cracking of bone, and felt as though a fire were burning within her body. She gasped, her agony only worsening. One rib. Then another. This time she couldn’t keep herself from vomiting, though that too brought new anguish.
Several more Eandi soldiers converged on the woman, swords drawn, but before they reached her they were hammered to the ground, their bodies collapsing in grotesque positions as if they had been mauled by some terrible demon of the Underrealm. For just an instant the archminister thought that her attacker had done this herself, but when the woman looked back over her shoulder Keziah knew that it had been the Weaver, that he was watching them, waiting to see her die.
“He wanted you to suffer,” the woman said, facing her once more, smiling faintly. “But I’m afraid there’s no time for that now.”
At least it would be quick.
“Hold, Jastanne!” came a voice from beside Keziah. “You’ll not be killing anyone today.”
Keziah looked up and, to her amazement, saw Aindreas, the duke of Kentigern, towering over her, his sword held loosely in one hand, a shield in the other.
Her first impulse was to warn him away, to tell him that the woman was a shaper and that no Eandi warrior, no matter his size, could contend with her. Then the full import of what he had said finally reached her.
The Qirsi laughed.
“Yes, Archminister. He knows me. You find that odd, don’t you?”
A few others had gathered around them, though most on the battle plain remained oblivious of this second, lesser conflict. The handful of men who had followed the duke were soldiers wearing the colors of Eibithar: Kearney’s men, who had treated Keziah with suspicion and contempt for so many turns, who had been told of Kentigern’s defiance of the Crown, who had come to this plain to do battle with the empire’s soldiers only to find themselves at war with a Weaver and his army. Most of them probably didn’t know what to make of the scene unfolding before them. Keziah wasn’t even certain that she did.
“How do you know this woman?” she asked, through gritted teeth.
The woman was smiling still. “Yes, my Lord Duke, can you explain that?”
Aindreas tightened his hold on the sword, his knuckles whitening. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his gaze flicking from Jastanne’s face to the faces of the soldiers. “This woman is a shaper,” he said loudly. “She’s more dangerous than any of you know. She can’t be allowed to live.”
Again Jastanne laughed. “And she can’t be killed by the likes of you.”
There was a chiming sound, and the duke’s blade splintered like bone. An instant later Keziah heard the rending of wood, and Aindreas’s shield broke in two. Three soldiers raised their blades as if to charge her. There were three muffled cracks, and the men toppled to the grass, two of them howling and writhing in pain. One of them didn’t move at all. A sheen of sweat had appeared on Jastanne’s face, and she was breathing heavily, as if she had run a great distance, but she seemed to have her strength still.
“I’ve wanted to kill you for some time now, Kentigern,” she said, “but you’ve been too valuable to us. The Weaver wouldn’t allow it. Now, though…” She shrugged and grinned. “The duke is a traitor,” she said, pitching her voice to carry. “He pledged himself to the Qirsi cause, believing that your king was somehow responsible for the death of his daughter.”
“That’s a lie!” one of the men shouted back at her.
But Aindreas didn’t deny it. He just glowered at her, gripping the useless hilt of his weapon.
“Is it?” she said. “Notice the duke’s silence. Don’t you think he would protest if he could?”
The soldier blanched, looking from the woman to Aindreas. The other men stared at the duke as well.
Jastanne, however, eyed Keziah once more. She said nothing. She didn’t have to. Keziah knew that she was about to die.
Perhaps Aindreas sensed this as well. With a roar that would have made the bravest warrior quail, he charged the woman, his dagger drawn, his eyes wide and wild. And Jastanne didn’t even flinch. She made a small grunting sound, as if pushing hard with her magic, but otherwise she didn’t move. At least not at first.
Aindreas staggered before he reached her, his enraged bellow rising, changing to something more desperate, more awful. Keziah could hear the bones in his body breaking in rapid succession. The dagger fell from his hands. But he didn’t fall, nor did he stop. Perhaps it was just the force of his initial steps, or maybe the force of his will. He continued toward the woman, flailing now, his face red, his steps unsteady.
Jastanne took a step back, pulling her sword free, and as the duke stumbled into her she thrust the blade into his chest. Still he tumbled forward, but now the woman simply stepped to the side, allowing him to stagger past her before he fell to the ground, driving the blade deeper. The other soldiers vaulted toward her, thinking that at last they had her defeated. But their swords broke in quick succession, and their necks after that.
Keziah was alone.
Except that when she looked at Jastanne again, she saw that another had come, one the woman hadn’t noticed.
“How did you turn him?” Keziah asked, keeping the woman’s gaze on herself, needing just a bit more time.
Jastanne’s face had grown pale, and her hair, damp with sweat, clung to her brow. Keziah had no doubt, though, that she had strength enough to finish this.
“It was easy, if you must know. He came to us.”
“I don’t believe you,” the archminister said, only half listening.
“I don’t particularly care. It’s the truth. He hated your king that much.”
Keziah didn’t answer. Her thoughts were fixed entirely on Jastanne’s horse, which had wandered close, perhaps following the sound of the woman’s voice. In these few seconds, the archminister had managed to bring him even closer. Hearing his steps, seeing the direction of Keziah’s gaze, Jastanne spun. And at that very moment Keziah summoned an image of fire, thrusting it into the creature’s mind as if it were a blade. The beast reared, kicking out with its front hooves. One smote the woman on the head, and she collapsed, sprawling on the ground beside Keziah. She let out a low groan and stirred, but the archminister grabbed a nearby rock and silenced her with a second blow.
Keziah closed her eyes briefly, taking a long, deep breath. Then, in a haze of pain, she forced herself into motion and crawled to the duke.
Aindreas lay on his side, his chest a bloodstained mess, his breath coming in great wet gasps, flecks of blood at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were open, but he seemed not to see her, even when her face was just in front of his.
“My lord?” Keziah said.
“Is it over?” he rasped.
“Not yet, my lord.”
“Jastanne?”
“She’s wounded, but she lives still.”
“Kill her now, while you can. She’s…” His voice gave way, and his enormous frame was racked by terrible coughs.
“I’ll call for a healer, my lord.”
“I’m dead already.”
“No, my lor-”
“Yes.” For the first time, his grey eyes seemed to focus on her face. “Tell the king … tell him that I died well.”
“My lord-”
“It was a mistake. I know that now. The shame of it will stain my house for centuries. But perhaps dying this way … I’m sorry.”
She heard footsteps behind her, the jangling of swords and armor. Turning with an effort, Keziah saw soldiers running toward her.
“Archminister!” one of them called.
“Get healers! Quickly!”
One of the men started back toward the camp, but the others hurried to her side.
