Bonds of Vengeance

Chapter Twenty-One

Curtell, Braedon

He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, nor did he leave his chambers come morning. Even when the midmorning bells tolled in the city, the echoes drifting through the palace corridors like whispering wraiths, he remained in the chair by his long-dead fire, staring at the blackened remnants of wood, his hands, white knuckled and stiff, gripping the arms of his chair. There was a knock, a timid voice explaining that the emperor was asking for him. But he sent the servant away without bothering to open the door.

“I’m not well today. Offer my apologies to the emperor.” He called these things to the boy, motionless in his chair.

The truth. For he wasn’t well.

He had known that this day would come. No man leading so great a movement could shroud himself in shadows forever. But he had not thought to have his identity exposed so soon, and never had he dreamed that Grinsa jal Arriet would be the first man in the Forelands to see his face and live to speak of it. Just a few turns before he had killed one of his servants, a man in Audun’s Castle, simply to preserve his secret. Paegar jal Berget had been neither the most powerful Qirsi working for his cause nor the most intelligent. But the man had served him loyally for more than two years. His had been a crueler fate by far than what he deserved.

Unlike Cresenne, who by her treachery had earned the painful death he had in mind for her. Instead, the gleaner had saved her, that golden fire in his palm a declaration of sorts, a warning to the Weaver that Grinsa intended to oppose him.

Dusaan couldn’t be certain how much the gleaner had seen-he had severed his contact with Cresenne as quickly as possible in a vain attempt to keep the man from seeing too much. Their eyes had met, so surely Grinsa saw the Weaver’s face. But had he seen Ayvencalde Moor as well? Had he recognized it?

“Damn her!” he muttered through clenched teeth.

He would go to her again this night. He would kill her, painfully to be sure, but quickly as well, so that the gleaner would be powerless to stop him.

It means nothing if Grinsa knows who you are.

The golden light had been on his face for less than a heartbeat, no more than a flicker of lightning on a warm night during the growing. Surely he hadn’t seen enough.

Dusaan spat a curse. He had been leading this movement for too long to allow himself to believe that. He had no choice but to assume that Grinsa had seen everything, that already the gleaner knew where he could be found. So what would the gleaner do next?

He couldn’t leave Cresenne, not if he wanted to keep her alive. As far as Dusaan knew, there wasn’t another Qirsi in the Forelands who could protect her. And as the father of her child, a man who had loved her, he wouldn’t just leave her to die.

The high chancellor felt his grip on the chair begin to relax.

Grinsa couldn’t send anyone to Braedon either. He couldn’t even tell the Eandi nobles with whom he had allied himself what he knew, not without revealing to all that he was a Weaver as well. Even if Grinsa knew his name and his title, he could do nothing.

Dusaan should have been pleased. He had seen Grinsa’s face as plainly as the gleaner had seen his, and for far longer. He didn’t have to rely on Cresenne anymore. Not only did he know the gleaner’s name and face, he even knew where the man was. Audun’s Castle. He could send assassins. Or he could enter the man’s dreams himself and test his strength against the gleaner’s. Surely he could prevail in such a battle, and even if he couldn’t, so long as their encounter took place in Grinsa’s mind, the gleaner could do no worse than drive him away.

Dusaan had lost nothing the previous night. At least this is what he told himself again and again, fighting an urge to scream out in frustration. The truth was, he had lost his first battle. Grinsa might still prove to be no match for him when next they faced each other. But for this one night, the gleaner had bested him. And the chancellor had no one to blame but himself. It had never occurred to him that Grinsa was with the woman, though of course it should have. Who else could have convinced her to defy him, to risk certain death by betraying the movement? She had been searching for Grinsa since the growing turns. Was it so strange that she should have found him in Audun’s Castle? The Weaver should have known, and he should have made certain that she died. Above all else, he needed her dead, so that she could do no more damage to the movement. Instead, he had allowed his thirst for revenge and his lust for her pain to cloud his mind. He had been a fool, a difficult admission for a man who did not willingly suffer fools.

He stayed in his chamber for the entire morning and well past midday. Servants came to his door with food, or with inquiries from the emperor after his health, but he did not move from his chair, and he gave none of them leave to enter. Late in the day, however, when yet another of the emperor’s pages came calling, he roused himself from his brooding and opened the door.

Clearly the boy hadn’t expected this. For several moments he just stared up at the high chancellor, his dark eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

“What is it you want, boy?”

“The emperor, sir!” he blurted out. “He asks for you. He. . he sounded angry.”

“Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

The boy bowed, managing to say, “Yes, High Chancellor,” before hurrying away.

Dusaan wasn’t certain that he trusted himself to speak civilly with the emperor just now, but he had little choice. If he passed much more of the day in his chamber, the emperor himself might come looking for him. Better to face the fat fool in the imperial hall, whence he could excuse himself after a time.

Reaching the emperor’s hall, he thrust open the door and strode in, only remembering to pause when he heard the guard by the door call out his name and title. Harel sat on the marble throne, his fleshy face red, his mouth set in a thin line.

“High Chancellor,” he said archly, as if a parent speaking to a tardy child.

Dusaan dropped to one knee, lowering his gaze. When the time came, he would enjoy killing this man. “Your Eminence.”

“I summoned you a number of times. There are matters I’ve wished to discuss.”

“Yes, Your Eminence,” the high chancellor said, still kneeling. “I sent word in return that I wasn’t well.”

“You seem well enough now.”

“The rest you allowed me did much good, Your Eminence. I’m most grateful.”

Harel frowned, then made a vague gesture with a meaty hand, his gemmed rings sparkling. “Rise.”

Dusaan stood. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

“What was the matter with you?” He flinched away, pressing himself against the back of his throne. “It wasn’t something contagious was it?”

“No, Your Eminence. I had a difficult night and feared that I might be succumbing to a fever. But I’m well now. You needn’t be concerned.” Not that you cared a whit for me, you coward.

The emperor straightened. “Well, good. As I said, there are matters I’ve been waiting to discuss with you.”

It was almost comical. One might have thought that the high chancellor had been in his bedchamber for half the year. “I’m here now, Your Eminence. How can I be of service?”

“I hardly know where to begin.” He toyed with the jeweled scepter that lay across his lap. “This business in the south has only gotten worse.”

“The land dispute in Grensyn, Your Eminence?”

“Yes. The lord there was quite disturbed by the message we sent last turn. He’s refusing to abide by my decision.”

It was more than Dusaan could have expected. Manyus of Grensyn had never struck him as being particularly bold, nor had he ever seemed inclined to oppose any decree coming from Curtell. Granted, he and his people had long been at odds with the lordship of Muelry, with whom the emperor had ordered them to share the farming lands west of the Grensyn River. But to defy the emperor in this way invited a harsh response.

“Have you had word from the lord of Muelry, Your Eminence?”

Harel waved his hand again, as if dismissing the question. “Patrin sent the letter informing me of what Manyus had done. You know as well as I that the man is too weak minded and timid to act on his own. He begs me to intervene, no doubt hoping that I’ll send the imperial guard to take a corner of the plain and protect his farmers.”

Dusaan had to agree with Harel’s opinion of Patrin of Muelry, and also with his guess as to what the lord wanted him to do.

“Then you’ve heard nothing from Manyus directly?”

“Not yet, no.”

“It may be wisest to await his response before taking any action, Your Eminence. Grensyn may intend to comply, but only after making Muelry wait for a time.”

“It’s almost Amon’s turn,” the emperor said. “If he delays too long, the harvest will suffer.”

“Perhaps it would be appropriate to send a second message stating as much, and making it clear how displeased Your Eminence would be were he to doom Muelry’s crops to failure.”

Harel nodded. “Yes. A fine idea. See to it, won’t you, High Chancellor?”

“Of course, Your Eminence.” He continued to stand there, waiting. “Is there more, Your Eminence?”

“Yes, there’s more!” the emperor said, sounding like a peevish child. “We’ve had word from Lachmas as well. They still have no proof that the lord’s death was anything more than an accident.”

Actually this message had arrived the day before. Dusaan had brought it to the imperial hall and waited there as the emperor read it. But clearly Harel wished to impress upon Dusaan that he was to be by the emperor’s side at all times. The “matters” he claimed to have wanted to discuss with Dusaan were a pretense, nothing more.

“Yes, Your Eminence,” he said. “I recall from yesterday.”

“Well, what do you make of this?”

He had to answer with care. Lachmas’s death had frightened the emperor, and while Dusaan anticipated that Harel’s fear might prove useful at some point, he couldn’t risk having the man grow so afraid of the movement that he lost faith in all his Qirsi.

“They may well be correct, Your Eminence. Hunting mishaps are said to be quite common. In all likelihood, Lord Lachmas’s death was nothing more or less than a tragic accident.”

“I’d like to believe that.”

“As would I, Your Eminence. But we should remain wary nevertheless. The leaders of this conspiracy have shown themselves to be cunning and dangerous. Just because the soldiers of Lachmas have found no evidence of a murder, we can’t assume that there was none.”

“If you wish to put my mind at ease, you’ve done a damned poor job of it.”

Good. “Forgive me, Your Eminence. Perhaps I should leave you.”

“No. Tell me of the fleet.”

Dusaan shrugged. “From all I hear, the ships are in place off Wantrae and Mistborne Islands. They await only your word to begin their assault. Eibithar’s fleet has been active as well, perhaps in response to our own maneuvers, but this could hardly be avoided.”

“Maybe we should begin the invasion earlier than planned.”

“If Your Eminence wishes it. But I believe we’ll fare better if we wait for the lords of Aneira to ready their army. Eibithar’s fleet is no match for our own. They can take whatever positions they wish off the north coast; they still won’t withstand our attack.” He paused, watching the emperor’s face. Harel didn’t look pleased. “Do you wish to alter our plans, Your Eminence?”

“No. I’d just like to get on with them.”

“Of course, Your Eminence. I believe, however, that your patience will be rewarded. There can be no question of the brilliance of the strategy you’ve devised.” Actually, Dusaan and the master of arms had done most of the planning for the war, but he knew that Harel would gladly take credit for it.

“Very well,” Harel said.

He heard weariness in the emperor’s voice, and once more he thought to excuse himself. “I’ll leave you now, Your Eminence. Again, you have my apologies for my failure to answer your earlier summons.”

“I expect the master of arms shortly,” Harel said, as if he hadn’t heard. “He’ll be reporting on the day’s training. I think you should remain for that. Afterwards you may join us for dinner.”

It was almost as if the emperor were punishing him for his absence that morning. All the Weaver wanted was to return to his chamber and await nightfall, so that he could be done with Cresenne and turn his attention fully to the gleaner.

“Tell me about the treasury.”

“What about it, Your Eminence?” trying to keep his tone light.

“We’ve a war to wage. My father always used to say that no weapon was more essential to a successful war than gold.”

“Quite true, Your Eminence. Your father was a great man.”

“I take it we have enough gold to wage and win this war.”

He should have known better, but he couldn’t resist giving voice to the first response that came to him. “You’ve enough gold in your treasury to fund two wars, Your Eminence.”

“Ean forbid it should come to that.”

Dusaan suppressed a smile. “Ean forbid.”

The master of arms arrived a few moments later, and as he and the emperor spoke of the training of soldiers and the poor fighting skills of the latest probationers, Dusaan had little choice but to stand and listen. Eventually, the three men walked to the palace’s great hall where they were joined by Harel’s wives for the evening meal. The emperor said little to Dusaan; once again the chancellor sensed that this was intended as punishment and nothing more.

The Weaver should have been able to endure the evening without effort, but knowing that Harel sought to teach him a lesson, he found himself suffering as if he were on a torture table. Every foolish statement the emperor made, every attempt at wisdom that came out as the trite truism of a child, every fawning compliment paid to the man by the master of arms grated on him until he thought he would shatter his teeth for the clenching of his jaw. The dinner lasted an eternity-it almost seemed that the emperor lingered over the meal, hoping to prolong Dusaan’s misery.

When at last it ended, the emperor returning to his sleeping chamber with the youngest of his wives, Dusaan nearly ran back to his own chamber. A freshly fed fire awaited him there, as did a basin filled with steaming water. He splashed his face repeatedly, as if to wash the ignominy of the evening from his skin, before settling into the large chair by his hearth. It was already well past the ringing of the gate closing bell. No doubt Cresenne was asleep.

Or so he thought. When he cast his mind eastward toward Audun’s Castle, he found that though he still sensed her presence there, he couldn’t reach into her mind. She was awake still, tending to her child perhaps, or making love with the gleaner. He recoiled from the image, opening his eyes to the firelight in his chamber, and clamping his mouth shut against a sudden wave of nausea.

“She’s a traitor and a whore,” he said aloud. “She’s nothing.”

Yet he knew better. He had tried to kill her, and would do so again this night. But he could not deny that he still wanted her as his own. Never had he felt this way about a woman before, not even Jastanne ja Triln, the merchant who slept naked so that she might offer herself as a gift to the Weaver each time he walked in her dreams. Yes, Cresenne was beautiful, but there were others who were as well; it was more than that. It was the child she had borne, it was all that she had once given to the movement despite her love for the gleaner. He had intended to make her his queen when the time came. And though he knew now that he could not, that dream would prove far harder to kill than the woman herself.

He allowed himself to sleep for a time, waking again when he heard the midnight bells ringing in the city. He stirred the fire and added a log. Then he reached for Cresenne a second time.

Once more, he found that she was awake, and he had to struggle with a second vision of her and the gleaner, their legs entwined, a candle casting dark, terrible shadows on the wall beside them. But even as he pushed the vision away he realized that it was false, a product of his own jealousy and his lingering feelings for the woman. She wasn’t with Grinsa, and she wasn’t nursing her baby. She was merely awake, avoiding him. She had no intention of sleeping during the night. The gleaner would have seen to that, for he was a Weaver as well and so understood the effort it took for Dusaan to reach across the Forelands and into her mind.

“Demons and fire!” the high chancellor murmured, opening his eyes again.

He should have anticipated this. Instead, he had wasted the day wallowing in his fear of the gleaner and his regret at having failed to kill Cresenne. He would have to find time during the day to kill her-she had to sleep sometime-though, having angered the emperor with his absence this day, he’d have little choice but to wait several days before making the attempt.

In the next moment, however, cursing his stupidity a second time, he realized that he might not have to wait at all. He closed his eyes once more and reached out toward Eibithar’s royal city a third time, this time seeking not Cresenne but the king’s archminister. He didn’t bother to make her climb the rise, though he took extra care in raising the brilliant white light behind him, as if expecting Grinsa to jump out from the shadows of the plain at any moment.

“Weaver,” she said. “I expected you.”

She had said something like this to him before, the night she opened her mind to him and fully bound herself to the movement. It had pleased him then. Tonight it did not. He had only thought to reach for her in the past few moments-that she had known he would need to do so before he did only served to make him more aware of how foolish he had been. Cresenne did this to him. It was even her fault that Paegar was dead. The sooner she died, the better.

“Then you know why I’ve come,” he said, his voice thick.

“I believe I do. It’s the woman, isn’t it? The one who betrayed you?”

“Yes. How long has she been there?”

“More than a turn, Weaver.”

More than a turn! He nearly struck the archminister, though he knew it wasn’t her fault. He should have contacted her sooner. Not long from now, the invasion would begin and Dusaan would begin in earnest his campaign to take the Forelands from the Eandi. Now was a time for vigilance, and instead he had grown dangerously lax.

“She’s told your king much about our movement?”

“She has, Weaver. Forgive me for not stopping her, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t even know if you wanted me to, or if perhaps this was a ruse of some sort. Only last night did I realize for certain that it wasn’t.”

“You needn’t apologize. What did your king have to say about what happened last night?”

“He was frightened, Weaver. The woman had told him that the movement is led by a Weaver, but until he saw what. . what you can do, I don’t believe he grasped what it means to face a Weaver in war.”

Dusaan nodded. “I suppose there’s some value in that.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“She sleeps now during the day?”

“That’s her intention, yes.”

“And she was instructed to do this by the gleaner, the father of her child?”

He sensed some hesitation on her part, as if she didn’t wish to speak of Grinsa. There was fear in her mind as well, though of what he couldn’t be certain.

“Yes, Weaver.”

“You don’t wish to speak of this man. Why?”

“He frightens me, Weaver. He claims to be a Revel gleaner and nothing more. Yet he found a way to save the woman, and then he healed her wounds.”

“Trust your instincts where this man is concerned. They serve you well. He’s more than he claims to be. That’s all you need to know right now.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

Again, he felt that she was holding something back, as if there might have been more to her feelings for the gleaner than she was admitting. It occurred to him then that she might have been attracted to the man. Cresenne had fallen in love with him; wasn’t it possible that the archminister had as well. If she had, he didn’t want to know it. The gleaner had caused him enough trouble already.

“Can you get close to the woman?”

“I’ve befriended her, Weaver. When I heard that she had been with the movement and now intended to betray it, I thought it wise to convince her that I was a friend. After last night, she’s guarded throughout the day and night, and the gleaner is never far from her side. But I believe I can still see her. Why?”

“Because I want you to kill her.”

Keziah blanched and her hands began to tremble. “I don’t know that I can, Weaver.”

“Do you mean that the guards and gleaner will stop you, or that you might not be capable of killing her?”

She lowered her gaze. “Both.”

“You may need to befriend the gleaner as well. Win his trust and he may see fit to leave you alone with the woman. That will be your chance. As to your misgivings about killing, others in this movement have had to make similar sacrifices in the name of our cause. When the time comes, I’m certain you’ll find the strength to do as I command. If you fail, you’ll suffer as the woman has.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“I want her death to appear to be my doing.”

“Your doing?”

“Yes. Give her a sleeping tonic and then smother her. The gleaner will blame me, just as he should. I want her death to be a warning to other Qirsi who would turn against our movement. And I want our enemies to know that I can reach them no matter where in the Forelands they might try to hide.”

“Yes, Weaver. Very well.”

Yet there it was again. Her fear, her reluctance. .

“What of her child, Weaver?”

And then he understood.

There was risk here as well. The child might well grow up to be a Weaver, and she would have cause to hate him, to want him dead and to oppose all that he would have built by then. But even Weavers didn’t live forever, and by the time Cresenne’s baby grew into her power, Dusaan would probably be dead already. Still, that wasn’t the true reason he would allow the child to live. Since learning of Cresenne’s pregnancy, he had seen this baby as the embodiment of the Qirsi future. She was the heir to all that he sought to build here in the Forelands, if not in name, then at least in spirit. He had wanted the woman to be his queen, not only because she was lovely but also because she seemed to carry the destiny of all their people within her body. Cresenne had forsaken the movement, and would die because of it. But Dusaan couldn’t bring himself to kill the child as well.

“The child can live,” he said.

Keziah’s relief was palpable. “That would make this easier.”

He nodded. “Good. Do you understand what I expect of you?”

“I do, Weaver.”

“Then the next time we speak, I expect to hear that she’s dead.”

“It will take me some time, Weaver. If I’m to win the gleaner’s trust-”

“You’ve already befriended the woman, and she trusts the gleaner. That should make it much easier for you, and quicker as well. I’ll allow you some time, but every day she lives, she further weakens the movement, endangering all of our lives and the cause for which we’re fighting. I won’t tolerate much delay.”

She took a breath, nodded. “I understand, Weaver.”

“Don’t disappoint me.”

Dusaan opened his eyes to the dim golden light of his chamber. The fire had burned low again, but he didn’t bother to add more wood. Instead, he rose from the chair, stretched, and crossed the chamber to his bed. Dawn was still a few hours off, and after all that had happened the previous night he needed at least some sleep.

Before he could lie down, however, someone knocked at his door. For just a moment he had an urge to reach for his dagger, though his powers were all the protection he needed. The knock came a second time.

“Who’s there?” he called.

“Nitara.”

The underminister. Why would she come to his bedchamber at this hour?

He pulled open the door. She stood before him in a sleeping shift, torch fire reflected in her pale eyes, her hair hanging loose to her shoulders.

“What do you want?” he asked.

The woman faltered, as if unsure of why she had come to his chamber. “I–I wish to speak with you.”

“Now?”

She swallowed, then, “I know who you are, what you are.”

He should have known what to say to this. He should have had some response. But he could only stare back at her, wondering whether to be alarmed or relieved.

More than a turn had passed since Nitara and Kayiv had spoken with the high chancellor about the Qirsi movement. As the chancellor promised, they had each received a payment of gold several days later: one hundred imperial qinde apiece, left on their beds in small leather pouches. The following day, she and Kayiv spoke in private with the high chancellor a second time, though their conversation lasted only long enough for Dusaan to confirm that they had been paid and to promise them that they would soon be called upon to complete some small task. Neither of the ministers had heard anything since.

Kayiv seemed relieved by this-his doubts about the conspiracy and the high chancellor had only grown with the passage of time, forcing Nitara to wonder if he was truly the man she had once believed him to be. He spoke now of the need to find a path to peace, of the dangers the conspiracy presented to all Qirsi in the Forelands. He never said such things in front of the chancellor, of course. He was no fool. Still, she found herself losing patience with his misgivings and his cowardice.

For her part, Nitara was eager to take action on the movement’s behalf. She almost didn’t care what it was, so long as she had the opportunity to do something. She had been waiting for so long to strike at the courts. Listening to Kayiv feet like an old man, she felt her own fervor for the movement growing, until it seemed that every word he spoke against the conspiracy fueled her own hatred of the Eandi and their allies among her people.

She remained fond of him, and she thought him a skilled lover, but had there been other men of interest to her in the emperor’s palace, she would already have turned him from her bed.

This at least is what she told herself. For as it happened, there was one man with whom she had become fascinated in the past turn. The high chancellor himself.

She had never seen a Qirsi who looked as he did: tall as a king, broad in the chest and shoulders, like an Eandi warrior, with wild white hair and eyes as golden as the coins she had hidden beneath her bed. A part of her was ashamed that she should find herself drawn to a man in part because he possessed physical strength more characteristic of the Eandi than the Qirsi. But she saw in his formidable presence and regal features the future of her people, the promise of victory in the coming war. She could no more keep herself from imagining his face as she lay with Kayiv than she could stop counting the gold each night before she slept, running her fingers over the smooth edges of the coins as if they were a lover’s lips.

Even before he revealed to them his involvement in the movement, she had thought him handsome. But she had not allowed herself more than that. He was high chancellor, she had told herself. He had no time for her, no inclination to look at her as anything more than another of his underlings. And back then she had been satisfied to pass her nights in Kayiv’s arms.

As she grew more consumed with her desire for the man, other thoughts began to intrude on her as well, so that it seemed the high chancellor haunted her dreams at night and occupied every waking moment. These thoughts were more dangerous than mere passion, and more intriguing as well.

The movement was led by a Weaver, he had told them, a man who could walk in the dreams of those who served him. All of them answered to this Weaver, and it was this man, not the high chancellor, who would lead them to the glorious future they had envisioned. Except that Nitara couldn’t imagine the high chancellor answering to anyone, not even a Weaver. Indeed, the more she considered the matter, the more she wondered if Dusaan himself were the movement’s leader. He was the highest-ranking Qirsi in the most powerful realm in the Forelands. Who better to lead a movement that would strike at the Eandi courts? More to the point, how many other Qirsi, regardless of his or her powers, would have the resources and knowledge necessary to create such a movement, to pay those who joined it, and to direct others to strike at the weaknesses of the other realms? It had to be Dusaan. He had access to the emperor’s treasury, and he knew more about Braedon’s rivals than any man in the empire, including Harel. Such a man wouldn’t have taken orders from some festival Qirsi, even if that person were a Weaver, nor would he have allowed himself to be ordered about by a court Qirsi from a lesser realm. He was too proud, too convinced of his own superiority. And why not? He was brilliant and strong and he looked like a king.

Nitara had considered all of this for some time now, and she no longer doubted that Dusaan, despite all that he had told her and Kayiv, was the movement’s leader. But that left her to question whether he had invented for their benefit this Weaver of whom he spoke. He would have good reason for doing so. By telling them that a Weaver led the movement, he not only convinced them that he was a mere soldier in a greater cause but he also fueled their belief that the movement could prevail against the armies of the courts.

Reflecting on all the high chancellor had told them that day, however, Nitara couldn’t bring herself to believe this. She had sensed through much of their conversation that Dusaan was not telling them everything. Kayiv had the same impression and had feared ever since that Dusaan had lied to them, hoping to expose them as traitors. She knew he was wrong, but only when she recalled how he had spoken of the Weaver did she begin to sense how wrong he had been.

“None of those who serve him know his name or where he can be found,” Dusaan had said. None of those. Not, none of us.

It could have been nothing. But the high chancellor was not a man to choose his words carelessly, particularly on a matter of such importance.

She knew little of Weavers beyond what the legends told of their magic. They were the most powerful of all Qirsi, sorcerers who could meld the power of many into a single weapon. This was why they had been chosen to lead the Qirsi invasion nine centuries before, and this was why the Eandi, upon defeating the Qirsi army, had vowed to kill all Weavers in the Forelands, a practice that continued to this day. She knew no more than that. But didn’t it make sense that Qirsi who wielded such magic should be strong in other ways as well? Wasn’t it possible that when she told herself that Dusaan looked like a king, she meant to say that he looked like a Weaver?

She had made the mistake of giving voice to these questions the previous night, as she and Kayiv lay together in the moonlight and tangled bed linens, sated and breathless.

“Have you wondered if Dusaan is the Weaver?” she asked, staring at the fire as her pulse slowed.

“The high chancellor?”

Nitara winced. She rarely used the high chancellor’s name when speaking of him with anyone, especially Kayiv. She hadn’t meant to just then.

“Yes.”

Kayiv gave a small, sharp laugh, rolling off her and stretching out on the bed so that white Panya illuminated his skin.

“He’s no Weaver,” the minister said. He laughed again, though it sounded forced. “Two turns ago you thought he was little more than the emperor’s fool. You even said that his betrayal was worse than that of the other chancellors and ministers because he was intelligent enough to know better. Now you think he’s a Weaver?”

She shook her head and sighed, still gazing at the hearth. “Forget that I asked.”

They both were silent for some time, neither of them moving. Eventually Nitara began to wonder if Kayiv had fallen asleep. She would have liked to wake him, and tell him to leave. She didn’t really want to be alone, but neither did she wish to spend the night with him.

As it happened, he wasn’t asleep at all.

“Don’t you think it strange that nothing’s happened since we received the gold?” he asked suddenly. “Didn’t you expect that we would have been contacted by now?”

“I suppose.”

He said nothing, as if waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, he sat up.

“That’s it? Just, “I suppose’?”

Nitara turned to face him. “What do you expect me to say, Kayiv? That I think the high chancellor was lying to us? That I expect at any moment to hear the emperor’s guards trying to break down my door so that they can carry us off to the dungeon?” She shrugged. “I don’t.”

“Then why haven’t we been asked to do anything? That’s what he said would happen next.”

“I don’t know. Maybe the Weaver has yet to think of any tasks for us. Maybe he has more important concerns than what to do with a pair of underministers in Curtell. I just don’t know. But if Du-” She looked away. “If the high chancellor was trying to betray us, he could have done it without the gold. If anything, I think our payments prove he was telling us the truth.”

“Have you spoken with him again since our last meeting?”

“You mean alone?”

He nodded.

“No. I don’t think he’d speak to one of us without the other.” She didn’t have to ask, but she knew that he’d expect it. “Have you?”

“No. But I’m not the one who keeps calling him Dusaan.”

“Meaning what?”

“Nothing.” He lay down once more, staring up at the stone ceiling.

She sensed his jealousy as if it were an odor. He reeked of it.

Once again, they lay still for several minutes, saying nothing, and once again Kayiv broke the silence, this time just as she was gathering the courage to tell him to leave.

“What makes you think he’s the Weaver?”

Nitara shrugged, no longer wishing to discuss the matter. “I don’t know. I was thinking aloud. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“But you did.”

“He’s the most powerful Qirsi in the largest, strongest realm in the Forelands. Who else would lead the movement?”

“A Weaver; any Weaver no matter his standing in the Eandi courts.”

Look at him, she wanted to say. How could he not be a Weaver? But instead she shrugged a second time. “You’re right. I was foolish to think it.” Anything to end their conversation, to end this night.

“I’m tired,” she said. “We should sleep.”

He leaned over to kiss her and she barely brushed his cheek with her lips. She didn’t so much as glance at him again, but she could feel him staring at her, no doubt looking hurt and angry.

“Maybe I should go.”

No doubt he wanted her to argue, to plead with him to stay.

“All right. I’ll see you in the morning when we meet with the high chancellor.”

He sat unmoving for another moment, then threw himself off the bed, dressed with wordless fury, and left her chamber, closing the door sharply behind him.

She felt a pang of regret, but it passed quickly. Soon she was asleep.

Nitara awoke to the sound of Harel’s soldiers training in the palace courtyard. She dressed slowly, enjoying her solitude and realizing with some surprise that she didn’t miss Kayiv at all. She heard the tolling of the midmorning bells and left her chamber, intending to make her way to the high chancellor’s ministerial chamber for the daily gathering of the chancellors and ministers. She hadn’t gone very far, however, when she met Kayiv in the corridor. Seeing her, he faltered in midstride, then continued past her, his eyes lowered and his jaw set.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He halted, though he wouldn’t face her. “Apparently the high chancellor isn’t well,” he said, his voice flat. “We’re gathering in Stavel’s chamber instead.” He began to walk away.

“What’s the matter with the high chancellor?”

“I don’t know.”

Is he ill? she wanted to ask. Is he going to be all right? But by now several of the emperor’s other Qirsi had entered the corridor, following Kayiv. Nitara had little choice but to do the same.

Without the high chancellor to lead them, their discussion foundered as might a ship in a blinding storm. They drifted from topic to topic, revisiting old, pointless arguments and accomplishing nothing at all. Stavel tried at first to keep the debate civil, but was soon bickering with the rest of them. Kayiv said nothing, sulking in the corner of the chamber farthest from where Nitara sat, his gaze occasionally flicking in her direction. She held her tongue as well, and when the discussion ended at last, she slipped from the chamber and returned to her own, wishing there were some way for her to learn what ailed the high chancellor.

Too restless to sit still, unwilling to risk a chance encounter with Kayiv or remain a prisoner in her chamber, she left the palace for the marketplace in Curtell city. There she passed much of the day wandering among the peddler’s carts and the stalls of the food vendors. It was a fair day, the sky bright blue and a warm breeze blowing down from the Crying Hills, but Nitara could think only of Dusaan. If he were a Weaver, he couldn’t truly be ill, could he? Surely a Weaver didn’t succumb to fevers as an Eandi or a common Qirsi might. He could heal himself. She wanted to believe this, but everywhere she walked, it seemed that a shadow followed. What if he died? What would happen to the movement? What would happen to her?

The minister finally returned to the palace just as night began to fall, and seeing a pair of guards in the corridor near her chamber, she approached them.

“How fares the high chancellor?” she asked.

Both men looked at her as though puzzled.

“He’s fine, so far as I know,” one of them said. “He’s with the emperor right now.”

Relief overwhelmed her, and she felt her face flush. Grateful for the dim light in the corridor, she thanked the men and hurried to her chamber.

She would go to him this night, she told herself. Having feared that she might lose him, she could no longer bear to keep from him her true feelings. But as the night went on, marked by the ringing of the twilight bells, and then the gate close, Nitara lost her nerve. She wanted to go to him, but she feared that he would turn her away, that he might think her foolish, or worse, weak. And too, she feared him. He was a Weaver, and so the most powerful Qirsi she had ever known.

Eventually she undressed, pulled on her sleeping gown, and crawled into bed, trembling with her fright and her disgust at what she had become.

Unable to fall asleep, she merely stared at the fire, much as she had the previous night. The midnight bell tolled and still she lay awake. She longed to ask him if it were true that he was a Weaver, to ask him if he thought he could love her. Yet she cringed at the idea of doing so. Perhaps he already had a woman. She had never seen him with anyone, but the palace was vast, and she really knew so little about him.

Look at you, a voice said within her mind. Kayiv’s voice. You’re a child with an infatuation, nothing more. He might pity you, he might laugh at you. But he won’t love you.

That of all things roused her from her bed. It wasn’t weakness to want him, she told herself. It was only weakness if she allowed herself to be mastered by her fears. She resolved to go to him then. She started to reach for her clothes, but already she felt herself beginning to waver once more. So she fled the chamber, dressed only in her shift, and made her way to Dusaan’s door.

She knocked quickly, as soon as she reached the high chancellor’s chamber, thus forcing herself to remain there. At first there was no response and she had to resist the urge to hurry away. She made herself knock a second time.

“Who’s there?”

She shivered at the sound of his voice. “Nitara.”

The door opened. He was still dressed. He hadn’t been sleeping.

“What do you want?”

“I–I wish to speak with you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Now?”

She suddenly found that she didn’t know what to say, and so she spoke the first words that came to her. “I know who you are, what you are.”

He glanced to both sides and she did as well, belatedly. The corridor was empty save for her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “You should return to your chamber.”

“Yes, you do.” She stepped forward gazing up into his eyes. “I don’t intend to tell anyone. I just want to be with you.”

He stared at her a moment longer, then pulled her into his chamber and closed the door.

“What is it you think you know?” he asked, turning to face her, his expression deadly serious.

“I believe you lead the movement,” she said, surprised to hear that her voice remained steady. She took a breath. “I believe that you’re the Weaver.”

For a long time he said nothing, his face revealing little more. “You came to me in your sleeping gown to tell me that?”

She felt her cheeks reddening once more, and she looked away. “Yes.”

“What of Kayiv?”

“He and I are no longer. . I don’t love him. I don’t think I ever did.”

“I meant, does he also believe that I’m the Weaver?”

Her eyes flew to his face. He was actually smiling, kindly, with none of the mockery she had feared seeing in his golden eyes.

“No, High Chancellor. He thinks me a fool.”

“Is this why you’re not with him tonight?”

“No. As I said, I don’t love him.”

He nodded, turning away and walking to his writing table. “When you first thought of coming here, to say what you have, how did you think I would respond?”

“I don’t know. I hoped. .” She stopped, shaking her head. “I don’t know,” she said again, her heart aching.

“I can’t love you, Minister. At least not now. It would be dangerous for us both. The emperor demands that I devote my days to his service, and my nights belong to the movement. Someday, perhaps. But for now, you should go back to Kayiv.”

She fought to keep from crying, feeling like a chastised child, hearing Kayiv’s laughter in her mind. “I can’t.”

He turned to her. Tall, regal, powerful. How could she ever go back to any other man?

“Very well. But you understand why I have to turn you away, regardless of my desires.”

“Yes, High Chancellor.”

He paused, then, “Call me Weaver.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Then it’s true,” she whispered, breathless and awed.

Dusaan returned to where she stood, grasping her shoulders firmly. “You can speak of this with no one. Do you understand? If Kayiv raises the matter, tell him that you were wrong. Make him think that you feel a fool for even raising the possibility. My life depends upon it, and so yours does, too.”

“Yes. Weaver.”

The smile touched his lips again. Would that she could touch them as well.

“I’m. . pleased that you know. I didn’t think I would be, but I am.”

“Thank you, Weaver.”

“Go now. In the morning, you must act as if none of this ever happened. If you can’t do that, I’ll have no choice but to kill you.”

She knew that she should have been afraid, but for some reason she wasn’t. “Good night, Weaver.” She turned, reached for the door.

“How did you know?” he asked.

Nitara glanced back at him over her shoulder. “You have the look of a king,” she said, and left him.