Bonds of Vengeance (53 page)
She started to walk away, but Xivled called to her, making her face him again.
“I asked you before if you were a traitor,” he said. “You never answered me.” He wore a smile, but the archminister could see that he was keenly interested in her response, or more precisely, how she offered it.
“You’re right,” she answered, turning away once more. “I never did.”
With the arrival of the two lords, and the welcoming ceremonies and the grand feast planned for that evening, Audun’s Castle fairly hummed with activity. The royal guard marched to and from the city gates, accompanying the nobles and their ministers. Even in the prison tower, which was on the other side of the inner keep from the kitchen, Grinsa could hear the shouts of the kitchenmaster and smell the faint, appealing aromas of roasting meat and baking bread. And through it all, Cresenne slept, looking small and frail against the dingy linens on her bed. She flailed at times, crying out and raising her hands as if to ward off a blow, but she didn’t wake. The wounds on her ashen face, dark and ugly in the dim light of the chamber, seemed to scream at him, an accusation.
How could you allow this to happen? You said you’d protect her. If only she told all she knew, you would do everything in your power to keep her safe, and the baby too
. He spoke bravely of keeping the Weaver from hurting her again, but he knew
that if the man was determined to harm her, even kill her, there was little anyone could do to stop him.
The gleaner would have liked to meet with Marston of Shanstead and Lathrop of Tremain himself, to hear how the king and Keziah presented all they had learned from Cresenne. But he refused to leave her side, or to trust care of Bryntelle to anyone else.
A turn before, hoping to compel Cresenne to tell all she knew about Brienne’s murder, he had threatened to take the child from her, to find a wet nurse in the city who might feed the babe. This day, he had been forced to do just that, not to punish Cresenne but to let her rest through Bryntelle’s feedings. The wet nurse came and went, answering Grinsa’s summons, suckling the child, then retreating to some unseen chamber to await word once more. It might have made more sense to let her remain in the tower—she was Qirsi as well, young and quiet and harmless—but Grinsa wanted to be alone with his family, just this once, while he still could.
After Bryntelle’s previous feeding, he had held her, walking slow circles around the chamber, whispering stories of his parents and his own childhood until she finally dropped off to sleep. During the past few days she had fallen asleep in his arms several times, but it still thrilled him. He continued to hold her and walk, watching the daylight fade and the chamber darken. He lost all sense of the time, but as the first stars appeared in the sky above Audun’s castle, barely visible through the narrow window in the prison chamber, the baby awoke again and began to cry.
Grinsa stepped to the chamber door and called softly to one of the guards. “Have the wet nurse brought again,” he whispered.
“It’s all right, Grinsa,” Cresenne said from behind him, her voice barely carrying across the empty chamber.
Bryntelle stopped crying at the sound.
Grinsa turned from the door and lit a torch with the merest thought. She was sitting up, squinting at the firelight. After a moment, she passed a hand through her tangled hair, pushing it back from her face.
He sat beside her on the bed and let her take Bryntelle. She began to pull off her shirt, then hesitated, looking at him uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry,” he said, standing and turning away. He wandered to the door. The guards were by the stairway, talking in hushed voices. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Sore.”
“Where?”
“All over. My hand and face especially.”
“They should get better with time.”
Silence. Then, “Do I look awful?”
“I’m not sure you could.”
“You know what I mean.” But there was a softness to her voice that he hadn’t heard in so long.
“No, not awful. The scars are still dark, so you may be taken aback when you first see your image in a looking glass. But they should fade to white eventually.”
She made a strange, choked sound. “Thank you,” she said, the words coming out as a sob.
He turned to see her crying.
“For what?”
“Saving me. He would have killed me, Grinsa. He would have tortured me for as long as he could keep me alive, but then he intended to kill me. He told me so.”
He walked back to the bed and sat once more. “You should thank the guards. And Keziah. They summoned her and she sent for me. If it hadn’t been for them, I wouldn’t have gotten here in time.”
She nodded, wiping away her tears. Grinsa sat with her for a moment longer, then stood, intending to return to the door.
“It’s all right,” Cresenne said. “You’re her father. You should be able to watch her eat.”
The gleaner smiled, though he still looked away.
“You found a wet nurse.”
He looked back quickly, fearing she might be angry. “Yes. I’m sorry. I just thought—”
“I understand, Grinsa. I was going to thank you for letting me sleep.”
He exhaled, and they both laughed. “We’ve been angry with each other for so long, we’ve forgotten what it’s like to be civil.”
“We owe it to her to remember,” she said, looking down at Bryntelle. “Perhaps we owe it to each other as well.”
Before it’s too late
. She didn’t have to say the words. They hung over the chamber like a storm cloud, making the air heavy and carrying the promise of violence and uncertainty.
“I do believe we can protect you, Cresenne. It won’t be easy, but we can do it.”
She was still gazing at the baby she held to her breast, her tears falling anew. “How? You see what he did to me last night.” She looked up at him. “Are you that powerful? Could you do that to him?”
“I am that powerful, but to do it to the Weaver I’d first have to know who he is and where he can be found. The time will come when I can fight him, but for now I’m concerned with protecting you. And as to how, you’ve already made a good start today.”
She frowned.
“You’re going to have to change your sleep habits. You can’t sleep at night anymore—that’s when he’ll look for you. From now on, until the Weaver is dead, you sleep by day and remain awake at night.”
“And Bryntelle?”
“Her, too, of course. You’ll have to change the way you feed her. It will take a bit of time, and you won’t be getting as much sleep as—”
“Wait,” she said, her puzzlement giving way to fright. “This is your plan for keeping me alive? Sleep in the day, stay awake at night? That’s it?”
“At least for now, yes.”
Cresenne gave a chilling laugh. “That will work for about a day, and then he’ll figure it out, and he’ll kill me anyway.” She shook her head. “No, the only thing that will keep me alive, is if you’re here with me whenever I go to sleep, so that you can enter my dreams and drive him off before he hurts me again.”
He couldn’t keep the smile from his face. “Are you suggesting that we share a bed again?”
“This isn’t funny, Grinsa.”
“No, it’s not. I understand that you’re afraid, but sleeping during the day will do more than you think to stop him.” She started to object again, but he raised a hand, silencing her. “We don’t know who the Weaver is yet, but I’ve an idea of what he is.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s ambitious and he’s accustomed to having people follow his commands. He also goes to great lengths to hide his identity. Even those who serve him don’t see his face, or the place he conjures for your dreams, right?”
She nodded.
“That tells me that he’s a man of some influence, someone who fears being recognized.”
“But if you had been in his position wouldn’t you have feared recognition, even posing as a Revel gleaner?”
“Perhaps, but I wouldn’t have gone so far as to conceal the terrain. He seems to believe that to know where he is, is to know who he is. That leads me to believe that he’s a minister somewhere, perhaps an important one, in the court of a duke, maybe a sovereign.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Cresenne said. “But what does that have to do with the time I sleep?”
“A man of such importance has demands on his time, things he has to do, a lord to whom he answers. As with most ministers, his nights are his own to do with as he pleases. But his days belong to the court. You’re right, he may reason out very quickly how you’re avoiding him, but there may not be anything he can do about it, at least not immediately.”
She still looked doubtful.
“Contacting another through their dreams requires a considerable effort.” He looked back at the door for an instant. “I know,” he went on, lowering his voice, “because that’s how I communicate with Keziah. I can only imagine what it is to hurt someone using the same magic. Just touching Keziah, or kissing her cheek, takes a good deal of power, far more than just speaking.”
“What is she to you?” Cresenne asked abruptly. “Were you lovers? Is that how she knows you so well?”
Grinsa shook his head, smiling. “No, we weren’t lovers. We’re just close—I’ve known Keziah nearly all my life.”
The woman shook her head. “She says nearly the exact same thing whenever I ask her about you.”
“And yet you persist in looking for more. Accept it as the truth, and stop asking.”
“I’m sorry. I interrupted you.”
“My point was simply this: it takes a great effort to contact another through her dreams. It’s not something the Weaver can do in a spare moment as he waits for his lord to finish a meal. He needs time to prepare himself and more time still to rest afterward. Sleeping during the day won’t keep you safe forever, but it will protect you for a time, and perhaps that will be enough.”
Cresenne pushed her hair back again and wiped her eyes. “I don’t want Bryntelle being raised as if she were an owl.”
He grinned. “Neither do I. But we’re not talking about years. I intend to find the Weaver long before her first birthday. It’s just for a few turns.”
“All right,” she said, nodding and taking a breath. “I’ll try.”
“Good.” He looked toward the door. “I should go soon. Tavis and I have been asked to the feast. But before I leave, is there anything else you can tell me about the Weaver, anything at all? Something you haven’t mentioned before, maybe because you didn’t think it was important?”
She seemed to consider the question for a moment, then she shook her head.
“What did you call him?”
“What?”
“When you spoke in your dreams, what did you call him?”
Cresenne gave a small shrug. “Weaver. I made the mistake of calling him “my lord’ once, many years ago, and he grew angry. He didn’t want me to address him as I would an Eandi lord.”
“What did he call you?”
“He used my name most of the time.”
“Most of the time?”
“Well, eventually, as I gained more influence in the movement, he gave me a title. He didn’t use it much, but others did.”
Grinsa felt his heart begin to race. “What title?”
“He made me one of his chancellors.”
“His chancellors,” the gleaner said breathlessly, repeating the words as if they were the name of his first love.
“Does that tell you something?” Cresenne asked, frowning once more.
“Maybe. Most of the kings and queens in the Forelands call their Qirsi ministers. The suzerain of Uulrann refers to all Qirsi as enchanters, but he gives no formal title to those who serve him. The emperor of Braedon, however, has chancellors as well as ministers. His chancellors are those who have been with him the longest, who have the most authority among his advisors.”
“That’s what we were,” Cresenne said. “There were only a few of us—the others in the movement answered to us, rather than to him directly.”
“Braedon,” he whispered. He had seen the Weaver’s face the night
before, but he hadn’t noticed much about the moor on which they had been standing. It could have been anywhere in the Forelands.
He stood and walked to the door, calling for a guard.
“Are you going to the feast?”
“Yes,” he answered, as the guard unlocked the door. “I wish to ask the king what he knows about Braedon’s high chancellor.”
Curtell, Braedon
He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, nor did he leave his chambers come morning. Even when the midmorning bells tolled in the city, the echoes drifting through the palace corridors like whispering wraiths, he remained in the chair by his long-dead fire, staring at the blackened remnants of wood, his hands, white knuckled and stiff, gripping the arms of his chair. There was a knock, a timid voice explaining that the emperor was asking for him. But he sent the servant away without bothering to open the door.
“I’m not well today. Offer my apologies to the emperor.” He called these things to the boy, motionless in his chair.
The truth. For he wasn’t well.
He had known that this day would come. No man leading so great a movement could shroud himself in shadows forever. But he had not thought to have his identity exposed so soon, and never had he dreamed that Grinsa jal Arriet would be the first man in the Forelands to see his face and live to speak of it. Just a few turns before he had killed one of his servants, a man in Audun’s Castle, simply to preserve his secret. Paegar jal Berget had been neither the most powerful Qirsi working for his cause nor the most intelligent. But the man had served him loyally for more than two years. His had been a crueler fate by far than what he deserved.
