by DAVID B. COE
Grinsa paced the room briefly, like a restless dog, finally stopping before the hearth.
“How do you feel?”
She shrugged, glancing down at Bryntelle. The baby’s eyes were beginning to droop again. “Not too bad.”
“And Bryntelle?”
She smiled in spite of herself. It was the first time someone else had used her—their—daughter’s name.
“She’s hungry all the time.”
“Isn’t she supposed to be?”
“I think so, yes.”
He nodded, resuming his pacing.
“I believe she looks a little bit like you.”
“Don’t!” he said, halting near the door and glaring at her.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk to me like we’re husband and wife! Don’t pretend that this child changes who you are and what you’ve done!”
“What do you know about who I am, Grinsa?”
“I know you’re a traitor.”
“A traitor to whom? The kingdom of Eibithar? I was born in Braedon and raised in Wethyrn. How can I betray a kingdom that’s not my own?” She forced a thin smile. “From where I sit, you’re the one who’s guilty of treason. You’ve forsaken your people for the Eandi courts. You, of all people.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”
“I think you know. We live in a land where you risk your life simply by admitting the extent of your powers, yet you willingly serve those who would be your executioners.”
She thought he would deny it. Until this moment none in the movement, not even the Weaver himself, knew for certain that Grinsa was a Weaver as well. They suspected, of course, and Cresenne had been fairly confident of it for some time. But only now, watching him wrestle with the implications of what she had said, did she know beyond doubt.
“Do you really want Bryntelle to grow up in a world where her father fears for his life every day?” she went on. “And what if she inherits more from you than just her name and the shape of her face? What if she carries your power in her blood? Do you want her to live in fear as well?”
The Weaver had said much the same thing to her several turns before, walking in her dreams as he often did. At the time it had been mere speculation, one possibility among many. Yet still, it frightened her, as if the Weaver had already claimed her child for his movement. Yet here she was echoing his words to Grinsa, the one man in the Forelands whose claim to Bryntelle rivaled her own. As she searched Aneira for the gleaner, carrying his child, dreading her next dream of the Weaver, Cresenne had wondered if she could turn Grinsa to her cause and thus trade one Weaver for another. She had thought to control him then, so that rather than serving a Weaver she feared, she might wield this man as a weapon. Gazing at him now, though, seeing how he regarded her, with loathing in his yellow eyes, she wondered if that had been folly.
“Of course I don’t want her to grow up as I did,” he said, “bearing the burden of that secret and that fear.”
“Then why do you fight us?”
“Because I’ve seen what your Weaver can do.”
She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. “What?”
“Yes, I know about him. I know that he’s capable of great cruelty, that he wields his power as a weapon, not just against the Eandi but against Qirsi as well.”
“How is this possible?” she asked. “Has he seen you? Does he know where you are?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were concerned for my safety.”
“I am.”
He let out a bitter laugh, though not before Cresenne saw something else flash in his eyes. “Of course you are. That’s why you sent that assassin for me.”
Actually, I’ve sent two. She hadn’t intended to give Grinsa’s name to the second man, Cadel, the partner of the one Grinsa killed. But Cadel asked upon learning that Jedrek was dead, and to have denied him the name would have raised his suspicions. “That was before. . . .”
“Before what? The baby? I’ve already told you, this child changes nothing.”
She met his glare as long as she could, seeing once again all the hurt and hatred in his eyes, and knowing this time what lay at the root of it all. He had loved her so deeply. Twisted as it was now, that love still resided within him, waiting to be rekindled. Waiting to be used again. Yes, she loved him, too, though he would never believe that. But she loved Bryntelle more. Her love for this child was already the most powerful force in her life, more so even than her fear of the Weaver. No doubt he would sense this the next time he walked in her dreams. Only Grinsa could protect her now, if he could be convinced to do so. Folly or not, she had little choice but to try.
“She changes everything, Grinsa, and you know it. Not long ago I expect you thirsted for my death. You planned to capture me and have me executed as a traitor.” She looked down at Bryntelle, who had fallen asleep at her breast. “You won’t do that now. How would you explain such a thing to your daughter?”
“So much, for a mother’s love.”
She looked up. “What does that mean?”
“You don’t see a child lying in your arms. You see a tool, a weapon, perhaps even a shield.”
“That’s not true!”
“You think that I’ll spare your life for her sake. You probably even think that you can use my concern for her to turn me to your purposes.”
“I love her more than you could ever know!”
“Good. Because this blade cuts both ways.”
Cresenne shivered. “I don’t understand.”
“I need you to do certain things. You sent the assassin for me, which tells me that you sent his partner—the singer?—to Kentigern. You paid him to kill Brienne and make it look like Tavis’s crime.”
She should have denied it, just as he should have denied being a Weaver. And like Grinsa, she couldn’t bring herself to speak the words. “What is it you want?”
“As soon as you’re able, you’re going to come with us to the City of Kings, where you’ll tell the king just what you’ve done.”
“You can’t be serious!”
He gave a thin smile, his reply.
“Why? So that I can restore the Curgh boy’s good name. Don’t you understand that I hate the Eandi, that I’d sooner bring ruin to the Forelands than help even one of their nobles?”
“Yes, I understand. But you should understand that if you don’t do as I ask, I’ll have Bryntelle taken from you, and I’ll instruct the duke of Glyndwr to place you in his dungeon.”
She searched his face for some sign that he was dissembling. Seeing none, she began to tremble, as if he had doused the fire and thrown open the shutters to the icy wind. “She needs me,” she said in a small voice, holding Bryntelle so tightly to her breast that the baby awoke and began to cry.
“I know she does.” He spoke gently now, stepping closer to the bed. “And if you do as I ask, she’ll remain with you. I’ll do what I can to make certain of that. But you have to begin to make right all that you did in the service of your Weaver.”
“He’ll kill me.”
“I’ll protect you.”
She made herself smile, though abruptly there were tears on her cheeks. “If you really wanted to kill someone, is there a person in all the world who could stop you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been so desperate to kill someone.”
“Not even me?”
“I never wanted to kill you, Cresenne. And I never wanted to see you executed. To be honest, there was a part of me that hoped I’d never have to see you again at all. It would have been far easier that way.”
She nodded, looking at Bryntelle again. A tear fell on the bridge of the girl’s nose and she wrinkled her brow. Cresenne laughed, wiping the tear away.
He sat in the chair beside her bed. “What do you know about this Weaver?”
She stared at the fire. She had expected this, though she had hoped that she might be able to avoid his questions for a few more days, at lea
st until she had time to decide whether or not to lie to him. For now, however, she realized that the truth would serve her as well as any lie. The fact was, she couldn’t tell him much. “Very little,” she said. “He makes certain of that.”
“Is he in one of the courts?”
“Possibly.”
“He seems to have a lot of gold. Do you know where he gets it?”
“No.”
He exhaled through his teeth. “You have to give me more than this, Cresenne.”
“I don’t know more. I’ve never seen his face, he’s never told me his name, or anything about his life beyond the conspiracy.”
“How does he contact you?”
“He enters my dreams.” She glanced at him for just an instant. “Isn’t that how all Weavers do it?”
“How does he pay you?”
“He seems to have a network of couriers. I imagine he uses merchants to get the gold from one place to another.”
“Are all of them Qirsi?”
“So far.”
Grinsa looked down at his hands. “Has he ever hurt you?”
She felt her stomach clench. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Has he hurt you?”
“Sometimes he needs to demonstrate the extent of his powers. It’s not like he hurts me every time we speak.”
He just stared at her, saying nothing.
“I suppose Eandi nobles never use the threat of pain to maintain discipline among those who serve them.”
“An interesting comparison. If your Weaver is so much like an Eandi noble, what’s the point of this movement he leads?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“No, I don’t suppose it was.”
“I didn’t say he was like the Eandi,” she said, her face growing hot. “I just meant that a leader—any leader—sometimes has to use force to keep order among those who follow him.”
“I see.”
She swiped at a strand of hair falling into her eyes. “Look, I’m still tired and sore from last night. Can we talk about this another time?”
Grinsa regarded her for a moment before giving a small nod and standing. “Of course. Do you need anything? Can I bring you some food, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.”
He turned from the bed and started toward the door.
“Do you want to hold her?” she called after him.
He stopped, facing her again. “What?”
“Do you want to hold her? She’s your daughter, too, and you haven’t held her yet. I thought maybe you’d like to.”
He stood motionless, as if held by some unseen hand.
Cresenne laughed aloud. Strange how this powerful man, who spoke of defeating the conspiracy and protecting her from the Weaver, could suddenly look so frightened at the notion of holding his own child.
“She’s not going to hurt you. You’re the Weaver, not she.”
“I—I don’t know how.”
“To hold a baby?”
He approached the bed, his steps uncertain. “I’ve never held one before.”
She lifted Bryntelle, holding her out to him. “Just be certain to support her head. Her neck isn’t strong enough yet.”
Grinsa swallowed, nodded. Taking her in his slender hands, he cradled her awkwardly against his chest. Immediately, Bryntelle began to cry.
“See?” he said, trying to give her back to Cresenne. “I told you I didn’t know how.”
“You’re holding her like she’s a crate of pipeweed. Have you ever held an animal in your arms?”
“Well, yes. A cat.”
“Good. Hold her as you would a cat.”
“By the scruff of her neck?”
Cresenne arched an eyebrow.
“Please take her,” he said. “I’ll try again another time. I think she senses that you and I are at odds right now.”
She shrugged, taking Bryntelle to her breast again. The baby fretted a moment longer, then began to nurse again.
“Do you think there’ll ever be a time when we’re not at odds?” Cresenne asked, her eyes fixed on the baby.
“I hope so, for Bryntelle’s sake.”
“So do I.” She looked up, meeting his gaze. “Truly I do.”
“I’ll check on the two of you later.” He crossed to the door. “Consider what I’ve told you, Cresenne,” he said, pausing with his hand on the door handle. “Whatever affections I still harbor for you, whatever I may feel for our child, I won’t let sentiment be my guide in this. I can’t. Too many people are depending on me.”
She eyed him for a moment, then nodded, though she kept her silence. At least until he was gone.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered to the baby, once the door had closed. “He won’t really take you away from me. He can’t. We’re all he has in the world, unless he actually thinks of that Curgh boy as family.”
Brave words. But her hands still trembled as they had when he first threatened to take Bryntelle. A voice in her head screamed for her to take the baby and flee, but her body wasn’t ready for a walk through the corridors, much less flight through the highlands. Which actually worked to her advantage. It would be several days before the herbmaster would let her leave for the City of Kings, and the journey would have to be a slow one. That gave her time.
Grinsa might have been allied with the Eandi now, but he was a Weaver. And who had more to gain from the Qirsi movement than a Weaver?
A Weaver with a child.
Chapter
Three
Curlinte, Sanbira
Diani rode swiftly along the edge of the headlands, her mount’s hooves so close to the precipice that when she looked down past the horse’s left flank, all she saw was the drop to the cliffs below, and the Sea of Stars frothing and pounding at the dark stone. Her black hair trailed loose behind her and she closed her eyes, trusting Rish to step true.
There was still snow in the northern highlands and even atop the highest ridges of the Sanbiri Hills a mere two days’ ride to the south and west. But here in Curlinte, where the wind blew warm off the sea and the sun shone upon the headland moors, it seemed that the planting had come early. She wore a cloak yet, and a heavy blouse below that. Nonetheless, there could be no mistaking the sweet hint of the coming thaw carried by the mild breeze, or the exuberant singing of the sealarks that darted overhead and alighted to sun themselves on the boulders strewn across the grasslands.
Her father had not approved of her decision to ride today. Her mother had been dead but a turn and a day, and though the castle banners flew high again, and those living in the duchy were permitted once more to open the shutters on their windows, it was, he told her, still too soon for Curlinte’s new duchess to be taking frivolous rides across the headlands.
“The people will look to you now,” he had said, appearing weary and old, as if grieving for his wife had cost him years. “You lead them. You must help them through this time of loss.”
“I understand,” she answered, knowing that he would think her childish and irresponsible. “And this is the way I see through. Mother was ill for more than a year. Curlinte has had her shutters closed for too long. I ride to end the mourning.” She stepped forward then and kissed his cheek. “It’s what Mother would have done.”
His eyes blazed, and she thought for just an instant that he would berate her. Instead, he turned away. She could see from his expression that he recognized the truth of what she had said. He would be angry with her for a time, but he would forgive her.
Her father had been right about one thing. The people of the duchy needed her now. Diani was two years past her Fating, old enough to assume command of the castle and Curlinte’s army. But she had yet to prove herself. Her grandmother had lived to be nearly eighty, so that when her mother became duchess, much of the duchy already knew her. Dalvia had been mediating disputes and joining the planting and harvesting celebrations for many years. Diani had started to do the same when her mother became ill, but t
here hadn’t been time to visit all the baronies, not with the more mundane tasks of accounting the tribute and paying tithe to the queen intruding as well.
Normally her father would have helped her, but as duke, it was his duty to train the soldiers, and as husband, his place was by Dalvia’s bed, watching as she wasted away.
If this weather held, Diani decided, she would spend the early turns of the planting visiting all the baronies to oversee the sowing of crops. It was important that she be seen, particularly now, and not just in the courts but in the villages and farming communities of the Curlinte countryside as well. Even her father could not find fault with such a plan.
Diani reined Rish to a halt at the promontory, swinging herself off the beast so that she might walk out to the edge. There she sat on the stone and closed her eyes once more, feeling the sun on her face. There would be less time for these rides in the turns to come—the demands of the duchy would tether her to the castle, or force her to ride away from the sea. Either way, these rides to the headlands were about to become a rare luxury. She knew it was foolish, but she begrudged the loss.
It was here that she and her father had scattered her mother’s ashes just a turn before. Dalvia had loved this spot as much as Diani did. Often, before her mother grew ill, the two of them, mother and daughter, duchess and lady, had ridden out together to discuss matters of state, or just to escape the burdens of the castle.
Their last ride together had come on a cold, clear day near the end of Kebb’s turn more than a year before. Her mother had been more talkative than usual that day, perhaps sensing that her health was beginning to fail, and she had offered a good deal of counsel.
“A duchess must marry well,” she had said. “Your father will want you to marry for an alliance—one of the brothers Trescarri I would imagine, or perhaps Lord Prentarlo.”
“I prefer one of the twins to Prentarlo,” Diani said, smiling.
Her mother had glanced at her, a smile tugging at her lips and her dark eyes dancing. “As would I. But my point is this. A marriage based on military might is as fraught with peril as one based solely on your mate’s good looks or skill with a blade. With luck you’ll lead Curlinte long after his hair thins and his muscles begin to fail him.” She stared out at the sea, brilliant blue that day, like a gem. “Marry a man you trust, a man with whom you can share your fears and doubts as well as your triumphs. Your father is still a fine swordsman.” The smile returned briefly. “And I still think him handsome. But I value his friendship above all else. You would do well to marry as fine a man.”