Shapers of Darkness by David B. Coe

to us—”
    “That we don’t allow him to do.” Cresenne nodded. “You’ve told me. But even knowing that, I’m not certain that I can stop him. Grinsa told you that it’s all an illusion, but look at me.” She gestured at the scars on her face. They were fading slowly, but they still stood out, stark against her fair skin. “What he did to me was real. It doesn’t matter whose magiche used, he was able to hurt me. Had it not been for Grinsa, he would have killed me.”
    “I know what he can do. I’ve felt it, just as you have.” The memory of her first encounter with the Weaver still made Keziah’s blood run cold. He had appeared before her, an imposing black figure framed against a blazing white light that pained her eyes. And when she resisted his attempts to read her thoughts, when she tried to hide the fact that Grinsa was in her dreams as well, the Weaver brought the full weight of his power down upon her mind. The pain was searing, unbearable. At that moment, she would have preferred to die than endure the man’s wrath for a moment longer. She understood Cresenne’s fear all too well. “He didn’t scar me as he did you, and he wasn’t trying to kill me. But I know what it is to have him turn my power against me. I remember how helpless I felt. And that’s the illusion, Cresenne. The pain is real, the marks he leaves on us are real. But we’re not helpless. That’s what Grinsa was trying to say.”
    “Do you know how to resist him? Do you know how to take back control of your powers so that he can’t use them? Because I don’t, and I have no time to learn. The next time he comes for me, I’m dead.”
    She tried to say more, but her words were lost amid her sobbing. Bryntelle stopped suckling and began to cry as well. Keziah stood and took the baby, so that Cresenne might have a moment to gather herself.
    She hadn’t been holding Bryntelle for long, however, when she heard footsteps in the corridor outside her chamber. Both women looked toward the steel grate at the top of the door. A guard was looking in at them.
    “What is it?” Keziah asked the man.
    “The king wishes to speak with you, Archminister.”
    “Damn,” she muttered.
    “It’s all right,” Cresenne said, reaching for her child. “Go. I’ll be fine.”
    “I’ll come back later.”
    The woman nodded. Keziah felt that she should say more, but the guard was waiting, and so, it seemed, was the king. The guard opened the door and Keziah stepped into the corridor.
    “Where is His Majesty?” she asked.
    “His presence chamber, Archminister.”
    She glanced back at Cresenne one last time, then descended the stairs and hurried across the ward toward Kearney’s chamber.
    She had thought to find the king with Gershon, or, far worse, with Marston of Shanstead. But Kearney was alone, standing near his writing table when she entered the chamber.
    He gestured stiffly at a nearby chair. “Please sit.”
    She bowed, then stepped to the chair, lowering herself into it, her eyes fixed on his face.
    “I thought we should speak a bit more about . . . about all that’s happened.”
    “Of course, Your Majesty.”
    “It took Gershon pointing it out to me, but I think I finally understand how difficult all of this has been for you.”
    “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
    He gave a deep frown, shaking his head. “Why is it that everyone speaks to me as if I were some fearsome tyrant?”
    In spite of everything, she had to fight to keep from smiling. “Is that what I’m doing, Your Majesty?”
    “Yes! You and Gershon used to be candid to the point of impertinence.”
    “And you preferred that?”
    “To this constant obeisance? I should say so.”
    “Perhaps he and I should go back to fighting with each other as well.”
    He arched an eyebrow. “I suppose I deserved that.”
    “Not really.” She passed a hand through her hair, feeling awkward and unsure of just what he wanted from her. “I haven’t really known how to talk to you