by David B. Coe
“That was because of Shurik’s treachery, my lord.”
“Do you honestly believe that if I had been here, and the men with me, Mertesse would have gained control of the tor, even with the gates weakened?”
The swordmaster could offer but one answer. He looked straight ahead. “No, my lord. Of course not.”
They emerged from the stairway into the bright sunshine.
Aindreas held a hand to his brow, shielding his eyes, and looking down on the thick mist that appeared to be crawling up the side of the tor. It wouldn’t be long before the Aneirans were at the Tarbin gate. Let it hold.
“You don’t like being at odds with the Crown, do you, Villyd?”
“No, my lord.”
“You think I should have reconciled with Kearney a long time ago. I know that.”
“I’m but a warrior, my lord. I know little of court politics.”
Aindreas had to grin. “Your reply belies the claim, swordmaster.” He waved a hand, as if to dismiss the matter. “It’s not important. To be honest, I don’t relish being labeled a traitor any more than you do, and I share your concern for the realm. I don’t like Kearney and probably I never will, but I have no desire to see Braedon and the Aneirans carving up the kingdom. My first duty, though, is to Kentigern and her people. Until I’m convinced that the tor is safe, I won’t send away even a single man. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Tearing his gaze from the mist, Aindreas surveyed the castle walls. Already the swordmaster had positioned archers three deep on the top of the wall. They would be ready to loose their arrows as soon as the enemy was within reach.
“You have men preparing fire pots and lime?”
“Yes, my lord. We’ll have tar as well. The Aneirans won’t have an easy time of it, that’s for certain.”
Aindreas nodded, surprised by how calm he suddenly felt. “Good.” Maybe the gates would hold; maybe they wouldn’t. Perhaps the Aneirans were intent on capturing the tor; perhaps, as Villyd suggested, this was all just an elaborate diversion. At least something was finally happening. Yes, the Qirsi still controlled him, and he remained convinced that this siege and the fighting to the north were contrivances of the conspiracy, but once the battles began he’d at least have a chance. The white-hairs couldn’t control everything, not amid the turmoil and carnage of war.
A wind began to rise from the south, though the conjured mist clung stubbornly to the side of the tor and the winding road that led from the Tarbin to the castle gate.
“That’s a Qirsi wind,” Villyd said, eyeing the sky warily. A few pale clouds hung over the city, but they were barely moving. “The Aneirans must think that they’re within range of our bowmen.”
“Are they?”
The swordmaster looked down on the mist. “Possibly. But we still can’t see them.”
“How are our stores of long shafts and bolts?”
“We have ample supplies of both, my lord.”
“Then let them fly. I want the Aneirans to understand that their Qirsi can’t protect them from the soldiers of Kentigern.”
At that, the swordmaster faced the duke again, grinning eagerly. “Yes, my lord.”
He shouted an order to the archers. Immediately those men with crossbows stepped to the wall and aimed their weapons down at the slope of the tor. Villyd raised his arm, then brought it down sharply. The crossbows snapped loudly in rapid succession, and the bolts whistled as they flew, like trilling birds. A moment later screams of anguish rose from the mist. The first bowmen stepped back, to be replaced at once by archers with longbows. Again the swordmaster’s arm rose and fell. Bows thrummed, the long shafts flew, and more cries echoed off the tor and the castle walls.
Aindreas could hear the Aneiran commanders shouting instructions as well, and after a few moments the wind strengthened and shifted so that it blew across the tor. Clearly the attackers wished to make it more difficult for Kentigern’s archers to find their mark.
“Continue to loose your arrows, swordmaster,” the duke said. “And call for the tar and fire pots. They’re rushing the gate.”
The mist had reached the castle entrance and now Aindreas could hear the wheels of the Aneirans’ siege engines. There was a pit in the center of the road that had been intended to further impede the approach of snails, rams, and other siege machines. During the last siege, however, the army of Mertesse had filled it in with stones and dirt. In the year since, Aindreas had instructed his men to clear it out once more, but he had been more concerned with the reconstruction of the gate itself, and the pit had been largely neglected. It might slow the Aneirans, but only briefly.
Villyd barked orders, sending men scurrying in every direction. The third line of archers loosed their arrows, and stepped back, making room for the crossbowmen, who had fitted new bolts in their weapons. Soldiers emerged from tower stairways carrying pots of oil and containers of lime, and a short time later, others appeared, with forked poles to fend off the ladders that the Aneirans would use to scale the castle walls. Aindreas was about to call a second time for the tar, when the smell reached him, burning his nostrils. An instant later men appeared in the tower doorways struggling with large vats of the foul stuff.
Villyd shouted again, and the bowmen shifted positions, moving to either side of the Tarbin wall so as to make room for the men with the tar and fire pots.
“All is ready, my lord,” the swordmaster said. “We need only wait for the first blow.”
“Very well, Villyd. Have the archers continue to fire.”
“Yes, my lord.”
After but a few seconds the crossbows crackled again, and more howls rent the air. Then one round of longbows. And the other. An otherworldly stillness settled over the tor, broken only by the pulsing of bows, the whistle of arrows, and the shrieks of those dying below the castle ramparts.
Aindreas peered down at the mist again, waiting for the assault on the gate to commence, listening for any indication of what the Aneirans were doing. As he did, he suddenly felt the hairs on his neck stand on end, as if some wraith from Bian’s realm had run a ghostly finger down his spine. Unsure as to why he did it, the duke straightened and turned, looking north, toward the shores of the Strait of Wantrae.
Atop a small rise, not far from the city walls, a slight figure sat atop a white mount, seeming to stare back at him. For just a single heartbeat, Aindreas thought it was Brienne, or at least the apparition of his beloved child, haunting him once more. But as he continued to watch the rider, sunlight burst forth from behind a cloud, lighting the figure’s hair and face. Both were as white as bleached bone. Jastanne.
“Is something wrong, my lord?”
Aindreas turned so quickly that he nearly lost his balance. “No. I was just—” He shook his head. “It was nothing.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Was there something you wanted, Villyd?”
“Yes, my lord. I was wondering if you wanted to send men out to strike at the Aneirans?”
The duke narrowed his eyes, thinking that the swordmaster was trying once more to get him to send part of his army northward. “I thought we had discussed this.”
“No, my lord. I mean to strike at them here. We can send a small party of archers out of the east sally port to attack the siege machines as they reach the gate. But we’d need to do it now, while they still have their mists about them. This won’t work if the men can be seen.”
Aindreas nodded. “Give the order, swordmaster.”
“Yes, my lord,” Villyd said and hurried away.
The duke turned to look toward the rise again, but Jastanne was gone.
A cry went up from Aindreas’s men, and before the duke even had time to turn toward the sound, the castle shuddered, as from a blow. The assault on the gate had begun.
Aindreas strode to Villyd’s side and looked down at the side of the tor. The mist was gone, and he could see the ram poised just in front of the gate. Its wooden roof wa
s covered with animal skins, as were the roofs of the snails that still crawled up the road, protecting much of the Aneiran army. The duke heard the Aneirans within the ram shouting in cadence and the castle shook a second time. Yet for all the power of the blow, it seemed that the new gate was holding.
“Fire pots!” Villyd called. “Lime and tar as well! Archers, flaming arrows!”
In another moment, all on the castle walls was frenzy. Ladders rose to the ramparts as if sprouting from the earth, and Aneiran soldiers began to climb them under the cover of volleys from their own archers. Kentigern’s men used the forked poles to push the ladders away, sending enemy soldiers tumbling to the ground. Others used torches to light the oil pots, which they then dropped on the ram and snail. Still others poured tar over the edge of the ramparts, drawing wails of pain from below. When a few of the enemy managed to gain the top of the wall, they were immediately beset by swordsmen. Several of the Aneiran bowmen found their mark, killing a number of Aindreas’s men, including one soldier only a few fourspans from where the duke stood. Still, most of the casualties in these first moments of the siege were inflicted on the attackers.
“You planned well, swordmaster,” the duke said, toppling a ladder himself and ducking beneath a flurry of arrows. The fortress shuddered once more.
“Thank you, my lord.” Villyd’s tone was a match for his grim expression.
“You’re not pleased?”
The man nodded toward the river by way of answer.
Following the direction of the swordmaster’s gaze Aindreas saw them as well, though the Aneirans had tried to hide their work within the trees and rushes growing along the Tarbin. Hurling arms. Four of them. They hadn’t been completed yet, but from the look of them, it wouldn’t be long.
“How can they have built them so quickly?”
“I’d guess that they cut and prepared the timber in Mertesse before crossing the Tarbin, my lord. At least, that’s what they did last time.”
“Of course.”
Another blow to the gate.
“Last time they had only one.”
“They only needed one. Shurik had seen to the gates.”
“Yes, my lord. I expected two this time, perhaps three. But not four.”
“The walls will hold, Villyd. They always have.”
“Of course, my lord. But still I fear for the men. No part of the wall will be safe.”
“We may have to send out parties through the sally ports after all. Not yet, not until we have an idea of where they intend to place the arms. But you should begin forming several parties of your best archers and swordsmen. Have them ready to go when I give the word.”
“Yes, my lord. I’ll see to it right away.” He sketched a quick bow and returned to the men.
Aindreas looked down at the Aneirans again as yet another jolt from the ram forced him to grip the stone wall. Then he glanced northward, at the rise. There was no sign of the Qirsi woman.
Leaving the walls, the duke descended the stairs again, hurrying back to the inner keep. He had intended to make his way to the cloister, to check on Ioanna and the children. Somehow, however, he ended up back at the door to his presence chamber. Shaking his head, he turned away, again intending to walk to the cloister.
It was the wine that stopped him. He could never admit as much to anyone, certainly not the duchess. A duke shouldn’t drink during a siege, not while his men were fighting and dying. But Aindreas knew that the flagon of Sanbiri red was still there on his writing table, just where he had left it.
He rubbed a hand over his face, wanting to walk away, unable to make himself leave.
“Go to them, Father. Mother and Affery and Ennis. They’re all waiting for you.”
He gave Brienne a sad smile. She was so beautiful, just as her mother once had been. His heart ached at the mere sight of her. “I want to,” he said. “Truly I do.”
“Then go. Walk away now. Leave the wine.”
“It’s not as easy as all that. You know the things I’ve done.”
“Yes, Father, I do. And I know as well that it doesn’t matter. Go to them, while there’s still time.”
“I will,” he told her, taking hold of the door handle. “Soon. I swear it.”
He turned his back to her, knowing that she’d go away. She always did.
“Oh, Father,” he heard her sigh as he pushed the door open and stepped into his presence chamber.
Crossing to the table, he grabbed the flagon and filled his goblet.
“I thought there was someone with you.”
He spun, spilling wine on his table and on the stone floor.
Jastanne stood before him, an insolent smirk on her youthful face. “I heard you speaking just before you opened the door.”
“How did you get in here?”
The smirk broadened into a grin. “Does it really matter?”
He pulled his sword from its sheath. “Yes, it does.”
Her golden eyes dropped to the blade for just an instant before locking on his again. All traces of mirth had fled her face. “You realize that I can shatter that sword with a thought. And I can do the same to every bone in your body.”
In his rage, he had forgotten that she was a shaper. He longed to kill her, but he didn’t dare chance an attempt. He knew all too well what a Qirsi with shaping power could do, be it to the gates of his castle or to his neck. After a moment, he returned the sword to his belt. “I want to know how you got in,” he said, though he could do nothing to compel a reply.
To her credit, Jastanne seemed to sense how important this was to him. “I used one of the sally ports. Your guards are more concerned just now with parties of Aneirans than they are with a lone Qirsi.”
“How did you know about the sally port?”
“Before you banished all the Qirsi from your castle, we had . . . allies in your court. Our knowledge of Kentigern Castle is extensive.” Then, as if to soften the words, she added, “Though no more extensive than our knowledge of the castles in Thorald, Galdasten, even the City of Kings.”
“So you can come here unbidden any time you like. You could kill me in my sleep if you wanted to.”
The smile sprang to her lips again. “Why would we want to?” When he said nothing, she gave a small shrug. “I suppose we could. As I said, with the siege under way, your guards are intent on the Aneirans. They know me from my previous visits, so even if they saw me, they probably would let me pass. Under other circumstances, that might not be the case.”
Aindreas wasn’t satisfied by this, but he hadn’t the time to pursue the matter further. “Why are you here?” He stopped, eyeing her closely. “Was that you I saw just a short time ago, on the rise north of the castle?”
“Yes, it was. Word of the Aneirans’ advance reached the piers a short time ago. I came here to make certain that you know what we want of you.”
“I intend to defend my castle.”
“Of course you do, Lord Kentigern. We’d expect no less.” Something, a catch in the voice. He knew what she’d say next. “But we also expect no more.”
“The Aneirans are going to march north, to Galdasten.”
Her eyebrows went up. “I’m impressed.”
Aindreas looked away, feeling ill. “Actually,” he said, not certain why he bothered, “my swordmaster suggested that they would.”
“Really? Who’d have thought that an Eandi warrior could be so clever?”
“You want me to let them go.”
“Yes. They’ll wait until the siege is well under way—I imagine you’ll have little choice but to use all your men in the defense of your city and castle. But just in case you have it in mind to stop them, don’t.”
“You have allies in Mertesse, as well. Or perhaps in Solkara.” Or is it both? When she didn’t answer, he said, “My swordmaster all but begged me to divide my army in order to keep the Aneirans from getting past Kentigern.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That I was most
concerned with the defense of the tor, and that I wouldn’t take even a single man off the castle walls until I was certain that Aneira’s siege had been broken.”
“Excellent. Then you have nothing to worry about.” But there was a brittle quality to her voice, as though she sensed that he was wavering.
“We’re nearing the end of all this, aren’t we?”
“The end of what?” she asked, in a way that made him certain that they were.
“This is what your leaders have been waiting for. This siege, the naval war in Falcon Bay.” He forced a smile, despite the pain in his gut. “We’re allies, Jastanne. Surely you can tell me this much.”
She regarded him briefly, before stepping to the door. “Guard your castle, Lord Kentigern. There may be more to this siege than there appears, but that doesn’t mean that the Aneirans are any less earnest in their desire to destroy you. You’d be wise to remain true to your word. Defend your castle, and leave the rest to us.” She left him then, her words hanging in the air, pungent as black smoke. And she closed the door so softly that he never heard the latch slip back in place.
Chapter
Nineteen
City of Kings, Eibithar
t had taken her some time to adjust to all the changes in her life. Not just bearing a child, watching as her body was transformed to accommodate the tiny life within her, and watching now as she slowly returned to what she remembered as normal. Not just the swelling of her breasts and what seemed to be the doubling of her appetite, as she started to nurse Bryntelle. In order to ensure her survival and that of her daughter, Cresenne ja Terba had altered the rhythm of their existence.
The scars from her last encounter with the Weaver had faded almost to white. They would always be visible, but they didn’t mar her face as once they had. Her hand, which the Weaver had shattered with a mere thought, no longer pained her. She could move the fingers almost as she had before that night, and from what Grinsa had told her, she knew that eventually even this small amount of stiffness would vanish. The Weaver had dealt her other injuries as well, but they too had mended, either on their own or under her beloved gleaner’s healing touch. Yet, while the pain the Weaver had caused her was but a memory, and the physical evidence of his attack a shadow of what it once had been, the terror instilled in her by that horrible night remained as raw and crippling as a fresh battle wound.
