The duke shook his head. “Desperate men make for dangerous opponents, Master MarCullet. I’d have thought your father had taught you that.”
He had, of course, though only in the context of single combat. It hadn’t occurred to Xaver to apply the lesson to a conflict with the commander of an entire army. He could only hope that his father wouldn’t make the same mistake.
Even before his meeting with Kentigern’s duke, Shurik had ordered Villyd and the quartermaster to prepare for the march to the Heneagh River, so certain had he been that Aindreas would follow his counsel. On his best days, the duke could be steered one way or another with little effort. When he was drunk, it became laughably easy. If anything, the minister had been too successful. He had hoped to leave with first light the following morning, not this same day. He had a task to complete before they marched from the castle, and it promised to be far more difficult in daylight than it would have been at night. But having convinced the duke that they should try to beat Curgh’s army to the Heneagh, he couldn’t very well argue for a delay until dawn.
The minister made his way back to the castle’s inner ward to check on the quartermaster’s progress. Two of the carts needed repairs, but the castle’s wheelwright was already working on them. They weren’t likely to cause any delays. On the other hand, the kitchenmaster had been stingy with some of the food, particularly the cheese and dried meats. The quartermaster had been forced to send some of his workers to the marketplace to buy some supplies, slowing his preparations considerably. Apparently food stores in the castle were dwindling, though they weren’t yet as low as Shurik had made it seem when he spoke with Aindreas.
Leaving the quartermaster, the Qirsi walked to where Villyd was shouting orders to Kentigern’s soldiers.
Seeing the minister approach, Kentigern’s swordmaster raised a hand as if to beckon him over, his brow furrowed with concern.
Villyd was a compact man. He was actually a bit taller than Shurik, but because of the swordmaster’s broad chest and shoulders and his muscular limbs, he looked shorter than he really was. He had a round face and small blue eyes, and he always appeared to be squinting. Despite his appearance, he was a skilled swordsman who had earned the complete respect and loyalty of his men. For a man of war, he was also surprisingly tolerant of the Qirsi who served in Kentigern Castle. Shurik actually liked him.
“First Minister,” he said as the minister stopped in front of him. “Did the duke tell you how many men he wished to keep here in the castle?”
Perhaps he could have lied, telling the man to take more soldiers to the Heneagh than was necessary. But such a lie carried great risks; it was too obvious, too easily traced.
“No, swordmaster. He didn’t tell me anything. I believe he was leaving this to your discretion.”
Villyd nodded. “He often does. In that case, I intend to leave seven hundred men here and take the rest. That’s a thousand men. I can’t imagine Hagan will have any more.”
Shurik frowned. Seven hundred men to defend the castle and city. He wondered if Yaella and the duke of Mertesse would be expecting that many.
“You think I should take more?” the swordmaster asked, looking concerned. “I hate to leave the castle undermanned. The Aneirans will know we’ve gone. They might use this opportunity to attack.”
“I suppose they might,” Shurik said. “I’m sure a thousand men will be enough. And if the Curgh army manages to break through our lines, there’ll be plenty of men here to hold them off.”
“So you do think I should take more.”
“I’m just a minister, swordmaster. I know very little of such things.”
“But you know the duke. You know what he wants.”
Shurik grinned. “He wants to win this war, swordmaster. He wants to avenge the murder of Lady Brienne. All of us do.”
Villyd nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He stood there for a moment, appearing to consider the minister’s words. “Perhaps we can spare another two hundred men,” he said at last.
“Whatever you think best,” Shurik said, suppressing a smile.
“Five hundred should be enough to defend Kentigern,” he went on, as though still trying to convince himself. “And with twelve hundred men marching against the Curgh army, we shouldn’t be away from the castle for very long.”
“That strikes me as sound reasoning, swordmaster.” Shurik glanced up at the sun. He hadn’t much time before the prior’s bells. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to which to attend before we leave.”
“What? Oh, of course, First Minister. Please forgive me.”
Shurik was already walking away. “Think nothing of it, swordmaster.”
“And thank you,” the man called.
The Qirsi raised a hand, but didn’t bother to look back. The man would have kept him talking all day long.
He made his way out of the inner ward through the south gate, then entered the nearest tower of the outer wall and followed the tight, dark corridors to the castle’s western gate, the Tarbin gate as it was called. Unlike the city gate, which was kept open during the day except in times of war, the Tarbin gate almost always remained closed, even the wicket gate. The gate faced Aneira. Indeed, since no structure in all of Eibithar stood closer to the Aneiran border than Kentigern Castle, one could argue that the Tarbin gate was the kingdom’s first defense against an Aneiran invasion.
Standing at the entrance to the gate, Shurik could not help but admire its sheer power. Each of the four portcullises was as thick as a man’s thigh, and constructed of oak from Kentigern Wood and iron from the city’s forges. Beyond the portcullises stood an equally dense door, also made of oak and locked with massive iron bolts. And beyond that lay a drawbridge, raised, of course, which could be lowered to provide passage across the deep pit separating the barbican from the road leading up the tor from the river. There were arrow loops on both sides of the gate, with chambers behind them for the duke’s archers, and murder holes in the ceiling, from which soldiers could attack intruders. But so strong were the defenses at this entrance that the only guards stationed here stood outside, manning the wall between the towers on either side of the gate and the smaller spires at the outer edge of the Tarbin barbican. Within the gate, Shurik was completely alone.
For years he had been telling people that he possessed three
magics: gleaning power, the power of fire, and the language of beasts. He told Fotir as much the first night they spoke in the Silver Bear. Like so much else he told his duke and others, however, this was only partially true. He did have all those powers. But unlike most Qirsi, he had a fourth as well. He was a shaper. He decided long ago to keep this a secret. Many Qirsi became first ministers possessing only three magics; he didn’t need to reveal the full extent of his power to gain a position of influence. And he had learned long ago that it could be helpful to know more about his adversaries than they knew about him.
For obvious reasons he didn’t use his shaping power very often, and he knew that he would tire quickly using it this day. But he didn’t have to destroy the door or the portcullises, he merely had to weaken them.
He started with the iron hinges of the door, closing his eyes and pushing the power out from his mind as if it were a bad memory. Almost immediately he felt a dull, throbbing pain building behind his eyes. He was going to be in sorry shape before this was over. He wondered if he’d be able to ride with the duke. He could hear the metal creaking under the strain of what he was doing to it, and he made certain to stop before the hinges failed entirely.
He only weakened two of the door’s four hinges, leaving the others for Mertesse and his men. There was nothing he could do about the drawbridge, either, but the Aneirans would find a way around that. The Qirsi was most concerned with the portcullises, and, once he was done with the door, he directed his magic at them, attacking the wooden crossbeams on all four of the immense lattices. He worked as quickly as he could, wiping the sweat from his face, and fighting the nausea that seemed to grow with each pulse in his aching head. He felt the magic flowing through him, as he had in times past. But he was older now—he hadn’t exerted himself like this in years—and he could almost feel the life pouring out of his body. For a moment he feared that he would fail before the castle’s defenses.
Again, he didn’t weaken all of the beams. It would have been too apparent if every one of them failed at the same time. But he worked on enough of them, stretching and thinning the wood in certain places so that it would be far easier for the rams of the Aneiran army to break the portcullises down.
When he finished, he staggered to the nearest wall and fell back against it, struggling to catch his breath. His hair and clothes were damp with sweat and there was a pounding in his head that made the ground seem to pitch and roll like a ship at sea.
He had known that it would be this way, though perhaps not quite this severe, and he knew what he would tell the duke. He could even guess how Aindreas and his men would respond, and while he was not looking forward to their taunts, that seemed a very small price to pay. Pushing away from the wall, he stepped unsteadily back into the narrow corridors and returned to the inner ward the same way he had come from it, taking care once more that he wasn’t seen until he was a good distance from the gate.
Stepping into the ward, Shurik immediately spotted the duke sitting atop his great mount, his blue and silver cape soaked with the rain that continued to fall. The minister’s smaller horse stood nearby, and Shurik hurried to it.
“We were looking for you, First Minister,” Aindreas called to him as he approached.
“I was … walking, my lord.”
“You don’t look well. Are you ill?”
Shurik glanced toward the soldiers, making himself appear embarrassed. “It’s … it’s been some time since I rode to war, my lord,” he said, lowering his voice.
Aindreas stared at him a moment before starting to laugh. The Qirsi also heard a few snickers from the men who stood nearby.
“You have battle sickness, First Minister,” the duke said, still laughing. “All of us have had it at one time or another. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve seen many a fine swordsman reduced to little more than a quivering babe by the prospect of an actual war.” He gestured toward Shurik’s mount. “You’ll feel better once you start riding.”
“Yes, my lord,” the minister said, swinging himself onto the horse. His head spun as he did, but the pain had started to ebb.
A moment later Aindreas shouted an order to the men and kicked at the flanks of his stallion. The soldiers of Kentigern gave an earsplitting cheer and started to march out of the ward. There would be people lining the streets of the city, Shurik knew, cheering as well, sending their heroes off to war, none of them knowing that war would be coming to them long before these men saw battle.
As they rode slowly ahead of the soldiers, the duke looked at him, shaking his head and laughing again. “Battle sickness,” he said. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you, Shurik.”
Laugh all you want, you fat fool. Because of me, the famed walls of Kentigern are finally about to fall.
“I didn’t expect it either, my lord,” the Qirsi said. “But as you say, I should be feeling better soon.”
Mertesse, Aneira
I
t seemed to Yaella that she had been asleep only a few moments when the dream began. She recognized it immediately, her stomach turning sour, and her hands starting to tremble. Even in her sleep, even as she began to feel her way across the familiar terrain of this vision, she wondered how the Weaver could know when she slept and when she was awake.
She walked carefully, stepping among the strewn boulders and clumps of tall grasses toward the high mound where she knew he expected her to go. During earlier dreams, Yaella had tried to figure out where she was, though without any success. Land of this sort could be found throughout the Forelands, in the southern plains of Aneira, the moorlands of western Eibithar, the northern steppe country of Caerisse, or the highlands of Glyndwr and Wethyrn. Had she been able to see beyond the nearest rocks and grasses, she might have been able to determine at least which kingdom she was in. But in these dreams the sky was always dark and starless. Even the moons did not shine here. It was as if the Weaver had mastered Elined and Morna, Qirsar and Amon, shaping the earth and sky to match his desires. In this realm, he was greater than the gods.
Yaella felt herself beginning an ascent and knew she had come to the Weaver’s mound. Her heart began to pound in her chest, and not simply owing to the effort of climbing this rise. She had been first minister to the duke of Mertesse for nearly nine years. Twice she had
met Aneira’s king. In her first year of service to Rouel, she had ridden with him into battle against the men of Kentigern. And for more than three years, she had been a part of the Qirsi movement to win control of the Forelands, living a lie every day, her life constantly in danger. Yet nothing else filled her with the cold, bone-deep dread that came with these dreams. No one but the Weaver could make her shiver simply with the sound of his voice.
She continued up the rise, her legs growing heavy and her breathing labored, until at last the ground began to flatten out, telling her that she had reached the summit. She stopped to wait, staring into the darkness in what she knew would be a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of the Weaver’s face.
The light blazed so suddenly that Yaella had to raise a hand to shield her eyes. It was as bright as the sun and as white as Panya’s glow, and it appeared to flow from the earth itself, like steam rising from the heat springs of Wethyrn’s Grey Hills. An instant later she saw the Weaver walking toward her, as if emerging from the brilliant light. Framed as he was against the radiance, a cape draped over him, he appeared as little more than a living shadow, faceless and formless. She could tell that he was tall and that he walked with long, confident strides. But that was all. Even his hair, which had to be as white as hers, looked black and wild, like the mane of some beast from the underrealm.
He stopped before her, and she bowed to him as she would to a Qirsi king.
“Are they at war yet?” he asked, his voice cutting through the stillness like a noble’s blade.
“No, Weaver. But soon.” She sounded small and frightened to her own ears, like a child answering an angry parent.
“Why this delay? Aylyn is dead. The Curgh army marches on Kentigern.”
“Yes, but—”
“Has Kentigern led his men from the castle yet?”
“It’s been more than a day since they left, Weaver. My duke’s scouts saw them marching from the city just after the prior’s bells on the third day of the waning.”
“That was later than we agreed.”
Yaella faltered. She wanted to protect Shurik, but not in a way that would bring the full weight of the Weaver’s wrath down on her.
“Well?”
“I’m certain there’s a reason, Weaver. Aindreas can be a difficult man, and under these circumstances—”
It suddenly felt as though the Weaver had placed a hand over her mouth to keep her from speaking, though neither of them had moved. She felt fear rise in her chest like a moon tide, and she had to remind herself to breathe through her nose.
“Never speak to me of circumstances or difficulties or excuses of any sort. We are part of a great movement, one that will wipe the Eandi nobles from the Forelands and bring a Qirsi king to power. Our people have dreamed of such a day since they first set foot on this land. Nine centuries ago, one man’s betrayal condemned us all to thralldom and persecution. To this day, our people are forced to serve and entertain men of limited capacity, just as are you. To this day, Weavers live in constant fear of execution. All because of the traitor Carthach.
“We are closer to our dream right now than we have been at any time since the ancient wars. Yet, even today, the failure of just one man or woman can destroy our cause again. Circumstances are nothing. Difficulties don’t concern me. Each of us has a task to perform. Each of us carries in his or her hands the fate of our movement. That should be enough to ensure the success of all. And in case it’s not, you and your friend are being paid a great deal of gold to do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. Do as I ask, and you’ll have power and riches for the rest of your days. Fail me again, and this hand you feel covering your mouth will be at your throat. Do you understand?”
Yaella nodded, still unable to speak.
“Good,” he said. “I expect you to make certain that Shurik understands as well.”
As abruptly as it had come, the hand was gone from her face. Yaella took a long breath, closing her eyes for just an instant. “Yes, Weaver,” she said. “I’ll tell him.”
“When will Mertesse march on Kentigern?”
“We can attack tomorrow night, Weaver. My duke is ready now.” She hesitated, fearful of angering him again.
“You may speak. Say what you will.”
“I think we would be wise to wait another day, until we’re certain that Kentigern is too far away to save his castle. A siege can take time. I know that you want this war to begin immediately, but if we strike too soon—”
“I agree. Have your duke wait another day.”
She nodded. Rouel was almost as impatient for this war as the Weaver, but Yaella felt certain that she could persuade him to wait.
“Is there anything else?”
Again she faltered, though only briefly. “I feel I must tell you that Kentigern Castle has resisted sieges for hundreds of years. Shurik has promised to weaken its defenses, and I’m sure he has. But still, the fortress is strong.”
“I don’t care if the castle falls. I want there to be war between Aneira and Eibithar. The rest is unimportant. If the siege succeeds, war becomes that much more likely, but even if it ultimately fails, it won’t matter, so long as it leads to war.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“We’ll speak again soon,” the Weaver said.
Yaella wanted to ask him what he intended to do once the war had begun. She understood so little of his plan. Indeed, she barely grasped how his movement worked. She knew that the Weaver had his chancellors, Qirsi who spoke on his behalf, but it seemed that he ceded little of his authority to others working for him. She didn’t even know how he managed to pay her. All the gold she had earned had been left in her quarters, appearing as if by magic. Someone must have put it there, a castle servant perhaps, turned by the Weaver to his cause. But Yaella had never seen this person; she had no idea who it might be.
She did know that the Weaver expected his underlings to bring new Qirsi to the movement, and that he paid them handsomely for doing so. Shurik once told her that he had received two hundred qinde for convincing her to join the conspiracy. That, however, was the extent of her knowledge. She longed to know more, but she had learned long ago that questions angered the Weaver, and that the same magic he had used to silence her could be used to cause pain.
With the Weaver’s last words still echoing in her mind, she awoke, gasping for breath as one might rising to the water’s surface from the depths of a cold lake. Somehow she was sitting up in her bed, the golden sunlight of early morning making the walls of her chamber glow. She felt as though she hadn’t slept at all and she silently cursed the Weaver, wondering as she did if he could sense even this.
She swung herself out of bed and padded across the cold stone floor to her washbowl. The water had grown cold, but she rinsed
her face anyway, shivering slightly as she reached for a cloth to dry herself.
No doubt the duke was already up, ordering his men about and overseeing the final preparations for the siege. He had a quartermaster, of course, as well as a master armsman. But he was the type of man who trusted no one to do what he believed he could do himself. Despite her assurances to the Weaver that she could convince Rouel to wait another day, Yaella was dreading this encounter.
She dressed and made her way down to the north ward, where she knew she would find the duke. He was already dressed for battle, his black and gold cape stirring behind him as he strode among the wagons and men. Usually the commander of an Aneiran army would not have thought to carry so much to war, but with the enemy so close—Castle Mertesse stood just over a league from the south bank of the Tarbin, and Kentigern was even closer to the north bank—Rouel had decided that it made more sense to bring the materials they would need for the siege. Yaella had to admit that it made a great deal of sense. Rather than wasting valuable time gathering wood for the siege engines and the hurling arms, they would be able to begin their assault on the castle almost immediately. With much of Kentigern’s army gone, and the castle’s west gate weakened by Shurik’s magic, speed promised to be their greatest advantage. Anything that could further hasten their attack could only increase their chances for success.
Enormous carts holding long beams of hewn oak and ironwood lined the side of the ward, waiting for the teams of horses that were to pull them across the river and up the tor. In addition to the soldiers, Rouel intended to bring more than one hundred laborers and a dozen master carpenters. Because of this, the quartermaster and his men had been forced to load their carts with even more provisions than usual.
In all, this promised to be one of the largest undertakings attempted by Mertesse’s army since the Harvest War, nearly a century and half before. It was small wonder Rouel seemed so eager for it to begin.
Yaella fell in step just a stride or two behind the duke and joined him in looking over the carts and the men. They appeared nearly ready to go. Certainly nothing she saw would provide her with any justification for asking Rouel to delay their departure.
After a time, she realized that the duke hadn’t yet noticed her and she cleared her throat.
“Good day, my lord.”
He stopped and looked back at her. “First Minister! Good morning.” He tipped his head to the side. “Have you been here long?”
“Just a few moments, my lord.”
He nodded and resumed his walking, gesturing for her to do the same. “What do you think?” he asked.
“It seems to me that your preparations are going quite well.”
“I agree. For centuries the men of Kentigern have boasted that their castle is unassailable. But I believe this siege will be their undoing.”
Yaella didn’t bother to point out that were it not for Shurik’s magic, they wouldn’t even be attempting this assault. There was no sense in angering the duke, particularly now.
“There’s something I wish to discuss with you, my lord.”
“You there!” Rouel shouted, stopping abruptly to watch two men who were practicing their swordplay. “Do that against one of Kentigern’s men and he’ll run you through! You have to raise your shield arm more,” he said, demonstrating the movement as he spoke. “Try it again.” He stood and watched them for several moments before nodding. “That’s better. Keep working on that.” He began to walk again, a frown wrinkling his brow. “I shouldn’t have to correct them on such elementary movements.”
They walked in silence for a few seconds before the duke looked at her again. “I’m sorry, First Minister. You were saying something.”
“Yes, my lord.” It was best just to say it and have it done. “I feel that we would be better off delaying our attack for another day.”
He stopped again, facing her. “Demons and fire, woman! Why would we do that?”
“To ensure our success, my lord.”
“Absurd!” He started forward again, shaking his head. “We march today! We’ve already waited longer than I had wished. I won’t put it off yet again!”
“If we attack tonight, my lord, the siege will fail. I’m certain of it.”
“How can you know that? Has your friend failed? Is that it?”
“Shurik has nothing to do with this, my lord. He marched with his duke two days ago, which means that he’s already seen to the
weakening of Kentigern’s west gate. He’s done all he can on our behalf.”
“Then why delay at all? When we spoke with him, we agreed to begin the assault on the third night of the waning. I made it clear that we would need the moonlight. That night has come and gone, and still we tarry!”
“Yes, my lord. But at the time we assumed that Kentigern would leave the castle before he did.”