by David B. Coe
“Evanthya?”
“It’s the archminister, my lord. He has mists and winds as well.”
“Can you defeat him?”
“I don’t have to, my lord. The question is, can he defeat me. I intend to do all I can to resist him.”
“How long can you keep the mist above us?”
“I don’t know.” Power was flowing through her body like melting snow pouring off the Caerissan Steppe, cool and strong. It wouldn’t last forever—every Qirsi had his or her limits—but at that moment she felt as though she could keep fighting Pronjed until the first cool breezes of the harvest returned to the Great Forest. “Go and fight them, my lord. I’ll hold the mist as long as I must.”
She sensed him smiling, though she didn’t dare look away from the mist, lest the archminister change the direction of his wind, or attempt some other trickery. “Thank you, Evanthya. The people of Dantrielle will remember what you do here long after you and I are gone.”
“Yes, my lord.”
A moment later the duke and the master of arms left the shelter of the tower, leading Dantrielle’s men back into battle, perhaps for the last time. Evanthya wanted desperately to watch the fighting, to make certain that Tebeo survived, but she kept her gaze fixed on her conjuring. And in the next instant, Pronjed did just what she feared he might. Releasing his wind abruptly, he allowed hers to blow the mist away. She reined in her gale as quickly as she could, still drawing mist from the earth. And the archminister called forth his wind again, from a different direction. She met his gust with her own, only to find that he had switched his yet again. Around and around they went, Pronjed changing the direction of his gale almost continually, feinting in one direction and then turning it full force the opposite way, Evanthya struggling to counter whatever wind he summoned while at the same time maintaining her mist over the entire ward. Before long, the cloud she had created was swirling and seething, like some great storm called forth in anger by Morna herself. But always her mist held.
It seemed to Evanthya that their battle of winds and mist went on for an eternity. Soon she was sweating like an overworked horse. Her limbs shivered as if from cold, and her breath came in great gasps. Not long before, she had felt that her power had no bounds. Now she wondered from one moment to the next if her body would fail. Pronjed had to be growing weary as well, though she couldn’t sense any flagging of his magic. If anything, he was pushing her harder than before, his gale becoming something akin to a whirlwind, he changed directions so swiftly.
“How are you bearing up, First Minister?”
The duke. Evanthya could hear the concern in his voice and she could only imagine how she must have looked to him. Still, she didn’t so much as glance in his direction, so determined was she to keep watch on her mist.
“I’m doing my best, my lord. How goes the battle?”
“Poorly. We’ve had to fall back to the towers again.”
Her eyes flicked toward him, only for an instant, but that was enough. Like her, he was soaked with sweat. There were bloody gashes on both his arms, as well as on his temple and thigh. Still, he didn’t appear broken, not yet.
“You’re hurt,” she said, staring once more at the roiling cloud.
“Not as badly as some. As I say, we’ve fallen back to the towers, but we’re not ready to cede the ward to them. How much longer can you keep your mists above us?”
“I’m not certain, my lord. Not long, I fear. Pronjed is stronger than I am and he’s cunning.”
“You’ve done well, Evanthya,” he said, his voice so gentle she could have wept. “I’m grateful to you. Give us what you can, and we’ll fight as long as we’re able.”
“Yes, my lord,” she whispered, feeling a tear on her face.
An instant later, she sensed that he was gone, back to the battle, no doubt. The minister wondered if she’d ever see him alive again.
Grief and rage welled up within her, and she tried to pour them into her magic, that she might overwhelm the archminister with one final surge of power. But she was too weary, and rather than bolstering her strength, her despair seemed to sap it. Perhaps sensing her weakness, Pronjed struck at her conjuring with what must have been all that remained of his power. The mist billowed, like smoke when it’s met by a sudden gust. And then it began to dissipate.
Desperate now, Evanthya tried to draw it forth once more, to answer this newest challenge. But she had nothing left. Within moments her mist was gone, and the archminister’s wind howled through the castle courtyard, uncontested, triumphant.
Panic gripped her. Eyeing the ramparts, she saw that the enemy now held two of the walls, and she saw as well that their archers were already nocking arrow to bow. It would be a slaughter, the last of this bloody siege.
Even as she continued to look up at the walls, she heard men crying “Look to the skies!” and watched as a flaming stone, the first to be thrown at the castle in some time, dropped toward the ramparts. It was only when she saw the men of Solkara and Rassor scrambling to get away that she realized where the stone would hit. Most of them did manage to escape the fiery impact, but several perished. Perhaps the gods were watching over Dantrielle and its people, Evanthya thought. How else to explain such a mishap?
Only when a second ball of flame arced into view and struck the other wall held by the regent’s men did she begin to understand that this was neither good fortune nor a divine act.
More shouts from the ward, more men streaming in through the gates. Seeing the uniforms—green and blue, the colors of Orvinti—Evanthya’s heart leaped as she thought it never would again. Fetnalla had come, and with her Brall and his army. There were other uniforms as well. Grey and black for Tounstrel, blue and silver for Kett, purple and black for Noltierre. In the end, they all had come, just as Tebeo had hoped, just as Brall and Vistaan and Ansis and Bertin the Younger had promised.
It didn’t take long for the battle to turn. Against the siege-weary soldiers of Dantrielle, Numar’s army held sway. But against the armies of Tebeo’s allies, unhurt, hungry for combat after their long marches, the regent’s men didn’t have a chance. Within what seemed like moments, the men of Solkara and Rassor had been overwhelmed. Many died, many more surrendered, and soon Numar and his archminister stood in the middle of the ward, disarmed, surrounded by hostile swordsmen, each held by two guards, their arms pinned at their sides.
Evanthya strode into the ward to join her duke, who appeared grim despite his sudden, unexpected victory. Pronjed, she was pleased to see, looked every bit as weary as she felt. His narrow, bony face was bathed with sweat, his skin even more pallid than usual. But his pale yellow eyes remained alert, darting about, as if seeking some path to freedom.
For his part, Numar showed no outward sign of being troubled by his defeat. With all that had happened in the past turn, Evanthya found it easy to forget how young the regent was. But standing beside even the younger dukes—Bertin and Vistaan—he seemed a mere lad, only a year or two past his Fating. He wore a sardonic smile on his lips and his brown eyes were fixed on Tebeo, as if he were daring the duke to strike him down.
“Congratulations, Tebeo,” the regent said, his head held high. “You and your fellow traitors have managed to win. Because of you, Aneira is weakened. Even now, our armies in the north fight for Kentigern. You’ve just doomed them to failure. A fine day’s work for all of you.”
“Kill him now, Tebeo.” Ansis drew his blade, stepping forward, so that he stood just before Numar. “Or better yet, let me do it.”
“No,” Tebeo said, his voice thick. “He’ll be imprisoned, along with his archminister and any of his captains who remain alive. The rest of his men are to be released—the wounded will be cared for.”
Numar clapped his hands, his smirk deepening as the sound echoed loudly off the walls. “How noble. Do you honestly believe that these little mercies remove the stain of your treason?”
Faster than she had ever seen him move—faster than she had thought possible—her duke swept h
is sword free and laid it against the regent’s face so that its tip was poised at the corner of Numar’s eye. The regent’s smile vanished, leaving him looking even younger, and deeply frightened.
“I’m not the one who brought this war to Dantrielle,” the duke said, his voice low and hard. “Nor am I the one who has weakened the realm by tying us to the emperor and his ambitions. All I’ve done today is put an end to the Solkara Supremacy, and if you ask me, that should have been done long ago. Now, I’ve said that I intend to imprison you—you’re a noble, the leader of one of Aneira’s great houses, and you deserve a certain amount of consideration. But if you dare to call me a traitor again, I’ll kill you where you stand. Do I make myself clear?”
The man swallowed. “Yes,” he whispered.
Tebeo lowered his blade. “Take them both to the prison tower. I want them in separate chambers.”
“My lord,” Evanthya said, before the soldiers could lead the two men away. “I recommend that the archminister’s watch be doubled and that his hands and ankles be bound with silk rather than irons.”
Tebeo frowned. “Explain, First Minister.”
“I don’t know what powers he possesses, but it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he’s a shaper, in which case he can shatter manacles and swords with a thought. He won’t be an easy man to hold no matter what we do. But his power will be less effective against silk, and the more men guarding him, the less chance he’ll have of disarming all of them.”
The duke nodded slowly. “Very well. See to it,” he said to one of the guards.
The man bowed. Then he and several other soldiers led the prisoners toward the prison tower.
“I still think he should be executed,” Ansis said, his light blue eyes fixed on the regent.
Bertin the Younger nodded. “I tend to agree. Not only does he deserve to die, but he’s too dangerous to keep alive.”
“I won’t make a martyr of him,” Tebeo said. “As a prisoner, he’s humiliated, diminished. He may be dangerous now, but every day he spends in my prison tower makes him less so.” He glanced about the ward, his brow furrowing once more. “I’m certain that Brall would agree with me. Where is he?”
Ansis and Bertin exchanged a look that made Evanthya’s stomach turn to stone.
“Come with us for a moment,” the duke of Kett said, taking Tebeo gently by the arm, and leading him to a dour, tall soldier who stood a short distance away. It took Evanthya a moment to recognize him as Orvinti’s master of arms.
Evanthya watched them talk, saw Tebeo cover his mouth with a hand in a gesture oddly reminiscent of his duchess. A moment later he glanced back her way, wide-eyed, his cheeks devoid of color.
And in that moment it hit her. Fetnalla. She turned a quick circle, frantically searching for her love. There were a few Qirsi in the ward. The ministers of the other dukes, several Qirsi healers. But Fetnalla wasn’t there. Her heart was pounding; fear gripped her throat so tightly that she could barely draw breath.
She can’t be dead. I’d know if she was dead.
She was crying. She didn’t even know why, but she couldn’t stop.
At last, unable to stand it any longer, she started walking to where Tebeo still stood talking to the other men. An instant later she was running, unable to reach them fast enough.
As she approached however, Brall’s master of arms stepped apart from the dukes and raised his sword, leveling it at her heart.
“Not another step, white-hair!”
Evanthya slowed, her eyes straying to her duke.
“It’s all right, Traefan,” Tebeo said, laying a hand on the man’s arm. “Lower your blade.”
“But, Lord Dantrielle—”
“Do as I say, armsmaster. Evanthya has spent the better part of this night fighting to save my castle. She’s no traitor.”
Clearly Traefan remained unconvinced, but after a moment he lowered his sword. He continued to watch her, though, murder in his eyes.
“Please, my lord,” she said, facing Tebeo, her tears still flowing. “Tell me what’s happened.”
“Brall is dead, Evanthya. That’s why it took his men so long to reach us.”
“I’m sorry, my lord.” She wanted to ask about Fetnalla, but the words stuck in her throat. At last she managed just to speak her love’s name. “Fetnalla?”
“The first minister killed the duke,” Traefan said, in a voice as bitter as wolfsbane.
Evanthya felt her world buck and shift, as if another boulder had struck the castle. She had expected to hear of Fetnalla’s death. Of course she had hoped that her love was all right, that somehow she had escaped Brall’s fate, but she had been bracing herself for the worst. The whole land was descending into bedlam and blood. All across the Forelands lovers were learning of such loss. Why should she have been spared? Fetnalla is dead. Those were the words she had been dreading, that she had been certain she would hear. But this . . . “That’s impossible,” she whispered.
“She killed three of his guards as well.”
“But she wouldn’t—”
“Did your friend possess shaping magic?” the man demanded, his eyes boring into hers.
The question stopped her short, for of course Fetnalla did. Shaping, healing, and gleaning. Fine magics for the minister of a powerful house. Just this night, Evanthya had wished for her love’s shaping power. How often had Fetnalla said that she would gladly trade shaping for language of beasts, which was one of Evanthya’s magics? They had laughed about it many times, offering to swap powers like merchants in a marketplace comparing wares. In one of their beds. In each other’s arms.
Evanthya felt her stomach heave and bit down against the bile.
I will not be sick here, not in front of these men.
“Your silence is answer enough,” Traefan said, disgust in his voice. “Their necks were broken. There was no sign they’d been garroted or attacked in any way. Just four broken necks, neat as you please. Explain that. Explain why she fled.”
“My lord, you know Fetnalla. She’s no murderer.” But hadn’t Fetnalla pushed her to have Shurik killed? Hadn’t she given Evanthya gold to pay the assassin?
“We searched the forest for her all that night,” Traefan said, “but we didn’t dare delay any longer. She’d already kept us away from Dantrielle long enough.”
Evanthya stared at her duke, shaking her head in confusion.
She didn’t follow much of what Traefan told her then. There was something about provisions and archers and a broken wheel on one of Orvinti’s carts. But she understood enough. Fetnalla had been slowing their march to Dantrielle. If this Eandi warrior was to be believed, she had been doing all she could to keep Brall from breaking Numar’s siege. Which meant that she was willing to let Tebeo die in this war. And Evanthya as well.
She wouldn’t.
How strangely her love had behaved the last time they were together. How distant she had been, how evasive the night she awoke from some dark terrible dream that had her speaking of Weavers in her sleep.
It’s Brall’s fault, Evanthya wanted to say. If all this is true—could it be?—he drove her to it with his mistrust, his accusations. But she knew better. Traefan spoke of treason, of murder. There could be no justification for that, no matter how poorly her duke might have treated her.
Fetnalla is no traitor.
During the snows, the last time Evanthya and Tebeo journeyed to Orvinti, Fetnalla had given her a pendant, a glimmering sapphire on a finely wrought silver chain. Evanthya wore it still; even now her hand wandered to her chest to feel the pendant beneath her clothes and mail. She had questioned the gift then, wondering how her love could afford to give such a gift when she had given all her gold for Shurik’s murder. Fetnalla had grown angry, of course. It seemed recently that they were always angry at one another for something. You sound like Brall, she had said. I’ve been paid my wage since then. And rather than argue further, Evanthya had accepted this explanation, along with the necklace.
&nbs
p; Now, though. . . . What if the gold had come from a different source? It was said that the conspiracy had a good deal of gold, that those who joined it were paid quite well.
“First Minister?”
She stared at the duke, trying to make herself remember what he had been saying to her, trying to focus on his face. It seemed she was in a mist—yet another, on what was becoming a night of mists.
“I’m sorry, my lord. I was . . . I was thinking.”
They were alone, or as much alone as two people could hope to be in this castle, with the maimed and dead lying everywhere, with healers moving from wound to wound with swift precision, with conquerors and the conquered coming to grips with an uneasy peace.
“I asked if you thought it possible that Traefan was right about Fetnalla.”
No, it couldn ‘t be! Her heart screamed for her to give voice to its denial. But Tebeo deserved better. “I’m not certain what to believe, my lord.”
“The rift between them had grown too wide,” he said, his voice low, his dark eyes fixed on some distant torch. Evanthya had to remind herself that he had lost his oldest friend and closest ally. “There was a time when I blamed Brall for that . . .” He left the thought unfinished.
“As did I, my lord. I still believe that his suspicions were unjustified. At least at first.”
“You think he drove her to it?”
She regarded him briefly, wondering if he was challenging her to make such an accusation, or if he asked the question innocently. Deciding at last that he was as desperate to understand as she, Evanthya nodded. “I think it’s possible.”
“Then you do believe that she killed him.”
“I don’t want to believe any of this,” she said. “I want to wake up and find that the siege never happened, that Brall and Fetnalla are still alive in Orvinti, bickering like children.”
Tebeo said nothing. He merely gazed at her, looking sad and old and so weary that he seemed to be in pain. The truth was that she did believe it, despite the ache in her heart, or perhaps because of it.
“Yes,” she finally said, the admission feeling like a betrayal, “I believe it.”
