David Coe - Shapers of Darkness

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Certainly I don’t want to.”

“But if he believes it, you might be in danger as well.” He faltered, but only for an instant. “Perhaps you should come with me.”

“No. I’ve cast my lot with the movement. I don’t think he wants to hurt me. He may not love me, as I’d hoped he would, but he needs allies in the emperor’s court, and he knows that I’ll serve him faithfully.”

It pained Kayiv to hear her speak so of the high chancellor, but she had been more honest with him than he had any right to expect.

“I understand.”

They stood in silence for several moments, their eyes locked. At last, Kayiv looked away.

“I guess I should go then.”

“All right.”

Still neither of them moved.

“At least come here and hold me for a moment,” she finally said. “After all we’ve shared, that’s the least you can do.”

He smiled and stepped forward, opening his arms to gather her in an embrace. She was smiling as well, her pale eyes holding his. So he didn’t even notice the blade in her hand until it had pierced his flesh. And by then there was nothing he could do to save himself.

He started to cry out, but she covered his mouth with her own, locking her free arm around his neck and pulling him toward her. At the same time, she took a step back, her legs striking the bed so that she fell backward, Kayiv on top of her. The impact drove her dagger deeper into his chest. He grabbed for her throat with both hands, but already he could feel the strength leaving his body, draining away with his blood. How foolish he had been to think that Uriad could protect him, how blind to think that she wouldn’t kill for Dusaan.

“Poor Kayiv,” she whispered in his ear. “So eager to believe that I still cared.”

He tried with all the strength he had left to squeeze the life from her, to take her with him to Bian’s realm. But he could barely feel his hands anymore. He was aware only of the pain in his chest, and the sound of her voice, receding like a moon tide.

“He wanted me to tell you that this is what becomes of traitors, and that while you’re suffering the torments of the Underrealm, we who you betrayed will be creating a glorious future for the Qirsi here on Elined’s earth. Think on that as you face the Deceiver.”

There was so much he wanted to say, so many curses he wished to bring down upon her head. But all he could think to whisper as the last breath crept from his chest was “I loved you so.”

When Nitara was certain that he was dead, she slid out from beneath him and stood, her head spinning slightly with the effort. Her clothes were soaked with his blood, and her hands trembled, but the guards would expect that.

She tore her shirt at the shoulder, partially revealing her breasts. Next, with her clean hand, she pulled the dagger from Kayiv’s belt, cut herself just above the breast, as well as on the shoulder and on the back of her hand. Then she dropped the blade beside the bed. As an afterthought, she also bit down hard on her lip, tasting blood.

Only then did she cross to the door, pull it open, and scream for the palace guards.

Soon her chamber was filled with soldiers. The other ministers and chancellors stood in the corridor, staring in at her with wide eyes and expressions of horror. Even the master of arms came, solemn and silent.

“He tried to force himself on me,” she said again and again, her tears flowing as if genuine.

Of course they believed her. Who could look upon her and question her word?

Eventually the Weaver came, as he had promised he would. He said little, his chiseled face grim. But she knew that he was pleased. He had told her that this was a test, a way for her to prove her devotion to the Qirsi cause. She hoped, though, that it would be even more than that. After this, how could he possibly doubt that she loved him, that she would do anything for him?

After what seemed an eternity, the guards left her chamber, wrapping Kayiv’s body in her bedding and promising to send servants to clean the mess. B’Serre offered to remain with her, but she sent the minister away, saying something about needing rest. Closing the door, she closed her eyes for a moment, weathering another bout of dizziness. She had thought that she wanted to be alone, but she found herself staring at the dried blood on her floor and struggling to rid herself of the one memory she least wanted from this day.

Better he should have called her a whore and railed at her for her treachery. Those would have been the words of a coward, of a traitor, easily endured and soon forgotten.

I loved you so .

She hated what he had become, what his weakness had made her do. But she wondered how she would ever bring herself to forget what he had said with his dying breath.

Solkara, Aneira

Even in the dream, standing before the shadowed form of the Weaver, Pronjed jal Drenthe could feel his hand throbbing, as if the mended bone could remember the pain of the Weaver’s wrath. The wind whipping across the grassy plain seemed particularly cold this night, the black sky more menacing than in previous dreams. He knew he should have been listening to the Weaver’s instructions, but the pulsing agony in his hand tugged at his mind, demanding his attention. He wondered if the Weaver was responsible for the pain, if he had made Pronjed’s hand hurt as a reminder of the minister’s past failure, a warning of what might happen if he stumbled again.

Or perhaps it was a product of his own fears. The Weaver expected him to start a civil war in Aneira. He believed that Numar of Renbrere, regent for Kalyi the child-queen, trusted Pronjed and would listen to the archminister when he counseled taking a hard stance against those houses that would oppose the realm’s alliance with Braedon. The truth was, Numar had never trusted him, nor did Henthas, the duke of Solkara. Over the past turn his encounters with the regent had grown ever more awkward, until Pronjed looked for nearly any excuse to avoid them, despite the Weaver’s expectations.

Just two days before, on the first morning of the waning, the archminister had tried to use mind-bending magic on Numar, hoping to learn what the regent intended to do about the dukes of Dantrielle, Orvinti, and Tounstrel, who continued to voice opposition to the coming war. In the past, the regent had submitted to his power with almost no resistance. On this day, however, Pronjed had been unable to learn anything at all. He couldn’t be certain, but it seemed Numar knew he possessed mind-bending magic and was consciously resisting him. He wanted to believe this wasn’t true-delusion magic, the power to control the thoughts and memories of others, was far more effective when used on the unsuspecting, which was why he had made every effort to conceal the fact that he wielded it. He couldn’t imagine how the regent might have learned the truth. It was possible that the regent’s mistrust of Pronjed ran so deep as to shield him from the archminister’s power. But it seemed more likely that Pronjed had given himself away, that in using mind-bending power on Numar he had failed to suppress the regent’s memories of the encounters.

Whatever the explanation, Pronjed now found himself without access to Numar’s thoughts and unable to overcome the man’s suspicions. The regent might well lead Aneira into a civil war on his own, but Pronjed could do nothing to steer him in that direction.

Nor could he admit as much to the Weaver standing before him, the man who had conjured this frigid wind and black sky, who had once shattered his hand with but a thought. No doubt the Weaver would leap at an opportunity to hurt him again. Pronjed was not about to give him any excuse to do so.