by DAVID B. COE
She swung herself off the bed and stepped to the door, pausing with her fingers on the door handle until her sight cleared and the dizzying motion of the chamber stopped. Then she pulled the door open.
“What man?” she asked the soldier who stood before her.
“I don’t know his name. He’s Qirsi, and he claims to be the first minister of Kentigern.”
She was past him almost before he finished.
“He is Kentigern’s first minister,” she said over her shoulder. “Or at least he used to be. You haven’t harmed him, have you?”
“No, First Minister. We’re holding him at the gate, and we took his sword, but we’ve done nothing more.”
“Good.”
She hadn’t expected Shurik so soon. Tomorrow perhaps, or the day after. But not this night. His arrival here probably meant that the battle had already ended. She was fortunate to have left when she did.
He was grinning when Yaella found him, though she could see the strain of the last few days in his pale eyes. He was surrounded by Rouel’s guards, and he looked like a child beside them.
“It’s all right,” Yaella told the soldiers, dismissing them with a wave of her hand. “Return his sword to him, see that his horse is taken to the stables, and leave us.”
The men did as they were told and in a moment the two Qirsi were alone.
“It’s over?” Yaella asked, as they walked back toward the inner ward.
“Your master armsman had just surrendered when I left.”
“So Wyn was still alive.”
“For the time being, yes. But Aindreas had him taken to his dungeon. My duke is intent on learning how his precious gates were defeated so quickly.”
“Is that why you left?”
Shurik shrugged, the familiar ironic smile springing to his lips. But Yaella could see that he was troubled. “I left because I sensed that one of the Qirsi riding with Kearney of Glyndwr knew what I had done.”
“But that’s impossible.”
He glanced at her. “Not entirely.”
It took her a moment. “You think he’s a Weaver?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“I think it’s possible. I’m just not certain if he’s our Weaver or not.”
“Why would our Weaver be helping Glyndwr? Why would he scare you into fleeing?”
“Why does he do any of this? I believe this Weaver helped the Curgh boy escape Aindreas’s prison, which carried us one step closer to a war between Kentigern and Curgh. Yet then he brought the houses of Eibithar together and ended Mertesse’s siege.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. Which seems more likely to you: that there are two Weavers walking the Forelands, or that our Weaver is influencing both sides of this conflict?”
Yaella weighed this for some time. Neither choice made much sense to her, but both seemed at least vaguely possible. “So what can we do?”
“I can’t answer that, either. I wouldn’t want to risk asking the Weaver about any of this, but if there is another of his kind, he should know about it.”
“Well, I’ll leave that to you,” she said.
He grinned again. “Coward.”
They passed through the inner gate and followed a narrow path toward the tower nearest her quarters. Usually she would have taken Shurik to the duke immediately. The minister was here seeking refuge in the House of Mertesse, and though Rouel had already agreed to grant him asylum, there were formalities to be observed. With Rouel dead, however, and Rowan grieving and so new to his power, she thought it best to wait.
She explained this to Shurik as they entered the torchlit corridors and made their way to the nearest stairway, their footsteps echoing loudly off the stone ceiling.
“But where am I to sleep?” he asked.
“You’re welcome in my chambers.” Seeing his grin, she shook her head. “Sleep, Shurik. That’s all.” Then she smiled as well. “For tonight at least.”
The following morning she took Shurik to the duke’s chambers, only to be turned away by guards who told her that Rowan was still attending to his mother, and wouldn’t be ready to speak with her until later that day. These soldiers also informed her that just over two hundred men had returned from Kentigern late the previous night, all of them unarmed and most of them uninjured. All told, the army of Mertesse had lost more than seven hundred soldiers, far more than half the number of men who had marched on Kentigern a few days before. Such news wasn’t going to make her conversation with the new duke any easier.
Yaella spent much of the day overseeing arrangements for Rouel’s funeral. Without being able to speak with Rowan or the duchess, she was forced to make a number of decisions on her own, but in the end she realized that neither of them was likely to find fault with much of what she did. The duke would be honored in a manner befitting his life and his station. What more could they ask?
She had dreaded this task when Rowan gave it to her, but she found that it made the day pass quickly and, oddly, it took her mind off the grief she still felt for Rouel. Shurik remained with her for much of the day, although he returned to her chambers just after the ringing of the prior’s bells. She met him there a short while later and escorted him once more to the chambers of the duke. This time the guards let them pass.
Rowan was standing at his father’s writing table, reading by candlelight. All the windows in the castle had been shuttered, and would remain so for a full turn. Yaella cringed at the thought of it. The chamber felt small and there was already a staleness to the air. She wasn’t certain she could live this way for a turn.
“Who is this?” Rowan asked, eyeing Shurik with unconcealed distaste.
Yaella cleared her throat. “This is Shurik jal Marcine, my lord. Until yesterday the first minister of Kentigern. First Minister, I present Rowan, duke of Mertesse.”
Shurik bowed. “An honor, my Lord Duke. I’m deeply sorry for the loss of your father. He was a wise and courageous man.”
Rowan stared at the minister for a moment, saying nothing. Then he swung his gaze back to Yaella. “Why have you brought him here? I have no wish to speak to this man today.”
“Shurik helped your father plan the siege of Kentigern, my lord. And in return, your father promised him asylum.”
“My father employed a Qirsi traitor?” the duke asked, narrowing his eyes.
A look of purest hatred twisted across Shurik’s features and was gone, appearing and vanishing in the time it might take an arrow to fly from a soldier’s bow to his enemy’s heart. Rowan gave no sign that he noticed.
“Your father understood that his assault on Kentigern stood little chance of succeeding without my aid,” the minister said, somehow managing a thin smile. “Even your fine army could not defeat the castle’s gates without my magic.”
“Yet even with your magic, the siege has failed and my father is dead.” The duke cast a dark frown at Yaella. “I’m told that we lost more than half the men my father took across the river. Is that true?”
What sense was there in denying it? “It is, my lord. I believe the number is near seven hundred men.”
Rowan shook his head, looking so much like Rouel that he could have been one of Bian’s wraiths rather than a fatherless boy. “It seems, sir, that your magic did my father and his men little good.”
“With all respect, my lord, my magic nearly allowed them to take the castle. Your father’s siege only failed because Lord Kentigern returned too soon and brought with him the armies of Curgh and Glyndwr. This was regrettable, to be certain, but it was beyond my control.”
The young duke looked down at his table, his mouth twitching. “I take it you’ve already been paid handsomely.”
“I have, my lord.”
“And though I still know little of such things, I would also guess that you’re still owed more gold.”
Shurik glanced at Yaella for just an instant. “That was our arrangement, my lord. Under the circumstances, the siege having failed and the duke havin
g been lost, I expect no more gold. But there is no longer a life for me in Kentigern, or anywhere in Eibithar for that matter. I do humbly ask your protection.”
“Yes, very well,” Rowan said, a sour expression on his youthful face. “I grant you asylum. And if my father promised gold, you’ll have that as well. The word of a Mertesse is as true as the sun.” It was an old saying, as old as the house itself, from all that Yaella could tell.
“You’re most gracious, my lord,” Shurik said. “Just as your father was.”
Rowan eyed him for a moment. “How much do we owe you?”
Shurik looked at Yaella once more.
“He was promised three hundred qinde, my lord,” she said, “and he’s still owed half.”
The duke’s eyes widened slightly, but then he nodded. “See to it, First Minister. And then make certain that he remains as far away from me as possible.”
Yaella faltered, glancing quickly at Shurik. “Of course, my lord.”
“My lord is too kind,” Shurik said, bowing once more. Yaella heard sarcasm in his voice, but again the duke didn’t appear to notice.
Rowan said nothing, his eyes fixed once more on the papers in front of him.
The two Qirsi exchanged another look.
“We’ll leave you now, my lord,” Yaella said. “You must be terribly weary.”
“Why did you do it?” Rowan asked.
Yaella frowned. “My lord?”
But when the duke looked up, his gaze fell upon Shurik’s face. “Why did you help my father? Was it just the gold?”
Abruptly Yaella’s heart was pounding like a smith’s sledge. She stared at Shurik, scouring her own mind for some answer that would satisfy Rowan without revealing too much. Her friend, though, gave no indication that he was shaken by the question.
“I served Aindreas of Kentigern for nearly ten years,” he said. “And never once did I feel that my duke appreciated my counsel or my powers. But more than that, I never felt that I was in the court of a great man. Do you have any idea, my lord, what it’s like to devote your life to serving a man you don’t respect?”
Yaella knew how much truth there was in Shurik’s answer, not only because he had expressed similar sentiments to her, but also because she had pledged herself to the Weaver’s cause for much the same reason.
“Yes,” the Qirsi went on after a moment’s pause, “I wanted your father’s gold. But just once I wanted as well to find myself in the service of a man I could honor.”
She felt certain that he was speaking of the Weaver, but Rowan couldn’t know this.
“I see,” the duke said, his voice low. “I appreciate your candor.”
“Your question demanded nothing less, my lord.”
Rowan nodded, suddenly looking tired and pale. “Leave me now. I wish to be alone.”
“Yes, my lord,” Yaella said.
The two Qirsi bowed to him one last time and left the chamber, keeping their silence until they were far from the duke’s guards in the dark corridors leading back to Yaella’s chamber.
“You handled that well,” she finally said. “Better than I would have.”
“I simply told him what he wanted to hear, and in a way that was so vague that I didn’t even have to lie.” Shurik grinned. “But you give yourself too little credit. You would have done the same had you been in my position.”
Yaella shook her head, unable just then to share in his mirth. “It will be much more difficult to explain all this to the Weaver. He expected a successful siege and a prolonged war between Aneira and Eibithar. We’ve given him neither.”
“I don’t know what he expected. As I told you before, I think it possible that he had much to do with our failure.” He stopped her beneath one of the torches, taking both her hands. “We did what we could. We did what the Weaver told us to do. How can he ask more of us than that?”
Someone stepped into the corridor at its far end, the footfall startling her.
The two Qirsi began walking again, although Shurik continued to hold one of her hands in his own. They passed a guard, who nodded to them, his gaze straying to their entwined hands.
“He saw,” she whispered, after she could no longer hear the man’s footsteps.
“So what?” Shurik said. “I’m tired of keeping up appearances for these Eandi fools. Besides, I live here now. Chances are I’ll be one of the duke’s underministers before long. Isn’t it natural that I should seek the affections of his lovely first minister?”
She did smile at that.
A few moments later, they reached her door, pausing for a moment in the corridor.
“Will I be using my sleeping roll again tonight?” he asked, smiling and stepping closer to her.
Yaella felt her cheeks color and nearly laughed aloud at herself. Was she a girl again, about to share her bed with this man for the first time? She put her arms around his neck and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“The duke did say to make certain you were comfortable.”
“A fine man, this new duke.”
Yaella kissed him again, deeply this time, before opening her door and drawing him into her chamber.
Lying in the darkness with Yaella naked beside him, her breathing slow and deep, her hand resting lightly on his chest, Shurik struggled to slow the beating of his heart. His brave words in the corridor notwithstanding, he feared the Weaver, as any Qirsi in his right mind would. Shurik considered himself a formidable man. Few Qirsi could lay claim to wielding even three forms of magic, much less the four that he possessed. He had served in the court of one of Eibithar’s most powerful dukes and had, for the past several years, succeeded in concealing his betrayal. He might not have been the finest warrior in Aindreas’s army, but swordsmanship was an Eandi talent. In the most important respects, those that mattered to his own people, he was a man to be respected.
Yet, next to the Weaver, he was nothing. The man could read the thoughts and harness the powers of other Qirsi as if they were his own. He could enter the dreams of those who served him, and could compel their obedience without saying a word or lifting a hand. Shurik had dreamed of such power for years; he had never imagined that another would use it to bend his will.
If he could have divined the purpose behind the Weaver’s instructions it might have helped to ease his mind, but even in this way, the man was beyond him. Would the Weaver be angry that the siege had failed, or had he been responsible for its failure? Either way, Shurik felt certain that the man was waiting for him, ready to invade his sleep and carry him to the mysterious rise where they always spoke. So the minister lay awake, fighting his weariness, groping in the darkness for the words he would use to explain all that had gone wrong in the last few days. He longed to get up and step to the window so that he might look upon the moons and feel the cool touch of night on his face. But with Rouel dead and the castle mourning, even that was denied him. He felt himself drifting toward sleep, and though he tried to resist, it was as futile as swimming against a storm tide. It almost seemed that the Weaver had found a way to control his body as well as his mind.
At last he closed his eyes, thinking to do so only for a moment. But when he opened them again he was on the plain, standing in tall grasses amid the hulking shadows of boulders. The sky above him was black as night, but starless and moonless. Without even thinking, he started to walk toward the rise where the Weaver awaited him.
It was a steep climb that always left him winded and sweating, but this night it seemed especially arduous, as if the Weaver was already punishing him. Shurik felt as though he were ascending the highest peaks of the Basak Range rather than the grassy mound he had encountered here before. His legs ached and the slope grew so severe that he had to scramble on his hands and feet for the last part of the climb. When at last he reached the top, he could barely stand and his breath came in ragged gasps that tore at his chest.
He stood there for a long time, bent at the waist, his head spinning until he thought that he might be sick. The
wind had ceased, as if the land itself were waiting for him to recover. At last he straightened, and only then did the light blaze, stabbing like a blade into his eyes. He looked away, raising a hand against the light. When he faced forward again, the Weaver was there, walking toward him, his wild hair and flowing cape framed by the radiance like a cloud that has blotted out the sun.
The Weaver stopped a few paces from where Shurik stood. He looked taller than Shurik remembered, more powerful, more frightening, his face obscured by the shadows.
“The siege is over.” The Weaver offered it as a statement, his voice as hard as the stone boulders strewn across the darkened landscape.
“Yes, Weaver.”
“And there is no war.”
“No.”
“How is it that you’ve managed to fail so miserably?”
How many times would he have to explain this? “Kentigern returned too soon, and he brought the armies of Curgh and Glyndwr with him.”
“I had heard of this as well. Not only did you fail to give me the war I desired, but you have allowed the major houses of Eibithar to unite. Only days ago, Curgh and Kentigern were on the verge of civil war. Now they’ve fought side by side against their kingdom’s most hated enemy. There’s no telling how many turns it will take to drive them apart again.”
“There was little I could do to—”
Shurik’s head snapped back, his cheek stinging as if he had been struck. But the Weaver hadn’t moved at all.
“You’re Kentigern’s first minister!” he said, his voice low and menacing. “You were there as all this was happening! And you want me to believe that you couldn’t prevent any of it?”
“There were other forces at work, Weaver.”
“Yes, of course there were.”
Shurik heard sarcasm in the Weaver’s tone and he had to bite back a response.
“The boy is free again?” the man asked a moment later. “Under Glyndwr’s protection?”
“Yes.”
“In other words, the only thing that worked out as you had hoped was your request for asylum in Mertesse. How fortunate for you. Under such circumstances, a man in my position might feel that his generosity had been exploited, that his gold had gone for nothing at all.”