David Coe - Shapers of Darkness

Villyd gave a small bow, still looking displeased. “Yes, my lord.”

That had been a half turn ago-nearly all the waning had passed-and still the castle servants had been unable to clean away the reek of the dead man’s blood. Aindreas had ordered them back to the floor with their buckets and cloths a dozen times; he had ordered them to use perfumed soaps of the kind used by his wife and her ladies. Nothing worked. Every time he opened the door to his presence chamber, the odor reached him, reminding him of that night, forcing him to envision it all again.

As one might expect, upon being told that their leader had been imprisoned, the other eight riders sent by Kearney demanded to see the man. When Villyd refused, they requested an audience with the duke. Following Aindreas’s instructions, the swordmaster denied them this as well, at which point the soldiers broke camp and started back toward the City of Kings, vowing to inform the king of just how poorly they had been treated since reaching Kentigern’s gates. Aindreas had heard nothing from Audun’s Castle since.

It was only a matter of time, though. Aindreas had yet to submit to the king’s authority as demanded by the soldier. He still owed tribute to the Crown-four turns’ worth now. With this last act of defiance he had left no doubt: Kentigern was in rebellion. The Qirsi wanted him to break with the king, to make it plain that Kentigern would fight before it recognized Glyndwr’s claim to the throne. And though he had been reluctant to carry his defiance that far, Jastanne, who was one of the leaders of the Qirsi conspiracy, had left him little choice.

As it happened, since that bloody night he hadn’t heard anything from the Qirsi, either. Nor was Aindreas surprised by this. They had gotten from him what they wanted. Civil war was inevitable. The realm would be weakened. When Braedon and Aneira attacked, Kearney would be unable to marshal a force strong enough to withstand their assault. Soon, the western half of the Forelands would be engulfed in warfare, and when the white-hairs attacked, Eibithar, Braedon, and Aneira would fall. Wethyrn, Caerisse, Sanbira, and Uulraan would be left standing, but Wethyrn and Caerisse were the weakest of the seven realms, and Uulrann’s suzerain had long refused to concern himself with affairs beyond the mountains that bounded his domain. In essence, the warriors of Sanbira’s matriarchy would be all that remained of the Eandi armies. It would fall to them to keep the conspiracy from gaining complete dominion over the Forelands. Aindreas didn’t believe that Sanbira could hold off the Qirsi by herself for more than a few turns.

He wasn’t so vain as to think that the white-hairs wouldn’t have succeeded without him. The more he dealt with Jastanne, the more he recognized just how formidable a woman she was. She might be slight as a reed and so young as to make him feel like a wasted old man, but it seemed that she anticipated his every move. She could gauge his moods and fears better than he could himself. He tried to tell himself that her insights were born of magic, that they were little more than a sorcerer’s trick, much like the dancing flames he saw in the streets of Kentigern when the Revel came to his city. Yet, even if this was so, it did nothing to diminish their effect. From his first encounter with the woman, she had controlled him, turning to her advantage his grief and his blind certainty that Tavis and Javan were to blame for all that had befallen his house. If all the leaders of the conspiracy were like Jastanne, the Eandi were doomed, and had been from the start. His betrayal merely made matters a bit easier for the renegades.

Yet, knowing this did little to lessen his shame at the ease with which the Qirsi had ensnared him. A thousand times he had made up his mind to seek out Ioanna and confess all, and on each occasion, he hadn’t gotten as far as the corridor outside his chamber.

It would kill her , he had told himself. She would be lost once more to the blackness that gripped her after Brienne ‘s death . She had taken to her bed again after Aindreas tried to tell her of the woman Kearney held in the prison tower of Audun’s Castle, the Qirsi traitor who claimed to have paid gold for Brienne’s murder. How far would she fall if he told her of this wicked pact he had forged with the traitors?

He knew, though, that he didn’t remain silent out of concern for his wife, at least not entirely. Even had she been strong, her mind whole, he would have kept this from her. He couldn’t bear the thought of what she would say to him, what she would call him. And what if his children overheard? How would he explain to Ennis that he had disgraced their house, leaving the boy heir to his infamy? What answer could he possibly find for the tears Affery would shed upon learning of his treason?

Sitting at his writing table, the scent of blood filling his nostrils, Aindreas could think of no way to escape his ignominy, except of course the one he had turned to so many times before.

“Wine!” he bellowed, his voice echoing in the chamber. He glanced behind him at the shuttered window. No light seeped past the edges. It wasn’t even dawn, and already he was calling for his beloved Sanbiri red.

“They deserve better than this, Father.”

He turned at the sound of the voice, though reluctantly. It wasn’t really Brienne. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t yet Pitch Night, and even if it was, this was no sanctuary. But there she stood, her golden hair shimmering in the lamplight, a look of pity on her lovely face.

“Wine!” he called again, even as he continued to stare at her.

“It’s still not too late to end this, to make right all that you’ve done.”

“But it is too late,” he said. “Don’t you see? There’ll soon be civil war, all because of me. Can’t you smell the blood?”

“Do something, Father. You must.”

Before he could answer, there came a knock at his door. Brienne began to vanish, shaking her head slowly as she faded from view.

Aindreas let out a long, shuddering breath. “That had better be my wine.”

The door opened, revealing a frightened boy bearing two flasks of wine. The cellarmaster had learned not to send just one.

“Bring it here, boy,” the duke said. “Then be gone.”

The servant did as he was told, and for the next hour or two, past the ringing of the dawn bells, Aindreas did little more than sit at his table and drink his wine. After some time, he heard Villyd begin to work the men in the ward below his window, but still the duke didn’t leave his chair, though by now both flasks were empty.

Eventually, he must have dozed off, for another knock at his door made him start and overturn his empty goblet.

“Yes! Who is it?”

Ennis poked his head into the chamber, wide-eyed, an impish grin on his round face.

“Can I come in, Father?”

Aindreas stood quickly, stepping around the table to block his son’s view of the flagons. But he smiled, pleased to see the boy. “Of course you can.” The duke waved the boy into the chamber, crossing to one of the great chairs by his hearth. “Come sit with me,” he said, indicating the chair opposite his own with an open hand. Instead, the boy ran to the duke’s throne and climbed into it, looking every bit the Little Duke, as Aindreas’s soldiers called him.

“Did you sleep well?”

Ennis nodded.

“And have you already eaten?”

“Yes. Mother and Affery have, too.”

“Your mother’s up and about?” Aindreas asked, hoping he didn’t sound too surprised.

Again the lad nodded. “She said she needed to be preparing the castle for the rains.”

The duke frowned. “The rains?”

“Yes. Tonight.” Ennis regarded his father as if the duke were simple. “It’s going to flood tonight, like it does every year.”