by DAVID B. COE
Chapter Thirty-one
Shurik fought for his life, his horse dancing like the mount of a Revel performer, and his sword rising and falling until he thought his arm would never be of any use to him again. In some small corner of his mind, one his fear couldn’t reach, he saw the humor in it all. After this day Aindreas would praise him for his bravery and the fervor with which he had fought for Kentigern, when all he wanted to do was survive.
Eandi warriors were trained to attack Qirsi ministers in a fight of this sort. Nothing could tip the balance of a battle more quickly than a shaper or a sorcerer with mists and winds. Even a smaller army could prevail in such a fight if it had the aid of a powerful Qirsi. Since there was no way to determine just from looking at a man or woman of his race what kind of magic they possessed, the Eandi saw all white-hairs as equally dangerous. He could hardly blame the men of Mertesse for massing around him. They didn’t know that he didn’t have mists and winds or that he couldn’t afford to reveal that he was a shaper. They saw his hair, his yellow eyes, and they attacked.
Don’t you know who I am? he wanted to scream at them. Don’t you know what I did for you and your duke?
But all he could do was fight. He did manage to use his fire magic on a few of them, setting their shirts and hair ablaze, and that forced the rest to reconsider their attack for a time. Before long, however, they gathered their nerve and he found himself besieged once more.
Even as he struggled to stay atop his horse, Shurik was able to sense the course of the battle, and he knew that Mertesse’s army was on the verge of being vanquished. The men of Curgh, led by Hagan MarCullet and Javan’s extraordinary duchess, had already forced their way past the Aneirans at the Tarbin gate and were slowly establishing control over the western half of the castle. Aindreas’s army, fighting alongside the men of Glyndwr, were close to doing the same on the eastern side. Those Aneirans who remained in the inner keep had nowhere to go. They couldn’t retreat—their path to the river now belonged to Curgh—and they were being slaughtered by the Eibitharians. They could surrender, or they could fight to the last man. Either way, Shurik didn’t believe they would last the night.
Which meant that the Eandi soldiers he was fighting were the least of his problems. The Weaver wanted this war to continue far beyond a few days. Or so Shurik guessed. The Weaver had revealed almost nothing of his plans in their conversations, and had told Yaella little more. But from all that Shurik could divine, he thought the Weaver wanted the Aneirans to take Kentigern, thus sparking a prolonged war with the other houses of Eibithar. With the kingdom already weakened by the blood feud between Javan and Aindreas and the inability of the major houses to select a king, the Eibitharians would be forced to turn to their allies to the south and east, Caerisse and Wethyrn. The Aneirans, in turn, would look to Braedon for help. Within a few turns, nearly every kingdom of the Forelands would be party to this war. Such a conflict couldn’t help but weaken the Eandi courts, giving the Weaver the opportunity he needed to lead a Qirsi uprising.
The last thing the Weaver wanted, Shurik felt quite certain, was a quick, unsuccessful end to the siege, particularly if Mertesse’s failure fostered an alliance among the houses of Glyndwr, Curgh, and Kentigern. Shurik had done his part. He had been weary for two days after using so much magic to weaken the Tarbin gate, and still it wasn’t enough. He would have to ask Yaella how the Aneirans had managed to fail despite his aid.
With the thought, he suddenly knew a moment of utter dread. What if she had been killed? What if she was still in the castle and was about to be captured? Aindreas might spare the foot soldiers, but he was certain to execute Rouel, his advisors, and his captains if he was given the chance. More than anything Shurik wanted to search the castle for her, to be sure that she was all right and to find a way to get her out of Kentigern. But even if he could have fought his way through the knot of soldiers in front of him, Aindreas wouldn’t have allowed him to leave his side. Hacking once more at the nearest Aneiran, the minister stood in his stirrups, scanning the ward for any sign of her.
At first he saw only soldiers, some in the black and gold of Mertesse, others wearing the colors of Glyndwr, Kentigern, and Curgh. When he finally spotted the white hair of a Qirsi, he nearly cried out. An instant later, though, he saw that this wasn’t Yaella, but rather Javan’s first minister, and the duke of Curgh was fighting beside him. They were just outside the prison tower. The MarCullet boy was there as well, as were a few of Javan’s men, probably the surviving members of the company that had come to Kentigern the previous turn.
“What is it, Shurik?” Aindreas called. “What do you see?”
The minister glanced at his duke before pointing toward Javan and Fotir.
Aindreas’s face turned crimson, his lips pressed into a thin dark line. After a few seconds, however, he shook his head, as if arguing with himself.
“They would have needed his sword,” he said at last. “And those of his men. I can’t blame them.”
“Of course, my lord.”
But Shurik couldn’t help but think that the Weaver wouldn’t like this at all.
Scanning the ward again, Shurik saw that Hagan and the duchess had fought their way to the inner gates. If Yaella hadn’t escaped, she was dead already. A cheer went up from the far side of the castle, and looking in that direction Shurik understood. One of the Aneirans had raised the banner of Mertesse, except that it had been turned on its head, so that the great golden oak was standing on its crown. The Aneirans were offering their surrender.
The combat went on for several minutes more. Men in the throes of battle weren’t likely to notice a flag on the other side of the ward. Eventually, though, the fighting subsided and Aindreas rode forward to speak with the man bearing the banner. Shurik and Villyd Temsten rode with him, as did Kearney, his first minister, and his swordmaster. Grinsa was there as well, and Lord Tavis, who shared the Qirsi’s mount, his face and shirt covered with drying blood. Hagan and the duchess joined them, and a moment later Javan, Fotir, and the MarCullet boy reached them. Hagan and Shonah dismounted at the same time, the swordmaster fiercely embracing his son and the duchess rushing into her husband’s arms. An instant later, Tavis joined them and both mother and father put their arms around him.
Aindreas watched all this with barely concealed distaste before facing the Aneiran.
The man had long black hair that he wore tied back from his face. His eyes were almost black and they appeared too big for his face. He was built like a fighter, wiry and muscular, though he wasn’t particularly large.
“Who are you?” the duke demanded. “Where is your duke?”
“My name is Wyn Stridbar,” the man said, his voice even. “I’m master armsman of Mertesse.”
“And your duke, Sir Stridbar?”
“My lord duke is dead.”
“Why should I believe you? For all I know he’s escaping as we speak, leaving you to die in his place.”
“Rouel of Mertesse would never have done such a thing. He had more courage than all the so-called nobles of Eibithar taken as one.”
The man was brave, though some might have called it foolishness. A murmur of protest rose from the soldiers of Eibithar, and Shurik noticed that at least a few of the bowmen pulled arrows from their quivers. Aindreas silenced them with a raised hand.
“It’s all right,” the duke said. “Every man here would say the same of his duke. It’s as it should be.” He eyed the Aneiran again. “So you were the only one of Rouel’s advisors to survive?”
“No. I sent our first minister back to Mertesse with the duke’s body and as many of the men as we could save.”
“You’re willing to die for them?”
Stridbar grinned. “Would your swordmaster do any less?”
The duke gestured toward the Aneiran soldiers who remained in the ward, surrounded by the armies of Eibithar. “And what of these men? Are they ready to die as well?”
The man paled. “Only a butcher would execu
te vanquished soldiers. You have their commander. Let them go.”
Aindreas nodded. “Perhaps I will. But first you need to answer some questions for me.”
Stridbar glared at the duke, saying nothing. After a moment, though, he nodded.
“Kentigern is the mightiest fortress in the Forelands. Yet your army almost managed to take it in a matter of days. How is that possible?”
Shurik felt his stomach heave.
“Maybe your castle isn’t as mighty as you think,” the man said, a thin smile on his lips. “Or perhaps the army of Mertesse is more powerful than you anticipated.”
Aindreas shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think you had help.”
“Something was done to the west gate,” Javan said, drawing Aindreas’s gaze.
“How do you know?”
“It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. It wasn’t a matter of days, Aindreas. The Aneirans got through that gate in a matter of moments. It had to have been weakened somehow.”
Aindreas stared at Javan a moment longer before facing the Aneiran again. “Well?”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about. We defeated your gate with a ram, just as any army of the Forelands would.”
Shurik started to relax. The man had made up his mind to die for Yaella and the soldiers of Mertesse. Aindreas couldn’t frighten him into revealing anything. Or so he thought.
“Bowmen!” the duke called, his gaze still fixed on Stridbar. “Ready your arrows and bring me an Aneiran soldier.”
The armsman’s eyes widened, making him look like a frightened boy. “What are you going to do?”
Aindreas shrugged. “I’m going to execute your men one at a time until you tell me what I want to know. What else can I do?”
Maybe he doesn’t know, Shurik thought. Yaella and the duke might have kept this to themselves.
The man’s eyes flicked in his direction. It was only for the merest instant, but it was long enough to shatter this last hope like glass.
“Executing foot soldiers is not worthy of you, my lord,” Shurik said quietly. “It’s the act of an Aneiran, not a duke of Eibithar.”
“I’m forced to agree, Lord Kentigern,” Glyndwr said from atop his mount. “I dislike torture, but in this case I think that would be the better course.”
Aindreas glared at the minister as if his words alone had been a betrayal. But in the end he nodded. “Fine,” he said, his voice like ice. “Take him to the dungeon.”
“What of my men?” Stridbar asked.
Truly a leader to the end. He was to be admired. But more than that, perhaps now he could be trusted. Shurik could only hope that by saving the man’s soldiers, he had won his silence, at least long enough to make his way out of the castle to Mertesse.
“We’ll take their weapons and then send them back to Mertesse,” Aindreas said. He straightened in his saddle. “You have my word.”
The Aneiran took a breath and nodded. Aindreas lifted a finger, no more, and two men walked to where the man stood, grabbed hold of his arms, and led him toward the prison tower.
“Villyd,” the duke said, turning to his swordmaster. “Have the Aneirans stripped of their weapons and shields. Then have two of your captains and a hundred men escort them to the river. They aren’t to be harmed unless they turn on you.” He paused, his eyes sweeping the ward, a sour expression on his face. “The rest of your men should begin cleaning up this mess and fixing those gates.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“My men will be glad to help in any way they can,” Javan said, looking up at Aindreas.
Kearney nodded. “As will mine.”
Aindreas’s jaw tightened. Clearly he wanted no help of any sort from Javan, but his castle was in ruins. Merely removing the bodies would take the better part of a day. “My thanks,” he said, his voice thick.
A moment later Aindreas’s swordmaster began shouting commands at his soldiers, as did the dukes of Curgh and Glyndwr. Soon men were moving off in all directions to gather bodies and begin repairs to the castle.
“You said something was done to the gate,” Aindreas said, facing Javan once more. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know anything for certain,” said Curgh’s duke. “But my first minister suggested that it might have been weakened by magic. I agree.”
“What kind of magic?” Aindreas asked, shifting his gaze to Fotir.
“Shaping, most likely. Do you have any shapers in the castle?”
The duke glanced at Shurik. “Do we?”
“Yes,” Shurik said, pleased to hear that his voice remained steady. “Two of the underministers are shapers.”
“Is that all?”
Shurik turned at the sound of the voice to find Grinsa eyeing him closely. He felt a shudder go through his body. It almost seemed that the man could tell he was hiding something.
Ever since his second conversation with Fotir in the Silver Bear, Shurik had believed that the minister was the one who freed Tavis from the prison, and that he had been helped in this by a Weaver. And since meeting Grinsa for the first time, he had wondered if this gleaner was the one. A Weaver could discern the powers of another Qirsi simply by looking at him, so it was possible that this man knew he was a shaper as well. But even as they stared at one another, like two warriors gauging each other’s strengths before a fight, Shurik realized that neither of them could say anything about the other. The gleaner couldn’t reveal that Shurik was a shaper without giving away the true extent of his powers, and Shurik couldn’t accuse the man of being a Weaver without betraying his own secret. The gleaner seemed to sense this as well, for after several seconds he looked away, saying nothing.
“I’m fairly certain that is all,” the minister said, facing Aindreas again. “Of course, there’s nothing to prevent a Qirsi from lying about his or her powers. Any Qirsi in the castle could be a shaper.”
“Including you.” Fotir.
Shurik forced a smile. “Yes, First Minister, including me. And you.”
“I’ve never concealed the fact that I am a shaper. But I was in your prison tower when the gates fell.”
“This is foolishness,” Aindreas said, sounding impatient. “I want to speak with those two underministers, if they’re still alive. Find them for me, Shurik.”
“Of course, my lord.”
He turned his horse away and started toward the nearer of the two inner gates, taking care not to appear to be in a hurry. There were things in his chamber that he wanted: a pouch filled with gold, several bound volumes, some articles of clothing, an ornate dagger that his father had given him years ago. But none of them mattered anymore. If the gleaner didn’t give him away, the Aneiran armsman would. Either way, his life would be forfeit before long. This might be his only chance to get away. None of the soldiers would think to stop him, and for once he had nothing to fear from the Aneirans guarding the far bank of the river, most of whom had probably gone back to Mertesse with Yaella and what remained of Rouel’s army.
It seemed an abrupt end to his years in Kentigern, he mused, passing through the north gate. He always knew this day would come, but still it felt strange to make his decision so quickly. But what choice did he have? He had done what he could to help the Weaver’s cause. Perhaps it wasn’t enough, and perhaps the Weaver would kill him for that. But he had no wish to die by Aindreas’s hand. The Eandi fool didn’t deserve that satisfaction.
It was Shurik. Grinsa had no doubt. His eyes met Fotir’s, and he could see immediately that the minister felt the same way. He couldn’t say anything about it here, of course, not in front of the Eandi, not without raising their suspicions about his own powers. But there was nothing stopping him from following Aindreas’s minister and questioning him somewhere more private.
Before he could make his excuses and ride after the man, however, the conversation among the dukes took a dark turn, forcing him to remain with them at least a few moments longer.
Aindreas had dismounted and wa
s standing in front of Javan. Both of them bore cuts and welts, though the Curgh duke looked to be the far more battered of the two.
“It seems my prisons can’t manage to hold any of you,” Aindreas said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Why is that?”
Javan shrugged, though his blue eyes never strayed from Kentigern’s face. “I don’t know. I’ve heard it said that the gods won’t allow any prison to hold an innocent man. It seems as good an explanation as any.”
“You want me to accept a Qirsi plot to free your boy as a test of his innocence? Never!”
“Did you see Tavis fight today, Lord Kentigern?” Grinsa asked.
Both men looked his way.
“No,” the duke said. “Why?”
“Because if you had, you would have seen a young man—a child really—struggling to master his fear. And you would have seen that he was sickened by the act of killing a man, though that man had been intent on killing him. The boy’s no murderer; he’s not even a soldier yet. He hasn’t the stomach for it, or the courage.” The Qirsi glanced at Javan. “Forgive me, my lord, but I speak the truth.”
Tavis was looking down at his feet, the dried blood of the Aneiran he had killed still staining his face and neck. Grinsa had no desire to humiliate him, but better to be thought a coward than a butcher. That at least was the choice the gleaner would have made. He couldn’t tell just then if Tavis agreed.
“You offer that as proof?” Aindreas asked. “It means nothing! Of course he was scared today! He wasn’t murdering a defenseless girl this time.” He glared at Tavis, flexing his sword hand. “I should have killed you that first day, boy. I never should have offered you the chance to confess.”
Tavis raised his eyes to look at him. “Is that what you were doing? In Curgh we call it torture.”
Aindreas drew his sword, growling like a wild beast. Javan raised his weapon to defend the boy, as did Fotir and Hagan MarCullet.
“Hold!” Kearney said from atop his mount. “Lord Tavis is still under my protection, Aindreas. Harm him and it means war with Glyndwr.”