Seeds of Betrayal (8 page)

The road out of Orvinti wound around the south end of the lake before following the River Orvinti northward toward the Rassor. However, Tebeo chose to leave the road almost immediately so that they might cross the northeast corner of the Plain of Stallions, thus shortening their journey. The company rode in silence for some time, Tebeo seeming lost in thought, though he never strayed from Evanthya’s side. The day remained grey and the wind began to rise again, knifing through Evanthya’s cloak and tunic as if they were made of parchment.

“I noticed you were up and about the castle quite early this morning,” the duke said abruptly, as Evanthya watched a falcon soar over the plain.

“Yes, my lord.”

“You were speaking with Fetnalla?”

She glanced over at him, but he continued to face forward.

“I was, my lord.”

“What about?”

“We were speaking of Lord Bistari, my lord. His assassination has us concerned.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, though it was far from the plain truth. Still, Evanthya surprised herself by the ease with which she deceived him. Fetnalla would have been proud.

“Concerned?”

“Yes, my lord. Concerned for our dukes, as well as for our kingdom. Both of you have opposed the king in the past. If this can happen in Bistari, what’s to stop it from happening in Orvinti or Dantrielle?”

“So you feel certain that the king is responsible.”

She turned to him again and this time he met her gaze. The look they shared lasted only a moment, but that was long enough for her to see fear in his dark eyes, and something else that made her chest ache.

“All the evidence suggests that he is, my lord. Don’t you agree?”

Tebeo didn’t answer immediately, and they rode wordlessly for a time. The falcon still glided above them, darting and wheeling in the wind like a festival dancer.

“You’ve heard talk of a conspiracy?” His eyes flicked in her direction for just an instant. “A Qirsi conspiracy?”

A denial would have raised his suspicions. “I have, my lord.”

“Do you believe what you’ve heard?”

Again, what choice did she have but to be honest with him? “I do. Such stories have come from every kingdom in the land save Uulrann. It would be dangerous to dismiss all of them as idle rumors.”

Tebeo nodded but offered no response. He seemed to be waiting for her to say more.

Evanthya took a breath. The question hung between them, waiting to be given voice. Better she should ask it and hear his reply, before he turned the question on her.

“Do you think the Qirsi killed Lord Bistari?”

The duke gave a small shrug. “With all I’ve heard, I have to think it possible. You said yourself that you fear for the kingdom. I fear for Sanbira as well, and even for Eibithar. It seems to me that every murder in the past year has moved one of our neighbors closer to a crisis. Now it’s our turn. Eandi nobles are dying throughout the land. Whom should I blame but the Qirsi?”

Evanthya conceded the point with a single nod. She had never for a moment doubted her duke’s intelligence, but she was surprised to hear how much thought he had given these matters. He hadn’t mentioned any of this to her before today. She could guess why.

“I’m sorry to have to ask you this, First Minister, but are you party to the conspiracy?”

She looked at him, her gaze steady despite the pounding of her pulse. “No, my lord, I’m not. But as your first minister I have to advise you not to believe me. If you have any doubts at all about my loyalty, you should remove me from my office and appoint someone in my place until you’re satisfied that I can be trusted.”

That of all things made him smile, albeit wanly. “I’m sure that’s wise counsel. But for now you’ll remain my first minister.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“You never really answered my question, Evanthya. Do you think the king had Chago killed?”

Her hands were sweaty in spite of the cold, and she had to keep from wiping them on her breeches. “I don’t know, my lord.”

The duke glanced at her and nodded once more, his round face pale and that same fearful look in his eyes. “Do you want to know the real reason I won’t replace you?” he asked a moment later.

She just stared at him, not certain that she did.

“I wouldn’t know who else to turn to. I’m afraid to trust any Qirsi right now. At least I know you.”

He went out of his way to be kind to her, showing her courtesies she was certain no one else enjoyed. He hadn’t forced her to climb to the top of the rise since her fourth turn, and recently he had appeared to her before she walked more than a hundred paces. On the other hand, as her time approached he entered her dreams more and more frequently, until she found herself too weary to do much of anything during her waking hours. It almost seemed that the Weaver believed himself to be the child’s father, so concerned was he with Cresenne’s well-being. That was impossible, of course; she and the Weaver had never even met outside of her dreams. But he often asked what she had eaten the previous day, chiding her when the answer she gave failed to satisfy him. One night during the previous turn, he had spoken to her at length of what a glorious future awaited her baby.

“Your child will grow up in a land ruled by the Qirsi,” he said that night, sounding almost breathless with excitement. “Rather than aspiring to be a gleaner or a minister, he or she will grow up dreaming of being a noble, a duke or duchess, perhaps even more. No Qirsi child born in the Forelands has ever had that before.”

Cresenne had entertained such thoughts herself almost from the day she realized she was pregnant. But she nodded and agreed with the Weaver as if with his help, she had glimpsed this possible future for the very first time.

Still, she might have been flattered by the interest the Weaver had taken in her and her child had it not been for the utter terror that she felt whenever she spoke with him. And she might have believed his interest genuine and unselfish, had he not asked her the same one question during each conversation.

On this night he barely made her walk at all, appearing as a great black form against the same blinding light that stabbed into her eyes every time. She was heavy with child by now-she could hardly believe that she would have to wait two more turns before giving birth-and the Weaver said nothing for some time after she stopped before him. It seemed to Cresenne that he gazed at her, admiring her belly, though she could see nothing of his face.

“I have never seen any woman look so radiant as you do now,” he said at last. She thought for a moment that he might reach out and touch her face, and a shudder went through her body. She would have preferred his wrath to this.

It took her a moment to realize that he was waiting for a reply. “Thank you, Weaver,” she said, dropping her gaze. “I don’t deserve such kind words.”

“Of course you do, child. Tell me, what was your supper tonight?”

“Stew and bread, Weaver, with a plate of steamed greens.” Actually she had barely touched the greens. For several turns she had been sickened by their smell. But the Weaver didn’t need to know that.

“Splendid,” he said, much as she imagined her own father would, had he been alive. “Have you gleaned anything about the child? Do you know if it will be a boy or girl?”

“No, Weaver. I’ve seen nothing.” True, but she had a feeling. She hadn’t shared this with anyone, however, and she certainly wasn’t going to share it with this man.

“There’s still time, child. Perhaps you will before long, if Qirsar destines that it should be so.”

She nodded.

“You’re in Kett. Still with the Festival?”

He was like a wolf, circling his prey, each pass bringing him just a bit closer to the kill. She knew where this was headed. The question. It was only a matter of time before he asked her.

“Yes, Weaver.”

“You’ve been gleaning?”

“Yes.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Not so far.”

A pause, and then it would come. It always did.

“Have you found him yet?”

Just once she wanted to ask innocently,
Who, Weaver
? But the kindness he had shown her had its limits, unlike his ability to hurt her, which had none.

“No, Weaver. Not yet. I’ve asked throughout the city, as I did in Bistan, Noltierre, and Solkara. No one has seen him.”

“It may be time you moved on to Caensse.”

“I still believe he’s in Aneira.”

“So you’ve told me before,” the Weaver said, his voice hardening. “Yet you’ve nothing to show for the four turns you’ve spent there. Thus far, your instincts on this matter have served you poorly. You’re searching for a Qirsi man and an Eibithanan noble whose face is covered with scars. They shouldn’t be this hard to find. If they were in Aneira, you’d have heard something by now.”

Not necessarily
, she wanted to say.
He’s smarter than you thinly He may be smarter than you
. But all she could manage was “He may be avoiding the larger cities. I’ve yet to search the countryside.”

“He wouldn’t go to the smaller towns. You told me yourself that he’s probably searching for you, which means he’ll go where the festivals go.”

Again Cresenne nodded, though she felt her heart clenching itself into a fist. For the first several turns she had assumed that Grinsa would come after her. He didn’t know that she carried his child, but he had loved her, and that should have been enough. She knew there was a new king in Eibithar and she had no doubt that Grinsa had gone to the City of Kings to see him invested. The Revel had been there too, of course, so Grinsa would have learned from one of the other gleaners, probably Trin, that she had left the Revel. At the time she told Trin that she intended to return to Wethyrn, but Grinsa was too clever to believe that. He’d head south.

Or so she thought. Because recently it had become clear to her that he hadn’t followed her at all. He should have found her by now. She had done everything she could to lead him to her. She found the assassin she had hired to kill Brienne, she joined the Festival, she sat in every Qirsi tavern between Mertesse and Noltierre. Everywhere she went, she asked about him, and not subtly. She had done all the things he might expect her to do, and more. She had done everything but stand in the sanctuary bell towers and yell, “Cresenne ja Terba is here!” A blind man could have found her. If he’d been looking.

He loved her. She was certain of it. It had to be the boy’s fault, that stubborn, spoiled brat of a lord. But for all the times she told herself this, there were twice as many when her chest ached as if someone had buried a dagger there. Even now, speaking with the Weaver, when she needed so desperately to hide her feelings, she could not keep the hurt from welling up again, like blood from a wound.

“What is it, child?” the Weaver asked, clearly trying to mask his impatience.

She shook her head, cursing the single tear that ran down her cheek. “Nothing.”

“You’re worried that I’m angry with you.”

Cresenne said nothing. She might be able to lie to him, but if he caught her, he’d kill her right then. And the baby, too. Not for the first time, she used her fear of him to mask her true thoughts.

“I’m not,” he said. “I want to find this man, that’s all. I don’t believe he’s in Aneira.”

“I-I don’t want to go to Caerisse,” she said in a small voice.

He exhaled slowly, as if struggling to keep his ire in check. “Why not?”

“The winds are already blowing cold from the north. The snows are going to be fierce this year. And I don’t want to be up on the steppe when my baby is born.”

There was enough truth in this to conceal her real reason for wanting to stay in Aneira. Snow had already fallen on the steppe, and the cold turns up in Caerisse promised to be brutal. If she was going to travel with one of the festivals after her child came, she preferred to be at least somewhat comfortable.

Besides, she knew that Grinsa was near. She sensed it, just the way she sensed that this baby she carried was going to be a girl. She’d gleaned nothing. She’d had no visions of Grinsa or the Curgh boy. But her body and her heart told her what her mind couldn’t. He was in Aneira. Perhaps she should have explained this to the Weaver, but she feared that he would understand all too well.

“All right,” he said at length, just as she knew he would. When it came to this child, she could get him to agree to almost anything. “Remain in Aneira. Continue your search there. When the rains come and the air grows warmer, you’ll go to Caerisse.”

“Of course. Thank you, Weaver.”

He seemed to stare at her again, his wild white hair stirring in the wind, his features still masked by shadows from the brilliant light behind him.

“If you have a girl,” he said, his voice softening once more, “I hope she looks just like you.”

She will
. “Again, thank you,” Cresenne said, making herself smile.

“We’ll speak again soon. If you find him, or hear anything of his whereabouts, remain in Kett, even if the Festival leaves. Make some excuse, but stay there. I don’t want to have any trouble finding you.”

The dream ended abruptly and Cresenne opened her eyes to a room so dark she could barely see to the edge of her bed. The inn was quiet, as was the street outside her window. It must have been well past the midnight bells.

“Damn him,” she whispered in the blackness. She needed to sleep more, but already she had begun to sift through her conversation with the Weaver, searching for anything that might tell her who he was and where she could find him.

She felt the baby move and smiled, placing a hand on her belly.

“Are you awake, too?”

She sat up, propping up her pillow against the bedroom wall and leaning back against it. These encounters with the Weaver always woke the child. Cresenne thought it must be because of how her body reacted to fear-the quickening of her pulse, the tightening of her stomach. How could the baby not notice? A part of her wanted to believe that he or she woke up to offer comfort. Certainly nothing made Cresenne forget the Weaver and all that he represented faster than feeling that tiny body turning somersaults in her belly like a festival tumbler.