David Coe - Shapers of Darkness

The tall man stepped closer to the leader. “If ’e’s really th’ Curgh boy,” he said in a low voice, “we shoul’ kill ’im now an’ take ’is gold. Kill th’ Qirsi, too, ’fore ’e wakes up.”

“I don’ think so. ’Is gold’s already ours, isn’t it, lad? An’ I wager ’is father th’ duke will pay a good deal more t’ get ’im back alive.” He looked at Grinsa again. “Qirsi’s another matter. Ye can kill ’im.”

A dark grin spread across the tall man’s face.

Tavis edged closer to the gleaner, his sword still raised. “No,” he said. “You can’t kill him.”

The leader looked amused. “An’ why is tha’?”

Because he’s a Weaver. Because without him all the Forelands will fall to the Qirsi renegades . “You’re right about me. I am Tavis of Curgh, son of Javan, heir to the dukedom. And this is Fotir jal Salene, my father’s first minister. The duke sent him to Glyndwr to bring me north, so that I can fight beside the men of my house in the war against the empire.”

One of the twins shook his head. “’E’s lyin’. Thar ain’ no war.”

“Not yet, perhaps. But the Braedon fleet is poised off Galdasten’s shores, waiting for the emperor’s orders. They’ll attack soon, and when they do the entire realm will march to war.”

“I tell ye, ’e’s lyin’.”

The leader was watching Tavis, his eyes narrowed. Now he gave a slight shake of his head. “I don’ think ’e is.” He looked at the twins. “ ’Member th’ las’ time we was near th’ castle, th’ way th’ gate soldiers was turnin’ peddlers away? Lad’s right. War’s comin’.”

“Well, even so,” the tall one said, “wha’s tha’ got t’ do wi’ th’ white-hair?”

“A duke riding to war wants his ministers with him, particularly his first minister.” Tavis met the leader’s gaze, sensing that he had the man’s interest. “My father will pay handsomely for his life as well as for mine.”

“Keepin’ th’ white-hair alive is dangerous,” the tall one said. “Le’ me kill ’im now.”

“Mos’ times I would,” the leader said, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “Bu’ look at ’im. ’E might no’ be dead, but ’e’s close.”

“Even half dead, ’e’s still a sorcerer. We should-”

“No,” the leader said, glaring at the man. “We keep them both alive.” He faced Tavis again. “Provided ye drop yer blade.”

The young lord eyed the man briefly, then glanced at the others. He might be able to kill one or two of the men, but he would never fight his way past all of them. Better to surrender now and win some time for Grinsa to recover. Exhaling, he tossed his sword to the ground.

The stout man quickly stooped to retrieve it.

The leader nodded. “Thar’s a good lad. Bind their han’s an’ feet,” he said to the twins. “An’ make sure ye take their daggers.”

“Wait!” Tavis said. “Can I check his injury first? I’ve got comfrey leaf on it, but I haven’t looked at it since last night.”

The leader’s face hardened, and the young lord thought he would refuse. After a moment, however, he gave a curt nod. “Watch ’im,” he commanded.

One of the twins took the dagger from his belt, and from the gleaner’s as well, while the other examined the pouch of comfrey before handing it to Tavis.

Grinsa’s wound seemed to be healing; certainly the swelling had gone down overnight. Tavis would have been happier had the gleaner shown some sign of awakening, but at least his injury didn’t appear to be diseased. He crushed a few fresh leaves and retied the cloth.

“Tha’s enough, noble,” one of the men said, as Tavis adjusted the bandage. “Leave ’im.”

They yanked the young lord away from Grinsa and tied his hands at the wrists, then sat him up with his back against a boulder as they bound his ankles together. When they had tied Grinsa, they stretched him out beside Tavis and walked away to speak among themselves. After a few moments, the twins left the shelter, returning a short time later with the few items Tavis had left with the horses.

“What did you do with our mounts?” he demanded.

“I think ye mean our mounts,” the leader said with a smirk. “An’ wha’ we did with ’em is none o’ yer concern.”

Tavis held the man’s gaze for several moments, but looked away at last, knowing that he was powerless to keep the men from doing whatever they wished, not only with the horses, but also with Tavis and the gleaner.

“Wake up, Grinsa,” he whispered. “For pity’s sake, wake up.”

Wretched and helpless, Tavis just watched as the brigands counted out the gold he and Grinsa had been carrying, feasted on their food, and toyed with their weapons.

The morning passed slowly. Tavis struggled to free his hands, but the brigands had tied them all too well. All he succeeded in doing was chafing his wrists until they were raw and bloody. He glanced at Grinsa repeatedly, hoping the gleaner would awaken and wondering if Qirsi shaping power worked against rope.

“How’d ye do it, noble?”

Tavis looked up to find the leader watching him, his mouth full of dried meat from the kitchens of Glyndwr Castle.

“Do what?”

“Escape Kentigern, o’ course. There’s men tha’ said i’ couldn’ be done. I, myself, know o’ four men tha’ died there. None o’ them fools mind ye, and all o’ them bigger an’ stronger than ye. An’ here ye are, no’ much more ’an a boy, an’ ye got out. So I’m askin’, how’d ye do it?”

Grinsa did it , he wanted to say. He shattered the walls of Kentigern Castle just as he’ll shatter your skull when the time comes . But he knew that if he gave even the barest hint of the gleaner’s abilities these men would kill the Qirsi before he ever regained consciousness. “I had help,” he replied at last, looking away. “I couldn’t have done it alone.”

The brigand laughed. “Well, I know tha’. But wha’ kind o’ help?”

“Why should I tell you?”

Tavis heard the whisper of steel. Looking at the man again, he saw him holding Grinsa’s dagger, testing the blade with his thumb, a small smile on his lips.

“ ’Cause if ye don’, I’ll kill yer frien’.”

The young lord turned away again, closing his eyes for just a moment and cursing his weakness. “There was a merchant in the city, a Qirsi. He had shaping magic. The first minister here knew of him and enlisted his help.”

“A shaper, eh? Now tha’ I believe.”

Tavis said nothing.

“Actually, we’re no’ tha’ different, are we?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I never killed a girl before, but I’ve been in my share o’ prisons, an’ I’ve been a fugitive even longer ’an ye.”

He glared at the man, not caring that his hands were bound, or that the brigand held a blade. “I didn’t kill her!”

“O’ course ye didn’.” He heard disbelief in the man’s voice. The brigand was mocking him.

Tavis knew that he shouldn’t care. These men were nothing. Many of the people he needed to convince-Kearney and the other nobles, his parents, Hagan and Xaver-already believed him, and the rest would with time. That was what mattered.

But he had struggled too long to prove his innocence, and had suffered too much for being accused of Brienne’s murder. He couldn’t bring himself to suffer the man’s ridicule.

“It’s true,” he said, meeting the brigand’s gaze. “She was killed by an assassin, a man hired by the Qirsi renegades. They thought to start a civil war by pitting my house against Kentigern.”

“An’ where’s this assassin now?”

“He’s dead. I killed him on the Wethy Crown less than half a turn ago.”