David Coe - Shapers of Darkness

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 his 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.