Bonds of Vengeance

Chapter Seven

City of Kings, Eibithar

It was several days before Cresenne felt well enough to undertake any sort of journey, and several more before she admitted as much to Grinsa and the herbmaster. Grinsa came to see her and Bryntelle each day, and, after two more unsuccessful attempts to hold their baby, actually managed to have her fall asleep in his arms. The look of joy on his face as he carefully returned his daughter to Cresenne’s arms left no doubt in her mind that his love for the child was quickly becoming the most important consideration in his life.

Just as it was in hers.

She hadn’t slept for more than a few hours at a time since Bryntelle’s birth. The baby still was hungry almost all the time, her swaddling wet or soiled nearly as often. Never in her life had Cresenne worked so hard and had so little to show for the effort. Yet it was all she could do to remember to eat her own meals during the course of a day, so enamored was she of the girl, so willing, even eager, to pass her hours just staring at Bryntelle’s face and hands. She should have been thinking of ways to use Grinsa’s love of the girl to her advantage, but instead she was consumed with fear at the thought that he might do the same to her.

If you don’t do as I ask, I’ll have Bryntelle taken from you. He had threatened to have her placed in Glyndwr’s dungeon as well, but he needn’t have bothered. Cresenne’s fear of losing her daughter overmastered all other concerns. And she sensed that Grinsa knew this.

She and the gleaner were swordsmen in a duel that had proven all too evenly matched. Each had a blade at the other’s throat and a second pressed against the other’s heart. A word from her and he would be executed as were all Weavers. A single thought conveyed to the Weaver who led the conspiracy and assassins would descend upon them like locusts on a ripe crop. A word from him and the baby would be torn from her arms and she would be executed as a traitor, leaving Bryntelle without a mother. Fear of the other stayed their hands. Fear, and love, though neither of them would have admitted it.

Watching Grinsa as he held Bryntelle, Cresenne wondered if he could really follow through on his threats, just as she questioned whether she could bring herself to have him killed. How could she ever explain such a thing to Bryntelle? How could she justify lying to the child about her father’s death?

Still, though Cresenne doubted that Grinsa could harm her, she hadn’t the courage to test his resolve. She claimed as long as she could to be too weary and sore to journey, but when at last both Glyndwr’s healer and herbmaster pronounced her fit to leave the castle, she did not resist Grinsa’s demand that she travel north off the steppe to Eibithar’s City of Kings. She still had no intention of revealing to the king all she had done on the Weaver’s behalf. She may well have loved Grinsa. She may even have harbored hopes of reconciling with him, of finding some way to rediscover their love so that the three of them could be a family. But she owed nothing to Tavis of Curgh. She wasn’t about to risk the Weaver’s wrath merely to prove his innocence.

The journey, which was only twelve leagues, went slowly, mostly because Cresenne insisted on resting each time Bryntelle needed to nurse. Still, this did not delay them as much as she had hoped it would. It seemed the baby found the rocking motion of the mount comforting. She slept far more and ate far less than usual as they rode.

Grinsa spent most of the journey beside them, straight backed and alert atop his mount, as if expecting an assault at any moment. As his father had instructed, Kearney the Younger had given them leave to take as many soldiers as they desired. In the end, fearing that too large an escort might draw unwanted attention, Grinsa and Tavis asked for only eight, a small number given how many people in Eibithar wanted the Curgh boy dead. It only took Cresenne half a day to understand that the young noble feared Glyndwr’s men as much as he did road brigands or assassins from Kentigern. He rode alone much of the time, in front of Grinsa and Cresenne, but behind the first line of guards. He spoke to no one, and eyed the soldiers as one might rivals on the first day of a battle tournament. Cresenne could see the boy measuring himself against them, trying to determine if he could protect himself should they turn on him.

Though a short journey, the terrain proved difficult. For the first few days, as they steered their mounts through the highlands, the wind blew hard and cold from the west, howling in the boulders strewn across the land and making the tall brown grasses bow and quiver like frightened supplicants in Bian’s Sanctuary. On the third day, they began the slow descent off the Caerissan Steppe, following a winding path that had been worn by years and years of use. At times the path grew so narrow that they had to ride in a single line. The wind continued to blow, and though Cresenne had hoped to keep them from reaching the royal city too quickly, she longed for this portion of their journey to end.

“What is it you see in the boy?” she finally asked Grinsa on that third morning, as they made their way down the slope of the steppe. The path was wider here, and Grinsa was just beside her.

She kept her voice low, but still the gleaner immediately looked at Tavis to see if he had heard. When the boy gave no indication that he had, Grinsa slowed his mount slightly, to put more distance between himself and Tavis. Cresenne did the same.

“I see what you see,” he said softly. “An arrogant, spoiled boy, embittered by his dark fate, and more concerned with his own welfare than that of those around him.”

She raised an eyebrow. “My, what a special friend you’re found.”

“I also see much promise in him, and many fine qualities that already distinguish him from other nobles. He’s fiercely loyal to his realm and his house. He has more courage than you might expect-the scars he bears are testimony to his strength as well as his pride. And he’s uncommonly clever. I believe, in time, he’ll make a fine ruler, either for his dukedom or his kingdom.”

“I see. Has he offered to make you his first minister?”

Grinsa laughed. “If you’re trying to goad me, it won’t work. Tavis would never think to do so, and I have no ambitions of that kind.” He glanced at her, his expression turning grim. “But you should know this as well. He knows as much about my powers as you do, and he has never once tried to use that knowledge against me, nor has he shown any fear of my abilities. And of the two of you, I worry far less about him betraying me than I do about you.”

He kicked at the flanks of his horse and sped forward until he had caught up to the boy. And for the rest of that day, Cresenne and Bryntelle rode alone.

They reached the royal city on the sixth day after their departure from Glyndwr. They had been able to see the city from the slope of the steppe for several days, and even from leagues away, Cresenne could not help but be impressed by the size of the city and its great castle. Both were square in shape, the fortress centered within the stone walls of the city. There was a sanctuary in each corner, one each, she knew, for the four ancient ones, Elined and Amon, Morna and Bian. But until their small company came to the city gates, she did not appreciate the true immensity of Eibithar’s City of Kings. Neither the castle nor the city could be called beautiful. There was something ponderous and unimaginative in the design of both. She saw here none of the grace of the castles of southern Caerisse or Aneira, nor even the more subtle beauty of the older Eibitharian cities. What she did see was power, raw and unassailable. A royal city was supposed to be the realm’s last defense against any invader, and more than all the other royal seats in the Forelands, except perhaps for the Imperial Palace in Curtell, the City of Kings met that need. She could not imagine any army, or combination of armies, defeating these walls and gates. Staring at the white stone and the formidable soldiers standing before them, Cresenne found herself wondering if the Weaver had ever seen this castle.

She had been curious to see if Tavis would be welcomed as a noble, but other than an ordinary complement of guards, no one awaited them at the city gate. If the Curgh boy was surprised by this, he gave no indication of it. But though Tavis wasn’t met at the gate by the king or those who served him, he certainly was recognized. Guards glared at him, as did commoners in the streets and the city marketplace. Many of them pointed openly at the boy and a few brave souls shouted obscenities at him. The soldiers of Glyndwr offered no response, though one or two of them smirked at their companions. Tavis, to his credit, kept his eyes trained on the lane before him. Clearly he heard what was said-even riding behind him Cresenne could see his ears and neck reddening-but he didn’t say anything or change the gait of his mount.

After a few moments, Grinsa looked over at Cresenne, and said simply, “I should ride with him,” before leaving her to join Tavis.

She couldn’t say for certain whether he did this to offer comfort to the boy or out of concern for his safety, but he remained by the noble’s side until they were within the castle’s inner walls.

The king met them at the interior gate. He was dressed simply in soldier’s garb, and aside from the silver, red, and black baldric he wore on his back, there was little about him to indicate that he was a noble at all. At least, this was Cresenne’s initial impression, watching him from a distance as he offered a solemn greeting to Tavis and Grinsa. The three men spoke quietly for several moments, or rather, Grinsa did a good deal of talking while the king and Tavis listened. At last, Kearney nodded and led the three of them to where Cresenne still waited on her mount. She was holding Bryntelle, of course, and as the king approached, she pulled her baby closer to her chest.

“You know who I am,” he said, stopping just beside her.

Seeing him up close, she realized that he was younger than he had appeared. Though his hair was silver, his face was smooth and boyish, his eyes a bright, clear green. She would have liked to say something cutting, something that would make him realize that she owed no allegiance to him or his realm. But all she could manage was a simple, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You should know as well that no matter what those leading your movement have told you, I’m neither a tyrant nor a fool. If you answer my questions honestly, you’ll be treated fairly. If you refuse me, or try to deceive me in any way, your child will be taken from you and you’ll be imprisoned. Do you understand?”

Her heart pounded in her chest like ocean breakers and she was shivering despite the sun. She looked past the king to Grinsa, who stood just behind him, his gaze lowered. She wanted to rail at him, to ask him how he could choose this man and his court over Bryntelle, but once more the words wouldn’t come. After a moment’s pause, she merely nodded.

“Good,” the king said. “Lord Curgh and the gleaner tell me that you’re part of the conspiracy we’ve heard so much about, and I have no reason to doubt their word. They also tell me that you’re unlikely to flee or try something foolish. They say that you love your daughter too much to risk harming her or yourself. On their recommendation, you’ll be given a chamber near theirs and food, and you’ll be allowed to come and go as you please. Don’t do anything to make me regret the faith I’m placing in your good sense.” He turned to Grinsa and Tavis. “Eat, rest. We’ll speak later in the day.”

Both men bowed to Kearney.

“My thanks, Your Majesty,” Tavis said. “We’ll await your summons.”

The king nodded and walked back into the nearest of the tower entrances. An instant later one of the king’s soldiers stepped forward and gestured toward a different doorway.

“This way, my lord,” he said to Tavis, and even Cresenne heard the ice in his voice. The king’s men, it seemed, were no more convinced of the young lord’s innocence than were the soldiers of Glyndwr.

Grinsa helped Cresenne from her mount, and all of them followed the guard up a winding stairway and into the castle corridors. They were given three rooms on an otherwise empty hallway. Grinsa took the room between Cresenne’s and Tavis’s, telling them both to await word from him before going anywhere.

“Surely I’m safe within Audun’s Castle,” the boy said, frowning. “I’m not a child to be kept in my chamber while you wander freely about the place.”

For once, Cresenne agreed with him. But a sharp look from the gleaner made it clear to both of them that he would not discuss the point.

Cresenne’s room was ample for guest quarters, though rather spare and chill. Aside from a bed, a wardrobe, and a single chair by the dark hearth, it was empty. She gently laid Bryntelle on the bed and watched her for a moment. The child slept still, though her mouth moved as though she were suckling.

Almost immediately someone knocked at the door. Pulling it open, she saw a young servant, burdened with a large load of wood and kindling. He bowed shyly to her and hurried to the hearth, where he began to build her a fire. She nearly stopped him-she could have started the flame with a single thought-but before she could speak, Grinsa appeared in the doorway.

He cast a quick look at the servant, then cleared his throat.

“How is she?” he asked, nodding toward Bryntelle.

“She’s fine.”

He nodded, his eyes wandering to the servant again. The boy had piled several logs in the hearth, placing the rest beside it.

“That will do,” Grinsa told him. “We can take care of the rest.”

The boy stared up at them, looking frightened. Certainly he had seen Qirsi before, living and laboring in a castle, but from the expression on his face, one might have thought that they were the first sorcerers he had ever met.

“Yes, sir,” he murmured. He bowed and quickly left the room.

Grinsa closed the door.

Cresenne turned away from him. “It didn’t take you long to tell the king all about me, did it?”

“You work for the conspiracy. Do you honestly think I’d allow him to make you a guest in his castle without telling him that first?”

She shrugged.

“I also told him I didn’t think you were a threat to him or anyone else.”

“That might have been a mistake.”

“I don’t think so.”

She gave a small laugh, facing him again. “You’re just like them. You think nothing of using our baby as a weapon against me.”

“We’re both guilty of that, Cresenne. She deserves better from both of us.”

“I won’t tell the king anything. I won’t betray the movement and I won’t risk my life to save the Curgh boy.”

He gazed at her for some time, offering no response, until she began to grow uncomfortable. She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes wandering the room.

“What are you looking at?” she finally asked.

“Did you ever love me?”

“I did what I did for the movement. You must know that by now.” Her hands were shaking and she rubbed her arms, trying to get warm.

Grinsa glanced back at the hearth and an instant later flames leaped from the wood.

“That should warm you.”

“Thank you.”

“I did love you,” he said, stepping past her and sitting on the bed beside their baby. He looked down at Bryntelle for a long time, running a gentle finger along her cheek. Hands more gentle than any I’ve ever known. .

“I loved you more than I’ve loved anyone since my wife died,” he went on, his voice low now. “When I realized you were the one who sent that assassin, it nearly killed me.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m not sure. I suppose I’ve been wanting to for some time now. I never thought I’d get the chance.”

“So is this the reason you brought me to the City of Kings? Are you trying to exact some measure of revenge for what I did to you?”

He shook his head, though he still gazed a the child. “I’m doing it because I have to, just as I had to leave you in Galdasten.”

“To protect the boy.”

“It’s more than that.” He looked back at her. “Your movement will bring ruin to the Forelands, Cresenne. You may think that you’re building a new realm for the Qirsi, but all you’re doing is destroying the land, destroying Bryntelle’s home.”

“She has no home so long as the Eandi rule.” Cresenne said the words with all the force she could muster, but even she could hear how hollow they sounded.

“I’m going to defeat your Weaver.” He spoke with such certainty that she didn’t dare argue. “I may not live to see the end of the war, but neither will he. So you need to choose. Are you going to devote yourself to a doomed cause, or are you going to help me, and make certain that your daughter grows up knowing her father?” He stood, crossing to the door. “The king will want to speak with Tavis and me before questioning you. I doubt he’ll summon you before tomorrow morning, so you have some time to think about it.” He pulled the door open and started to leave. Then he stopped himself, facing her once more. “You never answered my question.”

She held his gaze as best she could, balling her hands into fists so that he wouldn’t see how she trembled. “Of course I did.”

“You told me that you seduced me for the movement. But you didn’t say whether or not you loved me.”

Cresenne tossed her hair and smiled coldly. “I didn’t love you. I could never love a man like you.”

He nodded, his eyebrows going up. She could see the hurt in his eyes. “I see,” he said quietly. “Well, thank you for being so candid.”

“Of course.”

She waited even after he closed the door, listening as his footsteps faded away. Only when she couldn’t hear them anymore did she collapse onto the bed beside her baby, sobs racking her body.

Grinsa walked for some time, prowling the castle corridors in search of Keziah, his sister, who was now archminister to Eibithar’s king. At least that was his excuse. As it happened he was just as happy not to find her right away.

He had hoped to begin the process of winning Cresenne’s trust, perhaps even her affection, though he wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone. But rather than accepting his honesty as a gesture of trust, the woman had seen in it only an opportunity to hurt him again. Her denials notwithstanding, Grinsa knew that she had loved him, or at the very least had cared for him. He still remembered, with a clarity that made his chest ache, their last night together in Galdasten, when he left her to win Tavis’s freedom from Kentigern’s dungeon. Her anger at his decision had been genuine and far too fervent to be dismissed as the ire of a frustrated conspirator. She had been hurt and bitter, as only a spurned lover could be. In the turn that followed, as he learned of her betrayal and battled to the death the assassin she sent to kill him, he came to question his perceptions, not only of that last night but of all the passion-filled nights that had come before it.

He had railed at himself for his stupidity and the ease with which she had deluded him. He was a Weaver, the most powerful of Qirsi sorcerers, and though even a Weaver did not possess the power to recognize a false heart, Grinsa felt that he should have known. Only with the passage of time did he begin to forgive himself, to see that perhaps he hadn’t realized she was deceiving him because she hadn’t been, not completely. It was true that she asked repeatedly about Tavis’s Fating, but it was equally true that he never revealed to her what the Qiran showed the boy. And still she remained with him until he left the Revel.

He wasn’t a fool. He knew why she had taken to his bed in the first place. But he had loved and been loved before, and he knew as well that no matter her talents for trickery, Cresenne couldn’t have been lying about everything. Passion such as they had shared could not be feigned.

What does it matter? asked a voice within his head, as he turned yet another corner in the castle corridors. Why do this to yourself?

“I do it for Bryntelle,” he said aloud. “We’re her parents. Even with what we’ve both become, shouldn’t there have been love between us once?”

To which the voice replied, You do it for pride. You do it to soothe the pain that lingers in your heart like infection in an old wound.

Grinsa rubbed a hand over his face. “I do it because I’m a fool.”

“Did you say something?”

Startled, he spun around to see two soldiers standing by a door he had just passed.

“No, I. .” He shook his head. “Whose chamber is this?”

“The queen’s. She doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Do you know where I can find the king’s archminister?”

The two men exchanged a look. “What do you want her for?” one of them asked.

Grinsa felt the hairs on his neck prickle. He didn’t like the sound of this at all. “She’s an old friend,” he said, keeping his tone as casual as possible.

The man frowned as if not believing him.

“Is she all right?”

“She’s well enough. You might find her in her chambers, or maybe walking the gardens.”

The gleaner nodded. “My thanks.”

He started to walk past them, but the soldier held out a hand, forcing him to halt.

“I’m not sure how you got through the gates, but we keep a close watch on white-hairs in this castle. You remember that.”

Perhaps he should have held his tongue, but the man had pushed him too far.

“I got through the gate because the men there knew that I had been asked here by the king, along with Lord Tavis of Curgh. If you’d like, I can accompany you to the king’s chambers, and you can express your reservations to him. Otherwise I’d suggest you let me pass.”

The man’s face reddened, but he didn’t look away. “Forgive me, sir. I would have addressed you differently had I known.”

“What’s your name?”

The guard’s mouth twitched. “Cullum Minfeld, sir.”

“Well, Cullum, I’ll say nothing of this to your king or the swordmaster, provided it doesn’t happen again.”

“It won’t, sir.” His tone was insolent, but there was little Grinsa could do about that.

“You say the archminister could be in the gardens or in her chambers. I checked her chambers not long ago. Is there somewhere else I might look before walking all the way to the gardens?”

Cullum glanced at his companion. “She spends a good deal of time alone on the ramparts, sir. You’ll probably find her there.”

“Thank you.” He nodded to both men, then walked on without looking back. Grinsa had no doubt that soldiers throughout the realm, indeed, throughout the Forelands, felt as much contempt for the Qirsi as did those two. But it was unusual for men as disciplined as those serving the king of Eibithar to be so obvious about it. He walked to the nearest of the towers and climbed the steps to the ramparts. Stepping out into the sunlight, he spotted Keziah immediately. She stood on the wall opposite his, her back to him, leaning on the stone and staring up at Raven Falls, a thin white ribbon in the distance.

He walked to where his sister stood, passing several guards along the way, all of whom watched him warily. Keziah glanced at him as he approached. A light breeze stirred her fine white hair, but otherwise she didn’t move. There were lines around her mouth and eyes, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

“I’d greet you properly,” she said, her voice low, “but I don’t think it would be wise with the soldiers watching us.”

He was a Weaver, and for centuries, Weavers had been executed simply because the Eandi feared their powers. But more than that, a Weaver’s family usually suffered the same fate, and so for years now, since his Fating, Grinsa and Keziah had concealed the fact that they were brother and sister.

“I understand. Are you well?”

She shrugged. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Not really.”

He would have liked to take her in his arms, to let her cry against his chest until the tears finally stopped. Instead he surveyed the ramparts as unobtrusively as he could. None of the soldiers was close enough to hear their conversation.

“Have you spoken to the Weaver again?”

Against his better judgment, and unbeknownst to her king, Keziah had made an effort to join the conspiracy, believing it the best way to learn of the Weaver’s plans and tactics. As far as Grinsa knew, her last conversation with the leader of the conspiracy had been the one he overheard, having sought to enter her dreams himself so that they could speak.

“Twice, the first time a few nights after you were there as well, and a second time two nights ago.”

Two nights. No wonder she looked so weary. “And?”

“I think he’s starting to trust me. He asked a lot of questions about Kearney’s intentions regarding Aindreas of Kentigern and those who seem willing to follow him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth. That Kearney is concerned, but he has no intention of abdicating, and that if he believes any of his dukes are guilty of treason, he’ll take their castles by force and install new dukes who are loyal to the throne.”

Grinsa eyed her closely, searching for some sign that she found this talk of a civil war disturbing. Seeing none, he felt his own apprehension growing.

“I take it the Weaver was pleased by this.”

“Yes. I have no proof of this, but I think he must have someone else working on Aindreas’s end, and perhaps in Galdasten as well. I expect he plans to push both sides away from any thought of reconciliation, hoping that this time we can bring about a civil war that involves all the major houses.”

It seemed to Grinsa that the Deceiver himself ran an icy finger down his spine. “We?”

“What?”

“You said he hoped that ‘we’ could bring about a civil war.”

“Yes, the conspiracy.”

“So you count yourself as one of them now?”

“What choice do I have?” She brushed a wisp of hair from her brow. “I’m trying to convince Kearney that I’ve turned against him, and I’m trying to convince the Weaver that I’ve joined his cause. Day and night, awake and asleep, I’m acting the part of a traitor. If I’m to play the role properly, I have to give myself over to it. My life depends upon it.”

Again, he would have liked to find some way to ease her burden, or at least express his sympathy. But he didn’t know how. Throughout their lives, he had been the older sibling, the Weaver, the one who faced dangers and took risks in order to protect her. Now, for the first time, he found himself overwhelmed by the sacrifice Keziah was making, not only for him but for all the Forelands. It felt strange to him, and just a bit frightening.

“You weren’t with Kearney when he met us in the ward. Have you lost his trust?”

She gave a wan smile. “Not entirely, not yet. The Weaver wants me to repair the damage I’ve done to our rapport. He says that if Kearney no longer trusts me, or worse, if he banishes me from the castle, I’m of little value to the conspiracy. I’ve assumed that to mean that the Weaver would then have me killed.”

“Is it working? Is Kearney starting to turn to you again?”

She straightened, folding her arms over her chest. “As you say, I wasn’t with him when he greeted you. I’ve tried apologizing for my behavior. I’ve explained to him that I was embittered by the end of our love affair and desperate to hurt him, but that I still wish to serve him as archminister.”

“And what does he say?”

“Very little. He hasn’t ordered me from the castle yet, for which I suppose I should be grateful, but neither has he begun to confide in me again.”

Grinsa looked at the nearest of the guards. “It seems the king’s men have a rather low opinion of all Qirsi. One of them tried to keep me from finding you until I told him that I was here as a guest of the king.”

“They take their cue from Gershon.”

“The swordmaster? I thought he knew you were attempting to join the conspiracy and approved.”

“He does. But he’s always hated our people, and me most of all. We both felt that it would be dangerous for him to grow tolerant of me too abruptly. He continues to speak against me to the king, questioning my loyalty even as I try to regain Kearney’s favor.”

“Doesn’t he realize that he’s putting your life in peril by doing so?”

Keziah shrugged again, a haunted look in her eyes. “There’s peril in everything we do right now. This seemed the safest course.”

The gleaner shook his head. He didn’t like any of this, least of all his own sense of powerlessness.

“Tell me why you’ve come here,” she said, after a lengthy silence. “Did you find Brienne’s assassin?”

“Actually, yes.”

Her eyes widened. “Is he here with you?”

“No. We let him go.”

“What?”

As briefly as he could, Grinsa told her of Tavis’s encounter with the assassin, how the boy surprised the singer in the corridor of a tavern in Mertesse and nearly managed to kill him. And he explained as well, why, in the end, Grinsa insisted that the young noble let him go, so that the man could kill the traitor Shurik, as he had been hired to do. For Shurik knew that Grinsa was a Weaver, and so long as he lived, he was a threat not only to the gleaner himself but also to Keziah.

“So he’s still free?”

“I’m afraid so. It was the price we had to pay for Shurik’s death.”

“Did you learn anything from him? Can you prove Tavis’s innocence?”

“We can, but not because of anything the assassin told us.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

Grinsa took a long breath. It was still difficult even to talk about all this. He was forced to wonder if he could carry through on his threats if Cresenne refused to help them.

“Tavis and I are here with Cresenne.”

Keziah looked puzzled. “Cresenne?”

“The woman from the Revel.”

Comprehension flashed in her eyes like lightning. “The traitor? The one you loved?”

He nodded.

“Are you all right?”

It was his turn to shrug. “What choice do I have?”

“Poor Grinsa,” she said, a sad smile on her face. “Always the strong one.”

“There’s more, Kezi.” He paused, searching for the right words. Realizing there weren’t any, he just told her. “I’m a father. Cresenne and I have a daughter.”

She stared at him a moment, as if she didn’t understand what he had said. Then a dazzling smile lit her face and tears began to flow freely from her eyes. “Oh, Grinsa! That’s wonderful! That’s the happiest thing I’ve heard in so long. What’s her name?”

“Bryntelle.”

“Bryntelle,” she repeated. “I like that.”

He frowned. “You know what this woman has done. You know how she hurt me.”

“Yes, of course I do. But you have a child. In the midst of all this madness-the betrayals and the fear and the killing-you’ve become a father.” A small breathless laugh escaped her. “I’m an aunt!”

“I suppose you are.”

“Don’t you see how wondrous that is?”

“It doesn’t feel wondrous to me,” he said grimly. “Cresenne is the one who hired the assassin in the first place. She had Lady Brienne killed. And merely by admitting this to Kearney, she can put to rest for good all doubts as to Tavis’s innocence. Yet she refuses, and I find myself forced to use our child as a cudgel to compel her to speak the truth. I’ve told her that unless she tells all to the king, I’ll have Bryntelle taken from her.”

“And still she resists?”

“Thus far, yes. But the true test comes tomorrow, when I take her before Kearney.”

“You believe she remains that devoted to the movement?”

He shook his head. “I believe she’s that afraid of the Weaver.”

Keziah shuddered. “She should be. If she betrays him in any way, he’ll kill her.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should speak with her.”

“To what end? I can’t risk telling her what I’m doing.”

“I know that. But you know the Weaver. You understand her fear far better than I do. It may be that you can find a way to convince her. If you succeed, it may help you regain a measure of the king’s goodwill.”

“It may also cost the woman her life.”

“If she doesn’t help us, she’ll spend the rest of her life in Kearney’s dungeon, bereft of her child and branded a traitor. Her only hope lies in working with us and allowing me to protect her.”

Keziah looked up at the falls again. “I’ll try,” she said at last. “But I doubt that even you can protect her, Grinsa. Your powers are formidable, they may be a match for those of the Weaver. But he can reach her in her sleep. How do you protect her from a man who can do that?”

“I don’t know. But there was a time when I would have given my life for her. I suppose I still would. Not because I love her, though it’s possible that I do, but because of Bryntelle. What kind of a father would I be if I allowed something to happen to her mother?”