Bonds of Vengeance
A M
YSTERIOUS
A
SSASSIN
“Where is he?” the boy shouted. “
Where is he
?”
Grinsa scanned the street. He was certain now that someone was following them. “There.”
Immediately the boy took off after the man, and as if swept up in his wake, Grinsa ran with him. Lightning arced through the sky, followed quickly by a tremendous clap of thunder.
They were through the gate in seconds and running across the moor, stumbling on dense tufts of grass and hidden rocks. The waters of the gulf looked angry and dark, and the waves pounding the rocky coast sent plumes of spray high into the air.
He felt the pulse of magic as only a Weaver could, and so had a split second to ward himself. As it was, the magic missed its target by just a single span. Grinsa knew the second attack would be immediate, and he forced himself into motion.
He couldn’t see for the fire in his limbs, the pulsing anguish screaming in his mind. Magic could save him; he knew that. He could heal his mangled limbs. He could turn his attacker’s power back on itself. He was a Weaver, and all of these magics were his.
As the words echoed in his head, like the tolling of far-off bells, Grinsa sensed the man gathering his power one last time to strike the killing blow . . .
“The characters are very well wrought, and the burgeoning aura of suspicion is only too convincingly realized. Admirers of
Rules of Ascension
and
Seeds of Betrayal
will be gratified by their new series mate.”
—
Booklist
Bonds
of
Vengeance
DAVID B. COE
BOOK THREE
OF
Winds of the Forelands
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For Bill and Joan Berner
Table of Contents
Many thanks as always to my wonderful agent, Lucienne Diver; my publisher, Tom Doherty; the great people at Tor Books, in particular Scott Gould and Peter Lutjen; Carol Russo and her staff; my terrific editor and good friend, Jim Frenkel; his editorial assistant in New York, Liz Gorinsky; his assistant in Wisconsin, Derek Tiefenthaler; and his interns, in particular Michael Manteuffel and Kellen O’Brien.
As with all my books, and everything else I do, I’m most grateful to Nancy, Alex, and Erin. With their love, their support, and their laughter, they make my world a wondrous, magical place.
—D. B. C.
Bonds
of
Vengeance
Glyndwr Highlands, Eibithar, year 880, Eilidh’s Moon waning
An icy wind whipped across the road, screaming in the spokes of the cart like a demon from Bian’s realm and tearing at Cresenne’s wrap and clothes like a taloned hand. A heavy snow rode the gale, shards of ice stinging her cheeks and forcing her to shield her eyes.
The two great geldings pulling the cart plodded through the storm, their heads held low, the slow rhythm of their steps muffled by the thick snow blanketing the highlands. Occasionally the cart swayed, jostling Cresenne and ripping a gasp from her chest, but for the most part the snow had smoothed the lane, a small grace on a day more miserable than any she could remember.
Pain had settled at the base of her back, unlike any she had known before. It was both sharp and dull; she felt as if she had been impaled on the blunt end of a battle pike. Every movement seemed to make it worse, and more than once as the cart rocked, she had to fight to keep from being ill. She lay curled on her side—the one position in which she could bear each new wave of agony—cushioned by the merchant’s cloth. She propped her head on the satchel in which she carried what few belongings she had taken with her from Kett: a change of clothes, a bound travel journal that had once belonged to her mother, a Sanbiri dagger, and the leather pouch that held the gold she had earned as a festival gleaner and chancellor in the Weaver’s movement.
It was too cold to sleep, and even had it not been, the pain would have kept her awake. That, and her fear for the baby inside her.
“Are ye sure ye don’ want t’ stop, child?” the merchant called to her from his perch atop the cart, turning slightly so that she could see his red cheeks and squinting dark eyes. “There’s plenty o’ villages a’tween
here an’ Glyndwr. One’s bound t’ have a midwife for ye. Maybe even a healer, one o’ yer kind.”
I’m a healer myself
, she wanted to say.
If this pain could be healed, don’t you think I’d have done so by now?
“No,” she said, wincing with the effort. “It has to be Glyndwr.”
“If it’s a matter o’ gold, I can help ye.”
She would have smiled had she been able. The man had been kinder than she deserved, sharing his food willingly, though the twenty qinde she paid him for passage up the steppe and into Eibithar hardly covered the expense of half her meals. The gloves she wore were his; an extra pair, to be sure, but still, no Eandi had ever treated her so well.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to sound grateful. “But it’s not the gold. I just need to get to Glyndwr; I need to have my baby there.”
Even through the snow, she could see him frowning.
“I don’ know how much farther the beasts can go,” he said at last “I’ll do my best for ye, but I won’ kill them jes’ so ye can get t’ Glyndwr.”
