David Coe - Shapers of Darkness

The answer came with such force that she knew it had to be true. “She’ll go north, my lord.”

“How do you know?”

“You’ve believed for some time now that there was more to this siege and the war with Eibithar than just imperial ambition. And you’ve believed as well that there was a larger conflict looming, between Eandi and Qirsi. What if the leaders of the conspiracy are waiting for the armies in the north to destroy one another before beginning their own attack?”

“You think she’s riding to war?”

“Qirsi warriors and Eandi warriors are quite different, my lord. Fetnalla is a shaper, as well as a healer. Her powers would serve a Qirsi army quite well. So would mine, actually, though you may not believe it. One Qirsi can do quite a bit with mists and winds. Ten working together could overwhelm an entire Eandi army.” Another realization, the seed of it planted so long ago by Fetnalla’s dream. And abruptly it all made sense. Horrible, terrifying sense. “And,” she said, a tremor in her voice, “with a Weaver binding their powers into a single weapon, an army of Qirsi could defeat all the warriors of the Forelands.”

His eyes grew wide. “You believe they’re led by a Weaver?”

“Fetnalla spoke of one.” She blushed. “In her sleep actually, in the throes of a terrible dream. But how else could these Qirsi hope to prevail? In a battle of swords and arrows, they wouldn’t have a chance. But with a Weaver leading them, forging together their powers, they would be an imposing force.”

“A Weaver,” the duke said again, breathless and awed. “I didn’t even think such people still walked the Forelands.”

“I fear they do, my lord. Or at least one does. I believe Fetnalla has gone to him. If she truly did murder her duke, she’d think nothing of waging war beside a Weaver.”

The end of Numar’s siege did little to lift the black cloud that hung like a curse over Castle Dantrielle. True, the armies of Solkara and Rassor had been defeated, their leaders imprisoned, the soldiers disarmed and banished from the city. But Dantrielle’s victory seemed hollow indeed. There were dead and wounded everywhere, many of them in the uniforms of Dantrielle’s foes and allies, but most of them wearing the red and black of Tebeo’s house. The castle itself had sustained so much damage to its walls, ramparts, and gates that it would be at least a year before all the repairs would be completed. And as if all of this were not enough to temper any celebration that might have greeted Numar’s surrender, Brall’s death lay heavy on the hearts of Tebeo, his allies, and, by all appearances, even his people, who remembered Orvinti’s duke as a reliable friend and formidable leader.

In the days following the breaking of the siege, Evanthya tried as best she could to keep her mind on all that had to be done. Tebeo expected her to see to most of the more mundane tasks facing them-finding room to house the wounded, building great pyres for the dead, beginning work on the castle. With the armies of Kelt, Noltierre, Orvinti, and Tounstrel camped just beyond his walls, and with Numar, the duke of Rassor, and their closest advisors imprisoned in the castle towers, the duke had little time for such matters.

Yet, even with all this to occupy her days and nights, the first minister could think only of Fetnalla and what she was accused of having done. At first she had tried to convince herself that Brall’s master of arms and his soldiers were wrong about her love, that she herself had been too quick to accept that Fetnalla had betrayed and killed her duke. Fetnalla was no traitor certainly she was no murderer. Like so many Eandi warriors, Traefan Sograna had little use for Evanthya’s people. Given the opportunity to make such accusations against Fetnalla, he would surely have taken it. The conspiracy had made all the Eandi fearful and suspicious. Brall had openly questioned Fetnalla’s loyalty for several turns now. How could his own mistrust not sow similar doubts in the minds of those men who served him? The duke’s death could have been caused by any number of things. Traefan merely chose to blame Fetnalla.

Except that Evanthya knew this man-not as well as she knew Fetnalla, to be sure, but well enough. As dour and hostile toward most Qirsi as he was, he was also honorable and fair minded. And while the duke might have died from other causes, how was she to explain the dead soldiers found with him?

More to the point, she no longer felt so confident that she had ever really known her love at all. Perhaps she had early on, when their love was young and bright, shining like a newly forged blade. But more recently, as the world beyond their bedrooms and the castle gardens began to intrude upon their love, bringing word of the conspiracy and rumblings of war and with them the deepening suspicions of their dukes, all that they shared began to tarnish. They fought more, confided in one another less. The last time they were together Fetnalla had been distant, withdrawn, despite the passion of their lovemaking. Evanthya wanted desperately to believe that Fetnalla could never turn away from the life they had shared in the courts, but the more she considered what the men of Orvinti had said of Brall’s murder, the more she realized that this life, which still held so much for her, had long since become a prison for her beloved. Brall’s mistrust and that of his other advisors had likely left her with few or no friends in Castle Orvinti. In all probability, their love had been the only thing keeping her from joining the conspiracy. It wasn’t surprising that it had ceased to be enough.

Walking the ruined ramparts with Gabrys DinTavo, Evanthya brushed a tear from her cheek, hoping that Tebeo’s new master of arms wouldn’t notice. How many times had she been through all of this? How much longer would the mere thought of Fetnalla reduce her to tears?

“First Minister?”

She looked away, gazing out toward the Great Forest as she dabbed at her tears with the sleeve of her robe. Then she faced the master of arms again and forced a smile.

“Forgive me,” she said. “My attention wandered briefly. You were saying?”

He frowned. “Perhaps we should do this another time. As I’ve told you already, we’re making good progress with the gates and lower walls. The ramparts are less important right now, with the danger of a siege removed. The gates are what matter, and they should be fully repaired within half a turn.”

Actually, she hadn’t heard him say this, either. She needed to clear her mind, to banish Fetnalla from her thoughts, at least for the time being.

“I understand, armsmaster, and I agree with you about the gates. But the duke wanted to hear about all the repairs. So let’s continue and get this done, so that we can both see to more important matters.”

Gabrys nodded, though his frown lingered. “Well, as you can see, the damage to the ramparts is extensive. I imagine that it will be several turns before they’ll even begin to look right again. Repairing the battlements shouldn’t be too difficult, but the walkways themselves have been ruined, so. .”

Walking in silence as the master of arms droned on, Evanthya could imagine what Fetnalla would say. “How can you stand to listen to him? How can you stand to surround yourself with these Eandi men, all of them so avid for war and power? “ She could see her love’s face, her head tipped to the side, an ironic smile on her soft lips, a mischievous gleam in her pale yellow eyes. “ You ‘d really choose them over me?”

I didn’t choose. You did .

“. . the stonemasons are going to have their hands full for some time to come. If we can prevail upon one of the other dukes to send some of their laborers to Dantrielle, we may be able to complete the repairs sooner, but failing that. .”