“He will gladly hear your grievances, Lord Kentigern, just as he does those of all his loyal subjects. But you must first demonstrate your good faith by submitting to his authority and swearing an oath of fealty to the Crown.”
Aindreas heard a light footfall behind him, his breath catching in his throat.
“Splendid!” Jastanne said, clapping her hands with clear disdain as she stepped to the center of the chamber. “Do you hear how he speaks to you, Lord Kentigern? He speaks of submission to the king’s authority and oaths of fealty. But in return he offers only threats. How typical of you Eandi.”
The captain’s hand strayed to the hilt of his sword. “Who is this woman, my lord?”
“Don’t you see, Lord Kentigern?” she went on, ignoring the man. “Your loyalty is wasted on such a sovereign. You owe nothing to Kearney, because he offers nothing to you.”
“What is this?” the man demanded, the expression on his face almost comical. “What is she talking about, my lord?”
“I think you should go,” Aindreas said, not entirely certain to which of the two he was speaking.
Jastanne smiled. “Now? When things are getting so interesting?”
“My lord-”
“This is my new first minister, Captain. And as you can see, she has little regard for what your king has to say. Frankly, I don’t either.”
Jastanne gave a small laugh. “Your new first minister?”
“I think you should leave,” Aindreas said again, clearly speaking to the soldier this time.
The captain regarded them both in silence, shaking his head.
Finally, he started toward the door. “Very well.”
“No,” Jastanne said, stopping him. “This has gone on long enough.”
“What?” the duke said, staring at her.
But she was intent on the captain.
It all happened so fast that Aindreas was helpless to do more than watch.
The muffled crack, so much like the splintering of wood, was followed an instant later by a choked cry of pain as the soldier collapsed to the floor, grabbing at his leg. A random thought: she’s a shaper. Jastanne strode to where the man lay writhing, his face contorted with anguish. Candlelight glinted off something in her hand. A dagger; Aindreas hadn’t seen her pull it from her belt. The Qirsi grabbed Kearney’s man by the hair, lifting his head off the floor, dragging the edge of her blade across his throat. Blood pulsed from the gaping wound, a pool of red that spread across the chamber floor like fire across parchment.
He gaped at her, his head spinning as if he were fevered. “Are you mad?” He dropped to his knees beside the man, but already he could see the life fading in the soldier’s dark eyes. There wasn’t even time to call for a healer.
“No, Lord Kentigern. I’m merely doing what’s necessary, what you couldn’t bring yourself to do.”
“Surely you didn’t expect me to do this!”
“I expected you to honor your agreement with us. Now you have no choice but to do so.”
“You are mad.”
She wiped her blade on her trousers and returned it to the sheath on her belt. “You’d best send Kearney’s other men back to the City of Kings, Lord Kentigern. And then I’d suggest that you prepare for war.” She glanced at the dead man one last time, then let herself out of the chamber.
Aindreas should have gone after her. He should have killed her for what she had done, though he wasn’t certain how to go about killing a shaper. Instead, he just knelt there.
And the king’s man stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Duvenry, Wethyrn, Anton’s Moon waning
Their ride from the City of Kings to Rennach took two days longer than Grinsa had told Keziah it would. Two days. And though the gleaner and Tavis quickly found a Wethy merchant who agreed to give them passage across the Gulf of Kreanna, they had to wait a full day before he and his crew were ready to set sail. The man’s price was reasonable, but they would be sailing to Duvenry rather than Helke, which would add more time to their travels. Still, Grinsa and Tavis were not in a position to be particular. Even the passage itself would have cost them a day had it not been for Grinsa’s magic. The weather was clear, the winds calm, as he had hoped they would be for Tavis’s sake. Indeed, the day proved so mild that the ship nearly was becalmed in the first hours of their journey.
The captain, a dour, black-haired Eandi, with a barrel chest and thick forearms that were tanned and marked with pale scars, had his men lower the mainsail and go belowdecks to row. Grinsa thought about offering to raise a wind, but judging from the way the captain eyed him, he knew the man would refuse. He and Tavis had been fortunate just to gain passage-clearly this Eandi captain didn’t care for Qirsi. Still, their speed on oar was intolerably slow, and even with the waters of the gulf as tranquil as Grinsa had ever seen them, Tavis was leaning over the edge of the top deck, his face so ashen that his scars looked black.
With nothing to lose and time to be gained, Grinsa stood beside the young lord, using his magic to raise a soft breeze. He did it so gradually, with so little visible effort, that neither the captain nor his crew seemed to suspect anything. He even went to far as to draw the wind from the southwest, so that they couldn’t steer a direct course to Duvenry, fearing that a more favorable wind might have raised the captain’s suspicions.
Feeling the wind freshen, the crew raised the mainsail again, and the small ship began to carve a crooked course across the gulf. After a time Tavis raised his head, eyeing the gleaner.
“Are you doing this?” he asked, his voice low.
“Yes. I’m sorry, Tavis, but already this is taking more time than I would have liked.”
The lord shook his head, the mere motion seeming to make his stomach turn. “It’s all right. The sooner I’m off this damned ship the better.”
They sailed around the north shore of Brigands’ Island, a small mass of trees and rock whose narrow coves and difficult landings had once been a haven for privateers. Then they turned south, away from the promontory of the lower Crown and toward the port of Duvenry. The shore appeared close, as if they could reach it in just moments if they simply turned due west, but the passage took the better part of the day.
Tavis said little, though after emptying his stomach early in the journey, he did seem to adjust to the gentle rhythm of the ship. The captain’s men ignored them, as if ordered to do so, leaving Grinsa to his thoughts and the subtle, constant demands of the wind he had conjured. Eventually, as the day went on, a natural breeze began to rise, and he was able to drop his wind, a good thing, since they encountered more ships as they drew nearer to Wethyrn, and it would have raised eyebrows had theirs been the only ship under sail.
As he watched gulls wheeling over the ship, and murres floating lazily on the gentle swells of the gulf, Grinsa’s thoughts turned again and again to Cresenne and Bryntelle. For just that one last night in Audun’s Castle, they had been a family, tied to one another by love and the shared sense that this was the future awaiting them, if only they could survive the coming war. He had long dreamed of again sharing his life with another, of knowing such passion and intimacy and-dare he think it? — joy. Years before, when he had been too young to appreciate fully what it meant to be tied to someone in this way, he had thought to share his life with Pheba, his Eandi wife, who died from the pestilence shordy after their joining. Now, it seemed, he had it with Cresenne. In the night they passed together, there had been the promise of a lifetime together. Yet there had been something else as well, an aching sadness, as if they both understood that the future they foresaw was but a dream. So many obstacles stood before them, so many paths to pain and grief and loss. Grinsa felt as though he were standing at the mouth of a great labyrinth, knowing that Cresenne and Bryntelle stood waiting on the other side, but unable to discern any pattern to the twists and turns in between that might lead him to them.