by DAVID B. COE
“What did you say to the duke?” Gershon asked in a low voice, his eyes on the king as well.
“Not much, really. I complained about Kearney not following my counsel and remarked that Eandi nobles were quick to question the loyalty of their Qirsi. Other than that I said nothing offensive, though I’m sure I proved a rather poor dinner companion.”
“Do you think you might be taking this too far?”
“They’ve given me gold, but I’ve heard nothing from them since,” she said. “This isn’t a time to temper my behavior.”
“Nor is it a time to get yourself banished from the king’s court. You heard Grinnyd. He thinks that you’re a threat to the king, and he won’t hesitate to say so to Kearney.”
“I know. To be honest, I don’t know if I can stop myself anymore. I don’t plan any of the things I say. They just come to me. It’s almost as if I’ve actually started to believe them.”
She knew that Gershon was staring at her, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the king.
“Are you a threat to the king?”
Keziah managed a small smile. “No, it’s not that bad.”
“Not yet.”
At that she did look at him. “I’ll do nothing to harm him or the kingdom. You have my word.” Her eyes drifted to Kearney again. “I’m more a danger to myself than to anyone else.”
She sensed him frowning. “What does that mean?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Nothing.” She closed her eyes. “Have I stayed long enough yet? I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
“Yes, you can go. The way you’ve been lately, you’re likely to draw more attention remaining to the end than leaving early.”
“Do we need to have words first?”
“You’ve done enough tonight. I think a simple ‘goodnight’ will do it. Just make it convincing.”
“That doesn’t seem to be a problem. Be well, Gershon. We’ll speak again soon.”
He nodded, saying nothing.
Keziah stood abruptly, draining her goblet and setting it on the table smartly. “Goodnight, swordmaster,” she said, her tone heavy with sarcasm. She turned and strode from the great hall, certain that most of those who remained were staring after her.
She returned directly to her chamber, only allowing the scowl to leave her face when she had closed and locked the door behind her. Crossing to her bed, she lay down and, as she had every night for the last half turn, began to cry, muffling her sobs with her pillow. She had thought that this deception would become easier with time, but it hadn’t. Just the opposite was true. Every day that drove her further from Kearney brought new, deeper grief, until she began to fear for her sanity. She missed Paegar almost as much as she did her brother, though she knew that had it not been for the minister’s treachery, she would never have found herself in these circumstances.
After a time, when she was too weary even to cry anymore, Keziah forced herself up, splashed some cold water on her face, and put on her sleeping gown. The fire in her hearth had burned down, and she added two logs before climbing back into bed.
She must have fallen asleep instantly, for it seemed the next moment she was dreaming.
She stood on a plain, a cold wind cutting through her sleeping gown and making her hair dance. Tall grasses bowed like novices in a sanctuary and hulking boulders loomed like great grey beasts in some child’s tale. There was something both familiar and alien about the scene and for a moment she wondered if her brother had come to speak with her. Except that this wasn’t the moor near Eardley, and in all the visions Grinsa created for her, there had been daylight. It was night here on this plain.
Or so she thought. Looking up at the blackened sky, straining her eyes to see something, she realized that there was nothing. No stars, no moons, no clouds. Just darkness, as absolute as death.
Keziah shivered. And in that instant, she heard a single word spoken. “Come.” It brushed past her like the feathered seed of a harvest flower riding the wind. Before she understood what she was doing, she had turned and started walking toward the sound.
Confused and frightened, her arms crossed over her chest against the chill wind, she opened her mouth to call out Grinsa’s name. At the last minute, though, she stopped herself, not quite understanding why.
Soon she was climbing a gentle slope. She had heard nothing more, but she knew this was the way, and even as the climb grew more difficult, she didn’t stray. After some time, the ground became level again and she stopped, breathing hard.
The light that stabbed suddenly into her eyes made her cry out and cower, as if Bian the Deceiver had revealed himself to her. She didn’t realize that she had dropped to her knees until the voice spoke again.
“Rise.” His voice was deep, powerful, as she imagined a god’s might sound.
Keziah stood slowly and, still shielding her eyes with a hand, tried to see who had come. A figure stood before her, tall and imposing, as black as the sky against that brilliant white glare. Wild hair twisted about his shoulders in the wind, and a long cape stirred like pine boughs.
“You believe you’re dreaming,” he said.
“Aren’t I?”
“People often think so the first time they encounter a Weaver this way. You are asleep, but this is not dreaming as you know it.”
Precisely because this wasn’t her first encounter with a Weaver, Keziah knew immediately that he was telling the truth. She felt a fool for not anticipating this. Of course the conspiracy would be led by a Weaver, perhaps several.
“Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“I sense no surprise on your part. You expected this?”
“No, I-”
“Then what?”
“This isn’t the first time a Weaver has entered my dreams. My father was a Weaver. He spoke to me this way many times.” The lie came to her easily. She’d been lying about so many things for so long-Grinsa, her affair with Kearney, and, most recently, her feigned resentment of the king and all the Eandi. At this point, she felt as comfortable with deceit as she did with the truth.
“Your father was an underminister for the House of Eardley.”
She swallowed. How much more did he know about her?
“Yes. He never told anyone but my mother and me about the true extent of his powers.”
Keziah held her breath, terrified that he would ask about her brother.
“I see. This pleases me. You bear a Weaver’s blood and so your children might be Weavers.”
She had thought of this many times. Even though neither of her parents had been Weavers, Grinsa’s powers made it clear that there was Weaver’s blood in her veins.
“Yes, they might.”
“And you must also know that if they have the gift, and if their true powers are discovered, they will be killed and you with them.”
Keziah nodded.
“Do you know why I’ve come to you?”
Before she could answer, she felt a strange sensation, as if she were being distracted by another sound, though there was nothing here but the wind and the Weaver. An instant later her head began to spin, and she nearly fell to the ground again.
“Well?” the Weaver said. “Do you?”
At first she thought the Weaver was doing this to her, and she tried to guard herself, as if from an assault. Then she heard another voice calling her name, as distant and soft as a whisper, but insistent and drawing nearer. Grinsa.
“The movement,” she managed to say. “You lead the movement.”
“That’s right.”
She sensed a light behind her, and though she didn’t dare turn to look, she guessed that Grinsa had added his landscape to her dream. The Weaver didn’t appear to notice-she couldn’t imagine why, but she thanked the gods for her good fortune.
“Do you know how I found you?” the Weaver asked.
“Paegar. He told you about me.”
“Yes, he did. He said that you were once in love with your king. Is
that true?”
She considered lying again. At that moment she would have said nearly anything to end this dream before the Weaver learned of Grinsa and of all she had done to convince the movement that she could be turned against Kearney. But she had sacrificed too much to lure the man here. She could hardly drive him away now.
“Yes, it’s true. I loved him, and he cast me from his bed as soon as they gave him the crown.”
“You hate him.”
Keziah hesitated. Even here, speaking with this man, she couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
“It’s all right,” the Weaver said gently. “Perhaps it’s too much to ask you to hate him already. But you long to strike back at him.”
She heard Grinsa approaching and in her mind she shouted for him to leave her, to return another night. But he couldn’t hear her any more than could the man standing before her.
“I do.”
“I can help you,” the Weaver said. “I can make you part of a great movement that will rid the Forelands of your foolish king and others like him. Already, throughout the seven realms, Qirsi like you are rising up against the Eandi courts. You can join us. You can punish the Glyndwr king for what he did to you, and assure your children of a glorious future.” He took a step toward her. “All you must do is pledge yourself to my service and open your mind to me, fully, without reservation.”
She faltered. How could she do such a thing without revealing too much?
“You resist,” he said, his voice harder. “Why?”
Keziah sensed that Grinsa was close and she had to fight an urge to whirl on him and yell for him to leave her.
“I can’t do this. Not yet.”
“I have revealed myself to you, because you have made it clear with your actions and your words that you no longer wish to debase yourself in service of the Eandi. You have been chosen and you must join me now.”
She felt his magic buffeting her mind and she struggled to hold him off, fearing that her defenses would fail her at any moment.
“Others before you have fought me as well,” he said. “They suffered for their defiance. Is that what you want?”
“No,” Keziah answered, her voice quavering. “I don’t mean to defy you. But I’ve never had someone ask this of me before. I don’t know what to do.” This last, she intended for Grinsa. Surely he could hear the Weaver now. Couldn’t he see that he had to leave her?
“Merely open yourself to me,” the Weaver said.
“I’m afraid. You have to give me a bit of time.”
“Kezi?” Grinsa whispered, as if standing just beside her.
Go! Please! I can’t hold him off muck longer!
“There is no time. You received your gold, didn’t you?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Call me Weaver. I’m not some dull-witted Eandi noble, and I won’t be addressed as such.”
“Yes, Weaver. Forgive me.”
“You have your payment,” he said again. “Now it is time for you to give yourself to me and this movement.”
“But-”
“Enough!”
Pain exploded in her mind, blinding, searing. He was crushing her eyes, though she hadn’t seen him take a step toward her. She threw up her hands, trying to shield herself. She tried to draw upon her magic, but no power she possessed could protect her from a Weaver.
“Give yourself to me!”
Helpless, lost, she collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony.
She heard Grinsa cry out her name and abruptly, the pain ceased.
“What was that?”
Keziah managed to open her eyes, though for several moments she could see nothing at all.
“What, Weaver?” she said, her voice barely carrying over the sound of the wind.
“I heard a voice cry out. I think it spoke your name.”
He was looking about, as if expecting to see someone step out of the darkness.
“I cried out, Weaver. But I heard nothing else.”
“No, it sounded…” He stopped, shaking his head.
Keziah still felt Grinsa standing nearby, and now she heard him whisper again.
“I love you,” he said, and then was gone.
She choked back a sob.
The Weaver faced her once more, his features still shrouded in shadow. “Stand up.”
The archminister stood slowly, her legs trembling so violently that she barely trusted them to support her. Even with Grinsa gone, she realized that she could not open herself to the Weaver. She needed to conceal too much from him-her reasons for seeking out the conspiracy, her real feelings for Kearney, Grinsa’s powers. Standing on that darkened plain, facing for the first time a man who might have been stronger than her brother, it seemed to Keziah that her entire life consisted of secrets that had to be guarded. She had never given a thought to what a Weaver might do to her through her dreams. There had been times in her dreams of Grinsa when he had put his arms around her, or kissed her brow, and she had felt all of it. It never occurred to her that he could hurt her as well. Why would it? But having felt the Weaver’s wrath, she didn’t doubt for a moment that he could truly maim her, perhaps even kill her. She thought abruptly of Paegar and shuddered. Had he angered the Weaver? Was that why he was dead?
“Are you ready to open your mind to me now?” the man demanded.
“I can’t,” she whispered, flinching at the mere thought that he might hurt her again.
“You know now what I can do to you.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“Yet still you resist. Tell me why.”
“I don’t trust you.” Even keeping herself closed to him, she sensed that lying to him again might be dangerous. So she sought refuge in those truths she could chance. “I’m archminister to the king of Eibithar. You may want me to join your cause, or you may wish only to learn from me what you can and then kill me. As you say, I know now what you can do to me. If anything I fear you more than I did before.”
“I can kill you where you stand,” he said, his voice like a drawn sword. “Yet I don’t. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“It says only that you need something from me. I can’t be certain what it is.”
They stood in silence for several moments, Keziah staring at the black space where the Weaver’s face should have been. She felt his eyes upon her, but she couldn’t begin to guess at what he was thinking. She could only steel herself to endure more pain and hope that she could withstand another assault.
When he spoke again, he surprised her, as much with his words as the gentle tone of his voice. “I can see why Paegar loved you.”
Her face grew hot.
“You do know that he did.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“But you still loved your king.”
She nodded, feeling fear rising in her throat. Had he found some way to read her thoughts without her consent?
“Those whom I hurt as I did you usually relent before I have to resort to pain a second time. That you continue to resist speaks well of your courage if not your sense.”
“Thank you, Weaver.”
“While I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I need you, I will admit that winning the loyalties of Eibithar’s archminister would be a great boon for the Qirsi movement. For that reason, I’ll give you time to reconsider your decision to refuse me. I’ll come to you again a few nights hence, at which point you will open yourself to me or die. I’m afraid there are no other choices. I have given you gold and I have revealed myself to you. Even granting you this small grace, I risk all. But I’m hopeful that with such a gesture I can convince you to trust me.”
Keziah nearly laughed aloud. You’re threatening to kill me, she wanted to say. And this is supposed to ma’te me trust you?
Instead she lowered her gaze and said, “Thank you, Weaver.”
He nodded once. “We’ll speak again soon.”
Keziah opened her eyes to find herself lying in bed, her sleeping gown, bed linens, and ha
ir soaked with sweat. She sat up and felt her room lurch, as if from an earth tremor. For several moments she held herself utterly still, gritting her teeth against the bile rising from her gut. Then, surrendering, she rushed across her room to her chamber pot and vomited until her stomach was empty and her throat ached.
She washed her mouth and face with frigid water and sank to the hard floor, tears coursing down her face again.
More than anything, she wanted to go to Kearney, to confess all and seek comfort in the warmth of his arms. The king couldn’t protect her, of course. Not from this enemy. Neither could Gershon, though she knew that she should go to the swordmaster and tell him of the Weaver. Keziah had felt the power of the man’s magic-there wasn’t an Eandi noble in all the Forelands who could stand against him. Few Qirsi could either. Certainly she couldn’t save herself.
In her foolishness and her arrogance she had thought to defeat the conspiracy on her own. She felt like a general who leads an army to battle, only to find himself overwhelmed by the strength of his foe. True, there weren’t thousands of lives to be lost here, at least not yet. There were only two. Her own and Grinsa’s. But it might as well have been all the soldiers of the seven realms. For she was certain that if anyone could defeat this Weaver, it was her brother. And she feared that before long, the Weaver would know this as well.
Chapter Thirty-one
Mertesse, Aneira
Their first few days in Mertesse had been no better than their conflict-ridden journey north from Dantrielle. Despite the understanding Dario thought they had reached during the night they spent at the inn just outside the northern city, Cadel remained a difficult business partner, finding fault with nearly everything Dario did, not only musically, but also with respect to their other profession. The lutenist thought he understood the cause of Cadel’s dark moods. They still had not learned the name of the Qirsi they were to kill, they knew nothing of his powers, and they couldn’t even be certain that he intended to return to Mertesse with the duke’s company. Dario could not deny being on edge as well, and he wasn’t the one who would have to kill the sorcerer when the time came. This had to be far worse for Cadel. Still, that didn’t excuse the man for treating him this way. Young as he was, Dario was no child. There wasn’t a lutenist north of Noltierre who could play with him, and while he might not have been killing for hire as long as Cadel or for as much gold, he knew how to use a blade and defend himself in a fight. Hearing how the singer picked at him, one might think that he was still apprenticing.