by DAVID B. COE
“The boy’s presence in Glyndwr may prove to be of some use to us,” Shurik said quickly, expecting the Weaver to hurt him again at any moment. “My former duke may have been helped by Curgh and Glyndwr, but he remains convinced that Tavis killed his daughter. Given time, I believe the rift between Javan and Aindreas will widen again. With the boy in Glyndwr, it shouldn’t be difficult to draw Kearney into the fray.”
“Interesting. You may be right. But in the meantime, whose time is being wasted? Whose gold is being spent to turn Kentigern against Glyndwr?”
Before Shurik could answer he was staggered by another blow, this one to the temple.
“Mine!” the Weaver roared, his voice rolling like thunder over the grasses and boulders. “Never forget that! Every time you fail, I pay the cost. I’m a patient man. I’ve waited many years to achieve as much as I have. But my patience is wearing thin and my tolerance for mistakes is waning. From now on, when you fail me, you’ll be punished. And not just you, but all the Qirsi in my service, including the one sleeping beside you. You can tell her that in the morning, when you wake.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
Shurik thought the man would let him go then, but he was wrong.
“You said a moment ago that there were other forces at work. What did you mean?”
The minister hesitated. This was not a matter he wished to discuss just now, with the Weaver already enraged.
“You do remember saying it.”
“Yes, Weaver. But I meant only that Tavis’s escape had drawn Glyndwr into the conflict and that the duchess of Curgh had been surprisingly generous in her offer to help Aindreas defend his castle.”
“I don’t believe you. There’s more to it than that. I sense your fear, your reluctance to tell me all that you’re thinking.”
“Anything else is conjecture on my part. Nothing more.”
“Then amuse me with your theories. But tell me quickly. I grow tired of these games. I can just as easily compel you to speak as ask you. And I don’t think you want that.”
Shurik’s throat was tight. In that moment he wasn’t even certain that he could speak. He felt a strange pressure on his eyes that swiftly turned to agony. Again the Weaver had not lifted a hand or taken a single step toward him. But it seemed to the minister that the Weaver’s thumbs were pushing his eyes into his head, until he thought that he would never see again.
“All right!” he cried. “I’ll tell you! Please, just stop!”
Abruptly the pressure was gone.
“Of course,” the Weaver said, his tone mild. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to know what you meant.”
The minister took a long, shuddering breath, wishing that he had held his tongue rather than making excuses for the failed siege.
“Well?” the Weaver demanded, his voice hardening once more.
“As I told you before,” Shurik began, “I didn’t foresee the involvement of Glyndwr, or for that matter, the boy’s escape from Aindreas’s dungeon. As far as I can tell, one man was responsible for both. He’s Qirsi, I don’t know his full name, though I heard others call him Grinsa. I’ve also heard him referred to as the gleaner, leading me to believe that he was with the Revel.”
“So all this fuss is about a resourceful Qirsi?”
“No, Weaver. I believe he’s far more than that. When Tavis escaped the castle, those who helped him managed to shape a hole in the stone wall of a castle tower. And when I denied having shaping power myself, I had the distinct impression that he knew I was lying.”
“What are you suggesting?” the Weaver asked. But Shurik knew from the sound of the man’s voice that he already understood. For the first time since he had pledged himself to this cause, Shurik heard fear in the man’s voice. If Grinsa was a Weaver, he certainly wasn’t this Weaver.
“There may be another Weaver in the Forelands,” Shurik said, trying to keep his voice even. If he was right, his Weaver needed him more than ever. Who else knew where Grinsa was or what he looked like? Who else understood the courts of Eibithar well enough to predict with any certainty where he might go next? “I don’t think there’s any other explanation.”
“Of course there are other Weavers in the Forelands, you fool. Do you honestly believe I thought myself the only one? The danger lies not in his existence, but rather in the interest he’s taken in the boy and your activities. Most Weavers choose to stay away from the intrigue of the courts for just this reason, the fear of discovery. That’s probably why he was hiding in the Revel. But something must have happened to lure him out of the gleaning tent. Something that—”
He fell silent, standing before Shurik as still as the boulders that surrounded them.
“Weaver?” the minister said at last.
“You’re to remain in Mertesse,” the Weaver said at last. “You and your friend. In time, there will be more for both of you to do, but for now, I want you to stay there. Earn the trust of the new duke. Learn something of the Aneiran courts. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course. But what about this other Weaver?”
“Never speak of him again. Not to anyone.”
“But I know who he is. I’ve seen him. I can help you find him and keep watch on him.”
“You’re an exile and so you’re of no use to me at all.”
“What if—?”
A hand grabbed hold of his throat, unseen, but as powerful as a demon’s claw.
“Enough!” the Weaver said. “You will stay in Mertesse. Question my commands again, and I’ll hurt you in ways that will leave you wishing you’d remained in Kentigern to face your duke’s torture. Defy me and I’ll kill you.”
His lungs burned for air. It felt as though the Weaver was crushing his throat. He tried to plead for the man’s pity, but he couldn’t make any sound at all.
And then he was awake in Yaella’s chamber, with daylight seeping through the shuttered windows. She was sitting beside him, wrapped in a robe, her eyes wide with terror and tears on her face.
“I couldn’t wake you,” she whispered, her voice quavering. “I tried and tried, but it was as if you couldn’t hear me.”
He lay very still, saying nothing, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with each precious breath.
“Were you with the Weaver?”
Shurik nodded.
“Was he angry?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice weak and raw. “But more than that, I think he’s scared.”
Chapter Thirty-four
City of Kings, Eibithar, Shyssir’s Moon waxing
Eibithar’s nobles came to the City of Kings from all corners of the kingdom to attend Kearney’s investiture. Of course the dukes of the twelve houses were there, including Kearney’s eldest son and namesake who would become duke with his father’s ascension. But lesser nobles came as well, from the most powerful thane in Thorald, to the most obscure of Sussyn’s barons, and nearly all in between. It had been over thirty years since the last ascension. Given Kearney’s youth and the longevity for which Glyndwr’s dukes were renowned, there was no telling when there might be another.
Nobles came from Wethyrn, Caerisse, and northern Sanbira as well. There were even rumors that Braedon’s emperor intended to send a representative, though no one had arrived from the empire as of yet. Many of these nobles brought their families, and the families brought gold. So Grinsa was not surprised to see the broad avenues of the city choked with peddlers and merchant carts. “Whither court gold, so go the traders.” It was an old saying, but one that still rang true.
But neither the noble families of the Foreland’s courts nor the merchants with all their wares held any interest for the gleaner. He cared only for Bohdan’s Revel, which had arrived late the previous night, sometime after he and Tavis returned to their chamber in the great castle. The Revel had been in Eardley, of course, as it always was during Morna’s Turn, and would usually have traveled west anyway as far as Labruinn. It was one of the longest journeys of each year for the
festival, made even longer this year by the celebration at Audun’s Castle. The musicians, dancers, and gleaners would have had to journey an additional twenty leagues and cross Binthar’s Wash and the Thorald River, both of which were swelled by the rains of the growing season. No doubt they had been weary when they arrived, hungry for a warm meal and eager for sleep. But this was the Revel. When Grinsa and the young lord awoke, the gleaning tent was already raised, its flags visible from their window.
The gleaner was reluctant to leave Tavis’s side, particularly with the city so crowded. Aindreas had promised to support Kearney’s ascension and, though clearly unmoved by Tavis’s claims of innocence, he had made no more threats against the boy. But Kentigern’s soldiers and lesser lords were everywhere. Kearney had vowed to hold Aindreas responsible for any harm that came to Tavis, but as a practical matter, there was only so much he could do if one of Kentigern’s underlings made an attempt on the boy’s life.
As soon as he caught sight of the gleaning tent, however, feeling his heart jump like a Revel tumbler and his stomach turn to stone, he knew that he would have to leave the boy alone, at least for a time.
“What is it?” Tavis asked, eyeing him closely. “Are you ill?”
In spite of everything, Grinsa managed a smile. “No, not ill. I have to do something this morning.” I have to kill the woman I love.
“That tent,” Tavis said, following the direction of the Qirsi’s gaze. “It’s the Revel, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to see that woman. The one I asked you about in the Sanctuary.”
Grinsa clenched his jaw, still staring out at the gleaning tent. He had no wish to discuss this with anyone. “Can you amuse yourself in the castle until I return?” he asked. “I shouldn’t be long.”
“Of course. I may go out to see the musicians, but I’ll be back by midday if you wish.”
He didn’t like the idea of the boy leaving the safety of the castle, but he couldn’t make him a prisoner. “That will be fine,” he said after a moment’s pause. “Just watch yourself.”
Tavis grinned. “I’m no dolt, Grinsa. I’ll find Xaver or my father. I won’t be alone.”
The gleaner left their chamber a few minutes later, following the most direct route out of the castle and into the streets of the city. He walked quickly, fighting the urge to run.
Eager as he was to confront Cresenne, he knew that he was taking a great risk. He wasn’t so foolish as to think that he had stopped loving her, even after all that had happened. A part of him wanted only to hold her again, to taste her lips and smell her hair. He had to remind himself that she had betrayed him, that she had sent a man to kill him.
There was already a long line of children outside the gleaning tent, but Grinsa strode past them, flinging open the tent flap and stepping into the shadows. Trin was there, seated before the stone. A young girl sat across from him, and she turned to look at Grinsa, her face almost as pale as that of the fat Qirsi.
“Grinsa!” Trin said brightly, smiling up at him. “What a pleasure this is! I’m afraid, though, that you’ve come at a bad time. We were just about to begin this young lady’s Determining. Perhaps we can meet later—”
“Leave,” Grinsa said to the girl, fighting to keep his anger from spilling over.
“But she’s just come in.”
He glared at the man, silencing him. “She can come back later.” He glanced at the child again. “Go back to the front of the line. When the gleanings resume, you’ll go first.”
She nodded and ran out of the tent, leaving the two Qirsi alone.
“I’m surprised at you, Grinsa. I’ve never known you to be rude to—”
Grinsa stepped to where the man sat, pushing over the table, grabbing Trin by his shirt, and lifting him out of his chair.
“Where is she?” the gleaner demanded.
“Who?”
Grinsa raised a hand, as if to strike him.
“You mean Cresenne?”
He let his hand fly, slapping the Qirsi with an open palm. “Of course I mean Cresenne, you fat fool! Now tell me where she is!”
“She’s gone! I swear it!”
“What do you mean, she’s gone? Gone where?”
“I mean she’s left the Revel.”
He felt his body sag. After a moment he lowered Trin back into the chair, though he didn’t let go of the man’s collar. “Did she say where?”
“Back to the Wethy Crown to see her family. She said a sister of hers had fallen ill.”
It was probably another lie, one among many. For all Grinsa knew, she had never lived a day in Wethyrn, or Braedon for that matter.
“I was sorry that things didn’t work out between you,” Trin said, speaking slowly, as if he expected every word to anger Grinsa again. “I thought you’d be together for a long time.”
“Stop it.” Grinsa tightened his hold on him. “I want to know what your role was in all of this.”
“My what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You practically pushed us into each other’s arms. Why? Was that part of your plan? Did you choose me from the beginning, or was it only after Tavis’s Fating?”
“This is nonsense, Grinsa! I have no idea—”
He slapped Trin again, harder this time. In a few seconds a red imprint of his hand appeared on the man’s cheek.
“Stop lying to me, Trin! I know about the conspiracy! I know that you’re both involved!”
“I know of the conspiracy as well,” Trin said. “But I’m not a part of it. And until this moment, I didn’t know that Cresenne was.”
Something in the man’s voice stopped Grinsa, forcing him to listen, despite his rage and his grief and the ache in his chest.
“I promise you, Grinsa, I had nothing to do with this. I’m sorry that Cresenne was involved. Truly I am.”
Grinsa shook his head. He felt as though he were in a sorcerer’s mist. “But you hate the Eandi so. You spoke of Carthach as if he was a demon.”
“I do hate them. And Carthach was a demon.” The fat man smiled. “I’m not saying that I don’t sympathize with their cause. Perhaps if I was a younger man, and a braver one, I would be aiding them.” He gestured toward himself, the smile lingering on his lips, though the expression in his pale yellow eyes grew sad. “Look at me, Grinsa. I’m old. Not to the Eandi, perhaps. Maybe not even to our own kind. But at my age and with my girth, I hardly have the strength to do my fair share of the gleanings. I’d guess that I have five years left to live, a few more than that if I’m lucky. I’m not interested in changing the world. And even if I were, why would the leaders of such a conspiracy be interested in a fat old Qirsi like me?”
Grinsa stared at him a few moments more. Then he released him and straightened, looking off to the side.
“I’m sorry, Trin.”
“You loved her very much.”
He nodded.
“She said that you left the Revel after she told you she didn’t love you. She said you couldn’t stand being near her if you couldn’t have her.”
It was a strange lie. If he hadn’t known better he might have thought that she really did love him, that she had said this as a matter of pride, to mask the pain she felt when he left.
“Did you believe her?” he asked.
“I had no reason not to. Is it true?”
Enough people knew he was traveling with Tavis so that it wasn’t a secret anymore.
“No. I went to Kentigern to try to win Lord Tavis’s release from the duke’s prison. I saw in his Fating what awaited him there and I felt that I had to do something.”
Trin raised an eyebrow. “It seems you succeeded.”
“After I left, Cresenne sent a man to stop me. He was a singer in the Revel, and an assassin. Do you know the man I mean?”
Trin gaped at him. His expression might have been funny had they been talking about almost anything else. “No,” the Qirsi finally said. “I remember hearing that a m
usician left the Revel shortly after you did, but I didn’t know who he was, and, to be honest, I gave the matter little thought.” He shook his head. “She sent him to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“And how did you escape him?”
“I didn’t. I killed him.”
“I see,” Trin said in a small voice, what little color he had draining from his face. “Am I to assume then that you’re in league with those fighting against this conspiracy?”
Grinsa hesitated, wondering how to answer. Did he tell the man the truth, that there was no true opposition to the Qirsi movement? Did he admit that he could only count on support from Keziah and Fotir? Or was he too quick to accept the weakness of his position in this coming struggle? Wasn’t Tavis an ally as well? And wouldn’t his support and Fotir’s bring Javan to their cause? If he could count on Keziah wasn’t there a chance that he could look to Eibithar’s new king for help?
“Yes,” he said at last. “I guess I am. Does that make us enemies, Trin?”
The Qirsi shook his head. “No. I’m no friend of the Eandi, and, as I said, I understand the sentiments behind this conspiracy. But I have a nice life here in the Revel. I’d rather not see it upset by a war between the courts and the white-hairs. As much as I’d like to see Qirsi nobles in the Forelands, I’m not interested in changing things that much.”
Grinsa stared at the man, unsure as to whether he was hearing him correctly. “What are you saying?”
“That I might be willing to help you. In small ways, mind you. I’m not about to risk my life, and I’d rather that no one on the other side learned of my activities. But if you need information, or if there’s a message you want carried from one of Eibithar’s houses to another, I might be able to help you.”
“For a price?” the gleaner asked with a grin.
Trin smiled, an innocent look on his broad face. “Would you trust a man who did such things for free?”
Grinsa laughed. “A fair question.” He regarded the man a moment longer, then nodded. “Very well. Thank you, Trin. If the need arises, I may call on you.”