by David B. Coe
But if Kearney wouldn’t listen to him, why should these simple folk?
“We both have our wars to fight, gleaner,” the king had told him the night before. “Mine is with the empire. Yours is with the Weaver. I’ll offer you whatever aid I can, and I’ll ask no less of you. But both wars must be fought and won, or else Eibithar is doomed.”
At the time, hearing Kearney speak so, Grinsa had grown angry and stalked off. Perhaps the king was right, though. The gleaner had claimed this war as his own long ago. He might have been brazen and foolish to do so, but that changed nothing.
The time for self-doubt had passed. He knew that at last, thanks to Cresenne and Tavis. Would he have liked to be stronger? Would he have taken comfort in some divine assurance that he would prevail against this foe? Of course. What warrior didn’t wish for such things on the eve of battle? Somewhere to the north, Dusaan might well have been wishing for them as well.
“If the Weaver wasn’t afraid of you,” Tavis had said that night half a turn ago, when Dusaan attacked him, “he wouldn’t have entered your dreams.”
Grinsa had doubted this at the time, but now he saw that he had no choice but to believe it. For all of Dusaan’s confidence, the Weaver had to harbor doubts of his own. There could be no certainty in this coming conflict, no assurances for anyone, not even for the high chancellor. How could it be otherwise?
This was to be a war between Weavers. In all its long history, the Forelands had never witnessed such a thing.
he awoke to the sound of swifts chattering as they soared past the narrow window of her chamber. Bryntelle still slept in her cradle, her arms stretched over her head, her mouth making suckling movements. Cresenne sat up, taking a long breath and running both hands through her hair. Grinsa deserved better from her. He carried the burdens of every man and woman of the Forelands on his shoulders, and all she could think to do was tell him what he already knew: that in order to be whole again she needed for him to destroy the Weaver.
Her wounds had healed, and in recent days she had finally begun to eat again, slowly regaining her strength after the poisoning that almost killed her. But the Weaver had left her with other scars that remained beyond a healer’s touch. True, she had managed to fight Dusaan off and then to end that horrific dream before he could take her life, but the memory of the rape clung to her bed, her hair, her body—the stench of his breath, hot and damp against her neck. She could still feel him driving himself into her again and again, tearing her flesh, his weight bearing down on her until she wondered if she could even draw breath. She could hear him calling her “whore.” It had only been a dream, she tried to tell herself, an illusion he had conjured by using her own magic against her. But did that lessen the humiliation or deepen it? It had been a violation in so many ways and on so many levels. Did his invasion of her mind make what he seemed to have done to her body any less real?
She feared that she might never again be able to bear Grinsa’s touch. The Weaver had poisoned all of her dreams, even those in which her love spoke to her. Grinsa’s merest kiss when he walked in her sleep, his most gentle caress, made her feel once more the savagery of Dusaan’s assault. Cresenne wanted desperately to believe that it was the dreams that did this, that once she and Grinsa were together again, and he could hold her in his arms without touching her mind, everything would be all right. But she had no way of knowing this for certain, and doubt lay heavy on her heart.
Grinsa would have told her to sleep more. The sun would be up for several hours yet, and since she still didn’t dare sleep at night, for fear of another attack from the Weaver, she wouldn’t have another opportunity to rest for quite some time. But she was awake now, and she knew herself well enough to know that she could lie on her bed from now until dusk, and she wouldn’t get back to sleep. Instead, she stared out the window and waited for Bryntelle to wake, knowing that the baby would be hungry when she did.
She didn’t have long to wait. After nursing Bryntelle and changing her wet swaddling, Cresenne took her daughter in her arms and left their small chamber to wander the grounds of Audun’s Castle. It was a rare treat for them to be out of doors during the daylight hours; Cresenne savored the warm touch of the sun on her skin, and the mild breeze that stirred her hair. Bryntelle seemed to enjoy the day as well. She squinted up at the sun repeatedly and squealed happily at the sight of clove-pink and irises blooming brightly in the gardens.
One of the advantages of wandering the castle at night was that Cresenne rarely found herself in the company of others. She had no desire to make conversation with ladies in the queen’s court, and she dreaded being recognized as the “Qirsi traitor.” Nurle, the young healer who saw her through the poisoning, occasionally joined her after tending to patients during the course of the night, but mostly she and Bryntelle kept to themselves. On this day, however, there were several people walking the castle grounds, and though Cresenne was loath to return to her chamber, she dreaded the thought of being among other people, particularly since everyone she saw was Eandi.
Hesitating, yet eager to find some way to enjoy this day without having to endure the stares of all these people, Cresenne ducked into a small courtyard off one of the main paths that meandered through the garden.
She knew immediately that she had erred. Cresenne had seen Leilia of Glyndwr, Eibithar’s queen, only once before, but she recognized the woman immediately. The queen was seated on a small marble bench in the middle of the courtyard. Sunlight angled across her face, making her skin look pale and thick. Her black hair was tied up in a tight bun, and the dress she wore appeared so tight around the bust that Cresenne found it hard to imagine that she could be comfortable.
Several of the queen’s ladies stood around her, chatting amiably, and four guards stood at attention nearby.
Cresennne had every intention of leaving the courtyard, but at that moment Bryntelle let out a small cry, drawing the stares of every person there. The guards turned toward her, glowering, and the ladies regarded her with frowns and pursed lips.
“Forgive me,” she muttered, not entirely certain that they could even hear her. “I didn’t know there was anyone here.” She curtsied quickly and started to leave.
“You there! Wait a moment!”
Cresenne turned back to them. Leilia was eyeing her with obvious interest, though there was no warmth in her expression.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Cresenne said, curtsying again.
For a moment she wondered if the queen expected her to approach, but then Leilia stood, and as the guards rushed to her side the queen began to walk toward her. Leilia paused, regarded them with obvious disdain, and waved a hand, seeming to dismiss them. One of the men said something to her in a low voice, but she merely glared at him until he bowed and backed away. Then she started toward Cresenne again.
Bryntelle had begun to make a good deal of noise—she wasn’t crying, fortunately, nor did she seem particularly unhappy. But she certainly was being loud. Leilia glanced at the babe as she drew near, but only for a moment. Mostly, she kept her dark eyes fixed on Cresenne.
“They tell me that you’re the renegade,” the queen said, stopping just in front of Cresenne, and gesturing vaguely at the soldiers behind her. “The one who had Brienne killed. Is this true?”
Cresenne stared at the ground before her, her cheeks burning. A thousand replies sprang to her lips, any one of which would have earned her a summary hanging. In the end, she merely muttered, “Yes, Your Highness.”
“They also warn me that you might make an attempt on my life. Is that your intent?”
“No, Your Highness.”
“Good. Walk with me.”
Leilia stepped out of the courtyard, and turned toward the north corner of the gardens, leaving Cresenne little choice but to follow. Emerging from the courtyard, she found Leilia waiting for her a few strides away, an arch look on her face.
“Well?” the queen said. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Yes, of course, You
r Highness. Forgive me.”
But even after Cresenne reached her, the queen didn’t resume her walking, at least not immediately. Instead, she regarded Cresenne’s face critically, as if examining a new piece of art. It took Cresenne but a second to realize that Leilia was staring at her scars. She had to resist an urge to stomp off.
“You’ve healed well.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
“I can see why some think you pretty.”
“Do they, Your Highness?”
Leilia began to walk again, sniffing loudly. “Come now, my dear. Let’s not be coy. I’m certain that you’ve had no shortage of men in your life. Certainly, Eandi men seem fascinated by your kind.”
Something in the way the queen said this caught her ear. As she hurried to keep up with the woman, Cresenne remembered that during her many conversations with Keziah ja Dafydd, Eibithar’s archminister, she had found herself speculating about Keziah’s relationships with both Grinsa and Kearney, the king. On several occasions she had wondered if one of the men might have been Keziah’s lover. The same thought came to her now. Leilia sounded very much the wounded wife, though clearly she had no cause to be jealous of Cresenne.
“Silenced you, have I?” the queen said, glancing at her sidelong.
“Have I given offense in some way, Your Highness? Is that why you wished to speak with me?”
That, of all things, brought a smile to Leilia’s lips, though it was fleeting. “No. You haven’t given offense. I’ve been . . . curious about you.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
“I’ve been a curiosity since I arrived here, Your Highness.”
“Yes, I’m sure you have. Is that why you spend your days in your chamber and your nights wandering the castle corridors?”
She thought the queen a strange women. Her directness was both disconcerting and refreshing, and while Cresenne thought it best to keep her replies circumspect, she sensed that Leilia would not have taken offense had she chosen to be more candid.
“Actually, Your Highness, I sleep during the day to avoid the Weaver who attacks me in my dreams.”
“I’d heard that, but I wondered if there were other reasons as well.”
Cresenne said nothing.
“The child doesn’t seem to mind?”
“She’s hardly known any other way to live.”
Leilia nodded, and they walked in silence for several moments, Cresenne gazing at a bed of brilliant ruby peonies.
“Tell me of the child’s father,” the queen said abruptly.
Cresenne made herself smile, sensing that their conversation had taken a perilous turn. “Her father, Your Highness?”
“Yes. This tall Qirsi who’s been the subject of so much talk throughout the castle.”
“I didn’t know that people were speaking of him.”
“Shouldn’t they? He’s little more than a Revel gleaner, yet he was Tavis of Curgh’s lone confidant over the last year, and my husband thinks highly enough of him to include him in councils of war. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“Grinsa is a wise man, Your Highness, as I’m sure Lord Tavis will attest. I’ve no doubt that he’ll serve the king well.”
“I’m not questioning his worth, my dear. I’m merely asking you to tell me more about him. And I sense your reluctance.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t dissemble with me.” Leilia glanced at her again, as if gauging Cresennne’s reaction. “Is he a traitor? Is that it? Have you both contrived this elaborate farce to gain Kearney’s trust?”
“No, Your Highness! I swear it! Grinsa’s no traitor!”
Again, the queen smiled. “I believe you. You love him very much.”
Cresenne nodded, afraid to speak. She had come close to losing him so many times, all of them her own fault. She had betrayed him, sent assassins for him, and nearly driven him away with her stubborn, foolish devotion to the Weaver and his movement. And she knew that she might lose him still. Or he her. Who could say whether he would survive the fighting between the Eandi armies, much less his inevitable encounter with Dusaan? Who knew how many more of the Weaver’s servants had been sent to kill her?
“You fear for him.”
“I fear for all of us, Your Highness. I’ve seen how wicked this Weaver is, though I was blind to it for too long.”
“Kearney will find a way to prevail.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “He always does.” When Cresenne didn’t respond, the queen looked at her again. “War is hardest on the women, you know. It’s always been so, though men will deny it. Remaining behind, awaiting the outcome, fearing that the next messenger will bear word that your husband or lover or brother has fallen.” She gazed up at the sky, as if to judge the time. “I envy the women of Sanbira, who fight their own battles alongside the men. Their way strikes me as being far more just.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“You’re humoring me.” She wore a smirk on her fleshy face.
“No, Your Highness! I was just—”
“It’s all right, my dear. I suppose I deserve it. I find it easy to complain here, safe behind Audun’s walls. But given the opportunity to ride to war, I’m not at all certain that I would.” She frowned. “Does that make me a coward?”
“I believe it makes you honest, Your Highness.”
About the Author
DAVID B. COE, the author of seven epic fantasy novels, won the Crawford Award for Best First Fantasy for Children of Amarid and The Outlanders, the first two books of his LonTobyn trilogy. His Winds of the Forelands series, which includes Rules of Ascension, Seeds of Betrayal, and Bonds of Vengeance, will conclude with Weavers of War. He lives with his wife and their two daughters on the Cumberland Plateau in Tennessee.