by DAVID B. COE
Still, when sleep finally came, it caught her unaware, like an army advancing through a mist-laden wood. One moment she was sitting beside Bryntelle on the bed. The next she was on the broad plain she had come to know so well, the Weaver before her, framed by the harsh white sun he always conjured for these dreams, his hair looking as black as the sky and even more wild than usual.
Cresenne didn’t have any time to feel fright or surprise, or to think that this would be the dream of her death, the one she had dreaded for so long. She merely opened her eyes to the unfathomable sky, the brilliant light, the Weaver, and was staggered by a blow to the temple.
“You whore!” the Weaver roared, striking her again, so that she fell to the ground.
She knew she was going to die, that somehow he had learned of her betrayal. But all she could think as she began to weep was that it wasn’t right for so many people to be calling her whore.
“Did you think I wouldn’t know? Did you think you could hide from me?”
Somehow she was hoisted roughly to her feet, though the Weaver hadn’t moved. An instant later he struck her a third time, the invisible fist landing on her cheek. She crumpled to the grass once more, her vision blurring and a sound like crashing waves buffeting her mind.
“It’s the gleaner, isn’t it?”
She lay still, her eyes closed, waiting for the pain to recede.
“Tell me!” This time he didn’t bother to lift her. Instead, it seemed to be the hard toe of his boot gouging viciously into her side, causing her to gasp and then retch.
“Is he there with you? Is he in Audun’s Castle? Is he in your bed?”
He kicked her again. The stomach. Or did he? He hadn’t moved. It was so hard to keep her thoughts clear.
An instant later she was thrust to her feet again, like a child’s doll.
“He is there, isn’t he?”
She should have answered him. She was going to die anyway. Why not give him what he wanted and be done with it? It was only Grinsa he wanted. Grinsa, whom she hated.
Except that she didn’t, couldn’t. As much as she wanted to despise the gleaner, to curse his name and rid herself of him forever, she couldn’t bring herself to tell the Weaver what he already seemed to know. It was a useless act of defiance and she was a fool. He would hurt her until she told him, though he had guessed it already. He wanted to hurt her before ending her life, and this would serve well as his excuse.
But more than that, she thought that she could hear Bryntelle crying. She couldn’t say for certain whether it was a trick of her mind, or truly her child wailing in the prison tower of Audun’s Castle, the sound reaching across the boundary between her dream and the waking world. It made little difference. What mattered was that Cresenne was going to die, leaving Bryntelle no one in the world but the gleaner. She couldn’t betray Grinsa to the Weaver without making an orphan of their daughter. And that she refused to do.
Something touched her face in a strange sort of caress. It took a moment for the pain to reach her, but then abruptly she was in agony. She clutched at her cheek, recoiled at what she felt. Staring at her hands, she saw blood. So much blood. He slashed her a second time, along her jaw.
“You protect him? You dare choose him over me?”
Another gash opened on her brow, blood pouring into her eyes, blinding her, stinging like lye.
A sob escaped her, and she fell back to the ground, not from a blow, but simply from the weight of all he had done to her.
“This is but the beginning,” he said with relish. “This will be the longest night of your life, and the last. You betrayed me. You betray me even now, protecting the gleaner. But I’ll break you before you die. And I’ll find a way to make an example of you, so that any others who might turn against me will know how you suffered and will think better of it.”
Bryntelle’s crying grew louder in her mind, and Cresenne did all she could to shelter the sound from the Weaver. She didn’t know if he could reach the baby from wherever he was—Bryntelle hadn’t come into her power yet, of course, and Cresenne didn’t know if a child so young could dream lucidly. But she wasn’t taking any chances.
Then another thought The sound of her child was a message of sorts. It was telling her something. If only she could think of what it was.
Before she could consider it further, something crashed down on her hand. The Weaver’s heel. A hammer. A stone. She felt bone shatter, screamed out in pain.
A hand touched the top of her head and she flinched away.
“It’s all right,” Grinsa’s voice whispered. “It’s me. You need to wake up, Cresenne. Open your eyes and end this.”
“I can’t.”
“Whose voice is that?” the Weaver asked.
“Wake up, Cresenne. Now. Bryntelle needs you.”
“I see you!” the Weaver said, his voice a mix of fear and triumph. “I see you, Grinsa jal Arriet.”
Cresenne looked up at the gleaner, his face bathed in the Weaver’s light. His lips were pressed thin, the look in his eyes hard and dangerous. He wasn’t looking at her, but rather at the wild-haired figure standing before them.
“Wake up, Cresenne,” he said again, his gaze never straying from the Weaver.
Cresenne knew she should do what he said, but she didn’t know how. All she could do was stare at Grinsa, and listen to the Weaver’s threats.
“I see you,” the Weaver repeated once more. “I know you. I can reach you now.”
Grinsa bared his teeth in a baleful grin. “I’ll be waiting for you. But just to make matters even . . .”
He raised his hand and brilliant flame leaped from his palm, golden as early morning sunlight and a match for the Weaver’s white radiance.
Cresenne heard the Weaver cry out, heard Grinsa say, “Now we know you, too.”
She turned to look at the man who had walked in her dreams for so long, and for just an instant caught sight of him. He was tall, lean, muscular. His jaw was square, his eyes the color of gold rounds, and his hair like the mane of some great white lion. She had time to think that he looked just as a Qirsi king should, and then he was gone.
She was in her chamber again, the prison tower of Kearney’s castle. Keziah was there, holding Bryntelle in her arms, her eyes wide and her face damp with tears. Kearney was there as well, and Gershon Trasker. Cresenne knew that she should have been trying to take Bryntelle. Her baby was crying. But all she could do was lie on her bed, marveling at the fact that she was still alive.
Grinsa cupped her face in a tender hand—his were the most gentle hands she had ever known—and forced her to meet his gaze.
“Where did he hurt you?” the gleaner asked, looking like he might cry as well.
“My face. My hand.” She moved her uninjured hand to the place on her side where the Weaver had kicked her. “Here.”
Grinsa nodded. “I’ll heal you. You’re going to be all right.”
She wanted to hold Bryntelle. And sleep. She needed to sleep. She was so very tired. But instead she looked at the gleaner and shook her head.
“Healing me will do no good. Don’t you see, Grinsa? He’s going to kill me. He failed tonight, but it’s just a matter of time. He can reach me anywhere.”
“We’ll find a way to protect you.”
She shook her head, though it hurt to move. “There is no way. You should take Bryntelle and leave here. Now. Tonight. You heard what he said. He knows you now. He’ll find you. He’ll find her.”
“Bryntelle isn’t going anywhere without you. And the Weaver isn’t going to find me until I decide the time is right.”
She started to argue, but he touched a hand to her bloodied brow and said a single word, “Sleep.”
Helpless, in pain, fearing for her life and her child, she fell back into darkness.
Chapter
Nineteen
Unlike the wounds on Tavis’s face that had been allowed to fester in Kentigern’s dungeon for several days before they could be healed, Cresenne
’s gashes were clean and easily mended. Dark lines would remain on her face for several turns, but eventually they would fade to white and vanish almost entirely. The same could be said of the bruises on her face and body. Her hand, however, proved more difficult. It took Grinsa some time to ease her pain and much of the night to set the bones properly and begin the healing. Cresenne awoke once while he was setting the bones, whimpering like a child, tears rolling slowly down her face. Not wishing to expend any more of his strength than was necessary, the gleaner called for the herbmaster, who prepared for her a powerful sleeping tonic of sweetwort and hemlock. When she had fallen asleep once more, Grinsa resumed his efforts, finally finishing as the first hint of daylight touched the eastern sky. Sitting back in his chair, he instructed the castle’s healers to bind the hand with a wrap of dampened bandages and pulped comfrey root.
“You’ve much skill as a healer,” the master healer said, looking approvingly at Cresenne’s hand and face. “Is it your profession?”
Grinsa shook his head, rubbing his eyes with a weary hand. “No, though it seems I’ve done quite a bit of it in the past few turns.”
“Well, if you grow tired of whatever it is you do now, come and speak with me. I can always use men with such talent.”
“My thanks, sir.”
“A word please, gleaner.”
Grinsa opened his eyes once more. Kearney and Keziah had remained with him throughout the night, helping when they could and watching as he worked his magic. Now, however, the king fixed him with an icy glare.
“Your Majesty?”
“In my chambers.” He glanced at Keziah. “I’d like you there as well, Archminister.”
Keziah and Grinsa shared a quick glance. Keziah, with Grinsa’s approval, gave Bryntelle to one of the older serving woman, who grinned at the babe and began to coo at her. Then the two Qirsi followed the king from Cresenne’s quarters, through the dark corridors, and finally into his presence chamber.
“What happened to her?” the king demanded, as Keziah closed the door. “She was attacked in my castle. I want to know who is responsible.”
“She was attacked,” Grinsa said slowly, “but not as you think.”
“Damn you, gleaner! I don’t want riddles! Answer me: who did this?”
“When Cresenne confessed her crimes against the land, she spoke to you of a Weaver who leads the Qirsi conspiracy.”
Kearney’s eyes widened. “He did this? He’s here?”
“No, he’s not here. But he is the one who hurt Cresenne.”
“How is that possible?”
Grinsa took a breath. He knew where this conversation would lead, but there seemed nothing he could do about that now. The king had been more than merciful in his dealings with Cresenne, as well as with Tavis and Grinsa. He deserved honest answers.
“Do you know what a Weaver does, Your Majesty?”
“A Weaver has the ability to bind together the powers of many Qirsi, to wield their magic as a single weapon.”
Grinsa nodded. It was more than most Eandi understood. “Yes. And in order to do that, a Weaver must have the ability to read the thoughts of others, to . . . enter their minds and communicate with them without speaking. We Qirsi wield and control our magic with thought, and so a Weaver must have access to the thoughts of those whose power he seeks to weave. With training, a Weaver can even enter the thoughts of others from a great distance. This is most readily accomplished when the Qirsi is sleeping.”
“He enters their dreams.”
“Precisely.”
It took Kearney a moment. “You mean to say the Weaver has been communicating with her all this time?”
“Not necessarily. But he has had the ability to do so.”
The king shook his head. “Demons and fire!” he muttered. “How does one fight such an enemy?” He stared at Grinsa again. “Entering her dreams is one thing. But that doesn’t explain her injuries.”
“I assure you, Your Majesty, it does. To be honest, I don’t know how he did this. Since he’s probably communicating with Cresenne from a great distance, I would have thought that he could only attack her with those powers she possesses, bending her mind so that she would wield her magic against herself. But Cresenne has only gleaning, fire, and healing magic. She would have needed shaping power to do such things to herself.”
“Maybe not,” Keziah said. “Healing might do it.”
Grinsa narrowed his eyes. “Healing?”
“A healer has the power to shape flesh and bone, to make the body mend itself. Perhaps the Weaver found a way to corrupt that power, to make it wound rather than heal.”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”
His sister smiled. “Of course not. That’s not how your mind works.”
“You seem to know a good deal about Weavers, gleaner,” the king said, drawing their gazes again. “Why is that?”
Keziah cast a quick look at Grinsa. “Your Majesty—”
Kearney raised a single finger, silencing her. “I watched you in the prison tower. You spoke to Cresenne once or twice before she awoke, but mostly you sat silently, holding her. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now it occurs to me that you could have been communicating with her all that time, sharing her thoughts.” He had been pacing the floor of his chamber and now he stopped in front of Grinsa. “I also noticed that you put her to sleep with a word, or rather, with a thought.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“So I’ll ask you again. How is it that you know so much about Weavers?”
He could count on one hand the number of people who knew the extent of his powers. Keziah; Tavis; Fotir jal Salene, Curgh’s first minister, who helped Grinsa free Tavis from the dungeon of Kentigern Castle; and now Cresenne, as well. Shurik jal Marcine had known, but Grinsa had seen to it that the traitorous minister died in Mertesse, though at great cost to Tavis. Others had known once—his wife, and the Qirsi master who trained him in the use of his magic—but they, too, were dead now. His parents never knew. He had gone to great lengths to guard his secret, to avoid endangering his own life and Keziah’s. And now he found that he had little choice but to reveal the truth to Eibithar’s king, the one man in all the realm who had the authority to put him to death, as all known Weavers in the Forelands had been put to death over the past nine hundred years.
“It’s just as you suspect, Your Majesty,” he said, his eyes meeting those of the king. “I know of Weavers because I am one myself.”
“Oh, Grinsa,” Keziah said, her voice breaking.
Kearney glared at her. “I take it you’ve known all along.”
“She has, Your Majesty. Keziah is my sister.”
He blinked, looked at the minister. “Your sister?”
“She said nothing to you about my powers because I asked her not to, and because under Eandi law, not only are all Weavers to be put to death but their families as well.”
Kearney’s eyes never strayed from Keziah’s face. “Damn,” he whispered.
“You have a choice to make, Your Majesty. If you follow Eandi law, you must have me executed along with your archminister, Cresenne, and our child. If you listen to your heart, however, I think you’ll realize how cruel and arbitrary your laws are on this matter.”
“My heart has nothing to do with it. You’ve just told me of a man who can walk in the dreams of others, who can reach out across the land and use healing power to tear gashes in a woman’s face, who can turn an army of Qirsi into a weapon so powerful I can scarcely comprehend it.” He shook his head and stepped behind his writing table, as if eager to place something substantial between the gleaner and himself. “If you wish to convince me that Weavers are not to be feared, you’ve failed. If anything, I have more sympathy now for the practices begun by our forebears.”
“You can’t mean that,” Keziah said, looking appalled.
“I do.”
“Grinsa is nothing like the Weaver who did this to Cresenne
. The Weaver is driven by spite and envy and hatred. He despises the Eandi with a passion that borders on frenzy. Grinsa could never be like that.”
The king narrowed his eyes. “How is it that you know so much about this other Weaver?”
Grinsa wondered if his sister would tell Kearney of her efforts to learn about the conspiracy, about her dreams of the Weaver. This, it seemed, was a day for revealing hard truths, and though she had not borne her secret for as long as Grinsa had borne his, hers was no less burdensome. She appeared to consider this, but only for an instant. Then her expression hardened, and she stared back at her king.
“One need only look at what this man has done—not only to Cresenne but also to Tavis, to Lady Brienne, and to countless others—to know that he has little in common with my brother. If you can’t see this as well, Your Majesty, then I weep for Eibithar.”
Kearney’s face reddened, and Grinsa feared that Keziah had pushed him too far. A moment dragged by in silence, and another.
At last the king gave a small nod. “You make a good point, Archminister. But you must realize as well that I’m bound by the laws of the land. I can no more embrace a Weaver as my ally than I can the Aneiran king.”
“And you must realize, Your Majesty,” Grinsa said, “that in order to defeat the conspiracy you may have to do both. The realms of the Forelands can’t stand against this enemy without uniting, and you would do well to consider the advantages of having a Weaver by your side in the coming conflict.”
“Come now, Grinsa. The people of the Forelands defeated a Qirsi army led by several Weavers nine centuries ago. This new Weaver may be clever, but he’s only one man.”
“He’s one man with followers in every corner of the land, Your Majesty. And he’s already succeeded in dividing kingdoms against themselves, in pushing neighboring realms to the brink of war.”
Kearney appeared to falter, his doubts written on his face. “Do you have any idea who he is?”