by Susan Murray
Weaver spoke again, his voice toneless and correct. “If it please your highness, the king has requested I escort you safely back to your chambers.”
“Indeed? His consideration for my wellbeing surprises me more each day.”
A momentary stiffening of his shoulders was the only sign from Weaver to suggest her sarcasm hadn’t been wasted this time. They walked in silence through the hall, with only a few servants remaining to witness their progress. She purposely did not speak until they reached the open – and empty – cloister.
“Tell me, Weaver, what do you make of our king?”
He mis-stepped. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you find him much altered?”
Weaver hesitated. “He has been driven from his rightful place – he will not be the same as the man who believed himself secure there.”
That almost made sense. “Do you think that sufficient to account for the change in his manner?”
“My lady, I cannot presume to answer that. He is my king and I am sworn to serve him.”
“Without question? Have a care, Weaver. Something is seriously awry.” They had almost reached the door to her rooms. “His little priestess – have you any thoughts about her?”
“He… tells me she is from a healing order.”
“Is that what they call it now?”
Whatever reply Weaver might have made was lost as footsteps hurried up behind them, accompanied by the metallic clatter of plate armour. Weaver spun around, setting himself between Alwenna and whoever approached, his hand on the pommel of his sword. Alwenna recognised the livery of the King’s Man, flanked by two men-at-arms carrying long pikes. Curtis. Affable, bumbling Curtis, whose most important business of the day had once been securing his next meal.
“We have orders to search your rooms, my lady.” He wore his new dignity with an uneasy air.
Weaver took a half step forward. “Orders from whom?”
“From the king.” Curtis squared his shoulders.
If Weaver challenged Curtis’ authority, no good would come of it. Alwenna spoke up. “I have nothing to hide. What is it you seek? I may save you some trouble.” In truth she had so few possessions it would take them next to no time to rifle through the lot.
Curtis stepped towards the door, keeping a wary eye on Weaver. “I am not at liberty to discuss my orders, my lady.” Finding the door bolted from inside, he knocked loudly.
Weaver’s shoulders tensed and Alwenna set her hand upon his arm to still him, hoping it was not visible from where Curtis stood. Marten’s warning the evening before was already being borne out.
“Then please, be my guest.”
From within Erin opened the door, eyes widening as she took in the scene.
“Erin, please admit these gentlemen. They wish to search my rooms.”
Erin stood back, allowing Curtis and the two soldiers to enter. Weaver was about to follow them in, but Alwenna closed her fingers about his arm. “Did you know of this?”
He spoke over his shoulder, his face grim. “No. Nothing.” He would have moved away then but she delayed him a moment longer.
“And Curtis? Why is he King’s Man in your place?”
“A reward for services to the king’s cause.”
“For rescuing you?”
“For that.” Weaver nodded. “And for who knows what else besides.”
She released his arm. “So you were ordered to escort me back just now? And Curtis ordered to follow us in turn?”
“Quite so, my lady.” Weaver stepped aside so she might enter her rooms, while he waited outside the open door.
Curtis was watching as the two soldiers flung clothes and bedding out of the heavy chest against the wall. Erin watched, too, hands on hips and lips pursed as carefully folded items were strewn over the bed. A bundle of cloth fell from beneath one armful and landed on the floor with a solid clunk.
“Hand me that.” Curtis pointed to the bundle and one of the soldiers picked it up, the fabric unwinding in his hands. The ornate dagger fell from it with a clatter.
“Have a care,” Curtis muttered. “That is a precious item.” He bent and picked up the dagger with finger and thumb, examining it closely. The gemstones were dull in the cool light of the chamber.
Dull and lifeless. As if the thing waited for the right hand to claim it, the right voice to command it. Alwenna shivered. Weaver would say that was fanciful nonsense, but she couldn’t shake off her sense of foreboding. No one spoke, all in the room gazing at the dagger. Curtis took the fabric from the soldier’s hand and wrapped it up once more. Alwenna let out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
Curtis stowed the bundle inside his leather jerkin. “This rightfully belongs to his highness.”
Again that sense of foreboding. “He need only have asked and I would gladly have brought it to him,” Alwenna said. Unless Tresilian had very specific reasons to not want Alwenna to bring the dagger to him herself. How much did Tresilian know about Garrad’s death? He didn’t have the sight, surely. She would have known, wouldn’t she? She had too many questions and no answers.
The only certain thing was that she would learn nothing from Curtis and his men. They’d found what they were looking for and now withdrew, Curtis bowing politely with something of his former good humour. She surmised he might have been uncomfortable about carrying out this commission. Weaver, after a brief nod in her direction, followed after them. He might have more luck learning something from his comrade in arms. Whether he would share what he learned with her was another question entirely.
Alwenna turned to survey the mess the soldiers had left in their wake. “Who knew so few possessions could create so much chaos?”
“I’m sorry, my lady. I’m so, so sorry.” Erin stared at her in horror.
Alwenna looked at her in surprise. “It won’t take long to put these things away.” She picked up one of the silk gowns Tresilian had provided and began folding it.
“But… my lady… Don’t you see? I told him.” The girl was stricken.
“I don’t see at all.”
Erin pressed her hands over her mouth, then seemed to collect herself. “I just didn’t think. He made out he was so pleased for me, becoming a proper lady-in-waiting. And… I believed him. I thought he meant it.”
Alwenna turned and sat on the foot of the bed. “I don’t follow – who are you talking about? Not Tresilian?”
“No, my lady, Curtis. He… We… Well, at the inn…”
“Ah, yes, at the inn.” It had been quite the night for their happy band.
“He’s a kind man, my lady, and he was good to me, and I thought… When he asked me all those things I thought he was interested in me… I see now…” The girl straightened up, squaring her shoulders. “I told him about the wedding, the dagger, the old priest, and the tower collapsing. All of it. And he must have told the king every word.” Her shoulders slumped again. “It’s all my fault.”
“Not at all.” Alwenna couldn’t afford to have the girl retreat into silence again now. “If the king had troubled to ask me, I’d have told him exactly what happened at Highkell. As it is we’ve learned the dagger is more important to him than I would have guessed.”
“It must be valuable, with all those gems. He could sell it to raise an army.”
“Perhaps he will.” But it seemed more likely he had some more arcane use for the blade. And she had no doubt it was the blade that mattered here. That thought troubled her. Almost as much as the fact that the new Tresilian had resorted to subterfuge to obtain the dagger in the first place. The old Tresilian – the one she’d grown up alongside, the cousin she’d cared for, the man she’d eventually married – would simply have asked. He would have told her why he wanted the dagger. And he would have done so himself, not sent underlings to carry out the task for him.
As for the dagger being his rightful property – well, she’d never seen it in his possession, nor had she ever seen it in the armoury at Highkel
l. The first time she’d seen it had been in her vision, gripped in Vasic’s hand as he stabbed Tresilian, the jewels glinting bright and harsh. It was part of the puzzle. Somehow her husband who had died but not died and the blade that had killed but not killed him were connected. Whatever that connection might be, it could only be an unwholesome one.
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
Alwenna followed the servant along the cloistered walkway that led to the great hall and thence to the king’s apartments. The sun had been at its highest point in the sky when the servant arrived and the early afternoon air was oppressive without hint of a breeze to relieve it. She would sooner have rested in her own rooms than answer the peremptory summons. The old Tresilian would have come in person to speak to her, she was sure of that. Her head ached, a dull pain that made it hard to concentrate. Even Erin seemed subdued by the heat as she trailed along in their wake.
Tresilian waited alone in the chamber off the great hall. He sat there now, his manner relaxed. Alwenna stepped inside, her walking stick making a hollow sound on the timber floor. She glanced around to be sure they were indeed alone as the door closed softly behind her. No advisors, no servants, no guards. And no pale priestess. The air reeked of lavender again.
“Dear wife. I am glad you could spare the time to join me.”
The ache in her head deepened. The air in this room was stifling, heavier than outside, despite the shade afforded by deep window recesses. An uneasy feeling had settled in the pit of her stomach, accompanying the bad taste in her mouth that usually presaged the sight. But instead of voices clamouring to be heard, her head was filled with leaden nothingness. Her vision clouded and she faltered a few steps into the room, leaning heavily on her stick, her hand clammy about the handle. Every instinct cried out to go no further, but her body was too heavy to move at all, forward or back.
And then Tresilian was beside her, supporting her elbow. “The heat has overcome you. Just a few steps more and you may rest, Alwenna.” He guided her to a chair and for a moment he was the familiar Tresilian, the old one. Her childhood friend, the cousin who was concerned for her welfare. “Sit here now, the breeze will cool you.”
Tresilian eased her into the chair and, sure enough, there was a movement of air here, between the open windows. She shivered, setting her hands on the arms of the chair. It was made from dense wood, so old it was almost black, and was of unusual design, with concave arms fashioned so her forearms rested in them rather than on top of them.
Tresilian’s expression was troubled as he bent over her. “That’s better, your colour’s returning.” He straightened up, then took a couple of steps away. “That is all for the good, for I have a favour to ask of you. Since my… injury, my strength has been returning, but my cure is not yet complete. Marten is working to ensure that for me, but in the meantime…”
Marten. He’d been reprimanded because he hadn’t removed Vasic from Highkell. How could that complete Tresilian’s cure?
But Tresilian was still speaking. “I would ask a favour of you, dear wife. I would not ask if it were not imperative, but there is only so much the order can do. You can help. Will you do one small thing for me?” Tresilian studied her face. He licked his lips, as if apprehensive, then set a hesitant hand upon her head, in a clumsy caress. “You will, won’t you? You will help me?”
Instinct told her to say no, to run, to leave the summer palace, take a horse and ride until she could ride no further. But duty said stay and hear him out. A thousand childhood secrets shared said stay and help him out. And the child they’d created rested still and quiet in her womb, as if waiting to hear if she would ensure its father’s health.
“A small thing, you say?”
“A very small thing – for you – but of great importance for me.” His eyes held hers for a moment, then slid away again. His hand moved, stroking her hair.
Her apprehension doubled, and their unborn child kicked and twisted. “A very small thing? Will you grant me a favour in return?”
“Of course. Anything you ask.” His thumb moved gently, an idle caress to the back of her head.
Marten’s anger as he strode from the throne room rose unbidden to her mind. Tresilian’s word couldn’t be trusted, but she arguably had a deeper claim to his loyalty than the freemerchant. There was only one way to find out.
“If you wish me to help you, cousin, you must first tell me what this small thing is. And then, if I agree to it, you will set aside your priestess and she will leave the summer palace.”
The gentle motion of his thumb stilled. She’d asked the wrong question.
“I cannot do that, truly I cannot.” Then, to her surprise he knelt in front of her, taking both her hands in his. “Alwenna, I wouldn’t ask this of you if it were not necessary. You know me well enough to believe that.”
Did she? “I did once.”
“If you want our child to meet his father, grant me this boon.” Now he gripped her hands fervently, too tight for her to simply pull them away. His fingertips dug into her palms, and his hands struck cold against hers.
She tried to pull her hands free but he hung on. “You still haven’t told me what this boon is.”
“You’ll hardly feel a thing, I promise.” His eyes were over-bright, feverish.
“No.” She tried to tug her hands away again, but his grip tightened painfully. She struggled against him, her heartbeat racing, desperate to break free. She should have trusted her instinct all along. Behind her she felt a rush of air as a door opened, then closed again. Over the pounding of her headache she heard footsteps approach over the timber floor, steady and measured with military precision.
“All is ready, your highness.” The priestess’ voice. Alwenna had never heard her speak outside those heated visions. Now the girl knelt at her side, setting something down on the ground where Alwenna could not see it.
Beyond her stood Weaver, his face a closed mask.
Pinning her against the chair with the weight of his body, Tresilian pressed Alwenna’s left arm down onto the chair arm. As calmly as if she were straightening bedding, the priestess wrapped a leather strap about Alwenna’s forearm and tightened it until her arm was gripped against the dark wood. Alwenna fought Tresilian’s hold on her remaining arm with all her weight, but he pinned her down while the girl fastened it like the first. A moment later her feet had likewise been bound to the cross-rail of the heavy chair.
“Be still, my lady. It will be over in next to no time.” The girl spoke with calm detachment, feeding another strap around Alwenna’s upper arm and pulling it tight until Alwenna felt her veins throbbing against the pressure. “She is ready now, your highness.” The girl reached down and lifted a small metal bowl in her hands. It flashed and gleamed, and Alwenna could see runes carved around the outside. Runes which looked familiar.
All Alwenna’s attention had been on the priestess and her pale grey eyes. Now Tresilian knelt before her with his head bowed, as if in prayer.
She had not long to wonder where she had seen those runes before. Tresilian stood, and in his hands he held the ornate dagger. Runes glinted on the blade like quicksilver. The gemstones were vivid and brilliant in the cool shade of the room.
Alwenna stilled. She had nothing to gain by fighting. And at the back of her mind was the spectre of what had happened at Highkell. If she lost control now, what cataclysmic events would ensue? She dared not find out. She tried to calm the frantic beating of her pulse, which seemed horribly amplified in the silence of the room.
“Thank you, my cousin. And my wife. Your gift to me will be doubly blessed.” Tresilian set the blade of the dagger across his palm, then turned to Weaver, who waited, stony-faced, as Tresilian held out the knife to him, hilt-first.
“Weaver. You know what you must do.”
Weaver took two steps forward, then lifted the knife from the king’s hands. Tresilian moved over to flank Alwenna’s right side while the priestess waited on her left.
Time seemed to stand s
till as Weaver turned to stand before Alwenna, then knelt slowly, oh so slowly.
“No. Please don’t.” The words came out as an agonised squeak. Weaver lifted brown eyes towards Alwenna, but they were empty of any compassion and he leaned closer, raising the dagger. Light danced off the blade as tremors shook his hand. He set the icy edge against the flesh in the crook of her elbow. She held her breath, bracing herself as he pressed the tip of the dagger into her skin above the blue vein. The colour of the gemstones enclosed between his fingers seemed to strengthen. Blood welled over the edge of the blade, spreading along the inscribed runes, a thin thread spilling down over her arm to drip into the bowl the priestess held beneath it.
“We need more, your highness.” The priestess’ words were as calm and matter of fact as before.
“Weaver, do as she says.” Tresilian’s voice was cold.
Weaver hesitated. Alwenna felt a tremor run through the blade, but then he dug the point deeper and ice bit into her arm until she lost all sensation in the limb. All she could do was watch as the bowl filled, drop by precious drop.
She must have passed out. When she became aware of her surroundings again Tresilian was unfastening the last of the leather straps. A bandage had been tied over the cut. Weaver stood to attention at the side of the dais, eyes focused on the wall opposite. The priestess was behind her, presumably at the altar-like table in the window, chanting some kind of incantation in a strangely muted voice.
“You are with us once more?” Tresilian’s voice was almost caressing. He straightened up, having freed the last of the straps, and clapped his hands. The door at the far end of the room opened and the servant hurried forward, closely followed by Erin.
“Take your mistress back to her rooms. She must have red wine to drink. See she rests.” Tresilian turned away, leaving Erin to help Alwenna to her feet and support her from the room. Weaver gave no sign of seeing her pass him by. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed gave any indication he was not made of stone.
Alwenna glanced back once from the doorway. Silhouetted in the light from the window, the priestess and Tresilian were bent over the bowl, as if praying. Then Weaver stepped into her line of sight as he followed them out of the door. The door thudded shut and Weaver took up guard in front of it, as before avoiding eye contact with Alwenna at all. Garrad, Tresilian, Erin, Curtis, and now – worst of all – Weaver. Was there anyone left who had not yet betrayed her?