by David B. Coe
Most of those men he did see wore the red and gold of Solkara or the brown and black of Rassor, but the duke also saw soldiers dressed in the colors of Kett and Tounstrel. So it was Ansis and Vistaan. Which meant, perhaps, that Brall and Bertin the Younger were nearby.
Perhaps Numar understood this as well, and this morning’s attacks were intended as one final, desperate attempt to take Dantrielle by force. Even as the duke formed the thought, however, his hopes flared and turned to ash.
Abruptly, dark smoke was rising from the Great Forest to both the north and the east, turning the sky to a dirty grey and drifting over the castle like an acrid mist.
“Why would they burn the wood?”
Tebeo nearly jumped out of his skin. Evanthya was beside him, though he hadn’t heard her approach.
“First Minister.”
“Forgive me, my lord. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s all right. Have you been here long?”
“No, my lord. I was awakened by the fighting. I thought you’d want me nearby.”
“I would, if I knew what to do. The fact is, I don’t know why they’re burning the forest, unless it’s to keep Ansis and Vistaan at bay while they redouble their efforts to take the castle.”
More arrows fell on the fortress, forcing them to retreat into the nearest tower. Dantrielle’s archers loosed their arrows in return, but already ladders were appearing around the ramparts and Solkaran soldiers were starting to climb. It wouldn’t be long before Tebeo’s men were fighting to maintain control of the castle walls.
Evanthya said something else to him, but Tebeo was lost in thought, trying to puzzle out all that was happening. By setting these fires, Numar forced Dantrielle’s allies to fall back deeper into the wood and away from the castle. But he also risked denying his army and Rassor’s a means of escape should the battle for the castle go poorly for them.
“He must believe that he has no choice.”
“My lord?”
He looked up, realizing belatedly that he had spoken aloud. “I was thinking of Numar. He’d only risk these fires if he thought that the siege was about to be broken. Otherwise it’s simply too dangerous. It may be that the armies of Orvinti and Noltierre are about to join the fight, or he may feel that with the arrival of Tounstrel and Kett, the tide of battle is about to turn against him.”
“But if the fires spread, doesn’t he trap himself?”
“Only if he fails to take Castle Dantrielle. It seems Numar has staked his life on the success of this siege.”
More arrows struck, their tips sparking as they clattered against the stone. An instant later the fortress shook with the impact of yet another boulder from the hurling arms. That Numar would continue to use the hurling arms even as his men scaled the castle walls bespoke a determination that went far beyond desperation. This was no longer about the alliance with Braedon and Dantrielle’s loyalty to the Solkaran Supremacy. Somehow this had become far more. It was a blood feud. That was the only way to explain the severed heads, the carcasses, this attack; all of it. Tebeo had defied him, and Numar had made up his mind to crush the duke and his house, no matter the cost. The color had fled Evanthya’s cheeks; it seemed that she understood all too well what they faced.
“This is just the beginning then,” she said. “He won’t stop until he’s won.”
“Or until he’s dead.” Tebeo drew his sword. “Follow me, First Minister. Before this is over, we’ll need every blade in Dantrielle.”
She nodded, and they bounded down the stairway to the wards. Even before they reached the bottom, Tebeo could hear death cries and the clatter of weapons, clear as bells and impossibly close. Thus, he wasn’t entirely unprepared when they emerged from the stairs to find the baileys teeming with enemy soldiers. Everywhere he looked men were fighting and dying. At the far end of the ward, Gabrys stood with his back to the stone wall, fighting off two soldiers wearing Rassor’s colors.
The duke glanced at Evanthya. “Suggestions?”
The first minister surveyed the scene before them, her jaw set. Then she drew her short blade. “There’s nothing to do but fight.”
I’m no warrior, he wanted to say. I never have been. Yet looking at Evanthya, her white hair hanging to her shoulders, her face as pallid as death, her slender hands gripping her sword, he knew that she wasn’t either. Most of the men before them were twice her size. Just as most of them were half his age.
He readied his weapon, and, as an afterthought, pulled his dagger free as well. “Orlagh guide your blade, First Minister.”
“And yours, my lord.”
“Stay close. Keep your back to mine.”
She nodded. And together they waded into the battle.
Chapter
Twenty-two
The Great Forest, near Dantrielle, Aneira
ou understand what it is I expect of you,” the Weaver said, his voice rising until it rolled like thunder. “You understand that I want you to delay further. Yet you do nothing!”
Fetnalla’s entire body shook, as if she were standing naked in a cold rain. She had tried to make him understand, yet the more she explained, the more angry he grew. At this point she had little confidence that she would survive the night.
“How far are you from Dantrielle?” he asked, sounding disgusted.
“Two days’ ride, Weaver.”
He shook his head. “Two days. That’s not enough time.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve failed you, Weaver,” she said, trying to mask her frustration by sounding contrite. “I’ve slowed my duke’s advance on the castle as much as I dare. If I do more I fear that I’ll raise his suspicions.”
A blow to the cheek sent her sprawling onto the ground, though the Weaver hadn’t appeared to move.
“I don’t give a damn about his suspicions!” he said. “Whether or not you’re revealed as a member of this movement is of little consequence to me. I’m concerned now with far weightier matters. If this siege is broken too soon, it may very well lead to the failure of the siege at Kentigern. And if that happens—” The Weaver stopped himself so abruptly that Fetnalla wondered if he had already told her more than he intended. “The success of this movement is all that matters. I had thought you understood that. I’d be disappointed to learn that I was wrong.”
“Of course I understand, Weaver. I just—”
A hand covered her mouth, and a second closed around her throat, though thankfully it didn’t squeeze too hard.
“It’s the woman, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice dropping. “The other minister? Answer me honestly, or you’ll die right here.”
Evanthya. Of course she was part of this. Every day that the siege at Dantrielle went on increased the chances that she might be wounded or killed. But the truth was that Fetnalla feared for herself as much as she did for her love. Perhaps more. She wasn’t proud of this, but with the Weaver’s hand at her throat, pride was the least of her concerns.
“I do fear for her, Weaver.”
His hand relaxed its grip, though he didn’t release her. “She’s of even less importance to me than you are. Her life was forfeit the moment she agreed to serve her duke. If you could have turned her to our cause, I might have spared her.”
“But surely it’s not too late!” Fetnalla said without thinking.
“If you haven’t turned her by now, you never will.”
“But we’re together so seldom. If I had another chance—”
He tightened his fist again, this time making it impossible for her to breathe. “See that? You don’t understand. There will be no more chances. The two of you can only be together if the regent’s siege fails, and I don’t want that. I’d rather have Dantrielle fall to the Solkarans, bringing the duke’s execution, and, yes, your beloved minister’s as well, than have the siege broken. Do I make myself clear?”
She nodded, still unable to speak.
“Good. I must know right now if you can continue to serve me under these circumstances.
If you can, you’ll live to see the dawn. If you can’t, I’ll kill you. And believe me when I tell you that no matter your answer, I’ll know the truth. So don’t lie to me, or your death will be agony.”
For the second time he released her, removing the hand from her mouth as well. As before, he didn’t appear to move at all.
It was actually an easier question to answer than the Weaver might have thought. When she thought of losing Evanthya, her heart throbbed as though pierced by a blade. But more than anything, she had feared being forced by the Weaver to kill Evanthya herself. On more than one occasion he had warned her that it might come to that before this ended. At least now she knew that it wouldn’t be she who struck the fatal blow. Indeed, if the siege went as the Weaver wished, Evanthya need never even know of her betrayal. This was a small consolation to be sure, but it was all she had left.
“Yes, Weaver,” she said, trying to keep her voice strong. “I can continue to serve you.”
There was a brief silence, during which the minister felt that she was suspended over a yawning abyss.
Then the Weaver said, “I’m pleased to hear it,” in a tone that told her he had not expected her to pass his test. “How will you slow your duke’s progress toward Dantrielle?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’ll find a way.”
“See that you do.”
She opened her eyes to the dim yellow glow of firelight and the breathing and murmurs of a thousand sleeping soldiers. All her encounters with the Weaver left her sweaty and trembling, and this one had been no different. She would have liked to change her clothes, but with so many men sleeping around her, and her duke nearby, she didn’t dare. She merely lay still, staring up at the few stars she could see through the canopy of the wood, and trying to ease her racing pulse.
She had never thought that it would come to this. Even when her duke’s suspicions were driving her toward the Weaver and his movement, even when she hoped that the Weaver’s first assignment for her would be to kill Brall, she never imagined that she would have to choose between the Qirsi cause and her love for Evanthya.
For several turns, Fetnalla had held out hope of drawing her love into the movement. If only Evanthya could be made to see the future that the Weaver envisioned. If only she could have known what it was like to serve an Eandi noble like Brall. As dukes went, Tebeo was a decent man who had given his first minister little cause to question her loyalty to him. But surely Evanthya could see how Fetnalla suffered. Surely she understood that most other Eandi nobles were brutes and fools, undeserving of the loyalty they demanded from their Qirsi.
Only recently had Fetnalla come to realize that her love was blind to all of this, and that she would never allow herself to be drawn into the movement. Evanthya had too narrow a view of the world. She could never accept that there were different shades to loyalty, that some betrayals could be justified. True, she had been willing to pay gold for Shurik’s death. She had, in fact, grown bolder since then, speaking of striking more blows against what she called the conspiracy. But this served only to define the limitations of her thinking. The world, in her mind, consisted of Eandi nobles and Qirsi ministers. She couldn’t see any possibilities beyond that. Now, it seemed, her lack of vision would bring her to ruin.
Panic seized Fetnalla, making her stomach heave. “Perhaps there’s still a way,” she muttered, clenching her teeth against a wave of nausea. “Maybe, I can still convince her.” If she survives the siege.
She thrust away an image of Evanthya’s face, forcing herself to consider instead how she might slow Brall’s progress toward Dantrielle. Again. Already she had delayed their departure from Orvinti no less than three times, twice by arguing for an increase in the number of soldiers in Brall’s war party. The first time, she had been aided by the arrival of a messenger, who brought word that Rassor’s army had joined Numar’s in laying siege to Castle Dantrielle. As a result, Brall had agreed to march with an additional two hundred men. The second time she hadn’t been nearly so fortunate, but she had managed to convince Traefan Sigrano, Orvinti’s master of arms, that another hundred men, archers all, would aid in their efforts to break the siege. With both increases, of course, came greater demands on the quartermaster, which, in turn, prolonged their preparations.
She had then misinformed the weapons makers as to the proportion of archers to swordsmen in the duke’s company, so that just before they were finally ready to leave Orvinti, Brall’s master of arms discovered that his archers hadn’t enough to arrows to fight effectively.
Brall had been livid, of course, but had not known whether to believe the craftsman when he said that Fetnalla misspoke, or his first minister when she swore to him that the weapons maker heard her incorrectly. This did nothing to lessen Brall’s suspicions of her, but Fetnalla cared little about that. What mattered was that it added another day and a half to their preparations.
Once they were on the move, however, there wasn’t much more Fetnalla could do to slow them. Brall set the pace for the march and expected all in his company to match it, particularly those on horseback. Moreover, he knew of her relationship with Evanthya, and expected that she would be anxious to reach Dantrielle, end the siege, and save Tebeo’s minister. Anything Fetnalla did now to impede their progress would make it clear to all concerned that she had betrayed her duke.
Yet, that was precisely what the Weaver expected of her. Simple deception wouldn’t work this time. She needed to do more.
It came to her so suddenly, with such force, that she had to resist an urge to jump up and see to it immediately. Instead, she turned over on her sleeping roll, sighing heavily. A few moments later she did so again, and then a third time. At last, as if unable to sleep, she sat up, stretched, and stood. One of the sentries was watching her, but he merely nodded, saying nothing.
Fetnalla began to wander through the trees in the direction of the horses and the carts that held their provisions, trying to make it appear that she wasn’t moving with too much purpose. Still, by the time she drew near the carts, she was trembling again and she cursed her lack of nerve. There were other sentries here, and one of them approached her. Ignoring the pounding of her heart, the minister continued to where her mount was tied, but favored the man with a smile.
“Is everything all right, First Minister?” the sentry asked, eyeing her warily. The duke remained openly distrustful of her; why should his soldiers have treated her differently?
“Yes, fine. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d check on Zetya.”
She kissed the beast’s nose and Zetya nickered in response.
The soldier frowned, as if uncertain of whether to believe her. “We have orders from the duke to keep everyone away from the carts during the night.”
“Yes, I know. But surely I’m not doing any harm right here.”
His frown deepened. “No, I suppose not. But—”
“I’ll just be with her for a few moments more, and you have my word that I won’t go near the stores.”
He hesitated, then nodded.
Even after the sentry left her, Fetnalla continued to stroke the horse’s nose and whisper to her. At the same time though, she reached out with her shaping magic toward the nearest of the carts. The distance wasn’t great, but all Qirsi magic worked better when the object on which it was used was close at hand. Shaping magic in particular demanded a certain precision, especially when the point was not to shatter, as one might a blade or arrow, but simply to weaken, as Fetnalla was attempting to do now to the cart’s rear wheel. The front wheel actually was closer, but she feared that would be too obvious. A stronger Qirsi than she might have had no trouble with such a task, but by the time she had finished thinning the wood of the rim, her face was covered with a fine sheen of sweat.
She gave Zetya one last kiss, then started back toward her sleeping roll. Glancing toward the soldier, she saw that he was watching her. She raised a hand by way of thanking him and bidding him goodnight, and he did the same.
Reaching her sleeping roll, she lay back down and tried to sleep. But her thoughts kept returning to Evanthya and the siege. Would this delay be the one that sealed her love’s fate, or had she done that already with the lies she told in Orvinti? If this newest ploy wasn’t enough to keep Brall from breaking the siege, would the Weaver blame her? Would she be the one who died before she and Evanthya could be together again? The rest of the night dragged by, sleepless and unnerving. When dawn broke, the minister was one of the first to rise. A young soldier came by offering her a breakfast of stale bread, cheese, and dried fruit. Fetnalla’s stomach felt hard and sour, but she took the meal, fearing that if she didn’t it would attract notice.
Soon the entire Orvinti army was on the move once more. Fetnalla rode near the front of the column, not with her duke—Brall wouldn’t have allowed that—but close enough so that she could join him as soon as he summoned her. The carts trailed the army, so far back in the column that Fetnalla couldn’t hear the rumbling of their wheels. She could do nothing but wait for the shouts and curses she knew would come. She actually hoped that the wheel wouldn’t fail until later in the day; the longer it took the less likely suspicions would fall on her. Unfortunately, it seemed that she had weakened the wood too much. Barely an hour after they broke camp, she heard voices raised in anger from the back of the column. A few moments later, a soldier rode by bearing the bad tidings to Brall.
“Demons and fire!” The duke reined his mount to a halt, then turned the animal and started back toward the rear of the army. Passing Fetnalla, he slowed. “You’d best come with me, First Minister. Perhaps your magic can be of some use.”
