David Coe - Shapers of Darkness

Affery shrugged. “Not too bad. She sings with us, which she hasn’t done in a long time. And she’s been eating. I know that you worry when she doesn’t.”

Clever child, like her brother. She’d make a fine duchess someday.

Who will marry a girl from a disgraced house?

“Tell her not to worry. The Aneirans are using their hurling arms again, but we’re sending out men to destroy them. Can you remember all that?”

“Yes, but she’ll want to hear it from you.”

“I know. I’ll come to the cloister later.”

“When?”

“This evening. I’ll try to be there for dinner. Tell her that.”

Affery nodded, looking terribly sad. “Yes, Father.”

Aindreas knew that he should say more. Perhaps he should have gone with her immediately back to the cloister, but all he could think about was his wine and the Qirsi and what a mess he had made of everything.

“That’s a good girl,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

She gave a half smile before walking back down the corridor toward the cloister. Aindreas watched her go, waiting until she had turned the corner before entering his chamber, bolting the door, and pouring himself a cup of Sanbiri red.

By the time the prior’s bell sounded in the city, Aindreas had gone through two flagons of wine and was well on his way to finishing a third. He wasn’t drunk-he had consumed so much wine in the year since Brienne’s death that he wasn’t certain he was capable of getting drunk anymore-but he had grown sleepy. Sitting by his window, his goblet in his hand, he nearly dozed off, but was pulled awake again by a knock at his door.

His first thought was that it must be Jastanne, and he kept silent, hoping that she would leave him. But then he heard Villyd calling for him.

The duke stood, feeling a bit unsteady on his feet, and crossed to the door. He unlocked it and pulled it open, but then retreated to his writing table, not wanting the swordmaster to smell wine on his breath.

“Report,” he said, sitting once more. “You sent out the raiding parties?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And?”

As if in answer, the castle shuddered, and cries went up from the ramparts.

“Our men managed to destroy one of them, my lord, but they were driven back before they could do more.”

“How many did we lose?”

“Fourteen, my lord. And eight others wounded.”

“Demons and fire.” The fortress shook again. “Do we dare try again?”

“We can, my lord, but I doubt we’ll be any more successful.”

“What if we tried at night? Give the men flints to light their arrows so they wouldn’t need to carry torches.”

“That might-” Villyd stopped, eyes narrowing.

Aindreas heard it as well. More cries from the walls, though these were different from those that had come before. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, my lord.”

The duke stood and together they strode to the closest tower and climbed the stairs to the battlements. Kentigern’s men were gathered at the eastern end of the outer wall, and several of them were pointing toward the lower edge of the wood. For a moment, hurrying toward the east end of the walkway, he wondered if the Solkarans had returned, but they would have had no reason to do so.

Reaching the wall, looking down where his men were pointing, the duke felt his stomach heave. A tremendous column of soldiers was approaching the tor-at least three thousand men. Some marched under the green and white banner of Labruinn, others under the tawny and black of Tremain. Even from a distance, the duke recognized the sigils on their banners. But his eyes were drawn to the lead group, all of them dressed in purple and gold, all of them marching under the flag of the realm. These were Kearney’s men, the King’s Guard.

“They’ve come to save us!” one of the soldiers shouted, drawing cheers from the others.

Aindreas wanted to believe this, but he had defied the king at every turn, refusing to pay his ducal fees, ignoring Kearney’s demand that he journey to the City of Kings. He had even allowed Jastanne to murder Kearney’s emissary in his chamber. Had he been king, he wouldn’t have sent his army to aid such a duke. He would have sent it to destroy him.

Gershon had pushed his men hard since leaving the City of Kings, and to their credit, the dukes of Tremain and Labruinn had done the same with their soldiers, matching the King’s Guard league for league even though neither house was known for its military prowess. Lathrop, the duke of Tremain, who was a good deal older than Gershon and Caius, had been particularly impressive. He was a heavy man, and he looked too soft to command an army, much less travel with one covering nearly thirty leagues in but five days. Yet this was just what he had done. Caius, one of the realm’s younger dukes, had actually journeyed twenty leagues farther than had Gershon, crossing both the Thorald River and Binthar’s Wash before joining the swordmaster outside the walls of the royal city.

Gershon had long dismissed Eibithar’s minor houses as being of little consequence when it came to matters of state or war. The Rules of Ascension gave the minors only a small role in the selection of new kings, and all military men knew that the strength of the realm came from its major houses-Thorald and Galdasten, Curgh, Kentigern, and Glyndwr. But marching with these two men and their soldiers, watching how Caius and Lathrop shouldered the burdens of leadership, the swordmaster found himself wondering if the distance between the houses might not be nearly so great as he had thought.

He had also feared that one or the other of the two men might challenge his leadership of the army. True they ruled minor houses, while Gershon was the king’s man, but they were both noble born, educated in the courts, wealthy. The swordmaster was none of these things. Yet from the beginning, both men deferred to him, willingly placing their armies under his command, and following his instructions without question. Even more improbably, the swordmaster and Caius quickly developed an easy friendship. The duke was at least ten years Gershon’s junior, but despite their different ages and upbringings, it seemed they had a good deal in common. Like Gershon, the duke was a quiet man. He had studied combat under his father, long renowned as one of the realm’s finest swordsmen, and had obviously taken an interest in all matters related to warfare. Each day, as they rode at the front of the armies, the duke peppered Gershon with questions about swordplay, military tactics, and weaponry. At first Gershon had thought that the young duke was merely making conversation, but his lines of questioning quickly revealed a thorough understanding of the subtleties of all matters related to battle. Labruinn’s swordmaster, who was even younger than his duke, rode with them as well, listening intently to their discussion, and occasionally asking questions of his own.

Sulwen would have teased Gershon mercilessly about their conversations. “You’re like little boys playing at war and ogling fancy blades,” she would have said. “How can you not find it tiresome talking about the same thing day after day?”

The fact was, Gershon didn’t find it the least bit tiresome. The march from the royal city to Tremain, which the swordmaster had expected to be endless, went by all too quickly. After spending the last several turns consumed by talk of war and the conspiracy and the archminister’s attempt to draw the Weaver’s attention, Gershon could not help but enjoy himself, even as he marched toward battle.

After reaching Tremain and adding Lathrop’s army to their force, Gershon and the duke of Labruinn grew more sober. And with every league they covered, drawing ever nearer to Kentigern Tor, the swordmaster’s apprehension grew. His scouts had informed him of the siege and its progress; from all they had told him it seemed that the Aneirans were exacting a toll, but that Kentigern Castle was not in imminent danger of falling to the enemy. They couldn’t tell him, however-they had no way of knowing-how Aindreas and his men would receive them. Would he and the dukes reach the tor only to find themselves under attack from both Kentigern and the Aneirans?