Bonds of Vengeance (3 page)

“It does, but I haven’t been able to find him.”

“Is the need urgent?” Preserving his secret was one thing, letting an innocent die to preserve it was quite another.

“Not terribly,” the herbmaster said, turning to walk away. “A woman at the gate in a difficult labor. I’ll see to it.”

“If I see the healer, I’ll send him to you.”

The older man raised a hand, but did not look back again. Grinsa watched him briefly, then resumed his search for the kitchenmaster.

The head of Glyndwr’s kitchen, like most men in his profession, proved rather reluctant to part with any of the food in his realm. Grinsa had anticipated this, however, and had brought with him the message from Kearney. Though the king’s words had no direct bearing on Tavis’s need for food, they had the desired effect on the kitchenmaster, who, upon reading the letter, began barking orders at the servants around him. Suddenly, there wasn’t a man or woman in Glyndwr who could give the gleaner what he wanted fast enough. Within a short while, Grinsa had two satchels packed full with dried meats, cheeses, hard bread, dried fruits, and even some wineskins, filled from the duke’s private cellar.

He carried the satchels back to the chamber he shared with Tavis, intending to talk next with the stablemaster. The journey to Curgh would be easier and faster if they had mounts. Reaching the room, however, he found the door ajar and a pair of guards speaking with the young lord. Fearing for the boy’s safety, he shoved the door open.

“What’s all this?” he demanded, eyeing the soldiers warily and resting his hand on the hilt of his blade.

“This is the man you’re looking for,” Tavis said evenly, nodding in the gleaner’s direction as the guards turned.

“What do you want with me?”

“There’s a woman come to the south gate, sir. She’s with child.”

“Yes, I’d heard. I’ve already told your herbmaster that I’m not a healer.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but that’s not why we’ve come. She was asking for you.”

Grinsa narrowed his eyes. “What? By name?”

“Yes, sir. She even knew you was with Lord Curgh.”

For some time, the gleaner didn’t move. It hadn’t been too long since he traveled with Bohdan’s Revel, Eibithar’s great festival. Certainly he knew a few people in the highlands, but none he could think of who had a daughter of age to bear children. Could it be a deception of some sort, an attempt by Tavis’s enemies to leave the boy unprotected? Or had the Weaver found him already and sent this woman to kill him?

“Did she give her name?”

“No, sir. She came with a merchant, but he’s gone now. We don’t know who she is.

He didn’t like the sound of this at all.

“All right,” he said at last, gesturing toward the door. “Lead the way.”

The soldiers stepped from the room and Grinsa started to follow.

“Do you want me to come?” Tavis asked.

The gleaner hesitated. “Yes.” The boy would be safer if they were together.

“You have no idea who it could be?” Tavis asked.

He shook his head.

“Guess he’s been busy,” one of the men whispered, drawing a snicker from his companion.

Even as Grinsa felt his face redden, realization crashed over him, cold as Amon’s Ocean in the snows. He faltered in midstride. It had been Elined’s turn when he left her in Galdasten, and they had been together for nearly a full turn before that. Certainly it was possible . . .

“Grinsa?” Tavis asked, stepping closer to him. “Are you all right?”

“Is the woman Qirsi?” he asked the guards.

“Yes, sir.”

“You know who—?” The boy stopped, staring at him. They had spoken of Cresenne only a few times. The pain of her betrayal still scored his heart and though he had cursed her name a thousand times since their last night together, the very thought of her still made his breath catch. Tavis had asked few questions about her, but for all his faults, the boy was observant and uncommonly clever.

“It’s the woman from the Revel, isn’t it? That would have been about the right time.”

“It would have.”

They started walking again, then broke into a run.

“Does your duke know of the woman’s arrival?” Tavis asked the men, his voice carrying over the beat of their footsteps.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Tell him that Lord Tavis suggests he post guards outside her room at all times. She may be a member of the Qirsi conspiracy.”

Grinsa looked at the boy sharply, but then gave a reluctant nod. Tavis was right. If this was Cresenne she needed to be watched, no matter her condition. He had loved her—perhaps he still did—but that did nothing to change the fact that she was a traitor, that her gold had bought Brienne’s death.

They reached the herbmaster’s chambers a few moments later and were greeted by a breathless scream from within. Grinsa reached for the door handle, only to draw back his trembling hand. His heart was a smith’s sledge hammering in his chest. He tried to take a breath and nearly retched.

“Stay out here,” he managed through gritted teeth.

“Of course,” Tavis said.

Another scream made them both wince.

Grinsa gripped the door handle and entered the chamber. It was far too warm within, and the air smelled of sweat, vomit, and an oversweet blend of healing herbs. The gleaner gagged.

The herbmaster looked up at him, his face pale, a sheen of sweat on his brow glowing in the candlelight. “Are you the one she’s been asking for?”

Grinsa nodded, unable to tear his eyes from the figure propped up in the bed next to the man. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her damp face a mask of pain, her white, sweat-soaked hair clinging to her brow. Her breath came in great gasps and she rocked her head from side to side as if trying to break free of some great evil.

Yet through it all, Grinsa could see the exquisite woman with whom he had fallen in love ten turns before. Silently he cursed Adriel, goddess of love, for smiting him so.

“Well, come on, then, and help me,” the herbmaster said, laying a wet cloth on her forehead. “She’s worsening, and the child may be lost already.”

At that the gleaner hurried to the bed.

“What do you mean, it may be lost?”

“The baby is blocked somehow. I’m not a healer, and it turns out the
duke’s healer is gone from the castle. There may be an outbreak of Murnia’s pox in one of the baronies and he’s gone to check on it.”

“So there’s no one here at all?”

“I’m doing the best I can. I’ve given her dewcup and groundsel to stanch the bleeding, and dittany and maiden’s weed for the blockage.” He handed Grinsa a cup of pungent, steaming liquid.

“What’s this?”

“A brew of a bit more dittany, as well as some common wort to calm her and ease the pain. She barely kept any of the first cup down. See if you can get her to take more.”

The gleaner knelt beside the bed and carefully raised the cup to Cresenne’s cracked lips.

“Drink,” he whispered.

She took a small sip, choked on it, and turned her head away. An instant later, though, as if his voice had finally reached her, she turned to him, opening her eyes. Pale yellow they were, the color of a candle’s flame, the color of passion and love and, ultimately, deepest pain. Unable to hold her gaze, he looked away, though he raised the cup again.

“You need to drink this,” he said.

“You came.” Her voice was scraped raw from her ordeal, and even as she spoke, her body convulsed.

“Yes. Drink. It will ease the pain.”

“Save our baby, Grinsa. Please. She’s dying. I know she is, and I’m not strong enough to help her.”

“The herbmaster—”

She reached up and grabbed his arm, her slender fingers like a vise. “He can’t save her,” she said in a fierce whisper, forcing him to look into those pale eyes again. “He knows it, and so do you. But you can. We both know that as well. Whatever you may think of me—however much you hate me now—you must save our daughter.”

“What does she mean?” the herbmaster demanded, leaning closer. “I thought you said you couldn’t heal her.”

A moment before Grinsa had been unwilling to meet her glance. Now he felt powerless to look away. “I told you I wasn’t a healer,” he answered, his eyes never straying from hers. “And I’m not. I’m a gleaner by trade.”
And a Weaver by birth
. No doubt Cresenne knew this by now. She might have reasoned it out for herself, or she might have been told by the other Weaver, the one who led the conspiracy. The one for whom she had betrayed him. “But I do have some healing power.”

“So you can help her?”

“Perhaps.” He cupped her cheek with his hand. Her skin felt cold. “Perhaps together we can save the baby. You have healing magic as well. I remember from . . . from before.”

Cresenne nodded slowly, her eyes widening at what he was proposing.

“How can you both help the baby?”

First, though, Grinsa knew, the Eandi had to leave the chamber, at least briefly.

Grinsa looked up at the man. “This may take some time, herbmaster. Lord Tavis of Curgh is in the corridor just outside this chamber. Please tell him that we won’t be leaving in the morning as we had planned.”

The herbmaster frowned. “But—”

“I assure you, herbmaster, she’ll be fine. Your brew has seen to that.”

The man straightened, and, after a moment’s hesitation, turned toward the door.

“Give me your hand,” Grinsa whispered, looking at Cresenne once more.

She slid her hand into his, their fingers intertwining like lovers. Closing his eyes, Grinsa reached for her power with his own, entering her mind as he might have stepped into her dreams had she been sleeping. Instantly, the pain hit him, excruciating and consuming, as if Cresenne had struck at him with her fire magic. He couldn’t imagine how she bore it. As he struggled to keep from succumbing to it himself, the gleaner followed her anguish to its source at the base of her back . . . and doing so, he encountered something utterly unexpected.

His eyes flew open. “I sense her!”

“She’s alive?”

“Yes.” He could feel the baby’s pain as well. It wasn’t nearly as severe as her mother’s, but it was real nevertheless and growing worse by the moment.

“I’m going to try to stop the pain,” he said. “I need you to help me, and then I need for you to relax all your muscles.”

“Do you know what’s wrong?”

“Yes.” He lifted his head and called for the herbmaster, who returned immediately. “The blood cord is around the baby’s neck,” he told the man. “You’ll have to slip it back over the baby’s head before she can be born.”

“How can you know this?”

“I just do.” He exhaled, sensing that the man wasn’t ready to accept
such a poor explanation. “In trying to heal the mother’s pain, I sensed the child’s as well. Now please, as you told me before, there isn’t much time.”

“I’ve never done such a thing before.”

“You have to try, herbmaster. She needs my healing magic. There is no one else.”

The man stared at him for several seconds, then nodded reluctantly.

Grinsa looked at Cresenne again. “Are you ready?”

She nodded, and together, their hands still clasped, they turned their powers toward her pain, so that magic flowed over the tender muscles and bone like cool water from the steppe. After a time, he began to feel her muscles slackening.

“Now, herbmaster. Quickly.”

For several moments the room was silent, save for Cresenne’s breathing and the low conversation of the soldiers in the hallway beyond the oak door.

Finally, the herbmaster exhaled loudly and nodded to Grinsa. “It’s done.”

“Thank you. You should be all right now,” he told Cresenne, releasing her hand. He tried to stand, but she reached for his arm once more, her grasp more gentle this time, but no less insistent.

“Don’t leave me.” She faltered, her eyes holding his. “If . . . if something goes wrong again, I may need you.”

He didn’t want to stay. He still loved her. As much as he wanted to hate her, he couldn’t. And now they were bound to each other by this child she carried, the daughter whose mind he had touched just a moment before. He knew that he should run, that he and Tavis should leave Glyndwr this night and drive their mounts northward heedless of the wind and snow.

But all he could do was nod and smile, taking her hand once again.

“All right,” he said, the words rending his heart. “I’ll stay.”

Chapter
Two

Glyndwr, Eibithar

Tavis had thought that when Grinsa called the herbmaster back into the chamber, the woman’s labor was near its end. But though she no longer screamed out with such desperate anguish, she continued to moan and cry, as if pushed beyond endurance. The soldiers who stood with him in the corridor had long since stopped talking among themselves. Mostly they kept their eyes lowered, exchanging looks occasionally, when the Qirsi woman sounded particularly wretched.

After a time, the duke of Glyndwr entered the hallway and the men straightened. He nodded to them as he walked past, but he didn’t stop until he reached Tavis.

In most respects, Kearney the Younger was the image of his father. He had the king’s bright green eyes and fine features, but his hair was a soft brown, perhaps like Kearney the Elder’s had been before it turned silver. Though still two years shy of his Fating, the boy was already nearly as tall as Tavis. He was thin as a blade, however, and awkward. He wore the silver, red, and black baldric on his back, as did all Glyndwr’s dukes. But the baldric and the sword it held appeared far too large for him. His father had chosen to give him the dukedom rather than appointing a regent to oversee the realm until Kearney the Younger’s Fating. As Tavis looked at the young duke now, he couldn’t help but wonder if the elder Kearney had placed too great a burden on the boy.