by DAVID B. COE
The gleaner was right, though it made Fotir vaguely uncomfortable to admit it. He also found the mention of Qirsi conspirators disturbing, but he kept that to himself. “I have to agree, Xaver,” he said. “We should say nothing to the duke, at least for now.”
The boy took a step forward. “You’ll need help, someone to stand watch while you help Tavis.”
“No,” Fotir told him. “The gleaner was right about that as well. You can’t be involved. If this can be done, we’ll do it. And if it can’t, we’ll have an easier time avoiding capture if it’s just the two of us.”
“You can’t just expect me to stay here,” the boy said.
Grinsa smiled at him. “I showed you a fine future at your Fating, Master MarCullet. The first minister and I don’t want to do anything to endanger it.”
Xaver frowned, but after a moment he gave a small nod.
“Try to sleep,” Fotir said, stepping to the door. “And no matter what happens, don’t say anything about this to anyone. If someone asks, you thought I was going to a tavern.”
Again the boy nodded, this time with more conviction. “All right,” he said. “May the gods be at your side.”
The minister grinned, then led the gleaner into the corridor and to the nearest set of stairs. At the entrance to the stair tower, however, he stopped and faced Grinsa.
“Before we go any further, I want a better explanation of what we’re about to do.”
Grinsa blinked. “I’ve told you,” he said. “We’re going to free Lord—”
“Yes, I know. But how? The boy’s not here—it’s just the two of us. Now I want the truth, Qirsi to Qirsi.”
Once more the man hesitated, although this time he did not look away. “I can’t tell you everything. It’s enough to say that I am more than I told you. I can heal and shape as well as glean.”
“Why did you lie to me that night?”
“I wasn’t certain that I could trust you,” he said with a shrug.
“Trust is one thing, but why lie about your abilities, especially when you were offering your help?”
Grinsa took a breath, and again it seemed to Fotir that his expression was one of profound grief. “There are divisions among our people that run deeper than I ever thought possible. Even the simplest gestures of trust can be dangerous. You and I know nothing of each other except that we both wish to save Tavis’s life, and even that we’re each taking on faith. I joined the Revel as a gleaner and told no one of my other powers. I had my reasons for doing so, and if I had told you more than I told Trin and the rest, it might have gotten back to them.”
It was the second time since their arrival in Kentigern that someone had spoken to him of the rift that existed among the Qirsi as if it was something new. In a sense, though, these divisions dated back to the Qirsi Wars and the betrayal of his people that ended them. His parents, particularly his father, had spoken of Carthach, the traitorous officer who helped the Forelanders defeat the Qirsi army during the ancient wars, as if he had been a demon sent by Bian from the Underrealm. The traitor Carthach. It might as well have been the man’s name. Certainly Fotir had never heard him referred to any other way until he was well past his Determining. Traveling with the Revel because both his parents were gleaners, he constantly heard men like his father, and like Trin, their tongues loosened by wine, railing against Carthach and the Eandi. And like Trin, Fotir’s father and his friends saved their harshest words for those Qirsi who served in the Eandi courts that the Revel visited.
It was funny in a way. At least it was until Fotir’s Fating. His mother did the gleaning, rather than his father. Fotir was sixteen, and had long since begun to challenge his father’s narrow view of the world. They barely spoke anymore. Which was fortunate, for had it been his father summoning the vision of his future from the Qiran, Fotir might never have seen his true fate. As it was, his mother cried out at what she showed him. An Eandi watching the gleaning might have thought that she saw an early death for her son, or some unspeakable disgrace. But no, it was just Fotir, grown into manhood, serving an Eibitharian duke.
Fotir left the Revel that night. He never saw his parents again, though he and his mother exchanged letters until her death several years later.
The unrest of which Shurik and now Grinsa had spoken might have been new, but the feelings behind it—the irrational resentment and prejudice—were as old as Carthach’s memory, as old as the kingdoms of the Forelands. Fotir wanted no part of this fight. He never had.
“You’re still not answering my question,” Fotir said, unwilling to be swayed simply by talk of Qirsi resentments and conspiracies.
“No, I’m not. But I swear to you on the memory of my wife, whom I lost to the pestilence six years ago, that I wish you and the duke no harm. I came here to help Lord Tavis and will do so with or without you. We both know, however, that I have a far better chance of succeeding if you help me.”
Fotir considered this in silence for some time. Whatever had driven Grinsa to come to Kentigern, he did appear to be their last hope for saving Tavis’s life. If it could still be saved. The first minister exhaled loudly, allowing himself a small smile. “You can be persuasive, Gleaner. Did you know that?”
Grinsa grinned. “Actually, yes. Did I forget to mention to you that I have mind-bending magic? That’s how I got into the castle in the first place.”
They started down the stairs, stepping lightly and keeping watch for more guards, but Fotir could not keep his mind from returning to what Grinsa had just told him. Mind-bending was a powerful magic, one that worked best on the Eandi, who had no way of protecting themselves from Qirsi power. But more than that, with gleaning, shaping, and healing, the mind-bending magic gave the man four types of power, an uncommonly large number for even the most powerful Qirsi. The very idea of it raised a staggering possibility, one that Fotir had not considered for many years. Abruptly, he understood Grinsa’s reluctance to tell him the truth.
At the bottom of the winding stairway, Grinsa led them toward another corridor rather than out into the ward.
“Don’t we want to go this way?” Fotir asked.
“Not unless we want to be seen by the castle guards.”
Still the minister hesitated, abruptly unsure of whether he’d been wise to follow this man.
“I know of a sally port,” Grinsa explained. “You didn’t really think that we’d just walk into the dungeon and free him?”
Fotir felt his color rise. “No.”
“Trust me, First Minister. One of the advantages of traveling with the Revel is that I have the opportunity to explore the castles of all Eibithar’s dukes. I’m quite familiar with Kentigern.”
“And Curgh, too?” the minister asked as they started walking again.
Grinsa glanced at him and grinned. “Of course.”
Reaching the sally port, the two Qirsi stepped out into the night air and circled around to the outside wall of the prison tower. There, near the ground, was a single small opening covered with an iron grate.
“This is it,” Grinsa whispered. “There’s a second grate at the base of the shaft leading up to here, so if you can break these bars, I’ll get the ones below.”
Fotir nodded. “All right.” He knelt on the grass and prepared to use his shaping power on the iron, but Grinsa stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Keep the breaks clean,” the gleaner said. “If we have the time, we should repair the breaks before we leave.”
“That will take a lot of magic.”
“I know. Leave that to me.”
Fotir shrugged, then set to work on the window grate. There were four bars going across and another three plumb. Fourteen breaks in all. He would have liked to do only a few of them, but as it was he had to break the bars as close to the stone as possible in order to give them enough room to fit through. It would have been easier as well to merely shatter the grate with one push of power, but Grinsa was right: if they didn’t repair the grate, Tavis’s escape migh
t be discovered too soon.
As first minister to the duke of Curgh, Fotir was valued as much for his wisdom and his knowledge of Eibithar and the other kingdoms of the Forelands as he was for his Qirsi abilities. Occasionally, a dream offered him some glimpse of the future that he shared with Javan, and one could claim that his ability to summon mists and winds might aid in the defense of Curgh Castle in the event of a siege. But the fact was, he had little opportunity to use his magic in his capacity as Javan’s advisor.
It felt good to be tapping into his power, and when the first bar broke, the metal chiming like two swords coming together in battle, he could not help but smile. But his joy at using his abilities once more quickly gave way to the recognition of how his skills had diminished. He felt like a soldier who goes to war without having trained for many years. He could barely control his magic and he tired quickly. After struggling through only four or five clean breaks, he was sweating like a trench laborer. His hands had begun to tremble and his head was pounding. He was ashamed of his weakness and he tried to hide his fatigue from Grinsa, but the gleaner was watching him closely.
“You can rest if you need to.”
Fotir shook his head. “We haven’t the time. I’ll be fine. It’s just been a while since I’ve done anything like this.”
“Perhaps you need help.”
“No, I—” He stopped, suddenly unable to speak. For his weariness had vanished. Abruptly, power was flowing through him like moonlight through an open window. In part it was his own power—he felt its source within him, as one feels the heart pumping life through one’s limbs. But this was Grinsa’s power as well, bolstering his own, directing it, bringing to it the control that Fotir lacked. Somehow, the gleaner was sharing the burden of what Fotir was trying to do.
Somehow. Fotir knew how. There could be only one explanation.
“You’re a Weaver!” he breathed.
“Later,” Grinsa said quietly. “After we’re finished.”
The minister nodded and turned his mind back to the iron bars, though he was still awed by what the gleaner had done. A Weaver. By revealing the extent of his powers, Grinsa had literally placed his life in Fotir’s hands. It was an act of unimaginable trust that left the minister humbled, and deeply troubled by his earlier mistrust and the things he had said to Grinsa outside the Silver Gull in Curgh.
“Does anyone else know?” he asked.
“Later,” Grinsa said again. “I’ll tell you what I can, I promise. But we must do this first.”
They were through the last of the bars. Carefully, with as little noise as they could manage, they removed the grate. Grinsa started to lower himself through the window, but Fotir stopped him.
“Let me do the other grate as well.”
“But I don’t want you going into the dungeon,” the gleaner said. “We should limit your involvement as much as we can.”
The minister smiled. “It’s a bit late for that. You’ll need me to help you lift him out. And since I have no power to heal, you’ll need to tend to the boy on your own. Let me do this much. After what you’ve given me, I feel I owe you that.”
Grinsa hesitated, a look of uncertainty in his pale eyes. “All right,” he said at last. “My thanks.”
Fotir gave a quick smile, before lowering himself headfirst into the narrow shaft. It was a tight fit—it promised to be even tighter for the gleaner, who was broader in the shoulders than he—but he didn’t have far to go to reach the second grate. The shaft widened slightly at the bottom and there were fewer bars here, only two in each direction. The air, however, was hot and fetid and he nearly gagged on it. The smells of human waste and rot and infection made his eyes water. He worked as quickly as he could, and with Grinsa’s magic enhancing his own, he removed the grate in just a few moments.
He held on to the iron rather than letting it fall to the prison floor, and he called as loudly as he dared for Grinsa to pull him back out. He felt the man grab hold of his ankles and pull. His knees and elbows scraped painfully on the stone, but after a few seconds he was out, breathing the cool, clean night air again.
“Well done,” the gleaner said. “Now the opening is far off the floor, so be ready for a long drop when we go back in.”
“And you should prepare yourself for the stench.”
Grinsa’s brow furrowed. “Bad?”
“Awful.”
“Like a rotting corpse?”
Fotir caught his breath. It hadn’t even occurred to him. “A bit, yes,” he said, “among other things.”
A look of relief registered on the man’s features. “Those other things are a good sign. Other prisoners will have died there. If it was Tavis’s corpse, the smell would have overwhelmed everything else.” He gestured toward the opening.
Fotir climbed in again, feet first this time. He took a long breath as he did, savoring this last taste of pure air. Then he lowered himself into the opening. His feet reached the bottom of the shaft and he tried to ease himself downward as slowly as possible. But with nothing against which he could brace his legs it became increasingly difficult to control his descent, until at last he could no longer keep himself from falling. His upper body slid quickly through the shaft and he crossed his forearms over his face so as not to hit his head on the top of the opening. There was little he could do, though, to keep his balance when he landed, and he sprawled onto the rank, damp floor.
“Xaver?” a voice croaked from the far wall.
The minister pushed himself up and peered through the darkness, but he couldn’t see anything at all.
An instant later Grinsa dropped into the cell, stumbling a bit as he landed, but staying on his feet.
“Father? Is that you?”
“No, Lord Tavis,” Fotir said, finally finding his voice. “It’s not your father or Master MarCullet.”
“Then who?” the boy said, his voice sounding thick and weak.
A flame jumped to life in the palm of Grinsa’s hand, its light fighting through the black of the prison.
“Fotir!” the boy said. “And the gleaner?”
But the minister just gaped at the figure he saw before him, chained to the stone wall. He felt his stomach turn and he had to choke back the bile that rose in his throat.
“My lord!” he said, his voice cracking. “What have they done to you?”
Aindreas had come back to hurt him so often that Tavis had lost track of everything. He didn’t know the day or which bells he was hearing on those occasions when he noticed them ringing. He was barely even aware of the rise and fall of the sun and moons. There was no dark or light anymore, no day or night. There was pain and there was sleep. Nothing else mattered.
The marks of the duke’s sword were all over his chest and back, his limbs and head. Aindreas had even taken his sword to Tavis’s groin, though he had yet to cut off his privates. That was coming, though; the duke had made a point of telling him so. It was, at this point, the only part of him the duke had spared. The prelate had been back once or twice as well, to urge Tavis yet again to confess and repent. During his last visit, Barret had expressed his concern about all the cuts on Tavis. Apparently a good number of them were oozing and raw. Aindreas had taken the prelate’s concern to heart and had given up his sword for torches. Tavis had burns on his back, his legs, and his arms. Most of his fingers were broken as well.
But he had not confessed. His life, he had come to realize at some point, hanging on that wall, whimpering at his pain, and pleading with Bian to come for him before Brienne’s father returned, had amounted to shockingly little. He had never distinguished himself in battle, he had never been king or even duke, he had never been in love. Xaver was the only true friend he could claim, and he had nearly ended that friendship with the act of a drunken fool. When he was gone, hanged for a murder he had not committed, he would leave no legacy, no achievement that his parents might point to with pride and say, “Our son did that.”
But, he had decided, with a resolve that surprised
him and would have shocked his father, that he would leave no false confession either. Even if he could not add to the glory of the House of Curgh, he would not sully it, at least no more than he already had. As legacies went, it was pitiably small. But it was all he had.
Sometimes the pain grew so unbearable that he was tempted to give in. Few believed him innocent anyway, and those who did, those who truly mattered, would understand why he had confessed. It was only pride that stopped him. Curgh pride. Some called it the curse of his house. Some claimed that it had been at the root of more than one of Eibithar’s civil wars. But in those final days, as torch fire seared his flesh, it proved to be Tavis’s salvation.
When he first heard the voices, he feared that Aindreas had returned. He opened his eyes slowly, expecting to see daylight or the damned torches. Instead he found absolute darkness, though the sounds continued to reach him. Voices, the occasional ring of metal. It might have been guards outside the prison door, but he had never heard them so clearly before. Or perhaps he was losing his sanity. Such things happened to prisoners, he knew, particularly to those who were tortured.
Abruptly the ringing of the metal grew louder, as if it was happening within the cell. Had they brought in another prisoner as he slept? Was this the sound of a second set of chains? Or was Aindreas, having broken his body, trying now to break his mind as well? He kept silent, listening as the metal rang again and again. It was coming from the window, he realized, feeling a surge of hope. Just as suddenly as it began, the ringing stopped and a voice cried out; he couldn’t make out the words. He was trembling, his pulse racing. Something was happening, for good or ill, and he waited.
He heard someone scuffling on the stone—again the sound came from the window shaft—and then something, or someone, landed on the floor of the cell just in front of him.
“Xaver?” he said through cracked lips.
No answer. His fear returned.