Bonds of Vengeance

Chapter Twenty-Three

He could see them fighting, both men crouched low, their blades held ready as they circled one another, looking for any opening to attack. It seemed that Tavis bled from a wound on his forearm and another on the side of his neck, but Grinsa couldn’t be certain. The distance was too great, and though he was moving as swiftly as he could, the terrain was difficult. He picked his way across the great boulders with an eye toward the combatants, glancing down only occasionally to check his footing. Twice he nearly fell, for the stone was slick. He could feel sea spray on his face, he could smell brine and a coming storm riding the wind. Gulls cried overhead.

I’m on the Crown, he thought to himself. He paused, looking around, suddenly more aware of his surroundings than of the battle before him. He could see the dark mass of Enwyl Island in the distance, and to the west of that, the cliffs of Eibithar’s eastern shore. This is the Wethy Crown.

He heard laughter and looked ahead once more. The two figures before him continued to circle, the other man, dark haired and tall, just as the gleaner remembered from Mertesse, switching his dagger from one hand to the other, the motion so fluid he seemed a dancer rather than a musician. He was smiling now, his confidence written in his expression, his stance, his pale blue eyes. The singer made a feint with his blade hand, and Tavis flinched. The man laughed a second time. Grinsa was nearly close enough now, though for what he couldn’t be certain. He wanted to cry out to Tavis, to warn the young lord away from this man, from this fight, but he kept his silence, fearing that if he distracted Tavis for even a moment, it would mean the boy’s death. He sensed that he was supposed to do something, that Tavis expected him to use magic against the singer, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to do anything more than watch.

Again the singer pretended to lunge, and when Tavis moved to protect himself-a desperate, clumsy movement with his blade hand-the singer launched himself at the boy. They struggled briefly, a tangle of arms and legs and flashing steel. Then they fell to the stone, rolling to the side. Tavis cried out the gleaner’s name, then shouted something else. Grinsa couldn’t make out what he said, and in the next instant the two figures rolled again, reaching the crest of the boulder on which they fought and dropping out of view. Grinsa hurried toward them, calling to the young lord even as he stumbled again. To his left a wave crashed, sending a towering fountain of foam and spray over the huge rocks. Lightning carved across the purple sky, seeming to plunge into the Gulf of Kreanna like a dagger into flesh. Thunder followed a moment later, the clap so sudden and fierce that it staggered him, as if a blow. In an instant it was raining. But this was not the soft rain that presages a storm during the growing turns, building gradually as the storm grows near. Rather, this rain came like a hail of arrows during a siege. Abrupt and merciless, and so thick he could barely see what was before him. He cried out for Tavis, but the torrent drowned out his voice and swallowed the light. Thunder crashed again, and a voice beside him made the gleaner jump.

“It’s raining.”

Grinsa opened his eyes. Lightning flickered like a flame in the narrow window near his bed. He could hear rain slapping against the stone walls of Audun’s Castle.

Tavis was sitting up in his bed, gazing toward the window as well. Grinsa rubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear his mind. They were in Audun’s Castle still; they weren’t in Wethyrn at all. It had been several days since the arrival of Marston of Shanstead and the discussion among the Qirsi to which he had been party. Little had happened in the intervening days, though the dukes of Heneagh and Labruinn had reached the castle the previous morning.

“You called out my name,” Tavis said after some time. “Were you dreaming?”

Grinsa nodded. Then, when the boy didn’t look his way, he managed to say, “Yes,” in a hoarse voice.

“What about?”

He didn’t want to say. This hadn’t been just another dream. He felt drained, weak, as if he had been healing wounds for the better part of a day, just as he always felt after a vision. As much as he would have liked to believe otherwise, the gleaner knew that what he had seen would happen someday, probably soon. Tavis and the singer would meet on the Wethy Crown. They would fight their next battle-perhaps their last battle-in that storm Grinsa had seen. And, it seemed, Grinsa would be unable to stop them or, for that matter, to do anything more than watch helpless and useless. How was he to explain any of this to Tavis?

“It’s hard to say,” he answered. “I need a chance to sort through what I saw.”

“It was a vision, then.”

The boy was too damn clever. “Yes,” he admitted. “It was a vision.”

“Of me?”

“Give me some time, Tavis.”

The young lord gave a nod, staring at him another moment before turning back to the window and the storm.

“It’s early for a storm like this,” the boy said quietly, as lightning brightened the window again.

“Osya’s turn will be over in another two days. It’s not that early.”

“In Curgh, this would be early. Maybe it’s not down here. I’m not used to spending the planting away from the north coast.”

“You could probably go home now if you wanted. The king believes in your innocence, and though others might not, you no longer need Glyndwr’s protection.”

“I’m not ready to go home.”

I still have to kill the singer. He didn’t have to say it. If by some chance Grinsa thought that Cresenne’s confession had made the young lord any less determined to avenge Brienne, his vision would have been enough to dispel the notion.

“Perhaps you should anyway,” Grinsa said, his voice barely carrying over a rumble of thunder.

“What did you see, gleaner?”

Tavis had turned to face him again, forcing Grinsa to look away.

“Nothing.” He lay back down. “Go to sleep.”

For several moments Tavis continued to sit there, saying nothing. Then he lowered himself to his pillow, pulling his blankets up around his neck.

It seemed that Grinsa fell asleep immediately, for when he awoke once more, the silver light of day lit the chamber and Tavis’s bed was empty. Several turns ago he might have been concerned for the boy’s safety, even with Aindreas of Kentigern and his soldiers fifty leagues away. He had learned during their travels, however, that Tavis could take care of himself. Usually, he amended, recalling his vision.

He dressed and started toward the prison tower. No doubt Cresenne would be weary and ready for sleep.

But as he crossed the ward he saw two men dueling on the grass, the sharp crack of wood echoing off the castle walls as their swords met. Training weapons rather than steel. It took him a moment to recognize one of the men as Tavis. Hagan MarCullet stood nearby, and Grinsa soon realized that the man fighting Tavis was the swordmaster’s son, Xaver. He hesitated a moment, glancing toward Cresenne’s tower. Then he walked over to Hagan, who was shouting encouragement to both lord and liege man.

“Are you to be training the king’s men as well, swordmaster?” he asked.

Hagan regarded him briefly, then gave a short laugh. “Trasker would never allow that, and you know it.” He nodded his head toward the two young men. “Actually it was the boy’s idea.”

“Tavis’s?”

He nodded a second time. “Sword up, Tavis! You can’t defend yourself with the tip held too low!

“His footwork has gotten a bit careless,” he went on a moment later, lowering his voice once more. “And his attacks aren’t quite as precise as I remember. But he still wields a quick blade. He’s nearly a match for his father.” He glanced at the gleaner. “Have you been working him?”

“Not at all. I don’t know much about swordplay.”

“I guess some are just born to it. Was you that healed him though, wasn’t it? After Kentigern?”

Grinsa had long denied this, fearing that if he revealed his ability to heal, some might begin to question what other powers he possessed. But most in the castle knew by now that he had healed Cresenne’s injuries, and though he felt certain that the king would not betray his secret, he sensed that it wouldn’t be long before others learned that he was a Weaver.

“Yes,” he said. “It was me.”

“You did well. Xaver tells me the boy was in a bad way when last he saw him in the dungeon.”

“Thank you.”

Grinsa and Hagan watched them fight for another few moments, before the swordmaster called to them, “That’s enough for now, lads!”

The two boys stopped, stepped back from one another, and bowed, first to each other, and then to Hagan. Their faces were as red as Sanbiri wine and their hair was damp with sweat. But both of them were grinning, Tavis looking happier than Grinsa had ever seen him. Whatever his reason for requesting the training, clearly it had done him some good.

Seeing the gleaner, Tavis’s smile began to fade.

“Has something happened?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his face with his sleeve.

“No. I was on my way to the prison tower and saw you here. I just stopped to watch.” He faltered. After all this time, he still found it hard to pay the boy compliments. “You’re very good,” he made himself say.

Tavis shrugged, looked off to the side. “I used to be.”

“You still are,” Xaver said.

“As are you, Master MarCullet.”

An uneasy silence fell over them, until Grinsa cleared his throat, forcing a smile. “Well, as I say, I was on my way to the tower. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all,” the swordmaster said. “I shouldn’t work him too hard if he hasn’t been training.”

But Tavis didn’t say a word. It seemed he was eager for Grinsa to leave.

“If you need me, I’ll be with Cresenne,” he told the boy.

Tavis nodded once, his lips pressed thin.

Grinsa tipped his head to Xaver and Hagan in turn, then walked away, making his way to Cresenne’s chamber, all the while wondering if he should insist that Tavis return to Curgh. Javan and the duchess would support him, he knew. They wished only for their son’s safety; neither of them cared anything for revenge. And Grinsa wasn’t convinced that Tavis’s thirst for the assassin’s blood was something to be encouraged. If his vision the previous night was to be believed, it might be the death of the boy.

For his part, Grinsa would have been glad to end their journeying here, in the City of Kings. He had come to like Tavis despite the boy’s many faults. But Cresenne and Bryntelle needed him, and though he had resisted it for a time, he could no longer keep himself from thinking of them as his family. He still loved Cresenne, even after all she had done, and while he couldn’t be certain that she would ever love him, he wasn’t certain that mattered. Because of him, the Weaver wanted her dead. How could he leave her, knowing the danger she faced every time she closed her eyes to sleep? How could he leave Bryntelle?

More to the point, there was a war to be fought, and though few of the Eandi realized it now, it would fall to Grinsa to lead them, whether to victory or defeat. He had to remain here, so that when the time came, he would be ready to fight the Weaver. Certainly that’s what Keziah would have told him, and Cresenne, too, and perhaps the king himself.

Then why did Oirsar send the vision?

He faltered in midstride, as if suddenly stricken by some unseen pain. The vision. It was a warning. It had to be. Tavis should stay far from the Wethy Crown. He should break off this pointless and perilous pursuit of the assassin. That’s what it had to be saying. Except that visions didn’t always work that way. Long ago, before he left Cresenne to go to Kentigern, before he’d even met Tavis in the Revel gleaning tent in Curgh city, he had a vision of himself journeying with the boy, fighting beside him against the conspiracy. And though it seemed that what he had glimpsed in that vision had already come to pass, he couldn’t be certain that his path didn’t still lie with the boy. He had yet to have that moment of recognition, the one that came a turn or a year or ten years after a vision, when he realized that he was living the prophecy. He couldn’t be certain that he ever would-with some visions it never came. This didn’t mean the vision wasn’t true; it most cases it meant nothing. In this case, because of his dream the night before, it meant everything.

If that vision from so long ago had yet to be realized, then perhaps Tavis had nothing to fear from the singer. If, on the other hand, that moment had passed. .

Except that visions didn’t always work that way, either.

Grinsa spat a curse.

Of all his powers, gleaning was the one he liked least. The glimpses it offered of the future carried burdens he didn’t wish to bear and uncertainties that often left him frustrated and fearful. Even this latest dream, the meaning of which seemed so clear at first, had become muddied in his mind over the past few hours. If he chose to remain with Cresenne and Bryntelle, would it make a difference? Tavis might resume his pursuit of the assassin without him. Certainly the boy was stubborn enough to do so. And though the gleaner had seen the events on the Wethy shore as if he were there, Tavis and the assassin had paid him no heed. Even when he called out to the young lord, Tavis didn’t appear to hear him. Had his voice been overwhelmed by the sea and the storm? Or was it that he wasn’t even there? Had Qirsar, the god of the Qirsi, merely offered a glimpse of what awaited the boy if Grinsa did not accompany him on his coming journey eastward? The god had done such things before, many times.

Yes, it was a warning. But of what? If you go with the boy to the Wethy Crown, he may die; if you don’t go with the boy, he may die. Either was possible. Keeping Tavis in Eibithar seemed the only way to ensure his safety. And so long as the young lord didn’t learn that the assassin had gone east, Grinsa thought he could do that much.

He continued on across the ward, reaching the base of the prison tower a few moments later. He climbed the stairs quickly and upon emerging into the corridor outside Cresenne’s chamber, heard Bryntelle cry out. Hurrying to the chamber door, the gleaner saw Cresenne sitting on her bed, with the baby lying in her lap.

“Is she all right?” he asked.

Cresenne looked up, a brilliant smile lighting her face. “She laughed!”

“Really?”

“Yes. Come and see.”

One of the guards opened the door for him, and he stepped quickly to the bed to sit beside them.

“Watch.” Cresenne lowered her face to the baby’s belly and kissed it loudly, shaking her head as she did. Bryntelle let out a delighted squeal, her mouth opening in a wide, toothless grin. Cresenne did it a second time, drawing the same response.

“You see?” she said, straightening. “You try it.”

Grinsa smiled, but shook his head. “I don’t think she’s ready to laugh for me.”

“You don’t know that.”

He shrugged, staring at his daughter, unwilling at that moment to risk a look at the woman beside him.

“At least take her. She’s in a wonderful mood.”

“All right.”

He allowed Cresenne to place Bryntelle in his arms, grinning when the child continued to smile and coo. Cresenne laid her hand gently on his arm, leaning closer so that she could look at the baby as well. It almost seemed that his skin was aflame where she was touching him.

“You see?” she said, glancing at him.

He merely nodded, still not looking at her.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m just enjoying her.” Both of you, really.

“Something’s troubling you. I can tell.”

As quickly as it had begun, the moment passed. Briefly, as they sat there together, they truly had been a family. But this was a prison, and even as they spoke, the land moved inexorably toward war.

“It’s nothing. I had a vision, that’s all.”

“Of what?” He could hear fear tightening her voice, and he regretted saying even this much.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does. What did you see?”

“I saw Tavis fighting the assassin.”

“Did you see the outcome?”

“No.”

She nodded, removing her hand from his arm and shifting on the bed so that there was more distance between them. “Where?”

“The Crown.”

“Is that where you’re going next?”

“I don’t intend to go anywhere, Cresenne.” He made himself meet her gaze. “I don’t know yet what this vision means. I’m not even certain that I’m to be there with them.”

“Of course you are. You’re tied to the boy in some way. You told me that long ago, in Galdasten.”

The gleaner remembered, of course. There had been a storm that night, much like the one to which he had wakened out of this most recent vision. Was there meaning in that as well?

“You must be tired,” he said. “You should get some rest. Bryntelle will be fine with me.”

Cresenne leaned forward and kissed the baby on the forehead. Then she stretched out on the bed, closing her eyes.

“If it means anything,” she said, already sounding sleepy, “I know that you don’t want to leave us, that it will pain you to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I think you are. In the end I think you’ll decide that you have no choice. You’ve pledged yourself to protecting both Tavis and me, but you can only be with one of us at a time. And you feel somehow responsible for the boy.”

“Don’t you think I feel the same way about you, about Bryntelle?”

“Bryntelle isn’t in danger. Keziah told us so. And whatever danger I’m in is of my own making. That’s what you’ll decide.” She opened her eyes for just a moment. “And you’ll be right.”

She closed her eyes once more and rolled away from him. After a few moments he stood and began walking around the chamber with Bryntelle, rocking her gently and singing an Eibitharian folk song in a near whisper. Soon both the baby and her mother were asleep.

The day passed slowly. Grinsa couldn’t keep the vision from his mind, nor could he help but think that in the end, Cresenne’s words would prove as prescient as any gleaning. It seemed that Bryntelle was beginning to adjust to the strange hours she and her mother were keeping. She slept for the rest of the morning and well past midday before waking, hungry and wet. Grinsa changed her swaddling, then woke Cresenne so that the baby could nurse.

As Bryntelle ate, the city bells began to toll. It was far too early for the prior’s bell.

Cresenne frowned, looking from the window to Grinsa.

“Has another duke arrived?”

“None were expected after Labruinn and Heneagh. The rest have refused to come.”

“Then what?” She sounded alarmed, and Grinsa silently cursed the Weaver once more. Cresenne had lied to him when they were still lovers and the gleaner couldn’t be certain that he had known her as well as he believed at the time. But she hadn’t struck him then as the type of person who was easily frightened. Only now, bearing scars from the Weaver’s assault, did her face turn the color of ash at the merest hint of danger.

“It’s probably just a messenger,” he said. “From one of the other dukes, I’d guess.” He made himself smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing to be afraid of.”

But he could feel his own pulse pounding too hard in his temples, and though he tried to appear calm, he found himself looking repeatedly toward the window on the chamber’s steel door, as if expecting at any moment to see Keziah’s face, or the king’s.

Eventually the pealing of the bells ceased, and though he could hear voices rising to the narrow window from the castle ward, none of what he heard gave him cause for concern. Still, he wasn’t entirely surprised when at last he heard the scrape of a boot in the corridor and a low voice speaking to the guards.

A moment later a face loomed at the door’s steel grate. It wasn’t the king or Keziah. Rather, it was Tavis.

“Forgive me,” the young lord said, his dark eyes flicking briefly toward Cresenne, who covered herself with a corner of the bed linens.

“What is it, Tavis?”

“A message. I think you should hear it.”

“Can it wait?”

“It’s all right,” Cresenne said, her voice low and tense. “I won’t be able to sleep anyway.”

He looked at her and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, swiping at a tear that had appeared suddenly on her cheek. “It’s not your fault. I knew this would come. Actually I dreamed it. I just didn’t expect it would happen so soon.”

Grinsa and Lord Tavis entered Kearney’s presence chamber together but quickly separated, Tavis going to where his father stood near the window, and the gleaner sitting on the arm of Keziah’s chair. The other dukes were there as well, as were the thane of Shanstead and Gershon Trasker. All of the nobles had brought their ministers, so that the chamber felt crowded and warm.

When Tavis and Grinsa arrived, the king had just asked the older dukes-Javan, Lathrop, and Welfyl, the duke of Heneagh-about the realm’s past relations with the matriarchy in Sanbira. Now Welfyl, bent and frail looking in his chair by the dormant hearth, began a rambling reply, telling of his one visit to Sanbira in 853, when the queen at that time, Meleanna the Ninth, had honored him with an invitation to Castle Yserne.

“What’s happened?” Grinsa asked, his voice so low Keziah could barely hear him.

“Didn’t Tavis tell you?”

Welfyl paused long enough to frown at the two of them before continuing his tale.

“Only that a message had come,” Grinsa went on, lowering his voice even further. “I gather it’s from the queen.”

“Yes.”

“My pardon, Lord Heneagh,” Marston said, interrupting the old duke before Keziah could tell her brother more, “but I’d be interested in knowing if the queen ever spoke to you of an alliance between our two realms.”

“I was getting to that,” Welfyl said crossly. “Meleanna told me at dinner that night that the Matriarchy wished to avoid alliances with any of the northern realms. She said that the Sanbiris valued their friendship with Eibithar, but that they didn’t wish to risk offending the lords of Aneira and Braedon. ‘We have no wish to be party to your quarrels,’ is how she put it.” His brow furrowed. “Or something to that effect.”

“It seems Olesya is more willing than were her grandmother and mother to take such risks,” the thane said, turning to the king. “I believe this is a fine opportunity, my liege. We’d be wise to accept her offer as quickly as we can.”

Grinsa was watching the king as well. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. But am I to understand that the queen of Sanbira has proposed an alliance?”

“Yes, she has. I assumed that Lord Tavis had informed you on your way here.”

“No, Your Majesty. He merely said that a message had come. I believe he thought it more appropriate that you inform me, since the message was clearly intended for you.”

Keziah knew better. The tension between the young lord and her brother had been thick as a coastal fog when they entered the chamber. She could imagine the two of them walking in complete silence all the way from the prison tower. But Grinsa would conclude properly that the state of their friendship was no concern of Kearney’s or the other nobles. The message was what mattered.

“I’ve already read it to the other lords,” Kearney said, “so I won’t waste time with it again. Briefly, the queen writes of an attempt on the life of one of her duchesses, Diani of Curlinte. Diani is young-her mother just passed to Bian’s realm a few turns ago-and she survived the attempt. But House Curlinte is closely tied to the royal house, and it seems Diani’s first minister was behind the assassination attempt. The queen fears the conspiracy will strike at her again, and she proposes an alliance to fight the Qirsi threat.”

Grinsa’s gaze had shifted to the boy, who was staring back at him, his face pale, so that the scars he bore appeared even more livid than usual. Keziah couldn’t say what passed between them in those few moments, but within the span of a single heartbeat, Grinsa looked as troubled as the boy.

“I must disagree with the thane, Your Majesty,” Fotir said from where he stood, near his duke and the young lord.

“How so, First Minister?”

“I don’t believe this message represents a change in the Sanbiri attitude toward alliances. The queen doesn’t suggest that we join forces with her against any other realms, but rather only against the conspiracy. I can’t know for certain, of course, but I would guess that she sent similar messages to every sovereign in the Forelands.”

Grinsa nodded, his mouth still set in a thin line. “That sounds likely to me, as well.”

“This isn’t to say that we shouldn’t pursue the alliance anyway,” Fotir went on. “But you should recognize her offer for what it is.”

“The queen’s letter also proves beyond doubt what we’ve thought for some time now.” Javan. “The conspiracy is a threat to every realm and every court. From this day forward, any time we hear of a noble’s death, we must question the circumstances surrounding it. We can’t assume that anything is as it seems. Not until this threat has passed and the Qirsi have been defeated.”

Marston nodded. “I agree with Lord Curgh. And though it saddens me to say it, I’d add that we can no longer simply trust the counsel of our Qirsi without question. It seems there are more traitors in the Forelands than we feared. Blind trust can only lead to disaster.”

“So we’re to assume then that all of them have betrayed us?” Lathrop shook his head. “That’s nonsense.”

Keziah felt as if an arrow had buried itself in her chest. Several of the other ministers looked angry. She thought Evetta might cry. Even Xivled, who had appeared unfazed by the decision of the king to exclude Qirsi from his discussion with the dukes a few days before now seemed disturbed by what his lord had said. But Keziah’s pain had far less to do with Shanstead’s words than with the way Kearney was looking at her. She had worked hard to make him doubt her. But more recently, since the Weaver instructed her to begin winning back the king’s trust, she had tried as best she could to do just that. It had seemed a gift, a spar of light in the shadows she had woven about herself. She had known it wouldn’t last, but for just a short while she had thought to continue her deception of the Weaver while also repairing some of the damage she had done to what remained of the love she and Kearney once shared.

Seeing how he regarded her now, however, she understood that it was too late. She saw fear in his green eyes, and so much suspicion. There might have been love there as well, a residue of the passion she remembered from their time in Glyndwr. But it had been twisted and defiled by all that had come since. Marston might find it hard to convince the other nobles to stop trusting the Qirsi who served them, but he had already swayed the king.

Caius of Labruinn glanced at his first minister, the oldest of the Qirsi in the king’s chamber. “Forgive me, Ottah,” he said, “but I’m not ready to dismiss the thane’s suggestion so quickly. No doubt the duchess of Curlinte trusted her minister, just as Lord Shanstead’s father trusted his.”

Caius was a young man in comparison to the other dukes. Not as young as Marston, but close. The young ones, it seemed, would lead this battle. Perhaps they hadn’t grown as close to their ministers, having only led their houses for a few years. Perhaps, having come into their birthrights at a time when the conspiracy was already beginning to spread across the land, they found it easier to question the loyalty of those who served them. Whatever the reason, Keziah found herself hating this man, and the thane as well.

Caius had risen from his chair and was pacing the floor now. “It seems there’s something in the Qirsi heart that breeds treachery. It runs like a river through the history of your people.”

Fotir bristled. “With all respect, Lord Labruinn, I find what you’ve said offensive.”

“As do I.”

Everyone in the chamber turned to look at Tavis.

“If it wasn’t for the Qirsi I never would have escaped from Kentigern. In all likelihood I’d be dead by now.”

Marston gave a small laugh. “My Lord Curgh,” he said, as if speaking to a child. “If it wasn’t for the Qirsi, you might never have been in Kentigern’s dungeon in the first place. Lady Brienne would still be alive and you would be in line behind your father for the throne.”

“That’s true, Lord Shanstead. Not all the Qirsi can be trusted. But neither can they all be dismissed as traitors. Even I can see that, though I have more cause than any of you to hate them.”

“The boy makes a good point,” Gershon said from the far corner of the chamber. Then his face reddened. “I mean Lord Curgh. Forgive me, my lord.”

Tavis actually smiled. “Apology accepted, swordmaster.”

The king stood, compelling the rest of them to their feet. “I’ll consider a response to the queen of Sanbira,” he said. “As to the rest. .” He faltered, his eyes straying to Keziah for just an instant. “We’ll speak of it again tomorrow.”

The nobles and ministers bowed to him and began to file out of the chamber. Keziah lingered a moment, and Grinsa with her. She hoped that Kearney would call her back. Perhaps if she could talk to him, she might allay whatever fears Marston had planted in the king’s mind. But Kearney kept silent and soon she and Grinsa were in the corridor.

Tavis was waiting for them. It struck her as strange that this young lord, whom she still thought of as spoiled and undisciplined, should be the most vocal defender of the Qirsi among all the gathered nobles. Even stranger, Gershon Trasker had been the only person to agree with him.

“You think it was him,” Grinsa said to the boy without preamble.

“I think he was behind it, yes. According to the message, the assassins are all dead. But I find it difficult to believe that the singer would have allowed himself to be killed.”

“You almost managed it in Mertesse.”

Tavis’s eyes narrowed, as if he thought Grinsa were mocking him. “I was fortunate, and you know it.”

Grinsa looked away, twisting his mouth sourly. There was more to this than Keziah could possibly have understood. “So, you think we should go to Sanbira,” he said.

“If we’re going to look for him, we should start there.”

If we’re going to look for him. . The words hung between them like a lofted arrow between two armies. A challenge.

“You can’t go,” Keziah said. She watched Grinsa, searching for some response. When he offered none, she turned her glare on the boy. “You know that he can’t. Without him, Cresenne will die.” She realized there were guards nearby and she started down the corridor away from them, drawing Tavis and Grinsa after her as if by the sheer force of her will. She didn’t stop until they had reached her chamber and she had sent away the servants and closed the door. “Cresenne needs Grinsa here,” she began once more, keeping her voice as low as her emotions allowed. “It’s just a matter of time before the Weaver tries again to kill her. We all know it, just as we all know that Grinsa is the only one who can protect her, the only one who can pull her from the dreams.”

“Keziah-”

“I know that you want vengeance,” she said to the boy, ignoring her brother. “I can even understand why you might need it. But it’s more important that he remain here.”

“Then, I’ll go alone.”

“No,” Grinsa said, “you won’t.”

“I don’t answer to you, gleaner.”

“I know you don’t. That’s not what I meant.”

The boy said nothing, looking more astonished than relieved.

Keziah could think of nothing to say. Grinsa couldn’t leave the castle; it was as obvious to her as the scars on Cresenne’s face, as clear as the sound of Bryntelle’s cries. Whatever he owed this young lord, whatever they had shared during their travels through Aneira, none of it could mean as much to Grinsa as his family. Surely he knew that.

“You can’t mean that you intend to leave with him,” she finally managed in a quavering voice.

“I do.”

“But-”

He held up a hand, silencing her. “There’s more at work here than my wishes, more to this than any of us can understand.”

“Your dream.”

She looked at Tavis, then turned back to Grinsa. “What dream?”

He was eyeing the boy. “I had a vision last night. I saw Tavis fighting the assassin on the shores of the Wethy Crown. I don’t know the outcome; I’m not entirely certain what it meant. But it seems the gods are telling me to go.”

“You can’t know that.”

At last he met her gaze. “Cresenne dreamed that I’d be leaving.”

Keziah opened her mouth to argue, closed it again. She couldn’t begin to guess what it might mean. She wished she could deny that it meant anything at all, but she knew better, possessing gleaning magic herself.

“But who’ll protect her?” she asked, tears stinging her eyes. “Who’ll protect me?”

Grinsa stepped past the boy and gathered her in his arms. “You’re the answer to both questions, Kezi,” he whispered.

“I can’t protect her from a Weaver.”

“He expects you to kill her. He won’t do anything himself so long as he believes he can count on you. You told me yourself that he intends this as a test of your commitment to the movement. He’ll give you every opportunity to succeed, because he has ample reason to want you to.”

She clung to him, laying her cheek against his broad chest. “But I can’t put him off forever. Eventually he’ll lose patience with me, and then we’ll both die.”

“Tavis and I won’t be gone that long.”

“You’re going to the Crown, Grinsa, and then you’ll be searching for a single man. This could take you half the year.”

“It won’t. Can you prevail upon Kearney to give us two mounts?”

The familiar twisting in her chest nearly made her wince. “I don’t think I can convince him to do anything anymore.”

“I can,” Tavis said. “Or more precisely, my father can.”

“But will he?” Grinsa asked. “He won’t want you to leave. Certainly not for this.”

“He won’t want me to, but he’ll let me.”

“All right,” Grinsa said. He looked down at Keziah. “Tavis and I will ride to Rennach, which shouldn’t take us more than five or six days, if we push the horses a bit. From there we’ll find passage on a merchant ship to the Crown.”

“A ship?” Tavis asked.

“Yes, of course. Riding all the way around the gulf and up the peninsula would take far too long.” He eyed the young lord. “Is that a problem?”

Tavis looked away. “I don’t fare well on ships. I never have.”

“If the weather’s reasonably fair, the crossing should take less than a day. It’s not like crossing the Scabbard during the snows. This time of year the Gulf of Kreanna is actually rather pleasant.”

Tavis nodded, clearly unconvinced.

Grinsa looked at Keziah once more. “My point is, we can be in Helke in seven or eight days.”

“But then you have to find the assassin.”

“I dreamed of him, Keziah. I know where to look.”

She wanted to say more, to argue the point until he changed his mind. But that wasn’t Grinsa’s way. He knew just as she did what he was risking. No doubt he realized as well that the journey he was about to undertake wouldn’t be as easy as he made it sound.

For several moments she and her brother stared at one another, until finally, his eyes still locked on hers, Grinsa said, “Tavis, you should tell your parents that we’re planning to leave. See if you can get those horses.”

“When will we be going?”

“Tomorrow morning, at first light.”

“All right.” He regarded them both for a moment, then let himself out of the chamber, leaving Keziah and Grinsa alone.

“Does he survive the encounter you saw?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but I think his chances are better with me there.”

Back in the growing turns, when Grinsa had risked so much to save Tavis from the dungeon of Kentigern, Keziah had asked him if the boy was worth the possible costs. She nearly asked him again now.

“I don’t know how you can bring yourself to leave them,” she said instead. “It would kill me.”

He closed his eyes briefly, taking a long breath. “I’m not sure that I can explain it. He has a role to play in this war before it ends. Killing the assassin isn’t it-to be honest, I’m not certain what it is-but I sense that he can’t do the rest if he’s still consumed with his need for vengeance. And if he dies, and his destiny remains unfulfilled, we’ll all suffer for the loss.”

“And what of Cresenne? Doesn’t she have a part to play in this as well?”

“Yes, of course she does. But I fear that. . that I love her too much to see clearly what it might be.” He swallowed, looking more unsure of himself than Keziah could remember. “For all I know, she did her part by having Brienne killed and betraying me.”

Keziah shook her head. “I think there’s more to it than that. She’s not the same person she was then.”

“I know.”

She felt his weariness as if it were her own. Much as she wanted to convince him to remain, she understood that she could help him best by not trying to do so.

“If the Weaver comes for her again, you’ll have to find a way to wake her,” he said. “He can’t make her remain asleep, although it may seem that way at times. This is something you need to learn as well.” He held his face close to hers, his yellow eyes fixed on her own, as if he could will her to comprehend what he was saying. “When he hurts you, when he closes a hand round your throat, it’s all an illusion. His magic only allows him to reach into your dreams. After that, he’s using your magic and your mind to hurt you. So you have to train your mind to resist him. You can’t panic, you can’t give in to fear of what he seems to be doing to you. He can’t kill you without your complicity. If you keep your thoughts clear, you should be able to wake yourself before he can harm you. Explain this to Cresenne. Work on it together.”

Keziah nodded, feeling tears on her face again. “We’ll try.”

He started to say something, then stopped himself. Trying isn’t enough, Kezi. He had said this to her before and no doubt he was thinking it now. But he merely kissed her and wiped away her tears with a gentle hand. “I know you will,” he whispered. And left her.

The light in her chamber was just as she had envisioned it, soft and golden, deep orange from the sunset seeping through the small window to mingle with the bright yellow of the torches. She had bathed earlier in the day, rousing herself from her tears and her fright to clean the stale smell from her limbs and hair. Then she had bathed Bryntelle as well, so that they would both be clean for him on this last night.

He entered the chamber with food from the kitchens and a small carafe of wine. After the guard closed the door, Grinsa asked that he and his comrade leave the corridor so that the three of them might have some privacy. Just to the bottom of the tower, he pleaded. When the men refused, he pulled two daggers from his belt, stuck them in the wooden door just above its steel grate, and draped his overshirt from them so that it hung in front of the small window. This, too, was just as she had seen.

They ate, he sang to Bryntelle until she slept. And as night settled over the castle, moonless and cool, Grinsa took Cresenne in his arms and began to remove her clothes, gently and silently.

She hadn’t been with any other man since their time together, and the memory of his touch seemed to awaken her passion as from a long sleep. His lips on her neck and breasts, his hands traveling her body, deft and sure. There was something familiar about it, and yet something new as well. Moving above him, her back arched, her hair falling loose, she finally found it within herself to admit what she had known for so long. She loved this man, and somehow, a gift of the gods, an offer of forgiveness beyond any she had imagined possible, he loved her as well.

She felt it in the rhythm of their movements on the small bed, in the way he gazed up at her, watching her love him.

A part of her wanted to hate herself for all that she had done to him, to the world in which their daughter would live. But his touch wouldn’t allow it. If I can forgive you, he seemed to say with his kisses, his caresses, if I can love you, you must do the same for yourself.

And as she arced over him one last time, biting back a soft cry, her body seeming to burn with what he had done to her, what they had done together, she realized that she could do this much, for him, for herself, for Bryntelle.

Afterward, drained and sated, happier than she had been in many turns, and more afraid as well, she watched him sleep, touching his white hair, studying his face by the faint light that the window allowed into the chamber.

When the sky began to brighten with morning, he awoke, dressed quickly, and stooped to kiss her where she lay.

“I’ll come back to you,” he whispered. “To both of you. I promise.”

He kissed Bryntelle, brushed her cheek with a slender finger. Then he straightened, and left the chamber, tears glistening on his cheeks.

It was all just as she had dreamed it would be.

She had seen much else in her vision as well, things that made her tremble for herself and for her child. She hadn’t seen enough, however, to know if Grinsa could keep this last promise he had made.