Bonds of Vengeance

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Helke, Wethyrn

“He’s a good ’un, tha’ singer at the Grey Seal. Best I’ve heard in some time.”

The peddler took another long pull on his ale and wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. He had been talking to Grinsa and Tavis for the better part of an hour, drinking ales bought with Curgh gold and regaling them with tales of all the taverns in Helke.

“If it’s music yer lookin’ fer-good music, mind ye-tha’s where I’d begin.”

It had been Grinsa’s idea, and Tavis had to admit that it had worked quite well.

“The closer we get to Helke,” the gleaner had said a few days before, “the more likely it becomes that we’ll run across people who know of Cadel. So rather than asking about him in particular, and possibly drawing attention to ourselves, I’d like to try just asking about the musicians in the city. From what we’ve heard, this man can sing. If he’s there, we’ll hear of him.”

At the time, Tavis hadn’t been convinced that the strategy would work, but on this night the peddler had given them all the information they would need to find the singer. And then some.

“Now, if ye like the pipes,” he went on, draining his tankard and beckoning to the serving girl with his free hand, “then I’d send ye t’ the Mainmast, over on the south end o’ the city. Tha’s a rougher place, though.” He grinned at Tavis, revealing broken yellow teeth. “From the looks o’ the boy, I’d say he’s had enough o’ tha’ kind o’ tavern. Better t’ stick wi’ the Grey Seal.”

“Well, friend,” Grinsa said, digging into his pocket for coins to pay for all the ale the man had drunk, “we thank you for your advice. When we’re in Helke, listening to all this fine music you’ve told us about, we’ll raise an ale and drink to your good health.”

Tavis and the gleaner pushed back their chairs.

“But wait!” the peddler said with widened eyes, no doubt fearing the loss of his free drink. “I’ve told ye nothin’ o’ the taverns in Strempfar. The musicians there aren’ as fine as those in Helke, but there are a few worth mentionin’.”

Grinsa stood and motioned for Tavis to do the same.

“Perhaps another night, friend.”

The peddler’s face fell. “Very well. I thank ye fer the ale.”

They left him there, sipping this last ale far more slowly than he had the previous ones and looking around for his next patron.

Tavis and the gleaner didn’t speak as they wound their way through the crowded tavern to the door. Once they were in the street, however, Grinsa smiled, looking pleased with himself.

“I told you it would work.”

“If you were half as clever as you think you are, you would have thought of this while we were still in Aneira, asking questions of barkeeps who refused to speak with us.”

“I’m not certain it would have worked as well in Aneira. We didn’t know what city he’d be in, and I wouldn’t have wanted to listen to tales of every tavern singer in the realm.”

Tavis nodded, conceding the point.

It was a warm night, the air heavy with a light mist and the faint scent of the sea. They were already in the dukedom of Helke, though they still had another two leagues to travel before they reached the ducal city. The sky flickered briefly-lightning from a distant storm-but they heard no answering rumble of thunder. It had been like this for several nights now, the pale glimmering of the sky holding out the promise of rain, but as of yet none had fallen.

“So now we know where to find him,” the young lord said.

“Yes, I suppose we do.”

Something in the gleaner’s voice made Tavis falter briefly in midstride. It almost seemed that he didn’t believe what the peddler had told them. Or perhaps he hoped that they wouldn’t find the singer, fearing-knowing? — that Tavis wouldn’t survive their encounter.

Tavis regretted having said anything.

They had hardly spoken since leaving Duvenry, though not because of any conflict between them. Tavis simply didn’t feel like talking, and the gleaner seemed to understand this. The young lord could think of nothing but his coming confrontation with the assassin and what Grinsa had told him of his vision of their battle. He had bested the man once, in Mertesse, when Grinsa forced him to let the singer go, and he should have been able to draw some confidence from that memory. But if anything, it merely served to make him more afraid of their next meeting. Tavis had no illusions as to his skills as a fighter. He had brought along Xaver’s short sword, hoping that it might improve his chances somewhat. Thanks in large part to his training under the keen eyes of Hagan MarCullet, he had always been good with a sword, far better than he was with daggers. But even so armed, against a man like Cadel Tavis could expect to prevail once in a hundred fights. And he had already claimed his one victory, hollow though it was. Chances were the assassin would prevail the next time they fought.

It’s not too late to turn back. Grinsa had spoken the words so many times that Tavis now heard them in his dreams. And sometimes, late at night, when Grinsa was asleep and Tavis should have been as well, he considered returning to Eibithar without facing Brienne’s killer. He wanted to avenge her. Ean knew he did. But he also wanted to live, to reclaim his place in the court of his forefathers and pass his years as a noble, as he once had thought to do. Certainly Grinsa would have leaped at the chance to leave Wethyrn. Even traveling in silence, Tavis sensed how much Grinsa longed to be with Cresenne and their daughter. He was equally certain that if he returned to Curgh without facing the assassin, his parents would welcome him back without question, as would Xaver and Hagan MarCullet and anyone else whose opinion mattered to him.

A few days before, Grinsa had said that Tavis pursued the man out of vengeance and nothing more. But in the days since the young lord had come to realize that he wasn’t doing this for revenge, or for pride, or even for love of his lost queen. He did it for himself, because he knew that if he turned away now, and never faced the assassin, he would curse himself as a coward for the rest of his days. Was it better to die a fool’s death than to live a long life hating oneself? The question had kept him up the last four nights running, and probably would again tonight.

“It shouldn’t be hard to find the Grey Seal,” Grinsa said after some time. “Chances are Cadel will be staying there-musicians often take a free room as part of their compensation. Perhaps we can find some way to gain access to his chamber-”

“You know that’s not going to happen,” Tavis said in a low voice. “We fight on the seashore. You’ve already seen it.”

“I’ve told you before, Tavis. When I have a vision of someone’s fate, be it in a dream or during a gleaning, I’m merely seeing one possible future among many.”

“Then why tell me all that you did about my fight with the singer?”

Grinsa gave a small shrug, his mouth twisting. “Because if what I saw turns out to be real, I want you to know what to expect.” He started to say more, then appeared to stop himself.

“You don’t want that vision to be real, do you? You’ve said all along that you never saw the end of our battle, but you don’t like what you did see, isn’t that right?”

“When it comes right down to it, I don’t like the whole idea of you fighting this man. But yes, given the choice, I’d rather you fought him elsewhere, somewhere a bit less-”

He halted abruptly, falling silent and turning his head slightly, as if listening for something behind them.

“Did you hear that?” he whispered.

“Hear what?”

“Footsteps.”

Tavis looked back down the lane they had been following. They were near the inn at which they had taken a room and the street seemed to be empty. Actually the entire town, the name of which he had already forgotten, struck him as rather desolate.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve had this feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“That we’re being followed, watched. I even had it in the tavern just now, while we were sitting with the peddler. It seemed that someone else was listening to our conversation.”

Had it been any other man, Tavis wouldn’t have been alarmed. Even coming from the gleaner, it sounded like little more than irrational fear born of too many days worrying about assassins and conspiracies. But he had never known Grinsa to speak of such things without cause, and though he wasn’t certain that a Weaver’s powers of perception were any stronger than those of other Qirsi, he felt certain that they were more finely honed than his own.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

Grinsa continued to stare down the street. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do. If we were being followed, whoever it was will have seen us stop and will be ever more cautious.” He started walking again, a bit more quickly than before, and the young lord hurried to follow him. “I should have been more careful,” he murmured, more to himself than to Tavis. “Next time I won’t turn until I’m certain that I can catch him.”

Tihod watched them from a shadowy alleyway between a smithy and a wheelwright’s shop, cursing his own foolishness and fearing that at any moment the gleaner might start back up the lane toward where he was hiding. He had already determined to his own satisfaction that Grinsa and the Curgh boy were returning to their inn. After their conversation with the drunken peddler, he was certain that they would be eager to retire for the night, so as to begin the final leg of their journey to Helke with first light. Once he realized the direction in which they were walking from the pub, he should have stopped following and gone back to his own room. Instead, he had continued after them, ignoring the risk.

It had been no more than the scuff of his boot on the dirt lane that made Grinsa stop, a slight misstep that other men would have missed. Certainly Tavis hadn’t noticed it. Dusaan would have, but the Weaver was not like other men-it seemed he and Grinsa had more in common than just the extent of their powers.

Perhaps wielding such magic-knowing that if the extent of their power were discovered by the Eandi they would be executed-made men like Dusaan and Grinsa more cautious than others, and thus more aware of their surroundings. Or maybe possessing so many magics that were linked to the land and the elements-fire, mists and winds, language of beasts-also served to heighten a Weaver’s perceptions of the world in which he lived. Whatever the explanation, Tihod knew that he would have to be more careful if he were to make an attempt on Grinsa’s life without getting killed himself.

He couldn’t hear what the gleaner and Tavis said to each other, but after a few moments they started walking again. Without leaving the alley, Tihod watched them enter the inn. Still he didn’t move, lest Grinsa was watching for him from within the tavern. Only after he had waited for some time did he finally step warily into the lane and make his way back to his inn and the small, dingy room he had rented for the night.

He missed his ship. For a man accustomed to sleeping in the comfortable cabin of his own vessel, being carried into his slumber each night by the gentle rise and fall of the sea, a tavern bed was a terrible place to pass the night. He hadn’t slept well since leaving Duvenry, nor did he have much of an appetite. He knew that many found the sea unsettling to the stomach, but he, of course, did not. He didn’t understand how anyone could live and sleep and eat on this dead rock they called land. On the ocean Tihod felt that he was riding the back of some great living beast, moving as she did, living by her rhythms and off her bounty. The pitch and roll of his ship on the ocean waves, the taste of sea spray on his lips, the scent of brine in the wind-these gave him more than a livelihood, they gave him life. They fed his appetite and his thirst, they told him when to sleep and when to wake, they gave life and color to his dreams at night. They even enhanced the act of love. He had once lain with a woman on land, in some tavern bedchamber in Aneira, and the experience only confirmed for him what he had already known. Women, like food and wine, like storms and sunsets, were best enjoyed on the sea.

Dusaan, who had never traveled well by ship himself, had nevertheless come to appreciate Tihod’s passion for the sea, and so had been deeply surprised three nights before when he entered the merchant’s dreams.

“You’re not on your ship,” the Weaver had said immediately, a look of concern in his golden eyes. “Why?”

They were standing together on Ayvencalde Moor, as they always did during these encounters, the stones and grasses bathed in bright sunlight, a soft wind stirring Dusaan’s wild white hair.

Tihod told him of finding Grinsa and Tavis in Duvenry and of his decision to follow the two of them north to Helke, where he hoped they would lead him to the assassin. He had expected Dusaan to be pleased by these tidings, perhaps even to compliment him on his decision to follow the gleaner over land. Instead, he warned Tihod to be careful and vowed that they would speak again before the merchant and his quarry reached Helke.

Thus, Tihod knew even as he drifted toward sleep that Dusaan would walk in his dreams again this night. In fact, it seemed the Weaver had been waiting for him, for as soon as he fell asleep he found himself on the moor again, wading through the tall grasses. Dusaan stood some distance away, the still waters of the Scabbard at his back.

“What news?” he demanded, as Tihod halted before him.

“I’m in Krilde, less than a day’s walk from Helke.”

“Grinsa and the boy are there as well?”

“Yes. They spoke with a peddler tonight, a man who had heard Cadel singing in Helke just a few days ago. He gave them the name of a tavern. If all goes as I expect, this matter will be settled by this time tomorrow.”

“This isn’t something that can or should be rushed,” Dusaan said, his face grim.

“I know that. I was only saying-”

“I want you to find the assassin before they do. Get to Helke first-leave tonight if you have to. Pay him the usual and have him kill both men. I don’t want you fighting Grinsa.”

“You’re going to send an Eandi assassin to kill a Weaver?”

“He’s killed Qirsi before.”

“Never a Qirsi like this.”

“And you have?”

“That’s not the point, and you know it,” Tihod said. “I’m sure that Cadel is very good at what he does-”

“He’s the best in the Forelands.”

“But skill with a blade or a garrote isn’t enough in this case. No matter how good he is with a weapon, without any magic at his disposal, he stands no chance against Grinsa.”

“Believe me when I tell you that you don’t either.”

“Then neither of us should make the attempt.”

Dusaan narrowed his eyes, as if trying to gauge whether Tihod was merely arguing the point to anger him.

“This is a task for an assassin,” he said slowly. “And should Cadel die trying to kill Grinsa, then I’ll find another assassin. If necessary, I’ll send a dozen. Assassins can be replaced. You can’t.”

Tihod grinned. “True. But I’ve left my ship, and come a long way. I refuse to allow this effort to be in vain. I may not be a Weaver, but I have powers and I know how to use them.”

“Any power you have Grinsa can turn to his purposes. You think that because you can shape, and raise a mist, that you’re powerful enough to fight him?” Dusaan gave a short, sharp laugh. “You’re not.”

“Perhaps you’re right, but surely he’ll be expecting Cadel to attack him. There’s no chance at all that the assassin will surprise him. Both he and the boy know what Cadel looks like. They know he’s in Helke. But they know nothing of me. If I strike fast enough, Grinsa won’t have time to turn my powers against me.”

Dusaan glared at him, the look on his face as cold and hard as ice in the northern reaches. Tihod had pushed him far, perhaps too far. Dusaan was not a man accustomed to having others argue with him, either in his capacity as Harel’s high chancellor or as leader of the movement. No one else in all the Forelands would have dared speak to him this way, and though Tihod did not think that Dusaan would harm him, he did realize that one way or another, this discussion was nearing its end.

“You’ll work with Cadel,” the Weaver said at last. “There are two of them, there should be two of you as well. I still want you to get to Helke ahead of the gleaner. Find Cadel and tell him what’s happening. I’ve heard that he doesn’t particularly like taking our gold-apparently he has little more regard for our people than do the nobles he kills-but one would hope that he’d see the benefit of working with you in this instance.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Offer him more money. That always seems to work with the Eandi.”

“And if after Grinsa is dead, he’s still reluctant to take on this new job?”

“We have other inducements that should convince him to do as we ask. They always have in the past.”

The merchant nodded. “Very well.”

“I still don’t like this, Tihod. I’ve made no secret of the fact that I want this man dead, but losing you would be too high a price to pay for his life. If it seems that your encounter is going badly, get away from him as quickly as you can. I won’t think ill of you for doing so.”

“Don’t worry,” Tihod told him. “I don’t want him killing me any more than you do.”

“No,” the Weaver said, “I don’t suppose you do.”

Tihod awoke with a start to a room still dark with night. He had no idea of the time, though he couldn’t imagine that it was much past midnight. Still, he didn’t feel tired, and while he wasn’t one of Dusaan’s servants, to drop all that he was doing and follow the Weaver’s commands, he did recognize sound advice when he heard it. Best he start for Helke now and find Cadel before Grinsa and the boy did. Had he been in a larger city-Duvenry, for instance, or Strempfar-he would have had to contend with a locked gate and guards who saw in every Qirsi a possible threat to their realm. But Krilde was too small a town for walls and guards. He could come and go as he chose. The innkeeper might think it strange that he was leaving at such an hour, but an extra five qinde would buy his silence.

In a few moments, he had dressed and was making his way down the tavern stairs and out into the warm night air. He didn’t like being abroad at night, but the moons were still up, peering dully through the mist, shedding some light on the village and the surrounding country. And if his powers were enough to let him face a Weaver with confidence, certainly they were more than a match for any road brigands he might meet.

Soon Tihod was out of the village, following a winding, rutted mud road through the moors of the Wethy Crown. Under the red and white moons, the jumbled boulders and swaying grasses took on a ghostly quality, as if wraiths lurked behind each stone. The sky to the north flashed again and again with lightning, but the night remained silent save for the soft wind and the intermittent call of a distant owl.

He walked for several hours, pausing at dawn to pull a piece of dried meat from his travel sack and drink from a small spring by the road. With first light, he caught sight of Helke Castle, an austere ash-colored fortress that towered above the city of Helke. To the west he could see the waters of the Gulf of Kreanna, dark as a scar and dotted with whitecaps. The wind had begun to freshen, and Tihod smelled a storm brewing. It would rain later in the day. A sea captain knew such things.

By the time he reached the city walls, the gates had been opened, and though the guards at the south gate eyed him with the suspicion and contempt such men seemed to reserve for Qirsi travelers, they let him pass into the city without question. He went first to the marketplace, where he found a Qirsi peddler and asked about the Grey Seal.

“I hear it’s a fine tavern,” the man said, spreading his wares on the ground and pausing occasionally to examine his work with a critical eye. “Good food, excellent ale, and, as o’ late, decent music as well. The cost is a bit dear, but tha’ doesn’t seem to stop them tha’ goes there from fillin’ themselves.” He looked up, meeting Tihod’s gaze. “It’s no’ one o’ ours, though, cousin, despite the name.”

Qirsi taverns and inns often bore names such as the White Dragon, or the Grey Falcon, as a way of letting Qirsi patrons know that they would be welcomed. They were, of course, free to spend their gold in any tavern, regardless of whether it was run by a Qirsi or an Eandi, but most Qirsi tended to limit themselves to those establishments run by others of their race.

“Yes, I had heard that,” Tihod said. “I need to find someone there.” Then, as an afterthought, he asked, “Is there an inn within the city walls where I might take a room?”

“ ’Course there is. The Silver Whale, on the west side o’ the city. Not far really from the Seal. Go t’ the west end o’ the marketplace, then follow the prior’s lane toward the sanctuary. There’ll be three narrow alleys on yer right-the first will take ye t’ the Seal, the second t’ the Whale.”

“Thank you, cousin.” He began to fish into his pocket for a coin to give the man, but the peddler shook his head.

“It’s bad luck t’ take free coin before the first sale o’ the day. Me father always said so.” He grinned. “Now, if ye’d like t’ buy somethin’. .”

Tihod laughed, quickly picked out a Sanbiri blade that looked to be worth perhaps half the price the peddler was asking, and paid him five qinde extra for it.

“A wise purchase, cousin.”

“Thank you,” Tihod said. “With what I’ve paid, I expect you’ll tell no one of our conversation.”

The peddler began once more to arrange his goods. “I recall no conversation, cousin,” he said absently.

Smiling, Tihod left the man and followed his directions to the Grey Seal.

The inn looked much as he had imagined it would: well tended, with polished wooden tables within and a fine bar made of oak and brass. The barkeep was an older man, grey-haired and stout, with thick arms and a full beard. He eyed Tihod warily as the merchant stood in the doorway, searching the tavern for Cadel. When Tihod didn’t see the assassin, he stepped to the bar, placing a five-qinde piece on the smooth wood.

The barkeep glanced at the coin, but remained where he was. “I think perhaps you’re in the wrong place, friend,” he said, the word friend devoid of any warmth. “The Silver Whale is down the next lane from here. I believe you’d be more comfortable there.”

“Thank you, friend,” Tihod answered in the same tone. “I intend to take a room at the Whale. But I’ve heard that you serve a fine ale here, and I’ve heard as well that you have a singer who’s worth hearing. I was hoping to speak with him.”

“I haven’t seen him today.”

“That’s all right. I’ve nowhere in particular I need to be. Why don’t we start with that ale, then?” He sat, placing his travel sack on the stool beside him and making it clear that he had no intention of leaving the tavern anytime soon.

“It’s a bit early for ale, isn’t it?”

“I had a long night.”

The barkeep stared at him for several moments before finally taking the five-qinde piece and filling a tankard. He started to make change from the gold piece, but Tihod stopped him.

“There’s no telling how long I’ll be here. We’ll consider that payment for the next few ales.”

The man frowned, then nodded and turned his back on the merchant, perhaps hoping to convince himself that Tihod wasn’t actually there.

Tihod was still sipping this first ale-he had to admit that it was quite good-when he heard voices coming from the top of the tavern stairs. Glancing back, he saw three men, two of them were clearly brothers. They both had yellow hair, fair skin, and the same lean build. The third man, however, was tall and dark, broad in the shoulders, with long black hair, sharp pale eyes, and a beard. Looking closer, the merchant saw a scar on the side of the man’s face. Judging from the descriptions he had heard of the assassin, he knew that this had to be Cadel.

He turned fully so that he was facing the men. Still, none of them appeared to notice him until they had reached the bottom of the stairway. Even then, the brothers gave him no more than a passing glance. But Cadel faltered when he saw him, the smile fleeing his lips, leaving a look as deadly as any blade the man might have carried.

The brothers halted as well.

“You all right, Corbin?” one of the brothers asked, looking from the singer to Tihod.

“Yes, fine,” the singer said, never taking his eyes off the merchant.

“Why don’t the two of you go ahead and eat? I’ll be along shortly.” The other men hesitated and Cadel looked at them at last, flashing a quick smile. “It’s all right.”

The two men moved off toward the back of the tavern, and Cadel approached Tihod, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.

“What is it you want?”

“We need to talk. Perhaps we should go somewhere more private.”

“No. Here is fine.”

“I disagree, Corbin.” He put just the faintest emphasis on the name, but it was enough to make the assassin’s eyes flick toward the brothers.

“Where?” Cadel asked, his voice thick.

“You tell me.”

The singer exhaled through his teeth before walking back to where his friends were sitting and speaking with them briefly. Striding back toward the stairs, he cast a dark look at Tihod, and said simply, “Upstairs.”

Tihod followed him to a small room with a single bed and a large chair. Cadel closed the door behind them, then whirled toward Tihod so suddenly that the merchant backed away.

“Now, who are you?” the assassin demanded. “And what do you want with me?”

“You may not believe this, Cadel, but I’m a friend. As to who I am, I won’t give you a name, but I think you know already that I’m with the movement.”

“I have no friends in the movement.”

“I’m sorry to hear you say so. And here I came all this way, just to warn you that Lord Tavis of Curgh is on his way to Helke to kill you, along with a Qirsi companion who is a somewhat more formidable foe than the boy.”

Cadel’s eyes had widened slightly at the mention of Tavis. “How far are they from here?”

“They passed the night in Krilde.”

The man shook his head. “I don’t know Wethyrn very well.”

“It’s a small village about two leagues south of here. They should be reaching Helke today.”

“Demons and fire.”

“As it happens, I’m here to kill the Qirsi, so if you can take care of the boy, we should be able to eliminate this threat without too much difficulty.”

Cadel regarded him with obvious mistrust. “And after that?”

“As it happens, I do have a small task that lends itself to your particular talents.”

“No,” he said shaking his head. “I don’t work for you or your movement.”

“You’ve taken our gold in the past.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does to us.”

“I’m a hired blade. I’ve taken gold from many people, but that doesn’t mean that I work for them.”

“We’re willing to pay you a good deal for this, Cadel, more than we have for any previous work you’ve done on our behalf.”

“That’s not-”

“Three hundred qinde.”

The assassin gaped at him. “Just who is it you want dead?”

“The king of Eibithar.”

“You can’t be serious,” Cadel said with a small nervous laugh. “I’d have to be a fool to make an attempt on the king’s life. Audun’s Castle-”

“He won’t be in the castle. He’ll be riding to battle within the next turn. We aren’t certain yet exactly where he’ll be, but I would assume it will be the north coast of Eibithar, near Galdasten.”

“He’ll be surrounded by his army. He might as well still be in the castle.”

“We didn’t expect that this would be easy, Cadel. That’s why we’re paying you so handsomely.”

He shook his head again. “No. I’m not doing this.”

Tihod said nothing for several moments. He could tell that Cadel meant what he was saying-this wasn’t some ploy intended to increase his pay. “Very well.” He stepped past Cadel to the door. “I wonder how your friends downstairs will react to the news that you’re not really a musician, but rather an assassin who’s been killing nobles throughout the Forelands for the past eighteen years.”

“I’ll kill you if you go anywhere near them.”

“No, I don’t think you will. Have you ever seen what a shaper can do to a blade, or human bone for that matter?”

For a long time neither of them spoke. Tihod kept his back to the man, but he could sense Cadel’s frustration, his rage, and, at last, his surrender.

“I’ll help you kill the boy and his Qirsi friend.”

Tihod released the door handle and turned. “That’s a start.”

“That’s the end of it. We’ll kill them, then part ways. Shaper or not, if you come near me again, I’ll kill you.”

“This isn’t a matter for us to discuss right now. Let’s just start by dealing with Grinsa and the boy.”

Cadel stared at him, clearly unwilling to concede even this much. After a some time, however, he nodded. “Do they know to look for me here, as you did?”

“Yes.”

“How is that possible? Have I been that careless?”

“They learned that you were at the Grey Seal from a peddler in Krilde who spoke highly of your singing.”

“But how did they track me to Helke?”

“From a woman you knew in Ailwyck, who was looking for you as well.”

“Kalida,” he said, his voice as soft as a planting breeze. “She betrayed me?”

“I don’t think she did so knowingly.”

“Does she know. . what I do?”

“I believe she does now.”

He closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “I’m a fool. It will follow me everywhere, won’t it?”

“You mean the movement?”

The assassin shook his head. “Never mind. We’ll take care of this matter, and then perhaps I’ll take your gold after all. I seem to have little choice in the matter.”

Tihod smiled at that. “Splendid!”

Bells began to ring from the city gates.

“Midday,” the assassin said.

“Yes. They’ll be here soon. We should prepare for their arrival.”

Tavis and Grinsa entered the city of Helke an hour or two before the ringing of the prior’s bells. The gleaner had made certain throughout the day’s travel that no one followed them from Krilde, but at the same time he sensed that there had been no need for such caution. The feeling of being watched, even hunted, that had haunted him for the past several days had vanished completely. Rather than easing his mind, however, this only served to deepened his apprehension, as did the dark sky looming before him, and the distant, but unmistakable growl of thunder that now rode the wind.

Tavis was even more withdrawn than usual, his silence as ominous as the freshening wind and the smell of rain.

They walked through the marketplace, asking a Sanbiri trader there where they might find the Grey Seal. From there, they made their way to the western end of the city. Tavis was walking quickly and as they drew near the alley leading to the singer’s tavern, Grinsa laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Slow down,” he said, keeping his voice low. “This doesn’t seem right.”

“You mean because we’re not at the shore?”

Grinsa shook his head, scanning the lane, searching for something-anything-that might explain this feeling of foreboding that had taken hold of him.

“Do you think that we’re being followed again?”

And abruptly he did.

“Watched, yes.”

Tavis drew his dagger from the sheath on his belt. “Do you think it’s been Cadel all along?”

“Possibly.”

“What should we do?”

“I’m not certain. I suppose we should find the tavern. But be watchful, Tavis. We may not be at the shore, but I think this is the day that I saw in my vision.”

As if to prove the point, the sky brightened for an instant, and a few seconds later thunder rumbled through the city, louder than Grinsa had expected. The two companions shared a look and walked on.

They found the alley described by the trader and entered it warily. Grinsa had his weapon in hand as well, and he kept a loose hold on his magic, so that he might draw upon it at any moment. They hadn’t gone very far when the gleaner felt a sudden, brief gust of wind brush past him, like a wraith. He faltered in midstride, struck by an odd sensation. That was magic, he had time to think. Before he could give voice to the thought, however, he saw a dark form emerge from a doorway and hurry off in the opposite direction.

“That was him!” Tavis said, as if scarcely believing his good fortune.

He started forward.

Grinsa grabbed for his arm, but wasn’t fast enough.

“Tavis, wait!”

The boy spun. “No!” he shouted. “You’re not going to keep me from doing it this time!”

“I don’t mean to. But this is a trap.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Did you feel that wind a moment ago?”

But the young lord was already looking over his shoulder in the direction the shadow had gone. “He’s getting away! Are you coming or not?”

Cursing the boy, cursing himself for having allowed matters to come this far, Grinsa followed. Tavis was running now, heedless of whatever danger awaited them in the alley, and the gleaner had little choice but to do the same. At any moment he expected to come face-to-face with the assassin, or perhaps the Weaver. He wasn’t certain anymore who it was they were hunting, or who in turn was stalking them.

As it happened, though, there was no ambush, at least not in the alley. They ran for some time, following the twists and turns of the narrow byway until it suddenly opened up onto a far broader lane just a short distance from the city’s western gate. Stopping in the middle of the lane, Tavis turned a quick circle, desperation on his face.

“Where is he?” the boy shouted. “Where is he?”

Grinsa scanned the street as well, though not for the assassin. He was certain now that someone was following them, even as they chased Cadel.

“There!”

Tavis was pointing beyond the gate. A moment later Grinsa saw it as well: a man with long dark hair, dressed in black and running from the gate, toward the water. Of course.

Immediately the boy took off after him, and again, as if swept up in his wake, the gleaner 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.

His vision. It was all coming to pass.

Except that in the next instant his entire world shifted in ways for which that dream couldn’t have prepared him.

He could still see the assassin making his way toward the shore, and Tavis running after him, not losing ground, but not gaining any either. But he also realized that someone was behind him again, far closer than before.

He halted, started to turn, glimpsing a white beard and pale eyes. Still, he didn’t understand the nature of this threat until it was too late. He felt the pulse of magic as only a Weaver could, and so had a split second to ward himself, though it wasn’t nearly enough. He couldn’t take hold of the other man’s power-he had no hope of turning it back on his attacker. It was all he could do to recognize the magic-shaping-and to deflect it with his weaving magic. Had he not done that much, the man would have succeeded in crushing his skull before Grinsa could even see his face.

As it was, the magic missed its target by just a single span. Pain exploded in the gleaner’s shoulder, searing and unbearable, as the bones there splintered like dry wood. Grinsa fell to the ground, a cry torn from his chest. He knew the second attack would be immediate, and he forced himself into motion, rolling over his good shoulder, gritting his teeth against the agony. Even as he scrambled to his feet, trying a second time to reach for the man’s power, he felt the bone in his leg shatter, driving him to the ground a second time.

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 could shatter bones and burn flesh. He was a Weaver, and all of these magics were his. But pain held him like iron shackles, denying him his strength and his will.

“I’ve bested a Weaver,” a voice said, seeming to come from a great distance.

And 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.