by DAVID B. COE
“No. But I know what he looks like now.”
Keziah gripped his arm. “You saw him? You didn’t tell me that.”
“It was just a glimpse, enough to give me an impression of the man. Nothing more. Really, I’m no closer to knowing his name or his whereabouts than I was before. But he knows that I saw him, and clearly he didn’t want that.”
“Who else knows that you’re a Weaver?” the king asked, drawing Grinsa’s gaze once more.
“Keziah, Tavis, Cresenne, and one other who I won’t name. I assure you, though, this person can be trusted.”
Kearney nodded. “I see.” He sat, leaning back in his chair and passing a hand through his silver hair. “I have no desire to see you executed, Grinsa. I hope you know that.”
“I do, Your Majesty.”
“Truth be told, I would feel better going to war against a Weaver with you by my side.”
“My sword and my magic are yours, to use as you will.”
“I thank you for that. But you understand that others won’t be so welcoming. There is more fear of the Qirsi in the courts today than I’ve ever seen—I daresay matters are worse now than they’ve been in centuries. If the dukes learn that you’re a Weaver, they’ll demand that I move against you. My hold on the crown is already precarious. I’d have no choice but to heed their wishes.”
“Neither of us wants that, Your Majesty. I don’t want you as an enemy, and I assure you, you don’t want me as one either.”
Kearney eyed him as a soldier might study his next opponent in a battle tournament. “Are you threatening me, gleaner?”
“Not at all. But I’m not certain you appreciate fully the power wielded by a Weaver. It’s not just that we can wield the magic of others as if it were our own. We’re far more powerful in our own right than are other Qirsi. Your dungeon couldn’t hold me, and your executioner wouldn’t survive his attempt to carry out my sentence. I offer this not as a threat or a boast but simply as a statement of fact.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“I’d say that lies mostly with you, Your Majesty. You asked me how I had come to understand the Weaver so well. I answered truthfully. I’ve lived my entire life without revealing the extent of my powers to the wrong person. And now I must ask you: is my secret safe, or must I leave here, taking Keziah, Cresenne, and my child with me?”
“I’ve no intention of betraying your confidence. As I’ve already said, it would greatly complicate matters for me.” He glanced at Keziah, his expression softening for just an instant. “It would also deny me the services of a minister I value more than I can say.”
Seeing how his sister blushed, Grinsa allowed himself a small smile. “Then I’d say our discussion is over.”
“Not quite. If at some point others learn of . . . what you are, we’ll have to revisit this matter. The laws of the land are clear.”
“I understand.”
“Very well,” the king said, standing. “I expect a number of nobles to arrive here today. Javan was but the first. If you’ll excuse me, I have much to do.”
Grinsa bowed. “Of course, Your Majesty.” He started to turn away.
“Gleaner,” the king said, stopping him.
Grinsa faced Kearney once more.
“Your daughter . . . will she be a Weaver as well?”
“It’s far too early to say, Your Majesty. But her chances are better than those of most Qirsi children.”
“Because you’re a Weaver.”
“Yes, and because her mother is powerful as well.”
“And yet you fight to preserve our courts, though they would condemn her to a life of secrecy and fear. Why?”
“Because Eibithar is my home. And because the alternative is a kingdom ruled by the Weaver, and I’ve seen what kind of man he is.” With that he left. Cresenne would not be awake again for hours, and though he knew he was being foolish, that the Weaver couldn’t reach them in Audun’s Castle, at least not yet, he didn’t want Bryntelle to be out of his sight for too long.
For some time after Grinsa left, Kearney simply stood in the middle of his presence chamber, saying nothing. Keziah knew that he had told her brother the truth. With Eibithar’s nobles converging on the City of Kings, he did have much to do. But it seemed he could only stare at the door, struggling with his thoughts and his fears.
“You should have told me,” he said at last. “I know we don’t speak much anymore, but there was a time when we told each other everything.” He glanced at her. “Or so I thought.”
“It wasn’t my secret to tell,” she said.
“No, I don’t suppose it was.” He paused, then, “Did you keep much else from me?”
“No, just this.”
“And now?”
She shivered, crossing her arms over her chest. “Your Majesty?”
“What are you keeping from me now?”
For a second time this morning, Keziah had the opportunity to tell Kearney of her attempts to win the Weaver’s trust. She had longed to do just that for several turns, since the first night she conceived her plan. In trying to convince those around them that she had been embittered by the end of their love, that she could be turned to the Weaver’s cause, she had done terrible damage to what remained of their friendship. She had very nearly succeeded in having herself banished from the castle. Now she could tell him why she had done it. She could make him see that she hadn’t meant to hurt him, that she had done all this for him and his kingdom. But once more, she couldn’t bring herself to speak the words.
Watching Cresenne writhe in her sleep, hearing her cry out, seeing the gashes open on her face as if she were being attacked by some unseen taloned demon from the Underrealm, Keziah had felt fear of the Weaver grip her heart. But she had also felt rage. The Weaver claimed to love his people; he claimed as his goal a glorious future for all Qirsi and their children. Yet he tortured this woman as her babe lay beside her, crying in the darkness. Keziah wanted to destroy him. And if she admitted to Kearney that she was trying to do just that, despite the danger to herself and his kingdom, he would find some way to stop her. So instead she lied. Again, though it pained her to do so.
“I’m keeping nothing from you, Your Majesty. I swear it.”
Even as she spoke the words, however, Keziah was struck at last by the full import of what had happened the night before. She felt her stomach heave and took a step forward, bracing herself on the table to keep from falling to her knees.
Kearney was by her side instantly, an arm around her shoulders, and a look of deepest concern in his green eyes. “Are you all right?”
She barely managed to weather another wave of nausea. “I will be,” she whispered. “Just weary. I think the night has finally caught up with me.”
“You should sleep.”
“No, not with the dukes coming.”
Kearney shook his head. “It’s only Shanstead and Tremain arriving today. Perhaps Domnall as well. Wenda can stand for you, or Dyre.”
“I’ll be fine. I just need to . . . I’ll get some air, perhaps have something to eat.” Actually she didn’t think she could keep any food down. “I’ll be fine,” she said again.
“You’re certain?”
She nodded, forcing herself to stand straight. Her head spun, but she managed a smile and the king stepped away from her. “When do you expect Marston?”
“By midday,” he said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Thank you, Your Majesty.” She stepped slowly to the door, squeezing her eyes shut against the dizziness and biting back the bile rising in her throat.
The air in the corridor was cooler, which helped a bit. She smiled her way past the guards and hurried to find Grinsa.
She found him in the corridor that ran between the prison tower and the stables, walking slowly with Bryntelle in his arms, singing to her in a low voice.
He turned at her approach, smiling a greeting.
“I’ve almost gotten her to fall asleep,” he whispered.
>
“We have to talk.”
His smile vanished. “What’s happened now?”
She glanced up and down the hallway to be certain that they were alone. “Have you stopped to wonder what the Weaver will do when he realizes that you’re both here, with me?”
Clearly he hadn’t. He just stared at her. But a moment later, Bryntelle began to cry, as if she sensed his alarm.
“He’ll order me to kill you both.”
Grinsa shook his head. “No, he won’t. He knows better than to send you after me. He’ll have you kill Cresenne, perhaps Bryntelle also, though that would complicate things greatly.” He twisted his mouth, gazing down the corridor as if he could see the Weaver standing in the shadows. “He’ll tell you to befriend me,” he said after a brief pause. “He’ll want you to win my trust so that you can find out where I’m going next. He can’t have both of us killed here, and given how much she knows about him and his movement, he’ll still consider Cresenne the greater threat.”
Keziah was trembling now. The nausea had passed, though her stomach felt hard and cold, like a stone on the moors. “So what do I do? If I don’t kill Cresenne, he’ll know that I’ve been lying to him. And if he speaks to me of arranging your murder, I may not be able to keep from him that you’re my brother.”
“You have to, Kezi.”
“You make it all sound as if it’s just that easy.”
“I know it’s not. But you’ll have to find a way. The hardest part will be finding a way to maintain his trust without killing Cresenne. She’ll be guarded, of course, even more heavily now that he’s made one attempt on her life. Finding an opportunity to get close enough to kill her will be difficult. That should allow you to put him off for several days. Perhaps more. In the meantime, we’ll have to think of some way to keep both of you alive.”
“And what about you?”
“As I said, he won’t have you kill me. He knows for certain now that I’m a Weaver. If I’m right, and he does want you to win my confidence, you’ll do just that. And when the time comes, you can tell him precisely where I’m going. You won’t have to lie, at least not about that.”
Keziah desperately wanted to believe him. But she couldn’t keep the image of Cresenne’s agony from her mind. She couldn’t forget the sight of Paegar, Kearney’s traitorous minister, lying dead in his chamber, his head resting in a pool of blood. That had been the Weaver’s doing as well. She felt certain of it. Just as she was certain that whatever Paegar had done to earn his death paled next to her own deception. And she couldn’t help wondering how the Weaver would exact his vengeance on her.
When Tavis awoke midway through the morning, Grinsa still had not returned to the chamber he and the young lord shared. The boy knew that there had been something wrong with Cresenne—the guard who came to find the gleaner had told them that much—but he could be certain of nothing more. And for the moment at least, he didn’t care. Out of respect for the gleaner, he would spare the Qirsi woman the tongue lashing his father had given her, and the icy indifference shown by his mother. But after what she had done to him, he wasn’t about to run to her offering comfort. Besides, there was another he wished to see.
His parents had arrived from Curgh the previous day with a small contingent of soldiers and Hagan MarCullet, his father’s swordmaster. The king wished to speak of the Qirsi conspiracy and how best to defeat it, and Tavis’s father wouldn’t have engaged in such a discussion without Hagan by his side. And knowing that Tavis would be in Audun’s Castle, Hagan wouldn’t have made the journey from the north coast without Xaver, his son, who also was Tavis’s pledged liege man.
The two young friends had seen each other the day before, though only briefly. Almost immediately upon their arrival in the City of Kings, Javan insisted on seeing Cresenne, and Tavis, not yet ready to face Xaver and the questions he knew the young man would ask, had followed obediently. There had been a feast the previous night, the first of many, no doubt, as Eibithar’s dukes converged on the castle, but again, Tavis managed to avoid his friend, sitting between his mother and father and enduring their questions as best he could. Did you find the assassin? Yes, but he slipped away. Has the gleaner been kind to you? Very. You’ve proved your innocence; are you ready to come home with us? No, not yet.
It was easier with his parents. They feared pushing him too hard, challenging his easy answers. Xaver would be different, his questions more difficult, his ability to hear the truth behind Tavis’s words more finely honed. Even after all this time, no one knew him as Xaver did, though Grinsa came close.
He would have liked to put off this encounter for several more days, but he knew that he wouldn’t. It wasn’t just that he didn’t wish to hurt his friend. Though he feared Xaver’s questions, he also longed for the young man’s companionship. Despite all they had been through, all that Tavis had done to hurt him, Xaver remained his most valued friend. So he searched the castle, soon finding Xaver at the edge of the inner courtyard, watching Gershon Trasker work the royal guard.
He wasn’t certain that Xaver saw him approach—the young man never turned his gaze from the soldiers—and Tavis stopped a few strides from him, uncertain as to what to say.
“I didn’t think you wanted to see me.” Xaver glanced at him for just a moment, as if looking for changes in his appearance.
“Of course I do.”
The ghost of a smile touched his lips, and a soft wind stirred his light curls. He looked just as Tavis remembered. Broader in the shoulders perhaps, his face a bit more square. But it was still Xaver. Youthful and handsome and a little bit sad, just as he had been every day since his mother’s death nearly nine years before.
“Then why have you been avoiding me?”
Tavis looked away, his gaze traveling the courtyard, seeking a safe place to land and settling at last on Gershon. “Who says I’ve been avoiding you?” But he couldn’t help grinning.
“You look . . . you look well, Tavis.”
He let out a small laugh. “No, I don’t. I’ll never look well again. Aindreas saw to that.”
“I’m not talking about the scars. You seem older, like you have purpose, like maybe you’ve found peace.”
Tavis shook his head. “I haven’t. I had the assassin, Xaver. I had my blade at his throat, and I let him go.”
Xaver gaped at him. “Why?”
“Grinsa made me do it. The assassin had been hired to kill a member of the conspiracy—Aindreas’s former first minister, actually. If the assassin hadn’t killed him, Grinsa would have had to, at considerable risk to both of us.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” his friend said, frowning.
“It doesn’t matter. I had him and I let him go. The rest isn’t important.”
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the soldiers, Gershon’s commands echoing off the castle walls.
“You’ve managed to prove to the king that you’re innocent of Brienne’s murder,” Xaver said, as if searching for any good tidings. “Surely that’s brought you some peace.”
“I think Kearney has believed in my innocence for some time now. But if we can convince the other dukes—or at least most of them—I’d be pleased.”
“That’s all? Just pleased?”
Tavis looked away again. “I don’t expect more than that anymore.”
Xaver said nothing.
“You think I pity myself too much.”
His friend hesitated. “I think you’ve been through a terrible ordeal.”
“It’s not over.”
“It can be, if you only allow it.”
“You want me to surrender? Do you think I can just return to Curgh and resume my life there, knowing that Brienne’s killer still walks the land?”
“The conspiracy killed her, Tavis. You know that as well as anyone. The man you’re after is a hired blade and nothing more. You said yourself that he killed Aindreas’s minister. He doesn’t care about the conspiracy or the courts. He cares only for gold.”
>
“You sound like Grinsa.”
“Then maybe it’s time you started listening.”
“The assassin killed Brienne, and I’ve sworn to avenge her.”
“Sworn to who?” Xaver demanded, his voice rising.
“To myself.”
Xaver seemed to know better than to question this. “So where will you go?” he asked, his voice dropping once more.
“I don’t know. Something happened to Cresenne last night. At this point I might not be able to get Grinsa to go anywhere.”
His friend gave a puzzled look. “Who’s Cresenne?”
It had been a long time since they last spoke. Too long. Tavis told Xaver what little he understood of Grinsa’s love affair with Cresenne, and explained as well the woman’s role in Brienne’s death.
“I don’t know if he still loves her,” he said. “I suppose he does. But I’m certain that he won’t leave here unless he’s convinced that Cresenne and their baby are both safe.”
Another long silence, which was broken at last by something Tavis never would have expected.
Xaver cleared his throat, then said, “I’ll go with you if the gleaner can’t.”
It was more than Tavis could have asked; more, in fact, than he was willing to accept. But still, he was moved beyond words by the offer. His gaze fell to the dark thin scar on Xaver’s right forearm, a scar Tavis himself had given the boy in a drunken rage.
“Your father would have my head, Stinger.”
“He’d have both our heads, but in the end he’d understand.”
“I’m grateful. Truly I am. But I can’t let you do this.”
“I’m your liege man—I’ve sworn my life to you. Under the customs governing such things, I’m not sure that you can refuse me.”
Tavis smiled. “And yet, I have. You said yourself the first time we spoke of my desire for vengeance that I was mad to go after the man. You said he’d kill me. Do you really think that two boys would fare any better against him than one?”
“I’d wager that I’m as good with a blade as the gleaner,” Xaver shot back, sounding young.
“I have no doubt that you are. But Grinsa is more than just a gleaner.”