by DAVID B. COE
“No, Your Eminence, I don’t. There was a daughter, but I can’t imagine she’d be accepted as Carden’s heir. Which leaves his brothers.”
Harel frowned. “I don’t like what I’ve heard about them. Particularly the eldest. What is his name?”
“Grigor, Your Eminence. And his reputation does leave much to be desired.”
“I’ve no tolerance for brutes, High Chancellor, and I certainly don’t wish to find myself allied with one. I spent a good deal of time and gold winning Carden’s allegiance. Do you know how many ships I sent him? I believe it was fourteen. Fourteen ships at more than seven thousand imperial rounds each. None of that will matter to the new king. He’ll just think of it as his navy, as if we’d done nothing at all to make it the strongest among the six. He’ll know nothing of the weaponry we sent either, or the mercenaries. This man, this…” He shook his head, frowning once more.
“Grigor, Your Eminence.”
“Yes, yes. This Grigor. Where is my mind today?” He looked past Dusaan to the harper. “You there!” he called. “That’s enough music for today. Leave us.” Then, looking at the ladies, he added, “All of you as well. Leave my chambers. I wish to speak with the chancellor in private.”
The musician curtsied and stepped out of the chamber, leaving her instrument in the corner against the wall. The ladies followed close behind her, looking back at the emperor with frightened faces.
“This will delay the attack on Eibithar, won’t it?” Harel asked, once they were alone.
“I’m afraid it must,” the chancellor said, feeling his ire rise once more, and moving swiftly to quash it. “A new king, whoever it might be, will need time to consolidate his power. Even a man like Grigor won’t rush into a war so soon. It will be several turns before we can act, at the very least.”
“Several turns?” the emperor asked, looking relieved. “That’s not so bad.”
“At the very least,” the Qirsi said again, pointedly this time. Sometimes the emperor seemed to him more child than man. Harel had held the scepter for more than half his life, taking the throne after his father died, just a year past his Fating. It often seemed to Dusaan that twenty-two years later he remained a frightened boy, out of his depth, foolish, and weak, even for an Eandi. “If Grigor does assume the crown, and if he can move quickly and decisively, then it will only be half a year,” he explained, his patience strained. “But if he meets with resistance from the other houses it could take far longer. And if by some chance, Carden’s death leads to war among Aneira’s more powerful families, it could be years.”
“Which means,” Harel said, “that as soon as the king takes the throne, we must act quickly to back him, to make it clear to others in Aneira that the emperor of Braedon recognizes him as the legitimate successor to Carden.”
“Yes, Your Eminence,” the chancellor said, taken aback by the clarity of Harel’s reasoning. “That’s just what we must do.”
“And in the meantime?”
Dusaan thought for a moment. “In the meantime, I believe we should continue with our plans as if nothing has happened. The training of the men should go on uninterrupted, and the bulk of the fleet should be divided between Ayvencalde and Bishenhurst. The longer the ships remain there, posing no threat to Eibithar, the greater the surprise when they finally cross the Scabbard. The delay is unavoidable, but perhaps in this small way we can use it to our advantage.”
The emperor fairly beamed. “Excellent, High Chancellor! See to it, will you?”
“Of course, Your Eminence.” He stood before the emperor another moment, neither of them speaking. “Is there more?”
“No,” Harel said, looking troubled again. “No, nothing more.”
“Very good, Your Eminence.” Dusaan knelt again, then rose and started quickly toward the door.
“What makes a man take his own life?” the emperor asked, just as the Qirsi reached the door. “What could cause a king, with all his wealth and power, to take a dagger to his own heart?”
Dusaan stood unmoving, his back to the throne, biting down on his tongue until he tasted blood.
“Send the harper back in, would you?” Harel said after a moment. “And tell the kitchenmaster that I require my supper a bit early today.”
“Yes, Your Eminence,” Dusaan said, his voice thick. He faced the emperor again, sketching a quick bow. Then he left, fearing that the man would keep him there longer if given the chance.
After seeing to the harper and the emperor’s meal, Dusaan returned to his chambers and summoned the other chancellors so that he could inform them of the tidings from Solkara and his conversation with the emperor. It was a waste of his time and theirs, but Harel expected it of him. Like all Eandi rulers, the emperor had a great number of Qirsi in his palace. Ostensibly they were here as advisors-most bore the title of chancellor, a few were ministers. But Harel rarely met with any of them, relying almost entirely on Dusaan. He collected Qirsi, just as he did swords from Sanbira and Uulrann, and horses from Caerisse. The more Qirsi he possessed, the wiser he appeared to both his people and his rivals in other kingdoms. Braedon was the most powerful of the seven realms-few would have argued the point, even in Eibithar. People here spoke of Braedon and the six, as if the other kingdoms were mere dukedoms standing in the vast shadow of the empire. Of all the realms, only Braedon dared call itself an empire, and in fairness to Harel and his predecessors on the throne, Braedon did have territorial holdings as far away as Enwyl Island, in the Gulf of Kreanna. So it was only natural that Harel should surround himself with Qirsi advisors.
From all that Dusaan could tell, Harel assumed, as did the other Qirsi, that the advice Dusaan gave the emperor was not just his own, but rather a compendium of the counsel offered by all the chancellors and ministers in their daily discussions. Dusaan, of course, did nothing to dispel this notion.
Most of the other advisors were typical of court Qirsi throughout the Forelands: blindly loyal to Braedon and House Curtell, almost pitiable in their desire to please the emperor and rise in his esteem, and disturbingly eager to try to surpass each other in this regard. With each day that passed, it became harder for Dusaan to meet with them without revealing the contempt in which he held them. A few showed signs of being more, of being capable of rising above their current station, with his help, of course, but the time for that had not yet come.
This day’s discussion proved to be a somber affair, with the older chancellors and ministers falling over each other in their attempts to exalt the dead king. Dusaan had told them as little as possible about the emperor’s plans to attack Eibithar, and now he said merely that the attack would be put off indefinitely.
Speaking of it served only to enrage Dusaan once again. He ended the meeting abruptly, dismissing the other Qirsi and locking the door to his chamber once they were gone. Stepping to his window, he pushed open the wooden shutters and gazed out over the ramparts of the palace and the swift waters of the River of Swords, which lay beyond. The windows in this part of the palace were not glazed, and a brisk wind stirred his hair and chilled his quarters. The sun had set, but the western sky still glowed orange and pink with the last glimmers of daylight. It would still be some time before he could do anything more than brood on his anger, and given the night that lay in store for him, Dusaan decided that he was best off using this time to sleep.
He closed the shutters again, lay down on his bed, and, closing his eyes, fell almost instantly into a deep, dreamless slumber.
The chancellor awakened to the sound of bells ringing in the city. The gate close, no doubt. He hadn’t been asleep very long, but he felt refreshed and ready to speak with those who served him. He had taught himself long ago to sleep when he could and to arise when he needed. It didn’t matter what thoughts filled his head; over the years he had disciplined his mind to shunt them aside, and to ward off dreams that might keep him from getting the rest he needed. He had mastered sleep, his own as well as that of others. As a Weaver who walked in the dreams of other Qirsi, he
could hardly have done less.
He was most eager to speak with Pronjed jal Drenthe in Solkara, but it was early yet to find him sleeping, and it had been some time since he last visited with the woman in Kett.
Dusaan closed his eyes, drawing upon the vast ocean that was his power and reaching eastward with his mind. For a time he felt as a hawk must when it soars on a warm wind, unassailable and without equal, secure in the knowledge that even then, his consciousness gliding high above the Forelands, he had barely tested the extent of his magic. Soon he sensed the Caerissan Steppe looming before him and he reached downward toward Braedor’s Plain and the city of Kett.
He found her quickly, and, touching her mind with his own, called forth the image of the moor that he used whenever he entered the dreams of a Qirsi. It was Ayvencalde Moor that he used, a desolate expanse of rocks and grasses that lay but a few leagues from the emperor’s palace. But knowing as he did that those with whom he spoke always hoped to recognize the plain, and thus learn who he was, he darkened the landscape, making it impossible for them to see beyond the reach of his light. He had no intention of allowing his servants to divine his secret.
He liked to make them work to find him, situating himself atop a rise and making the climb arduous for those who had angered him. Later that night, Pronjed would face a daunting and wearying ascent. But for the woman, he made an exception. She was with child and had served him well as one of his chancellors. If Dusaan had his way-and he usually did-she would be his queen when he finally ruled the Forelands. When she opened her eyes to this dream, finding herself on the moor, Dusaan was already there standing before her, lit from behind by the great white sun he had conjured for these visions.
She looked even more beautiful than she had the last time they spoke. Her belly had grown larger, her breasts fuller with milk for her child. She stood before him in a simple shift, her fine white hair falling over her brow and down around her shoulders, her pale eyes bleary with sleep. Yet, for all Dusaan could tell, she might have been wearing glittering jewels and a banquet gown.
“You’re well?” he asked at last, unable to say more.
She stared at the ground. “I am, Weaver. Thank you.”
She feared him, of course. They all did. And though he hoped that someday she would love him, for now her fear suited his purposes quite well.
“You’ve been eating?”
A small smile sprung to her lips. “Yes, Weaver.”
“You think me foolish for asking.”
Her eyes snapped up, a frightened look on her face. “No, Weaver. You’re very kind to show such interest in my baby and me.”
“I may be a bit foolish,” he admitted. “But as I’ve told you before, I foresee a glorious future for this child. And for you, as well.”
The woman nodded. “Yes, Weaver. Thank you.”
“I trust you’ve heard no news of the child’s father?”
“No, none. All the talk here is of the king and who will take his place on the throne.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said, his voice tightening.
“The men who run the Festival are talking of going to Solkara, not for the funeral of course, but when the new king is invested. Do you wish that I remain here, or may I accompany them?”
“If you feel that you can make the journey, you’re free to go. Assuming the man we seek is still in Aneira, he may be there also.”
“I’d thought of that, as well,” she said.
Dusaan narrowed his eyes, staring at her now. There was something in her voice and manner…
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes, Weaver. Everything is fine.”
“And you’re certain you’ve heard nothing?”
“Quite certain.”
“You told me some time ago that you spoke to an assassin of this man, that the white-hair had killed this assassin’s partner.”
“Yes, Weaver. I remember.”
“Is it possible that this assassin has already found him and killed him?”
And there it was, in her eyes, in the terror he sensed abruptly flooding her mind, like the surge of a storm tide. She still loved this man. She had seduced him for the movement, acting on Dusaan’s instructions, and she had sent assassins for him twice now. Yet she still loved him. It shouldn’t have surprised him so. Seduction was a difficult matter, and she was terribly young. Add the fact that she was carrying his child, and it would have been stranger if she had never loved him. But she served the Weaver and his movement. She was to be Dusaan’s queen. That she should still carry such passion for this gleaner, that she could conceal this from Dusaan, made suspect all that she had done on the Weaver’s behalf, and all that she had told him the past several turns. He could hardly contain the rage and jealousy that flared in his chest like Qirsi fire. He wanted to hurt her. Had it not been for the child, he might have. Then again, had it not been for the child, he might not have cared. Most of all, he wanted to kill this man, this Gnnsa jal Arriet. Not through assassins and the dispensing of gold, but with his own blade, guided by his own hand. He wanted to feel the man’s blood on his fingers. He wanted to watch as the spark died in his yellow eyes, leaving them empty and sightless.
“It is possible, Weaver,” the woman said, though it seemed to Dusaan that her words came from a great distance. He could barely remember what he had asked her.
He just stared at her. She couldn’t see his face for the light. She wouldn’t know how his wrath twisted his features, how his eyes burned with his thirst for blood. Only his voice could give him away, and that he could control.
“Perhaps, it would be best if you didn’t go to Solkara,” he said, sounding bored, as if already tiring of their conversation.
“Weaver?”
He sensed her eagerness to go. This would be her punishment, though she might never recognize it as such. “The last time we spoke you seemed reluctant to travel to the steppe. It may be that you’re best off remaining where you are.” The child might still amount to something, even if he could never trust the woman again. Certainly he couldn’t allow her to find the gleaner. “Yes,” he went on, as if convincing himself. “Stay in Kett. I’ll have others look for him in Solkara.”
“But-”
Dusan reached out with his mind, placing an invisible hand over her mouth. He took care not to hurt her, but he saw from the widening of her pale eyes that he had frightened her. Never forget what I can do to you if I choose.
“My mind is set. You will remain in Kett. Do you understand?”
He removed the unseen hand.
“Yes, Weaver,” she whispered.
“Very good.”
His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, hungry for her despite the fire searing his heart. Then he released her mind, his consciousness hurtling back over Aneira and the Scabbard so swiftly that Dusaan felt as though he were falling. When he opened his eyes, he started violently, as one does awakening suddenly from a disturbing dream.
“Damn her!” he whispered to the darkness, gritting his teeth against a wave of nausea. “And the man as well.”
He walked to the hearth and sat in the nearest chair, fighting desperately to ease his pulse and purge his mind of the visions abruptly clamoring for his attention. Images of Cresenne, her legs entwined with those of another man, and of his own fingers closing around her throat.
He took a slow, shuddering breath, staring at the flames dancing before him. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he began slowly to take control of his thoughts once more. It was a long journey, and a difficult one, but he had spent years training his mind to retain its focus, to overcome his passions and the distractions foisted upon him by others. He was a Weaver. To do less would have been to risk discovery and execution.
Eventually, he was able to look away from the flames, and to think once more of the tasks that awaited him that night.
Pronjed would be sleeping by now, and if a residue of anger remained from his conversation with the woman,
so be it. The Solkaran minister had earned Dusaan’s fury as few ever had before.
The Weaver closed his eyes again, and sent his mind soaring eastward once more. He hadn’t as far to travel this time and before long he sensed the Great Forest beneath him. He allowed his thoughts to spiral downward to Castle Solkara, where he found the king’s archminister asleep.
Taking hold of the man’s mind, he again called forth the image of the moor, this time placing himself atop a steep, unforgiving rise and leaving Pronjed a good distance from the base of the mount. He even raised a wind to blow down the slope, slowing the minister further. Let the man walk and climb. Let him enfeeble himself so that he might know how he had displeased the Weaver. And let him tremble with that knowledge as he dragged himself up the rocky slope.
The Weaver had a long wait, and though it was of his own making, he had little patience for the delay. He had to resist the urge to shorten Pronjed’s climb, reminding himself again and again that he was punishing the man. When at last the minister reached the top of the rise, appearing in the distance as a small, slow-moving figure, Dusaan started toward him, his long strides covering the ground between them far faster than Pronjed could have on his own.
As they drew nearer to each other, Dusaan saw that the minister had indeed suffered in his ascent. Pronjed’s bony face was flushed to a deep scarlet, and the sweat on his brow and cheeks shone in the Weaver’s light. Still, though breathless, he wore a small grin on his thin lips, looking anything but contrite.
“Weaver,” he said, stopping before Dusaan and bowing. He looked up, eagerness in his pale eyes. “You’ve heard?”
“What happened?” the Weaver demanded, his voice like a frigid mountain wind.
The grin vanished. “I don’t understand.”
“What is there to understand? I want to know why your king is dead!”
“But surely you’re pleased. I’d have thought-”
“Tell me what happened!”
Pronjed licked his lips, the avid gleam in his eyes replaced now by something far more satisfying.