in the forest lane, tilting toward its rear right wheel, the rim of which had snapped clear through.

  Brall swung himself off his mount and rubbed a hand over his face. “Damn.” He glared at the driver. “How did this happen? Did you hit something?”

  “No, my lord! The road was clear. The wheel just gave out.”

  “These are new carts, made just for this march.” Brall knelt by the wheel, examining the wood. “I don’t see any knots.” He hammered his fist against the side of the cart. “I’ll have the wheelwright’s head when we get back to Orvinti.” He stood again, looking at Fetnalla. “Can you fix it?”

  “My lord?”

  “You have shaping magic, don’t you? You can fix wood.”

  “I can mend some wood, my lord. But I’m not as skilled as some. Shapers are better at . . .” She faltered, feeling her cheeks color. “Our power is more suited to breaking things than putting them together. I can shatter a blade if it’s raised against me, but I’m not sure that I could make it whole again.” She gestured at the wheel. “The same is true of wood.”

  “But you can try.”

  She nodded, dismounting. “Of course, my lord.” She knelt beside the cart much as the duke had a moment before. “It will take me some time, and I can’t be certain that the wheel will hold. You should have someone work at making a new one while I do this, just in case.”

  The duke looked away, muttering curses. “We don’t have time for this.” He appeared to weigh the matter for several moments. Then he stepped to his mount, gesturing for Fetnalla to follow. “Come along, First Minister,” he said, climbing into his saddle again.

  “But the wheel, my lord.”

  “You told me yourself you probably can’t fix it. We’ll leave the cart with a laborer and a party of soldiers. The rest of us will continue on to Dantrielle. We’ve already lost too much time.”

  She wanted to argue more. Certainly the Weaver would have expected her to, and would have punished her severely for remaining silent. But no words came to her. She watched the duke ride back to the front of the column. Then, helpless to do more, she swung herself onto Zetya’s back and followed.

  What was she to do now? She couldn’t break another wagon wheel without making her duke suspicious, and she could think of nothing else that she might do to make Brall stop again that wouldn’t reveal her as a traitor to Orvinti.

  Whether or not you’re revealed as a member of this movement is of little consequence to me. The Weaver’s words still echoed in her mind, his indifference as blunt as his tone. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to do anything too blatant. Her summary execution on this forest road wouldn’t help the Weaver’s cause any more than had the broken wheel. There had to be a way to serve the Qirsi movement in this matter while still preserving her secret.

  She had caught up with her duke, and she fell in behind him now, brooding on the question. So it was that she didn’t notice the horse riding past her until its rider addressed the duke. Only then, her attention caught by something in the man’s voice, did she look up. It was the sentry from the night before, the man who had spoken to her when she visited with Zetya. When she used her magic on the cart wheel. The sentry was sitting behind the master of arms on Traefan’s mount and he spoke in low tones to the duke while the master of arms stared straight ahead.

  Brall glanced back at Fetnalla briefly before kicking at his mount and riding on ahead, followed closely by the sentry and master of arms. By the time they slowed again, they were too far away for her to make out any of their conversation. Not that it mattered. She knew precisely what the man would tell Brall, just as she knew that the duke would immediately think the worst of her. That it was true in this instance did little to soften the blow.

  This is why I betrayed you, Brall. When you looked at me, you always saw a traitor, even though I served you loyally for years. I only gave you what you deserved.

  The sentry and the duke didn’t speak for long. After but a few moments the master of arms turned his horse and steered it back toward the rear of the column. Traefan didn’t so much as glance in her direction, but the sentry cast a furtive look her way as they rode past, his color high.

  “First Minister,” Brall called, sounding so very cold. “Would you join me please?”

  She spurred her mount forward until she had pulled abreast of him, her hands and body shaking yet again. What was she that these men should fill her with such dread? How had she become so weak that her life should rest in the hands of this noble and the Weaver? She looked at Brall for but a moment, but that was enough. His broad face was stony and pale, his blue eyes as hard as crystal.

  “Would you care to tell me what you were doing by the carts last night?”

  She nearly confessed all. Better to be done with all of this than to live constantly with such fear. But cowardice stopped her. Or was it pride?

  “The carts, my lord?”

  “Don’t play games with me, First Minister! That man who just rode past you tells me that you were wandering about the camp last night, and that you were within just a few fourspans of that cart we left behind.”

  She kept her eyes fixed on the road before her. “It’s true that I was awake in the middle of the night—several of the sentries saw me.” She glanced at him. “I was making no effort to conceal my movements. I came to see Zetya, I stayed with her a short while, then I returned to where I’d been sleeping and lay down again. I suppose I was near the carts, though it never occurred to me to distinguish one of them from another.”

  “You want me to believe that you did nothing more than greet your horse?”

  “What else do you think I did, my lord?” she asked in return, allowing anger to seep into her voice.

  “Isn’t it obvious? You’re a shaper, and the more I think on it, the more I find myself questioning why the wheel on that cart would simply break, without any warning at all.”

  “You believe I weakened it somehow.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes, my lord. I weakened your sword as well, so that the first time you raise it in battle, it will break in two.”

  “Don’t you dare mock me, Fetnalla! You know as well as I that you’re perfectly capable of doing such a thing!”

  “Do you refer to my magic, my lord, or to my fidelity?”

  He faltered.

  “You’ve thought me a traitor for nearly half a year now, since the duke of Bistari’s death. You’ve searched for any proof you could find to justify your suspicions. And now you’ve found what you sought. You don’t care why I was awake last night, or what I did. You’ve decided that I betrayed you, and there’s nothing I can say to convince you otherwise.”

  For a long time Brall said nothing. The men at the rear of the company were singing, but otherwise the Orvinti army was as silent as a thousand men could be. “You’re right,” the duke finally admitted. “It’s probably not fair of me, but I do doubt your loyalty. I’ve come to question the motives of all Qirsi, be they my ministers or my healers. No one has felt the brunt of that mistrust more than you have, First Minister, and for that I apologize. But I can’t have you serving me anymore.”

  She had expected denials, more accusations, or, perhaps, an apology, an admission that he had erred. But Fetnalla never expected this. She merely stared at him, not knowing what to say. She felt tears on her face, but she was too stunned to wipe them away. Strange that this man she had come to hate could still hurt her with such ease.

  Giving her a quick look, seeing that she was crying, the duke winced. “You must have known it would come to this, Fetnalla. Certainly I did. For some time now I haven’t given your counsel the attention it deserved, and I can’t remember the last time we had a civil conversation.”

  “That’s hardly my fault, my lord.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it is. It’s the conspiracy and all that they’ve wrought i
n these last few turns. Perhaps when we’ve defeated the renegades, Eandi and Qirsi will be able to trust each other again. But until then . . .” He shook his head.

  “Other dukes still trust their ministers. Tebeo still turns to Evanthya for counsel.” Why did she continue to argue the point? He was setting her free. Couldn’t she serve the Weaver better if she was no longer tied to this fool of a noble?

  “Yes, he does, though I’ve warned him against her.”

  “He always was wiser than you.”

  Brall’s face reddened and for a moment the minister wondered if he would use this affront as an excuse to punish her, perhaps even execute her. After a few seconds, however, he gave a small, mirthless laugh. “I suppose I deserved that.” He eyed her briefly, as if considering something. Then he faced forward again. When next he spoke it was in the officious tone Fetnalla had come to hate over the last several turns. “You may ride with us as far as Dantrielle, First Minister. I know that you’ll be anxious to see Evanthya, and we can offer you safe passage into the castle there, provided we succeed in breaking the siege. You’re not to ride with me anymore, nor will you be allowed near the carts or provisions. In all other ways, however, you’ll remain free to do as you wish. If you decide to leave the army now, I’ll understand of course, but I leave that choice to you.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “You’ve earned such consideration,” he said, offering no indication that he had noticed the irony in her voice.

  They continued to ride together, neither of them speaking, until Fetnalla realized that the duke was awaiting her reply.

  “I’ll need some time to make my decision,” she told him at last.

  “Of course. Take until the end of the day if you need to.” He slowed his mount, as did Fetnalla. In a few moments a pair of the duke’s soldiers had caught up with them. “Accompany the first minister for the remainder of the day,” he ordered, looking first at one man and then at the other. “Make certain that she’s comfortable. At some point she may wish to speak with me again. Let me know as soon as she does.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Brall nodded before facing Fetnalla again. “I am sorry, First Minister. Believe what you will about me, but I never wanted matters to come to this.”

  He kicked at his mount, riding ahead once more, and leaving her with the two soldiers. I’m to be a prisoner then. Free to do as I wish, he said. But guarded, watched like a thief. She tried to summon outrage, to replace this ache in her chest with something, anything that might be useful, not only to herself, but also to the Weaver. Yet, it was all she could do to make herself stop crying and ride on in Brall’s wake.

  She kept a good distance behind the duke for what remained of the day, pausing to rest and eat when he did, and saying nothing to the two men riding with her. They hardly spoke as well, even to one another. Occasionally she could feel one or the other staring at her, but she did her best to ignore them. She had a decision to make. Not the one with which the duke had presented her, but rather one of far greater consequence. The Weaver had been right, though she doubted that even he could have foreseen what would happen this day. It no longer mattered what Brall thought of her. All that mattered now was her service to the movement. And the Weaver had made it clear that if she wished to live long enough to see his plans bear fruit, she would have to keep Brall and his army from reaching Dantrielle too soon.

  The question was how to do this. A number of ideas presented themselves to her, but none of them seemed likely to slow the Orvinti army for more than a few hours. Or at least almost none of them.

  Surely it needn’t come to that, she told herself. Yet the more she pondered the matter, the more convinced she grew. Certainly, she knew what the Weaver would tell her to do, and even as she quailed at the mere thought of it, she recognized the logic.

  It’s the only way, another voice said within her. The Weaver’s voice.

  But when she closed her eyes briefly, trying to steady herself with a long breath, it wasn’t his dark form she saw, but rather Evanthya’s, a disapproving frown on her lovely face.

  Brall had given her a gift of sorts, a full day alone with her thoughts, and she used all of it. By the time the sun hung low to the west, its golden light angling sharply through the trees, she knew what she would have to do. Still, she did not give her answer to Brall. He would expect her to struggle with this decision, to wrestle with her hurt feelings and uncertain future. So let him think that she was doing just that.

  They made camp just after nightfall, spreading their sleeping rolls within earshot of the Rassor River, in the dappled moonlit shadows of the forest. Still she waited, eating a small dinner by herself before lying down on her sleeping roll to stare up at the stars, as if lost in thought.

  It was not until most of the soldiers had already fallen asleep that Fetnalla finally told one of her guards that she wished to speak with the duke. He regarded her doubtfully, but when the other man reminded him of what Brall had said on the road, he stalked off toward the center of the camp, where the duke’s tent stood. He returned a short time later, the sour expression on his face making Fetnalla wonder if he had been forced to wake Brall.

  “He’ll see you,” the man said.

  Shuddering, hoping that neither man noticed, Fetnalla nodded and followed them across the camp.

  Another guard standing by the tent pulled the flap open and motioned her inside. Brall was seated at a table which held a single oil lamp and nothing more. His bedding was disheveled but his eyes looked clear. He hadn’t been in bed long.

  “It’s late,” he said. “I expected to have your answer well before now.” Any feelings of guilt on his part were gone now, along with the courtesy he had shown her earlier in the day. Good. It would be easier this way.

  “My apologies, my lord. It was . . . a difficult decision.”

  “I’m sure. What do you intend to do?”

  “I’ll remain with the army as far as Dantrielle, my lord. As you say, I’m eager to see the first minister. And perhaps her duke will have some ideas as to where I might serve next.” This last came to her in that very moment. It seemed convincing enough, though she didn’t know why she bothered.

  Do it. The Weaver’s voice again.

  “Very well. You understand the conditions under which you may remain with us?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good.” He stood. “Rest well, Fetnalla. We ride at dawn.”

  A dismissal. Her last. “Yes, my lord,” she said. But she didn’t move. It had to be done this night. It had to be done now. She knew that. After the early delay, they had covered a good deal of ground today, so much that they might well be within sight of Dantrielle by sundown tomorrow.

  “Is there something else?” he asked, impatient, cold.

  “Actually, yes.” Stalling now. Trying to gather her nerve. “Do you know of others who might need a Qirsi minister?”

  She could see how annoyed he was, and for a moment she thought that he would send her away without answering. But it seemed that he did feel some guilt after all. Dragging a hand over his face, he sat again, which was good, very good. He should be sitting.

  Do it now! the Weaver screamed in her mind. This is your chance!

  And Evanthya answered, Are you mad? Leave him! You don’t have to do this!

  One she feared, the other she loved. And most any other night, she would have chosen love. But not now, not when the path of love led inexorably to her own death.

  “To be honest, Fetnalla, I know of few nobles who still trust the Qirsi they have. I’ve heard of none who are actually look—”

  He stopped abruptly, interrupted by the muffled crack of bone. His head dropped awkwardly to the side, and he made a queer strangled noise in his throat. But he remained in the chair, his eyes still open.

  She should have been terrified. Her hands should have been shaking, her heart pounding like a smith’s sledge. But Fetnalla felt more at ease than she could ever remember
. Indeed, she felt strangely exhilarated.

  She wasn’t even frightened when the duke’s sentry entered the tent. “My lord, I believe it’s time you—” The man halted, staring at the duke, puzzlement and alarm chasing each other across his features. “My lord?” Then to Fetnalla, “What have you—?”

  He never had the chance to say more. It took surprisingly little magic to shatter bone, even in one built so powerfully. His neck broken, the man crumpled to the ground, dying nearly as silently as had Brall.

  Fetnalla rolled the body to the side of the tent so that it wouldn’t be so obvious from the entrance. Then she stepped to the tent flap and peered outside. Her two guards were still there, but otherwise all the soldiers she could see appeared to be sleeping.

  “He wants a word with the two of you,” she said, gesturing for them to come into the tent.

  Of course they did as they were told. They were good Eandi soldiers, and they died as such. One of them, seeing his comrade fall and glimpsing the sentry’s body, even managed to work his blade partially free, though he fell before he could raise the alarm.

  The Weaver was right. Next to the powers of a Qirsi, the brawn and weapons of Eandi warriors meant nothing. She had never felt so strong, so alive, so proud to be a child of Qirsar.

  She stepped out of the tent as if daring the army to stand against her. No one took any notice. Allowing herself a smile, she retrieved her sleeping roll, her saddle, and her other few belongings, then strode to where Zetya was tied. A sentry approached her as she was buckling her saddle into place.

  “Where are you going, First Minister?” the man demanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.

  She regarded him for but a moment before turning her attention back to her mount. “Didn’t you hear? The duke has released me from his service. It seems he doesn’t trust me anymore.”

  “I had heard that. I’d also heard that you were assigned two guards.”

  “I was. But as you can see, I’m leaving. There’s no longer any need to keep watch on me.”