by DAVID B. COE
Tavis swung the sword, missed, saw Cadel lash out with his front foot. He tried to jump away, but he wasn’t fast enough. The toe of the assassin’s boot caught him in the side, ripping the breath from his chest. He stumbled. Cadel’s blade flashed, turning a swift arc toward his face, but he managed to duck under the attack before stumbling a second time, backwards this time as luck would have it, and out of harm’s way.
Or so he thought. Seeing him off-balance, Cadel lunged at him. Tavis tried to block the blow with his left arm and strike back with his sword, but it seemed the assassin was expecting this. Moving so quickly that Tavis could do no more than watch, Cadel switched his blade hand a second time, striking the boy’s sword arm with an open hand and stabbing at Tavis’s neck with his dagger. Tavis tried to wrench himself to the side, but he felt the edge of Cadel’s knife slice into his neck. He backed away again, raising a hand to the wound and seeing blood on his fingers.
The singer will have cut you, Grinsa had warned him in Duvenry. Your neck and your right forearm . . . Neither wound looked too deep. He should have expected this. So why was he shaking so?
Cadel was stalking him now, circling ever closer, as if he knew that he had nothing to fear from the boy, despite his sword and his thirst for vengeance. Tavis pretended to back away, then leaped at him, swinging the sword again. But as with all his other attacks, Cadel responded as if he had known all along what the young lord would do. Holding his ground, the assassin swung his free arm at Tavis’s wrist, catching him with the full force of the blow so that the sword flew from Tavis’s hand, clattering on the rocks before being swallowed by the waters of the Gulf.
Tavis quickly switched his dagger to his right hand, expecting Cadel to press his advantage. But the assassin didn’t lunge at him again. It seemed he was content to have denied Tavis the use of the long blade.
“I’d say we’re a bit more even now. Wouldn’t you, my lord?”
Hardly, Tavis wanted to say. But he kept his silence. The assassin laughed, and the two combatants resumed their circling. Cadel passed his blade deftly from hand to hand, a confident grin on his face. He made a sudden move with his blade hand, and Tavis flinched, raising his arm to defend himself. But the attack never came, and Cadel laughed again.
“You should have stayed in Eibithar, boy. I would have kept away and we both could have lived out our days in peace.”
He feinted again and for a second time, Tavis raised his blade hand. Rather than merely laughing, however, the assassin used this as an opening for a sudden attack. Launching himself at Tavis, his blade abruptly in the other hand, he slashed at the boy’s chest. Somehow Tavis managed to catch hold of the assassin’s wrist, fighting with all his strength to keep the blade from plunging into his heart. And he wasn’t strong enough. Not nearly.
Tasting his own death, desperate to do anything that might forestall the fatal blow, Tavis allowed his leg to buckle. He fell to the rock, Cadel on top of him, but both of them fell awkwardly, and at least for the moment, the assassin’s blade was no longer aimed at his chest. They rolled first to one side, then to the other, each struggling to free his blade to strike at the other. Out of the corner of his eye, Tavis spotted a figure hurrying across the rocks in their direction. Grinsa. It had to be the gleaner, though he couldn’t see well enough to be certain.
“Grinsa!” he shouted. “Shatter his blade! Quickly!”
Nothing happened. They continued to roll, toward the raging surf now, the uneven stone digging into his back and legs. He could feel the assassin’s hot breath on his face, he could smell the stale sweat in his clothes. They rolled again, and for just an instant Tavis found himself above Cadel. He fought to pull his arm free, but before he could raise his blade the assassin pushed off with his foot and they were turning again.
This time, however, as Tavis was forced down once more, he realized that he had reached the edge of the boulder. He let out a panicked gasp, trying with all his strength to halt their momentum. Cadel seemed to sense the danger as well, for he grunted a curse. For just a second, they tottered on the edge, both now fighting as one to keep their balance. But to no avail. A moment later they dropped off the boulder, releasing each other to try to break their fall.
Tavis landed hard on his side and shoulder, his head snapping down onto the wet stone. He sensed that Cadel had fallen beside him, but he was too dazed to strike at the man or flee. He saw a flash of light, almost immediately felt the thunder clap, as if it were a war hammer.
And then the rain began, instant and harsh, filling his mouth and nostrils as if he had been submerged in the gulf. He started to sit up, realized that he still held his dagger. Clawing the rain from his eyes, he tried to find the assassin.
He saw movement—the rain was too thick to see more—and raised his blade to stab at the man. He felt something crash into his temple—white pain blinded him as if lightning. Before he could recover, a fist crashed into his cheek and he sprawled onto the rock. The assassin was on him immediately, hitting him a third time, this blow to his jaw leaving him addled. He felt himself being heaved off the rock, but he couldn’t seem to fight back.
Then Cadel released him and he fell, his chest smashing into the stone, but his head finding water. Shockingly cold. Salt stung the wound on his neck and another on his cheek. He tried to push himself up, but the assassin was on him again, his knee on Tavis’s back, one hand like a vise, clamped on his neck, and the other holding Tavis’s face in the water.
Fear seized his heart like a clawed demon. Tavis fought with all his strength to throw off the assassin, thrashing wildly, flailing with his arms and legs. But Cadel had him. He could hit the man, but not hard enough. He twisted his neck from side to side and managed for just an instant to lift his mouth out of the water. He gasped at the precious air, taking in some, but swallowing a mouthful of briny water as well. And before he could try again, or cough the water out of his lungs, Cadel had pushed him under again, tightening his grip on the young lord’s neck and grasping a handful of Tavis’s hair.
He whipped his limbs about, desperate now, his chest starting to burn, his head spinning. Something in the water gleamed and Tavis tried to reach for it, but it was too far. He groped around in the pool, searching for a rock or anything else he might use as a weapon. Nothing. His lungs screaming, consciousness starting to slip away, he reached for Cadel one last time. To no avail. He thought he heard laughter. The assassin’s, or perhaps Bian’s.
“I’ve bested a Weaver.”
Grinsa heard the words. He felt the gathering magic. And so even without opening his eyes, even through the miasma of pain, he knew just where to direct his power. He would only have the one chance. If he failed here, he would die. He didn’t need gleaning magic to tell him that.
He reached out with his mind, fighting off agony and fear, thoughts of Tavis and Keziah, Cresenne and Bryntelle. At his first touch, the man tried to resist him, and because Grinsa was so weakened, his attacker nearly succeeded. But the gleaner held fast to the magic he found, as if it were a scrap of wood and he adrift in a violent sea. Shaping, gleaning, mists and winds. The shaping magic was the only real threat, and once Grinsa had control of it, even this couldn’t hurt him.
But he had forgotten how close the man was. Just as he opened his eyes to see his assailant’s face, the man kicked his maimed shoulder. A wave of pain crashed down upon him, stealing his breath, nearly making him retch. For a moment he feared that he might lose his hold on the man’s magic, but he clung to it, desperate and enraged.
Before the man could hurt him again, Grinsa hammered at his leg with shaping power. He heard the muffled crack of bone, a wail of pain from his attacker, and, a moment later, the sound of the man’s body hitting the ground. Somehow the man kicked at Grinsa a second time, his boot missing the gleaner’s shoulder, but striking him in the side of the head. Still drawing upon the man’s shaping power, he broke the other leg as well. Hearing him cry out, Grinsa smiled grimly.
The glean
er wanted to shatter every bone in the man’s body. He wanted to kill. But he needed answers first. Forcing his eyes open, fighting through his pain to sit up, he crawled to where the man lay.
The attacker was powerfully built for a Qirsi, lean, but broad in the chest and shoulders, with muscled arms. His face was ruddy, even tanned, at least compared to the skin of most Qirsi. His beard was full and he wore his long white hair tied back.
As Grinsa came closer, the man attempted to crawl away, his eyes fixed on the gleaner’s face. With barely a thought, Grinsa shattered his wrist. The man collapsed to the ground once more, swearing through clenched teeth.
“Who are you?” the gleaner rasped. “Do you work with Cadel?”
The man reached for the blade strapped to his belt. Drawing on his own magic, Grinsa conjured a flame, which he held to the man’s arm.
“Damn you, Weaver! Kill me already, and be done with it!”
“Not until—” Grinsa stopped, gaping at the man. “Weaver,” he repeated. “You knew from the start that I was a Weaver—I sensed no surprise from you when I reached for your magic. In fact, you were prepared for it. You were warding yourself. You’re with the conspiracy, aren’t you? You were sent by the other Weaver.”
He felt the man struggling to use his magic, not as a weapon, Grinsa realized, but against himself.
“You’d rather die that talk?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.” And speaking the words, Grinsa pressed hard on the man’s mind.
Usually Qirsi with mind-bending magic only used it on the Eandi. It worked best when the person at whom it was directed didn’t suspect that any magic was being used, and most Qirsi could tell immediately when the power of another touched their minds. But the practice of this particular magic was predicated on two notions. One was that the Qirsi wielding the power didn’t want his victim to perceive that any magic had been used. And the other was that he didn’t wish to do any lasting damage to the victim’s mind. In this instance, neither was true.
The man cried out in pain, his head cradled against his good hand.
“The other Weaver sent you,” Grinsa said again. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes.” It came out as a sob.
“Who are you?”
“Tihod jal Brossa, a merchant.”
“How long have you been with the conspiracy?”
“Since the beginning.”
The gleaner squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to clear his vision. Then he looked at the man more closely. “Since the beginning,” he repeated. “When was the beginning? When did all this start?”
“Long ago. The Weaver spoke to me of taking the Forelands from the Eandi before Galdasten.”
“You mean before that madman brought the pestilence to Galdasten Castle?”
“Yes.”
“Was the conspiracy responsible for that?”
“No. But we saw in it the opportunity for which we’d been waiting.”
“So the Qirsi did kill Filib of Thorald.”
“Filib the Younger, yes.”
Grinsa exhaled though his teeth. Eight years the Weaver had been planning this. Every noble who had died since Galdasten might well have been a victim of his movement.
“I take it you’re one of the Weaver’s chancellors?”
The man stared at him. “You aren’t supposed to know about the chancellors.”
Grinsa lashed at the man’s mind with his power until he screamed in anguish. “Are you one of them?”
“No. I’m more. I take his gold and pay his couriers.”
The gleaner gaped at him. “What?”
“He can’t pay them directly. He needs me to do it for him, so that no one can trace the gold back to him.”
“So you know where the gold comes from!”
The merchant clamped his mouth shut. Grinsa felt him struggle once more to take control of his own power.
He tightened his grip on the man’s magic and pounded his mind with mind-bending power.
“Tell me where it comes from! Is it Braedon? Is that where the Weaver is?”
The merchant screamed again, his head lolling from side to side.
A clap of thunder made the ground tremble and a moment later it began to rain in torrents.
Tavis! The gleaner had forgotten for a moment that the young lord was fighting the assassin. For all Grinsa knew, he was dead already.
“Tell me!” he shouted at the man. He pushed ever harder with his magic, heedless of the man’s suffering. “Tell me, and I’ll end this!”
Tihod said nothing, his mouth open in a silent wail. A trickle of blood seeped from his nose and was washed away by the rain.
“It’s Braedon, isn’t it?” Grinsa demanded, thinking it through. “That’s why he needs a merchant, so that he can convert imperial qinde to common coin.” He grabbed the man by the throat with his good hand and shook him. “Answer!”
A strange smile touched the merchant’s lips, as blood suddenly gushed from his nostrils. “Never,” he whispered.
Grinsa let go of his neck and forced open the man’s eyes. The whites of his eyes were shot through with blood. One pupil was far larger than the other, and neither changed when the eyes were opened.
“Damn you!” the gleaner roared. “Tell me where he is!”
Even as he berated the merchant, however, Grinsa knew that the man was gone. His chest still rose and fell, though slowly and with great effort. But the gleaner still held his mind and his magic, and so could feel Tihod’s life draining away.
“Damn you,” he muttered.
He released the man and sat back, even that slight movement bringing another rush of pain. He needed to find Tavis and the singer, but first he had injuries to heal. His shoulder pained him more than the broken leg, but he could walk with a shattered shoulder. He placed his good hand on his leg and closing his eyes, probed the flesh and bone with his mind. He was weary beyond words, and the break wasn’t a clean one, but he poured what power he still had into setting and mending the bone, grinding his teeth together as he fought the pain. It grew so bad that he had to stop once and vomit. But at last, as the bone fragments began to knit together, his torment eased, as did the nausea.
Soon he could stand and, though his leg still ached, and a fire burned in his shoulder, he found that he could walk as well. He gazed out toward the shore and the gulf waters beyond, straining to see through the rain that still pelted the coastline.
At first he saw nothing, but then he realized that there were figures standing on the rocks. Two of them. Neither appeared to be moving, although the distance was great and the storm still obscured his view. Were they both still alive, then? Was that possible?
He quickened his pace, shielding his eyes from the rain. But only when a third figure suddenly appeared, seeming to rise from the rocks and the water like some beast from Amon’s deep, did the gleaner break into a hobbled run.
He held the boy fast, forcing his head down into the dark water and trying to keep the rest of his body still. Tavis was stronger than he looked, but he was no threat to Cadel, at least not anymore. He could thrash his arms and legs all he liked—it would only steal his breath. A few moments and it would all be over.
“Corbin.”
He started at the voice, recognizing it immediately. He shouldn’t have been surprised.
“Go away,” he said, over the rain and the keening wind. “You don’t want to be here for this.”
Tavis twisted his head suddenly and managed to get his mouth out of the water for just an instant before Cadel strengthened his grip once more. He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted. Not now.
“Let him go.”
“I can’t do that. He’s as intent on killing me as I am on killing him.”
“Why? Because you killed Lady Brienne?”
Cadel turned at that, keeping a firm grip on the boy, whose struggles grew more frenzied by the moment.
Kalida�
�s hair and clothes were soaked, and rain ran down her face in rivulets. But her blue eyes were fixed on his, her brow furrowed.
“Yes,” he said at last. “Because I killed Brienne.”
“You’re an assassin.”
He turned his back on her. “You should leave.”
“I followed you from Ailwyck because I wanted to be with you, regardless of what you are. I still do. But you have to let him go.”
“This isn’t some innocent boy I’m murdering for no reason, Kalida. He came here to kill me. He nearly succeeded in killing me a few turns back. If I let him go, he’ll just try again.”
Tavis’s movements were becoming slower, weaker. A few seconds more and the boy would lose consciousness. It wouldn’t be long after that before he was dead.
“In Ailwyck, when we were together, you were trying to change. I know that now. You didn’t want to do this anymore.”
“And you saw how that turned out.”
“At some point you just have to stop. You can find an excuse for each new murder, be it gold, or revenge, or the need to defend yourself. But when does it end? Do you want to keep doing this for the rest of your life?”
He said nothing.
“Please, Corbin.” A pause, and then, “Cadel.”
It was his true name that reached him, that finally convinced him to relent. He did so knowing precisely what would happen, how all of this would end. But still, he didn’t do it for love. He didn’t even do it for Kalida, though he wasn’t foolish enough to think that he would have released the boy had she not been there. He did it because he knew that none of this would ever end. Already he had told Tihod that he would take this newest job. They wanted him to kill the king of Eibithar, on a battlefield, surrounded by thousands of armed men. And he had said yes. He did it because of the brigands he had been forced to kill on the road leading from Fanshyre to Ailwyck, and because of the questions that had followed. He did it because of Brienne’s ghost, whom he had encountered in the Sanctuary of Bian at Solkara.