Bonds of Vengeance (62 page)
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.
Curtell, Braedon, Amon’s Moon waxing
The high chancellor didn’t have to look at Nitara to know that she was watching him, following his every movement with her ghostly pale eyes. He felt her stares as he might the breath of a lover, stirring his hair, touching the nape of his neck, the harbinger of a kiss. He had regretted turning her away from his bed every night since their encounter in his chamber, though he knew he had been right to do so. For years he had dreamed of finding a woman with whom he could lead the Forelands when at last his plans bore fruit. He had thought to make Cresenne his queen, and when he realized that she had betrayed him, he had turned such thoughts to Jastanne. Certainly it had never occurred to him to look for his queen within Harel’s court.
There could be no denying that Nitara was beautiful and intelligent. When Dusaan first thought to turn Kayiv and her to his cause, he had considered the man the more promising of the two. Only as he spoke to them of the movement and its needs did he begin to see just how wrong he had been. She was brilliant, and Kayiv proved far more limited than the Weaver had hoped.
That she knew who and what he was only served to deepen Dusaan’s fascination with the woman. It was one thing to touch Jastanne with his mind as she stood naked before him, her hair dancing in the wind on the plain he had conjured for her dreams. It would have been quite another to lie with a woman who knew his face and his name, as well as the extent of his power. He realized, however, that there were dangers as well, and thus far, his caution had overmatched his need and his passion.
The greatest risk, he felt certain, came not from Nitara herself but
rather from Kayiv, who had been her lover until recently. Dusaan didn’t know what she had told him, or how she had explained her decision to end their love affair. The Weaver had made her swear that she wouldn’t tell anyone what she knew about him, and he had urged her to go back to Kayiv and repair their relationship. But though she had promised to keep his secret, she had made it clear that she couldn’t love the minister anymore. And judging from the way Kayiv was glaring at the high chancellor, as the other Qirsi in the ministerial chamber argued some arcane point of Braedon law, Dusaan could only assume that the man had guessed where her affections were now directed. He might even have concluded that Nitara was already sharing the chancellor’s bed.
Dusaan didn’t fear the man. He had far more pressing matters with which to concern himself than the pique of a spurned lover. But the chancellor knew from what Nitara had told him that when she first began to consider that he might be the Weaver, she voiced these suspicions to Kayiv. If Kayiv’s resentment ran deep enough, he might repeat what he heard to other ministers, perhaps even to the emperor.
He thought he could ease Kayiv’s anger, and with it the danger that the man might act against Dusaan, if he could manage to speak with him in private. The mere need to arrange such a conversation, however, pointed to a far greater problem. Kayiv had cause to hate him, and therefore to spread rumors that he had betrayed the emperor, that he might in fact be far more than he admitted. Nitara, who knew for certain that he was the Weaver and did lead the movement, was in love with him. And though she seemed satisfied for now to love him from a distance, it was possible, even likely, that she would grow restive with time, coming to resent him for refusing to return her love.
Cresenne had betrayed him. Grinsa had seen his face. Yaella ja Banvel, first minister to the duke of Mertesse, had thought to blame him for the death of Shurik jal Marcine, her lover. In the past half year, the movement had lost, in addition to Shurik, Enid ja Kovar, first minister in Thorald, Paegar jal Berget, high minister to the king of Eibithar, and Peshkal jal Boerd, first minister to the duke of Bistari. Their deaths had little in common—one had died at the hands of a drunken musician, another succumbed to the poison of a ruthlessly ambitious Eandi noble, and yet another died at the hands of the Weaver himself, who had been forced to kill Paegar to guard the secret of his identity. Only Enid had died as a direct result of her duke learning that she served the
Weaver’s cause. Yet it seemed to Dusaan that for the first time, his movement was in danger of being exposed to too much scrutiny. From what he had been told by his chancellor in Yserne, he gathered that the recent assassination attempt in Curlinte had fooled no one. The movement hadn’t suffered for this failure. A minister loyal to the courts had been killed in such a way as to convince the duchess and Sanbira’s queen that he was the traitor responsible for the assault. But they had been fortunate in this instance. A similar failure elsewhere might be disastrous.
