by DAVID B. COE
“Thank you, Archminister.” The king turned to his soldiers. “You heard what she said. See to it right away, and have preparations made for their executions. I want them dead before nightfall.” He looked at Grinsa again, nodded once. “Gleaner.”
The king strode away, followed closely by Shanstead, Labruinn, and the others.
“I’m sorry,” Keziah said when they were gone.
“For what?”
“For telling Kearney how he should guard them. The truth is, I want them dead. I never thought I’d say it, but in spite of everything else, I agree with Marston: they deserve to die.”
“Actually, I agree with him, too.”
Her eyebrows went up.
“It’s true,” he said, feeling terribly weary. “I just didn’t want a hand in their deaths. Is that so difficult to fathom?”
His sister looked pained. “No, not at all. I should have understood.”
He shrugged. “It’s been a long day. For all of us.”
She summoned one of the soldiers with a gesture. “I’m going to get some food. Why don’t you join me? You must be famished.”
Grinsa made himself smile. “I’ll eat soon. First I want to speak with Cresenne.”
“Of course.”
The soldier helped Keziah to her feet and led her away, leaving Grinsa alone on the cool grass. He could have slept for hours, and he wasn’t certain how long he could keep himself in Cresenne’s dreams. But it was growing late; she would be waking soon to another lonely night, and he didn’t want to wait even one more day to tell her that Dusaan was dead.
Closing his eyes, he sent his mind southward to Audun’s Castle. He found her quickly and entered her mind. Immediately he felt the dull pain in her chest. Had she been attacked yet again?
“Cresenne!” he said as soon as he saw her.
She gazed toward him, then took a tentative step forward. It occurred to him that in her dream he would be sitting, just as he was in the waking world.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s me.”
“Grinsa?”
“Yes. I was hurt, but I’m fine now.”
She ran to him, dropped to her knees beside him. Despite the scars that he still saw on her face, he thought that she had never looked more beautiful. She kissed him lightly on the lips, then sat back meeting his gaze, fear and hope mingled in her eyes.
He reached out a hand and cupped her cheek. “He’s dead. It’s over.”
For a moment she merely stared back at him. Then tears flooded her eyes and she began to sob. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. He can’t hurt you anymore.” He found that he was crying as well, though he was also smiling.
“A woman attacked me today. I nearly died again, and she nearly took Bryntelle. I went to sleep thinking that this would never end, that I’d be fighting off his servants and living in fear of his dreams until he finally managed to kill me.”
“I don’t know how many more of his servants are out there,” Grinsa told her. “But Dusaan will never walk in your dreams again.”
She put her arms around him, still weeping, and for a long time they held each other.
“How bad was it?” she finally asked. She pulled back quickly. “Is Keziah all right?”
“She’s fine.”
“And Tavis?”
“He’s … it’s complicated. He survived the fighting, but his father was killed and his closest friend.”
“I’m sorry for him. Truly.”
“You said that Bryntelle was nearly taken from you. Is she-”
“She’s right here beside me. Trin saved her. He saved us both.”
Grinsa gaped at her. “Trin?”
She nodded.
“Trin,” he said again. After a moment he laughed. “What a day.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Not now,” he said, shaking his head. “I need to rest. But soon. I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”
“All right.” She kissed him again, deeply this time. Then she smiled, the dazzling smile he remembered from so long ago. He hadn’t seen her smile like that in more turns than he could count. “I love you.”
Grinsa brushed a strand of hair from her face. “And I love you.”
He opened his eyes to the late-day sun, blinking against the brightness. He sat there a moment, then forced himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. His legs felt well enough, though-the healers had worked their craft well-and he turned gingerly to face the battle plain.
Dusaan’s body still lay amid the grasses. Other bodies, Eandi and Qirsi alike, had been moved. But no one had bothered with the Weaver. Or maybe none had dared go near him.
Grinsa reached out with his magic and tried to touch the Weaver’s mind, much as a soldier might prod a fallen enemy with the toe of his boot. Nothing. Dusaan was dead; his war was done. Over the next several turns, perhaps stretching to years, all the realms of the Forelands would continue to pay a price for what the man and his movement had done. Even now, Grinsa could hear Gershon Trasker in the distance, barking commands to the archers who would soon execute Jastanne and Pronjed. In the days to come, parents would weep for children lost in battle, sons and daughters would learn their first painful lessons about war and death, lovers would grieve at the realization of their worst fears.
But too, the land would begin to heal itself. At least Grinsa could hope as much. Throughout the Forelands, suspicions ran deep and in all directions, like fissures in dried earth. It would take time, he knew, for trust to take root again. Already though, he saw signs that the process was under way. Kearney had lied to preserve Kentigern’s honor. Soldiers in the king’s army were treating both Keziah and Tavis with the courtesy and respect that were their due.
These were trifles, to be sure. But they were a start. And on this day, when so much blood had been spilled and the Weaver had come so very close to defeating them all, Grinsa could hardly ask for more.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Curgh, Eibithar, Morna’s Moon waxing
They remained on the Moorlands for several days, collecting the dead, building pyres from the scant brush found among the grasses, and sending dark black clouds of smoke into the clear planting sky. At the insistence of Kearney and Sanbira’s queen, even the renegades were given the honor of a single vast pyre that for hours poured foul smoke into the air. Only the Weaver’s body was left to rot under the sun, its putrid remains picked at for days by crows and vultures.
Tavis’s father and Xaver MarCullet were given over to flame and vapor the first night after the battle, as stars burned brightly over the moor and slivers of moonlight shone weakly in the east. Tavis stood with Hagan MarCullet, his hand resting on the swordmaster’s stooped shoulder, his vision blurred with tears. He hadn’t cried so much in a single day since he was a child, and his throat and chest ached. Later that night, Aindreas of Kentigern was laid out on his own pyre, and Tavis watched that one burn as well, his emotions as roiled as a river in flood.
The following morning, the last of Adriel’s turn, he penned a message to his mother, informing her that he would be returning to Curgh early in the new turn, accompanied by the king and a number of nobles. He had planned to tell her of the duke’s death upon reaching the castle, but she needed to know that Kearney was coming, and she would not have wanted to have the king there when she learned that her husband was dead. As it was, he needed only write of their plans to tell her all she needed to know. Had Javan been alive, he, and not Tavis, would have sent such a message.
At first, Tavis had been reluctant to have the king accompany him back to Curgh. He liked Kearney a great deal, but even without accepting the king’s offer of asylum and a home in Glyndwr, he had lived under the protection of the Crown for too long. Kearney had argued, though, that now more than ever, Tavis needed his help.
“You lead your house now, Lord Curgh. We must make it clear, to friend and foe alike, that I trust completely in your innocence and your abilit
y to govern a major house.”
His innocence. Tavis knew that some in the realm would die of old age still believing that he had killed Brienne, and he no longer cared to try to convince them otherwise. But he was wise enough to recognize the generosity of Kearney’s offer, and to know that he would have been a fool to refuse him.
And had he not, Fotir, ever the first minister, would have prevailed upon him to accept anyway.
“He puts himself at risk for you, my lord,” the Qirsi told him quietly. “There are many, including ministers in his own court, who would tell him that you’re not worth the cost of such a gesture.”
“I know. I have no intention of refusing him. I just wish for a bit of peace.”
Fotir had smiled at that. “I don’t doubt it, my lord. You’ll have it soon enough.”
When at last they set out for Curgh, Tavis was accompanied by a host of soldiers, nobles, and ministers. Not only did Kearney ride with him, but so did Lathrop of Tremain, Caius of Labruinn, Marston of Shanstead, and their companies. Naturally, Grinsa rode with him, too, although not without some reluctance, for he was eager to return to the City of Kings and see Cresenne and his daughter. Tavis noticed as well that the duchess of Curlinte rode with Marston rather than setting out for Sanbira with her queen.
Well before they reached Curgh, Tavis began to feel that he was home at last. He hadn’t seen the castle of his forebears in more than a year, since he set out with Xaver and his father for Kentigern. In the time since, he had sailed the waters of Kreanna to Wethyrn and had battled the assassin Cadel on the rocky shores of the Wethy Crown. Yet only now, still leagues south of the castle, but sensing the first hint of brine in the wind, did he find himself thinking of the high cliffs of Curgh and the frothing waters of Amon’s Ocean below.
They came to the great walls of Curgh City late on the fourth day of their journey from the battle plain. The King’s Guard and the armies of Thorald and Tremain stopped at the gates and made camp in the shadow of the city. Kearney and the other nobles followed Tavis through the gates and into the streets of Curgh, where they were greeted by cheers from the city folk. For Tavis, it was a bittersweet homecoming. He had assumed since Kentigern that he would never hear his name shouted with such reverence by Curgh’s people. But he sensed as well the shock of those lining the streets at not seeing their duke in the king’s company. Upon entering the castle, he leaped from his horse and rushed to his mother’s outstretched arms. For several moments they held each other, heedless of the king and the protocol of royal visits, and they wept, grief for Javan mingling with joy at Tavis’s redemption.
“If I could have saved him, I would have.”
“I know that.”
At last, Shonah released him, wiping the tears from her face and curtsying to the king.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she said.
“There’s nothing to forgive, my lady. I hope that you’ll accept my condolences on the loss of your husband. He was a wise leader, a courageous warrior, and a good friend. The land grieves for him.”
“You honor us, Your Majesty.”
“You do us the honor, my lady, by making us guests in your home at such a time.”
The duchess curtsied again, then turned to Hagan, who had yet to dismount. She favored him with a smile, then faltered searching the ranks of Curgh’s army. After a moment, she spun toward Tavis.
“Xaver?” she whispered.
Tavis swallowed and shook his head.
“Oh, Hagan.” She walked to the swordmaster and took his hand, her face streaked with tears once more. “I’m so terribly sorry.”
The swordmaster nodded but said nothing. He remained on his horse, looking straight ahead, his jaw quivering, as if it was all he could do to keep from bawling like a child. Shonah brushed the swordmaster’s hand with her lips, then faced Kearney and the other nobles once more.
“Please make yourselves welcome. Quarters have been arranged for you and your ministers and there will be a feast tonight to celebrate your victory over the enemies of our realm.”
The king and his company dismounted and followed Shonah into the castle. Tavis hesitated, eyeing Hagan, wondering if he should remain with him.
“Leave him,” the gleaner said softly. “He’ll join us when he’s ready.”
Tavis knew he was right. He cast one more look at the swordmaster before leaving the ward with Grinsa.
The next few days seemed a blur of feasts and ceremony. Tavis’s investiture was a modest affair, as ducal ordinations tended to be. It had been several centuries since dukes of Curgh wore any sort of crown, and never had they held scepters or other tokens of their title. But Tavis did take his father’s sword as his own, and after a brief ceremony in the castle’s lower ward at which he swore fealty to the Crown, he hosted yet another banquet, this one open to the people of Curgh City.
The following morning, a rider arrived from Heneagh bearing a message of sympathy to Shonah and congratulations to the new duke. Later in the day, similar missives arrived from Domnall and Sussyn, two houses that had supported Aindreas of Kentigern in his feud with the king.
“Perhaps this will bring the other houses back to the fold, Your Majesty,” Tavis said, showing the messages to Kearney in his father’s old presence chamber.
“We can hope so,” the king said, sounding skeptical. “I expect it will take some time for Galdasten and Kentigern to sort through all that’s happened in the past year. Aindreas’s boy is still several years shy of his Fating, and Renald’s sons were killed by the Qirsi. Both houses have a good deal to sort through. I don’t imagine they’ll be ready to reconcile with your house or the throne any time soon.” He smiled thinly. “And Elam has always been a stubborn fool, so if I were you, I wouldn’t be sitting atop my ramparts waiting for messengers from Eardley.”
Tavis grinned. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“How is Hagan?” the king asked, his smile fading.
The young duke shrugged, then shook his head. “Not well. The Hagan of old would be scouring the countryside for probationers to replace the men we lost on the moor, and he’d be working those soldiers who remain day and night. Instead he walks the castle corridors or locks himself away in his chamber. He won’t even speak with my mother.”
“It’s bound to take some time.”
“I suppose. At least when he lost Daria, he still had Xaver to care for. But now … He speaks of returning to MarCullet and the home of his youth. He’s still an earl, you know.”
Kearney raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea.”
“I never thought of him as the kind of man who could live a noble’s life, but maybe that’s what he needs, at least for a while. Mother thinks so.”
“Your mother may well be right. Perhaps Hagan can find peace in the home of his forebears.”
“I hope so, Your Majesty.”
One final matter remained before Kearney and the other dukes left Curgh for their homes, one about which Tavis knew little until Grinsa explained it to him the following morning. It seemed that Kearney had agreed to a conclave of sorts between the nobles and their Qirsi, an opportunity for men and women of both races to speak of recent events and all that lay behind them.
“He agreed to it just after the battle with Dusaan,” Grinsa told him, as they walked through the castle ward. “It was Keziah’s idea, but I think that one of the renegades goaded the king into agreeing to it. I can’t believe he’s eager to hear what Keziah and the others have to say.”
“I don’t imagine. I’m not sure that I am, either.”
The nobles and their Qirsi met in the castle’s great hall, where Tavis’s father had welcomed so many dukes and thanes, honoring them with feasts. Fotir was there, of course, having made all the arrangements for the discussion with the approval of Tavis’s mother. Sitting with him were Keziah, Xivled jal Viste, and the ministers of the dukes of Labruinn and Tremain. They sat on one side of the great table, across from Marston, Caius, Lathrop, Diani of Curlinte, and Gersho
n Trasker. Tavis and Grinsa entered the hall in silence, taking their places on either side of the table. On this day, Tavis gave up pride of place to the king, allowing him to preside, as was proper. Servants had put out cheeses, breads, fruits, and flasks of wine, but no one ate or so much as filled a goblet. None of them even spoke.
“I’m afraid I’m at a loss as to where to begin,” Kearney finally said, looking around the table.
“Perhaps the archminister would like to tell us why we’re here,” Marston said.
Xivled bristled, and it occurred to Tavis that he hadn’t seen the thane and his minister together since they arrived in Curgh.
“All I meant was that we’re here at her request,” Marston went on, casting a quick look at his minister. “I’d like to know what she hopes to accomplish with this discussion for which she was so eager.”
“That’s a fair question, my lord,” Keziah said.
Xivled shook his head, glaring at the thane. “I think you’re too generous, Archminister. It should be obvious to all why this meeting was necessary.”
“What’s obvious to the Qirsi at this table might still be a mystery to the rest of us,” Kearney said. “Please, Minister, tell us why you think we’re here.”
“To put an end to the mistrust,” Xivled said, as if the rest of them were simple. “To begin to repair the damage that’s been done by this war and the conspiracy.”
“You can’t think to do that in one day, lad,” Lathrop said, his tone gentle. “These conflicts are as old as the kingdom itself.”
“I know that, my lord. But we have to begin somewhere.”
“And where would that be?” Caius demanded, sounding far more belligerent than had the duke of Tremain. “What is it you’re asking of us?”
“You might begin, my lord, by not treating every Qirsi you meet with such disdain.”
“I don’t believe I do, Minister.”
Xivled started to respond, but Keziah silenced him with a sharp glance.