by DAVID B. COE
“I have a task for you,” he said that night in her dream, as the siege of Kentigern wore on and she recovered from her injuries. “A dangerous task. I can’t say for certain that you’ll survive, even if you succeed. But you will be doing a great service to the cause we share, and I believe that you’ll find peace before you die.”
She had been frightened of course. How could she not be, speaking to the Weaver of her own mortality? But she was exhilarated as well, eager to fulfill this destiny he had seen for her.
“There is a woman, a traitor to our cause,” he said, and then spoke the name. “Cresenne ja Terba. She is as dear to Grinsa jal Arriet as Shurik was to you, perhaps even more so, for she bore him a child. I want you to kill her.”
Yaella had never thought of herself as vengeful, but she was drawn to the notion that she might strike back at this other Weaver who had taken Shurik from her. In the end, with her magic a mere shadow of what it once had been, and her body little more, she had reached the City of Kings because the Weaver managed to give purpose to her life once more. Grief had consumed her; this quest for revenge had restored her, at least long enough.
She had expected all along that gaining entry to Audun’s Castle would be the greatest challenge of all, a formidable test of her cunning. When at last she saw the City of Kings from her hiding place along the slope of the Caerissan Steppe, its massive walls gleaming in the late-day sun, the great towers of the fortress rising into a sky of brilliant blue, Yaella quailed, wondering how she could ever hope to get past such massive battlements and the soldiers guarding them. Still she went on, covering the remaining distance during the night and passing through the city gates when they opened in the morning. Only then, as she entered the city and saw the grand tents of Eibithar’s famous Revel, did she begin to believe that the gods might be with her in this endeavor, watching over her and the Weaver’s cause.
When night fell, she slipped into the castle with ease, following a small group of Qirsi performers and stepping past the guards with a confident smile and a nodded greeting, as if there were no question but that she belonged there.
The Weaver had told her where she could find the woman’s bedchamber. How he knew this, she couldn’t say, but she followed his instructions and waited by her door, knowing from all the Weaver had told her that the traitor would return to the chamber with first light.
“The woman sleeps during the day, so great is her fear of me,” he said. “You will show her that she can’t escape her fate so easily.”
Yaella remained in the shadows by the woman’s chamber for some time, struggling to slow her racing heart, fearing that she would be discovered by a guard or one of the queen’s ladies. The night ended and morning broke over the royal city, and still she waited, until she began to fear that somehow she had reached the chamber too late, and that the woman was already within, asleep behind a locked door. When she tried the door handle, however, her hand trembling, she found that the chamber was unlocked. Peering inside, she saw no one. Had the Weaver been wrong about the location of the woman’s chamber? Had Yaella taken too long to reach the City of Kings? Had the woman left Audun’s Castle? She was nearly ready to leave the corridor, although she wasn’t certain where she would go next, when at last she heard someone approaching, light footsteps echoing softly in the nearby stairway.
A moment later the woman came into view.
The Weaver had told Yaella of Cresenne’s beauty, even confessing to her during her extraordinary dream that he had once thought to make this woman his queen. So she was prepared for that. Yaella wasn’t prepared, however, for just how young the woman appeared. Seeing Cresenne approach, Yaella’s resolve wavered, albeit for only a moment. Still, when she allowed herself to be seen and spoke the woman’s name, Yaella was shaking in every limb. The Weaver had wanted her to announce to Cresenne that he was responsible for her murder, as if the woman could have doubted such a thing.
“This is what becomes of those who betray the Weaver and his cause,” she was supposed to say, before striking the killing blow. But it had been all she could do just to say the woman’s name aloud; she couldn’t bring herself to say more. Instead she just leaped at her, moving faster and more nimbly than she had imagined she could.
For a moment, after Cresenne fell, Yaella could only stand there, staring down at her, watching the blood flow from her heart, like a dark river in flood. Then the sound of the child’s crying reached her and with it yet another memory from her last encounter with the Weaver.
“I don’t want the child harmed,” he said. A small grace, for she was certain that she could never have killed a babe, no matter who its father might be. “Take her with you if you can. Otherwise leave her there.”
The corridor was empty, and the Weaver had told her of a sally port through which she could leave the castle undetected. She bent quickly, gathering the babe in her arms, and with one last backward glance at Cresenne, she started toward the west end of the fortress.
She hadn’t even turned the nearest corner, however, when a man appeared before her. He was Qirsi—the fattest man of her race Yaella had ever seen—and he smiled a greeting when he first saw her. But then his eyes strayed to the child and he slowed his gait. Looking past her, he saw Cresenne, his pale eyes widening.
“Demons and fire!” he said, halting and blocking her way. “What have you done to her?”
She pulled her dagger free again and held it before her. The man appeared to falter at the sight of it, but only for the briefest moment.
“Give me the child!” he said. “Now!”
Yaella laid the blade on the babe’s throat. “I’ll kill her.”
Again he hesitated, glancing at Cresenne once more and licking his lips nervously, as if he saw his own future in her fate. He was sweating like an overworked horse and Yaella thought she could see his hands quaking. At last, though, he shook his head. “I don’t believe you will. Your masters sent you here for the babe. They’ll be angry if she dies.”
I don’t want the child harmed. This was probably no more than conjecture on the part of the fat man, but it was unnervingly accurate. Her eyes flicked to the child, who was screaming. A dark lump had swelled on the babe’s forehead, no doubt where she had struck the floor when her mother dropped her.
“They want me to join them. They don’t care about the child.”
“You’re lying.”
“Not about my willingness to kill her. If you let me go, I promise she’ll be safe. You’re right: I was sent to kill the mother and bring back the child. The Weaver will see that she’s cared for.”
The man stared at her. “A Weaver?”
She hadn’t time for this. It was only a matter of time before they were discovered by soldiers of the king.
“Yes, a Weaver. And he doesn’t deal kindly with those who meddle in his affairs. Now out of my way.”
“A Weaver,” he said again, as if he hadn’t heard. “Of course.”
Yaella could delay no more. She pressed herself against the stone wall and began to edge past the man, still holding the dagger at the babe’s neck.
“Let me pass,” she said.
“Never.” He moved to block her way, just as she knew he would.
With a sudden thrust, she drove the blade into his flesh. She missed his heart, catching him closer to the shoulder, but still the man grunted in pain and slumped against the wall, the dagger jutting from his round body. Yaella hurried to get away from him.
As she reached the corner, however, flames abruptly flared before her, bright and angry, their heat making her flinch.
“Another step and you die!” came a voice from behind her.
Yaella turned at the sound, clutching the child so close to her breast that it began to cry anew. Her dagger was in the fat man. Fire was at her back. And staring at the apparition that faced her now, she felt Bian the Deceiver hovering at her shoulder, waiting to take her to the Underrealm.
* * *
No.
&
nbsp; There was comfort to be found in death. Peace at a time when all the land was descending into war. Shelter from all that the Weaver had done to her. Release from a life that had strayed so far from what she had foreseen as a girl.
But no.
It was Bryntelle who reached her. The sound of her crying. Or, more precisely, the retreat of that sound. At first Cresenne thought that she was just fading, the last of her life’s blood draining from the gaping hole in her chest, cold closing in on her, like the snows advancing on Wethyrn’s Crown after a long harvest. But Bryntelle’s cries only retreated for a moment. Then they were joined by voices, a man and a woman. The woman. The one who had done this to her, whose blade had killed her.
But no. Not yet.
The woman was taking her child, or attempting to.
She forced her eyes open, stared up at the stone ceiling. She tried to raise her head so that she might look at the wound, but she hadn’t the strength even for this.
Wouldn’t it just have been easier to surrender, to embrace peace and shelter and release?
She lifted her hand, heavy as a smith’s anvil, and laid it on the wound. Warm blood still flowed, but so weakly. A trickle compared with what it should have been. She probed the wound with cold, leaden fingers. Straight as the blade that pierced her flesh, long enough to kill, but easy enough to heal. She reached for her healing magic. Also a trickle, spent like her blood, but not done quite yet. The effort brought tears to her eyes, made her stomach heave. But after a moment the power welled up within her. And the wound began to close. Magic seeped into her, warm against the deadly cold, and the thaw brought with it pain that death’s chill had masked. She gritted her teeth, squeezed her eyes closed once more.
But she did not relent. Bryntelle’s cries still echoed in the corridor, as did the voices.
Soon the wound had closed. She could feel her heart beating within her bruised, aching chest. With more time and more magic, she might have eased the pain somewhat, but she didn’t dare.
Instead, she fought to turn over, gasping with every least movement. She pushed herself onto her hands and knees, then clawed her way up the wall beside her until she was standing, her legs nearly buckling, her sight swimming. She saw two figures a short distance away. The woman and Trin.
An instant later something glinted in the dim light and Trin fell back against the stone.
The woman began to stride away. Bryntelle was in her arms.
Cresenne didn’t even think, but merely cast the flame, reaching for the wall once more to keep from collapsing to the stone.
“Another step and you die!”
The woman turned slowly to face her, her cheeks ashen, Bryntelle held before her as if a warrior’s shield. “You should be dead,” she murmured.
“Give me my baby.”
The woman glanced about, as if looking for some path to freedom. “I’ll kill her if I have to.”
Cresenne was wearier than she had ever been, but she kept the flames burning at the corridor’s end, determined not to let the woman escape.
“The Weaver doesn’t want her dead. We both know that.”
“You’re a traitor. How would you know what he wants?”
“You didn’t kill her when you had the chance. You took her instead, just as he instructed. He’s wanted this child for himself since before she was born.”
“Is that why you turned on him?”
She wasn’t certain how much longer she could maintain the conjured fire, or even remain on her feet. “Give her to me.”
Cresenne saw the woman waver, her eyes flicking toward the dagger in Trin’s chest, as if she were gauging the distance she would have to cover to retrieve it.
“Please,” Cresenne said, her voice breaking, tears stinging her eyes. “I just want my baby back. Put her down and I’ll let you go.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll kill me.”
“I hope she does,” Trin muttered, glaring up at the woman and pulling the blade free. “You deserve no less.” He flung the dagger toward Cresenne so that it clattered across the stone floor, stopping at her feet. “There you go, cousin. End this.”
Cresenne stooped to pick it up, then decided against it, straightening again. “No. Put down my child, and you’re free to go.”
Before the woman could respond, Cresenne heard shouts coming from beyond the flames. It had to be Kearney’s guards. She let the fires die away, hoping that she was right about the soldiers, knowing that she would never find the strength to raise the flames again if she were wrong.
Two soldiers stepped into the corridor, swords drawn. Cresenne knew one of them; he had guarded her chamber during her time in the prison tower.
“What’s all this?” he demanded, eyeing the three Qirsi with manifest distrust.
“This woman tried to kill me,” Cresenne said, leaning against the wall. “She attacked my friend as well, and she’s trying to take my child.”
The woman raised Bryntelle over her head, as if intending to dash the child against the floor.
“Not another step,” she said, facing the guards.
Cresenne cried out, taking an unsteady step forward. But she needn’t have worried.
No sooner had the woman lifted Bryntelle than she lowered her again, tears on her face. “What am I doing?” she whispered. She held out the child to the guards, shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”
One of the guards took Bryntelle and the other grabbed the woman, turning her so that she had to face Cresenne.
Cresenne staggered forward until she reached the man who held her child. Taking Bryntelle from him, she began to sob, fussing over the babe, kissing the bruise on her head.
“Are ye all right, m’lady?” the guard asked. Maybe it was the sight of her, bloodied and unsteady on her feet, or the piteous cries coming from Bryntelle. Perhaps the soldier finally realized that there were Qirsi in the Forelands who were worse by far than she. Whatever the reason, this was as much courtesy as any Eandi warrior had ever shown her.
“I need a healer,” she said. Then she nodded toward Trin. “So does my friend there. And my child.”
The man nodded and left them at a run.
“Wha’ should we do with ’er?” the other guard asked, still holding the woman, one hand pinning her arm to her body, the other gripping her hair.
Cresenne looked at him and then at the woman. After a moment she started walking to where her attacker stood. She nearly fell, but then managed to steady herself against the wall and make it the rest of the way.
“Who are you?” Cresenne asked, stopping just in front of her.
The woman just stared at her for several moments, looking like a waif beside the guard.
At last she dropped her gaze. “I was once first minister of Mertesse.”
“Mertesse?” the guard repeated, glowering at her, hatred in his eyes. An Aneiran as well as a Qirsi traitor. It was a wonder the man didn’t kill her where she stood.
“What’s your name?”
“Yaella. Yaella ja Banvel.”
The other guard returned, and with him came Nurle jal Danteffe, the healer who had saved Cresenne’s life after she was poisoned by yet another servant of the Weaver.
“Are you all right?” Nurle asked, frowning with concern.
“I’m well enough,” she said. “Help Trin.”
He nodded once and went to the gleaner.
“She deserves t’ die,” said the soldier who held Cresenne’s attacker. “With wha’ she’s done t’ ye and th’ child. Say th’ word an’ we’ll take care o’ her. No one need be th’ wiser.”
“Let them do it, Cresenne,” Trin called to her. “He’s right: she’s earned this death.”
Nurle cast a look her way, but said nothing.
Cresenne shook her head. “There were those who would have done the same with me when I first came here,” she said. “And it may be that the queen will put her to death before long. But I don’t want any more blood on my hands.”
The
woman laughed. “You think yourself noble, compassionate. Let them kill me. That would be an act of mercy.”
“Certainly it would be an easy end for you.”
“Easy? You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m old. Nothing is easy anymore. A year or two ago, this brute holding me would be afire already, this corridor filled with a concealing mist as I made my escape. But I’ve nothing left. No magic, no strength. Nothing.”
“You had a dagger, and that was nearly enough,” Cresenne said, and started to turn away.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I tried to kill you?”
“I don’t have to ask. You’re here because the Weaver wanted me dead.”
“So did I. Your Grinsa jal Arriet was responsible for the death of the man I loved. I came here to avenge him.”
“What man? What was his name?”
“Shurik jal Marcine.”
Cresenne nodded. “I know that name. Kentigern’s first minister.”
“Another traitor,” the guard muttered.
The woman scowled at him. “Betrayal wears many faces, Eandi. He devoted himself to a great cause, just as I have.” She faced Cresenne again. “He’s the reason I came. I failed him today even more than I did the Weaver.”
Cresenne regarded her a moment, then laughed, short and sharp. “You’re a fool. You belong to the Weaver’s movement; nothing else matters. He wanted you to kill me and so you made the attempt. You’re deceiving yourself if you believe anything different. He controls those who serve him as a master controls a slave. It’s been half a year since I renounced him and still he governs my life, forcing me to live like some wretched creature of the night.” She gestured at the bloodstains on her clothes and the scars on her face. “Look at me. I’ve never truly met him, and yet he’s left scars all over my body.” She shook her head. “No, your thirst for vengeance had nothing to do with what happened today. All of this was the Weaver’s doing.”
The woman glared at her, her color high. “He hates you, you know. He’ll never stop trying to kill you. You might have survived today, but you’ll be dead soon enough.”