by DAVID B. COE
Grinsa stepped to the chamber door and called softly to one of the guards. “Have the wet nurse brought again,” he whispered.
“It’s all right, Grinsa,” Cresenne said from behind him, her voice barely carrying across the empty chamber.
Bryntelle stopped crying at the sound.
Grinsa turned from the door and lit a torch with the merest thought. She was sitting up, squinting at the firelight. After a moment, she passed a hand through her tangled hair, pushing it back from her face.
He sat beside her on the bed and let her take Bryntelle. She began to pull off her shirt, then hesitated, looking at him uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry,” he said, standing and turning away. He wandered to the door. The guards were by the stairway, talking in hushed voices. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Sore.”
“Where?”
“All over. My hand and face especially.”
“They should get better with time.”
Silence. Then, “Do I look awful?”
“I’m not sure you could.”
“You know what I mean.” But there was a softness to her voice that he hadn’t heard in so long.
“No, not awful. The scars are still dark, so you may be taken aback when you first see your image in a looking glass. But they should fade to white eventually.”
She made a strange, choked sound. “Thank you,” she said, the words coming out as a sob.
He turned to see her crying.
“For what?”
“Saving me. He would have killed me, Grinsa. He would have tortured me for as long as he could keep me alive, but then he intended to kill me. He told me so.”
He walked back to the bed and sat once more. “You should thank the guards. And Keziah. They summoned her and she sent for me. If it hadn’t been for them, I wouldn’t have gotten here in time.”
She nodded, wiping away her tears. Grinsa sat with her for a moment longer, then stood, intending to return to the door.
“It’s all right,” Cresenne said. “You’re her father. You should be able to watch her eat.”
The gleaner smiled, though he still looked away.
“You found a wet nurse.”
He looked back quickly, fearing she might be angry. “Yes. I’m sorry. I just thought—”
“I understand, Grinsa. I was going to thank you for letting me sleep.”
He exhaled, and they both laughed. “We’ve been angry with each other for so long, we’ve forgotten what it’s like to be civil.”
“We owe it to her to remember,” she said, looking down at Bryntelle. “Perhaps we owe it to each other as well.”
Before it’s too late. She didn’t have to say the words. They hung over the chamber like a storm cloud, making the air heavy and carrying the promise of violence and uncertainty.
“I do believe we can protect you, Cresenne. It won’t be easy, but we can do it.”
She was still gazing at the baby she held to her breast, her tears falling anew. “How? You see what he did to me last night.” She looked up at him. “Are you that powerful? Could you do that to him?”
“I am that powerful, but to do it to the Weaver I’d first have to know who he is and where he can be found. The time will come when I can fight him, but for now I’m concerned with protecting you. And as to how, you’ve already made a good start today.”
She frowned.
“You’re going to have to change your sleep habits. You can’t sleep at night anymore—that’s when he’ll look for you. From now on, until the Weaver is dead, you sleep by day and remain awake at night.”
“And Bryntelle?”
“Her, too, of course. You’ll have to change the way you feed her. It will take a bit of time, and you won’t be getting as much sleep as—”
“Wait,” she said, her puzzlement giving way to fright. “This is your plan for keeping me alive? Sleep in the day, stay awake at night? That’s it?”
“At least for now, yes.”
Cresenne gave a chilling laugh. “That will work for about a day, and then he’ll figure it out, and he’ll kill me anyway.” She shook her head. “No, the only thing that will keep me alive, is if you’re here with me whenever I go to sleep, so that you can enter my dreams and drive him off before he hurts me again.”
He couldn’t keep the smile from his face. “Are you suggesting that we share a bed again?”
“This isn’t funny, Grinsa.”
“No, it’s not. I understand that you’re afraid, but sleeping during the day will do more than you think to stop him.” She started to object again, but he raised a hand, silencing her. “We don’t know who the Weaver is yet, but I’ve an idea of what he is.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s ambitious and he’s accustomed to having people follow his commands. He also goes to great lengths to hide his identity. Even those who serve him don’t see his face, or the place he conjures for your dreams, right?”
She nodded.
“That tells me that he’s a man of some influence, someone who fears being recognized.”
“But if you had been in his position wouldn’t you have feared recognition, even posing as a Revel gleaner?”
“Perhaps, but I wouldn’t have gone so far as to conceal the terrain. He seems to believe that to know where he is, is to know who he is. That leads me to believe that he’s a minister somewhere, perhaps an important one, in the court of a duke, maybe a sovereign.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Cresenne said. “But what does that have to do with the time I sleep?”
“A man of such importance has demands on his time, things he has to do, a lord to whom he answers. As with most ministers, his nights are his own to do with as he pleases. But his days belong to the court. You’re right, he may reason out very quickly how you’re avoiding him, but there may not be anything he can do about it, at least not immediately.”
She still looked doubtful.
“Contacting another through their dreams requires a considerable effort.” He looked back at the door for an instant. “I know,” he went on, lowering his voice, “because that’s how I communicate with Keziah. I can only imagine what it is to hurt someone using the same magic. Just touching Keziah, or kissing her cheek, takes a good deal of power, far more than just speaking.”
“What is she to you?” Cresenne asked abruptly. “Were you lovers? Is that how she knows you so well?”
Grinsa shook his head, smiling. “No, we weren’t lovers. We’re just close—I’ve known Keziah nearly all my life.”
The woman shook her head. “She says nearly the exact same thing whenever I ask her about you.”
“And yet you persist in looking for more. Accept it as the truth, and stop asking.”
“I’m sorry. I interrupted you.”
“My point was simply this: it takes a great effort to contact another through her dreams. It’s not something the Weaver can do in a spare moment as he waits for his lord to finish a meal. He needs time to prepare himself and more time still to rest afterward. Sleeping during the day won’t keep you safe forever, but it will protect you for a time, and perhaps that will be enough.”
Cresenne pushed her hair back again and wiped her eyes. “I don’t want Bryntelle being raised as if she were an owl.”
He grinned. “Neither do I. But we’re not talking about years. I intend to find the Weaver long before her first birthday. It’s just for a few turns.”
“All right,” she said, nodding and taking a breath. “I’ll try.”
“Good.” He looked toward the door. “I should go soon. Tavis and I have been asked to the feast. But before I leave, is there anything else you can tell me about the Weaver, anything at all? Something you haven’t mentioned before, maybe because you didn’t think it was important?”
She seemed to consider the question for a moment, then she shook her head.
“What did you call him?”
“What?”
“When you spoke in your dreams, what did you call him?”
Cresenne gave a small shrug. “Weaver. I made the mistake of calling him “my lord’ once, many years ago, and he grew angry. He didn’t want me to address him as I would an Eandi lord.”
“What did he call you?”
“He used my name most of the time.”
“Most of the time?”
“Well, eventually, as I gained more influence in the movement, he gave me a title. He didn’t use it much, but others did.”
Grinsa felt his heart begin to race. “What title?”
“He made me one of his chancellors.”
“His chancellors,” the gleaner said breathlessly, repeating the words as if they were the name of his first love.
“Does that tell you something?” Cresenne asked, frowning once more.
“Maybe. Most of the kings and queens in the Forelands call their Qirsi ministers. The suzerain of Uulrann refers to all Qirsi as enchanters, but he gives no formal title to those who serve him. The emperor of Braedon, however, has chancellors as well as ministers. His chancellors are those who have been with him the longest, who have the most authority among his advisors.”
“That’s what we were,” Cresenne said. “There were only a few of us—the others in the movement answered to us, rather than to him directly.”
“Braedon,” he whispered. He had seen the Weaver’s face the night before, but he hadn’t noticed much about the moor on which they had been standing. It could have been anywhere in the Forelands.
He stood and walked to the door, calling for a guard.
“Are you going to the feast?”
“Yes,” he answered, as the guard unlocked the door. “I wish to ask the king what he knows about Braedon’s high chancellor.”
Chapter
Twenty-One
Curtell, Braedon
He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, nor did he leave his chambers come morning. Even when the midmorning bells tolled in the city, the echoes drifting through the palace corridors like whispering wraiths, he remained in the chair by his long-dead fire, staring at the blackened remnants of wood, his hands, white knuckled and stiff, gripping the arms of his chair. There was a knock, a timid voice explaining that the emperor was asking for him. But he sent the servant away without bothering to open the door.
“I’m not well today. Offer my apologies to the emperor.” He called these things to the boy, motionless in his chair.
The truth. For he wasn’t well.
He had known that this day would come. No man leading so great a movement could shroud himself in shadows forever. But he had not thought to have his identity exposed so soon, and never had he dreamed that Grinsa jal Arriet would be the first man in the Forelands to see his face and live to speak of it. Just a few turns before he had killed one of his servants, a man in Audun’s Castle, simply to preserve his secret. Paegar jal Berget had been neither the most powerful Qirsi working for his cause nor the most intelligent. But the man had served him loyally for more than two years. His had been a crueler fate by far than what he deserved.
Unlike Cresenne, who by her treachery had earned the painful death he had in mind for her. Instead, the gleaner had saved her, that golden fire in his palm a declaration of sorts, a warning to the Weaver that Grinsa intended to oppose him.
Dusaan couldn’t be certain how much the gleaner had seen—he had severed his contact with Cresenne as quickly as possible in a vain attempt to keep the man from seeing too much. Their eyes had met, so surely Grinsa saw the Weaver’s face. But had he seen Ayvencalde Moor as well? Had he recognized it?
“Damn her!” he muttered through clenched teeth.
He would go to her again this night. He would kill her, painfully to be sure, but quickly as well, so that the gleaner would be powerless to stop him.
It means nothing if Grinsa knows who you are.
The golden light had been on his face for less than a heartbeat, no more than a flicker of lightning on a warm night during the growing. Surely he hadn’t seen enough.
Dusaan spat a curse. He had been leading this movement for too long to allow himself to believe that. He had no choice but to assume that Grinsa had seen everything, that already the gleaner knew where he could be found. So what would the gleaner do next?
He couldn’t leave Cresenne, not if he wanted to keep her alive. As far as Dusaan knew, there wasn’t another Qirsi in the Forelands who could protect her. And as the father of her child, a man who had loved her, he wouldn’t just leave her to die.
The high chancellor felt his grip on the chair begin to relax.
Grinsa couldn’t send anyone to Braedon either. He couldn’t even tell the Eandi nobles with whom he had allied himself what he knew, not without revealing to all that he was a Weaver as well. Even if Grinsa knew his name and his title, he could do nothing.
Dusaan should have been pleased. He had seen Grinsa’s face as plainly as the gleaner had seen his, and for far longer. He didn’t have to rely on Cresenne anymore. Not only did he know the gleaner’s name and face, he even knew where the man was. Audun’s Castle. He could send assassins. Or he could enter the man’s dreams himself and test his strength against the gleaner’s. Surely he could prevail in such a battle, and even if he couldn’t, so long as their encounter took place in Grinsa’s mind, the gleaner could do no worse than drive him away.
Dusaan had lost nothing the previous night. At least this is what he told himself again and again, fighting an urge to scream out in frustration. The truth was, he had lost his first battle. Grinsa might still prove to be no match for him when next they faced each other. But for this one night, the gleaner had bested him. And the chancellor had no one to blame but himself. It had never occurred to him that Grinsa was with the woman, though of course it should have. Who else could have convinced her to defy him, to risk certain death by betraying the movement? She had been searching for Grinsa since the growing turns. Was it so strange that she should have found him in Audun’s Castle? The Weaver should have known, and he should have made certain that she died. Above all else, he needed her dead, so that she could do no more damage to the movement. Instead, he had allowed his thirst for revenge and his lust for her pain to cloud his mind. He had been a fool, a difficult admission for a man who did not willingly suffer fools.
He stayed in his chamber for the entire morning and well past midday. Servants came to his door with food, or with inquiries from the emperor after his health, but he did not move from his chair, and he gave none of them leave to enter. Late in the day, however, when yet another of the emperor’s pages came calling, he roused himself from his brooding and opened the door.
Clearly the boy hadn’t expected this. For several moments he just stared up at the high chancellor, his dark eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.
“What is it you want, boy?”
“The emperor, sir!” he blurted out. “He asks for you. He . . . he sounded angry.”
“Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”
The boy bowed, managing to say, “Yes, High Chancellor,” before hurrying away.
Dusaan wasn’t certain that he trusted himself to speak civilly with the emperor just now, but he had little choice. If he passed much more of the day in his chamber, the emperor himself might come looking for him. Better to face the fat fool in the imperial hall, whence he could excuse himself after a time.
Reaching the emperor’s hall, he thrust open the door and strode in, only remembering to pause when he heard the guard by the door call out his name and title. Harel sat on the marble throne, his fleshy face red, his mouth set in a thin line.
“High Chancellor,” he said archly, as if a parent speaking to a tardy child.
Dusaan dropped to one knee, lowering his gaze. When the time came, he would enjoy killing this man. “Your Eminence.”
“I summoned you a number of times. There are matters I’ve wished to discuss.”
“Yes, Your Eminence,” the high chanc
ellor said, still kneeling. “I sent word in return that I wasn’t well.”
“You seem well enough now.”
“The rest you allowed me did much good, Your Eminence. I’m most grateful.”
Harel frowned, then made a vague gesture with a meaty hand, his gemmed rings sparkling. “Rise.”
Dusaan stood. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”
“What was the matter with you?” He flinched away, pressing himself against the back of his throne. “It wasn’t something contagious was it?”
“No, Your Eminence. I had a difficult night and feared that I might be succumbing to a fever. But I’m well now. You needn’t be concerned.” Not that you cared a whit for me, you coward.
The emperor straightened. “Well, good. As I said, there are matters I’ve been waiting to discuss with you.”
It was almost comical. One might have thought that the high chancellor had been in his bedchamber for half the year. “I’m here now, Your Eminence. How can I be of service?”
“I hardly know where to begin.” He toyed with the jeweled scepter that lay across his lap. “This business in the south has only gotten worse.”
“The land dispute in Grensyn, Your Eminence?”
“Yes. The lord there was quite disturbed by the message we sent last turn. He’s refusing to abide by my decision.”
It was more than Dusaan could have expected. Manyus of Grensyn had never struck him as being particularly bold, nor had he ever seemed inclined to oppose any decree coming from Curtell. Granted, he and his people had long been at odds with the lordship of Muelry, with whom the emperor had ordered them to share the farming lands west of the Grensyn River. But to defy the emperor in this way invited a harsh response.