by David B. Coe
“Yes, my lord.”
“I’ve no intention of imprisoning you—I think you know that—but I trust that in the future you’ll fight your battles with the conspiracy in more . . . acceptable ways.”
“I will, my lord. You have my word.”
They lapsed into silence, the duke grappling with his curiosity. In the end, he was no match for it.
“What happened?”
“My lord?”
“Is the traitor dead?”
“Yes, my lord. I received word from the assassin shortly after our return from the king’s funeral.”
“Well, I suppose we should be thankful for that.”
“Yes, my lord.” Another silence. Then, “You should rest, my lord, while you can.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Thank you, Evanthya.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Tebeo stepped past her and descended the tower stairs to the corridor on which his chambers were located. He knew better than to try to sleep; even at night, recently, he found that he could do little more than doze off occasionally. Mostly he lay awake, attempting to anticipate Numar’s plans and scouring his mind for anything he might have forgotten as he readied his city and castle for civil war.
Rather than returning to his bedchamber, he went in search of Pelgia. He found her in the kitchens, overseeing the kitchenmaster’s work.
She smiled at the sight of him, though the strain of these past several days was evident on her face. There were dark circles under her eyes; her cheeks looked leaner than usual, and paler as well. Still, even wan and weary, she was lovely, and he wondered briefly if it would be unseemly for a duke and his wife to take to their bed on the eve of a war.
He walked to where she stood and took her hand, kissing her brow. “Is everything all right?”
She nodded. “Yes. There’ll be food enough, anyway.”
“Good.” He raised her hand to his lips, drawing her gaze. “Walk with me?”
They left the kitchen and walked slowly along the lower corridor, as soldiers hurried past them in either direction.
“Where are the children?” he asked after some time.
“In the cloister. Tas wants to fight, but I’ve told him that he has to wait another year. And of course Laytsa says that if her brother can raise a sword, she can as well.”
Tebeo gave a small laugh, but it gave way instantly to a deep frown. “Everyone is so eager to fight this war. Is there something wrong with me that I’m not?”
“Tas is a year shy of his Fating, Tebeo. And Laytsa’s just past her Determining. They don’t know any better.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “I realize that. But to hear Evanthya and Bausef speak of what’s coming, you’d think that our victory was assured. I should be able to speak of it the same way.”
“You’re not a warrior,” she said, slipping her arm through his. “You never have been. That’s one of the reasons I love you.”
“Dantrielle needs a warrior right now.” He knew this was true, and it made him feel old and weak. Bausef seemed ready to raise his sword against the entire Solkaran army. And Evanthya was so eager for blood that she had already tried to take on the conspiracy by herself. I hired a blade . . .
“No,” Pelgia said. “Dantrielle needs a duke, a man with wisdom and compassion and strength. And you possess all those in abundance.”
Fearing that he might weep, the duke halted and kissed her deeply, heedless of the men who continued to step past them.
When at last he pulled away, she smiled, though there was a troubled look in her eyes. “You’re frightened,” she whispered.
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“I think you should take to heart the confidence of your first minister and master of arms. If they thought that we were about to be destroyed, they’d tell you to find some path to peace. Your army and your people are strong, my lord. And though you doubt it now, you are as well.”
He gazed at her in wonder. “I believe you may be strong enough for us both.”
“One doesn’t endure four labors and the loss of a babe without finding some strength.”
He nodded, stroking her cheek with a finger. “When it begins, I want you in the cloister as well. The tower is farthest from where much of the fighting will be, and it will be well defended. I’ll see to that.”
“The kitchenmaster will need my help, Tebeo. And so will the healers. A duchess doesn’t hide from war.”
“Even when her husband commands it?”
She grinned, dark eyes sparkling in the torchlight. “Especially then.”
He had to laugh, despite the terror gripping his heart. If you’re hurt or lost to me, I’ll kill the regent myself. “Very well,” he said. “But the next time Laytsa defies you, you’ll have no sympathy from me.”
“And when have I ever had it before?”
He laughed again. She had always been able to make him smile, even in the darkest times.
“I should return to the towers,” he said, reluctant to leave her.
“When was the last time you slept?”
He frowned. “You sound like Evanthya.”
“You should sleep now, while you can.”
He kissed her once more and started away. “If I could sleep I would.”
Concern creased her brow, but she nodded, giving his hand a quick squeeze before releasing it.
Suddenly he was anxious to be on the ramparts again, watching for Numar and his army. Instead, Tebeo made his way to the cloister. Having seen Pelgia, he wished to hold his children once more as well. Reaching the entrance to the abbey, however, he heard laughter coming from within: Senaon, his youngest. A moment later he also heard Laytsa. He could almost picture Tas smiling with the others. His oldest boy had always been the quiet one. They were happy, unafraid. Even knowing that the siege was coming—he had spoken of it with them just two days before—they managed to find humor and joy in one another. Who was he to interfere, to bring the shadow of war to their play?
He merely stood near the door, listening to them. After several moments, the prelate emerged from his sanctum. Seeing the duke, he stopped and opened his mouth to speak.
Tebeo raised a finger to his lips and shook his head.
Another peal of laughter echoed through the cloister, and the prelate smiled, walking to where the duke stood.
“They forget the war, my lord,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Just as they should.”
“Thank you, Father Prelate.”
“Of course, my lord. You know they’re welcome here as long as you wish them to stay. And should the battle come to these walls, I’ll guard them myself.” His grin broadened at what he saw on Tebeo’s face. “You think it an idle boast. I was quite a swordsman as a youth, and I daresay I can still fight if pressed to do so.”
Tebeo had always remained partial to the sanctuaries, even as Pelgia turned increasingly to the cloisters and the New Faith. He liked this prelate, though, and had since the prelacy passed to him nine years ago.
“I have no doubt that you can, Father Prelate. It will ease my mind knowing that our children are under your care.”
“You honor me, my lord.”
“The cloister has all it needs in the event of a siege?”
“It does, my lord. The duchess has seen to that. She’s a most extraordinary woman.”
“Indeed, she is. But she’s also headstrong and she speaks of helping the healers and the kitchenmaster.” He hesitated, but only for an instant. “If the walls are breached—”
“They’ll hold, my lord.”
“But if they don’t, I want you to find her and get her into the cloister.”
“You ask a great deal, my lord. I’m not afraid of the Solkarans, but the duchess is another matter.”
Tebeo had to smile. The gods had favored his house with so many fine people. “Do your best, Father Prelate. I can’t ask more than that.”
“You know I will, my lord.” He looked like he might say more, b
ut at that moment, bells began to toll throughout the city.
Let it be Brall. But as quickly as the thought entered his mind, he dismissed it. Even if his friend and the Orvinti army had already begun their march they would have to cross two rivers to reach Dantrielle, and that would slow them considerably. Perhaps the duke of Tounstrel had come, or the duke of Noltierre. Most likely, it was the regent with the Solkaran army.
“Ean guard you, my lord,” the prelate said. “And may Orlagh guide your blade.”
Tebeo turned and hurried toward the tower stairs. “A strange blessing coming from a man of the cloisters,” he said over his shoulder.
“At times like these, I believe it best to have as many gods and goddesses on one’s side as possible.”
An instant later Tebeo was in the tower, taking its stairs two at a time. Once on the wall, he hurried around to where Evanthya and Bausef stood, their eyes fixed on the lands to the north.
Following the line of their gazes, he felt his stomach heave. A grand army was approaching from the northeast, marching under two flags: the yellow and red banner of Aneira, and the red, gold, and black of Solkara. Glancing quickly overhead, the duke saw that Bausef had already managed to have Aneiran banners raised above all eight towers.
As the pealing of the bells continued to reverberate through the castle, ward fires were lit atop the towers, and archers emerged from the stairways, spreading out along the walls as if they had repelled sieges a thousand times before.
“Your men are well prepared, armsmaster.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
The three of them fell silent, all of them marking the army’s progress toward the walls of Dantrielle. It seemed a far larger force than Tebeo had expected, and the duke had to remind himself that Numar would have brought laborers to build his siege engines. Still, in order to make the journey, all of them would have to be able-bodied. And once their axes were done cutting trees, they could be used as weapons.
“I would have thought that they would burn the villages in your countryside,” Evanthya said. “But I see no smoke.”
“The regent has declared the duke a traitor,” Bausef answered before Tebeo could say anything. “He wishes to win the hearts and minds of Dantrielle’s subjects. He’ll destroy the city and fortress if he can, but he’ll do nothing to anger those outside our walls. Unless of course they join the fight on our behalf.”
Tebeo heard a voice cry out, and looking at the Solkarans once more, he saw one of the few mounted men raise a hand. Numar. The army halted well beyond the range of Dantrielle’s bowmen. A moment later, far sooner than the duke would have thought possible, he heard the faint ringing of steel on wood as they began their assault on the Great Forest.
“It will take them some time to build their engines.” The armsmaster’s voice was calm, as if he were speaking of the plantings. “Days perhaps, and even when they’re ready to start, I’d imagine they’ll wait until darkness falls. I don’t expect the siege to begin in earnest until tomorrow night, or perhaps the night after that. Tonight, I would expect them to test the defenses of the city walls. That’s where our men should be for now.”
Tebeo just stared at the regent’s army, once again regretting that he hadn’t taken more time in his youth to study tactics. “Can you tell if the archminister is with them, First Minister?”
“No, my lord, I can’t.”
“I would expect that he is. Do you know what powers he possesses?”
“Not with any certainty, my lord. I remember hearing once that he was a shaper and that he also had the magic of mists and winds. But this was little more than rumor. Qirsi rarely reveal what powers they possess, and the archminister and I have never been close.”
He knew that she was understating the case quite a bit. As he understood it, the two disliked and distrusted each other.
“We should assume that he has both powers, my lord,” said the master of arms. “One shaper against so many bowmen shouldn’t be too great a problem, but his mists will make it more difficult for us.”
“I’ve mists and winds as well,” Evanthya said. “Perhaps I can raise a gale against his mist.”
Tebeo nodded, but said nothing. Already several trees had fallen and other laborers were scrambling over them, cutting away the branches and notching the wood so that the trunks could be used as rams, or in the building of a snare.
“Shall I move some of the men to the city walls, my lord?”
“Yes, Bausef. Make certain they understand, however, that they’re not to loose any arrows until they’ve been fired upon.”
“My lord?”
“We’re not traitors, armsmaster. The regent brings this war to us, and I will not have Dantrielle spilling the first blood.”
“Forgive me for saying so, my lord, but that’s madness. This is a siege. If we wait to loose our arrows until the Solkarans have drawn first blood, our archers will be of no use to us. We must fire first. It’s our only hope of keeping the regent’s soldiers from our gates and our walls.”
He was right, of course. Tebeo could see the logic of his point. Yet, still the duke hesitated. “This war is their doing, not ours. The history of this siege should reflect that.”
Even as he spoke the words, though, he remembered an old warrior’s adage. “Orlagh chooses the hand that will write each battle’s tale,” it was said. “History is but another spoil of war.”
Evanthya gazed at the duke, her expression pained. “I have to agree with Bausef, my lord.”
The bells had stopped ringing, and the only sounds Tebeo could hear were made by the banners rising and falling overhead, and the Solkaran axes ravaging his forest.
“My lord?”
Before he could say anything, the bells began to ring again, beginning this time at the eastern end of the city. Tebeo ran along the wall, to the other side of the castle, followed closely by Evanthya and the swordsman. He hadn’t yet reached the far tower when he heard a cheer go up from Numar’s men. When he gained the tower, he scanned the woods, searching for some sign of what the enemy had seen.
“There!” Evanthya cried, pointing to a gap in the forest, due east of the castle.
Tebeo saw it as well. A second army was approaching the city, this one marching under a green and white banner. Rassor.
It wasn’t as large a force as Numar’s, but then again, it didn’t have to be.
“The siege might begin this night after all,” Evanthya muttered.
Bausef faced him, looking far more somber than he had a few moments before. “Your orders, my lord?”
Where was Brall? Where were Ansis and Vistaan and Bertin the Younger?
“See to the city walls, armsmaster,” Tebeo said, his mouth so dry he could barely speak. “Tell your men to loose their arrows at the enemy’s first approach.”
Chapter
Twelve
Yserne, Sanbira
fierce rain pelted Yserne, soaking the farms that dotted the countryside, slaking the thirst of young crops. Vast pools of rainwater covered the inner ward of the queen’s castle, and beyond the walls of the fortress, the surface of Lake Yserne churned as if some fire from Bian’s realm heated its waters.
Such storms weren’t uncommon in Sanbira during Elined’s Turn. As a child, Diani, duchess of Curlinte, had dreaded the moon of the goddess; just the mention of Elined’s name called to mind dreary days trapped within the walls of her mother’s castle, staring out at the warm rains and the brilliant lightning that arced across the sky on the coast near Curlinte. “Growing rains bring a good harvest,” her mother used to say, when Diani complained to her of horseback rides put off by another storm. “It’s the growing sun that I fear.”
In recent years, as she passed Fating age and began to assume more responsibility for leading the duchy, Diani witnessed for herself the ravages of drought and famine, and came to understand her mother’s fondness for the rains. She might even have shared it in some small way. And in the turns since her mother’s death
, she had realized that the smell of a storm and the gentle rumble of distant thunder would forever remind her of Dalvia, of the rainy days they had shared in Curlinte Castle, speaking of what it meant to rule as duchess.
This storm was different, however. It offered no comforting memories, no solace for the loss of her mother, which still made her chest ache. The rain that fell this day seemed to carry only the dark promise of battle and ominous portents of an uncertain future. Water ran down the castle walls, darkening the red stone so that it seemed to glimmer and flow like blood. Thunder made the walls and floors shudder, as if Orlagh herself, the warrior goddess, were pounding at the earth with her battle hammer.
“Is something wrong, Lady Curlinte?”
Diani turned from the window at the sound of the voice. Edamo, the duke of Brugaosa, was standing beside her, somewhat closer than she would have liked.
“No, Lord Brugaosa. I’m fine.”
“You’re certain? You looked troubled—one might even go so far as to say, fearful. Is it possible that you know already why the queen has called us here?”
She shook her head, pushing a strand of dark hair back from her brow. “As I said, I’m fine. And I have no idea why the queen wished to speak with us.”
A lie, one that came to her easily. The matriarchy was poised on the edge of a blade. It no longer seemed a question of whether Sanbira would go to war, but rather when and against whom. Eibithar might already be at war with Braedon and Aneira; just this morning word of the empire’s impending invasion had arrived in the royal city, along with a request from King Kearney that the queen send her army to aid the defense of his realm. Only a few turns before, the Qirsi conspiracy had struck at Sanbira, making an attempt on Diani’s life that had been intended to appear the work of Edamo’s famed assassins.
