Seeds of Betrayal

Chapter Eleven

Curtell, Braedon, Bohdan’s Moon waning

Dusaan strode through the white stone corridors of the palace, his red robe rustling like the cape of a king, his white hair dancing about his shoulders. He still seethed at the messenger’s tidings, though he was certain that no one would have known it to look at him. He had learned long ago to keep a tight rein on his passions. In a few hours he would be free to loose his rage, but before then he had to endure an audience with the emperor. Surely Harel would be distraught enough for both of them.

He passed by one of the interior courtyards, its fountain gurgling noisily amid the blooms and shrubs growing in great carved marble planters. A pair of finches flew up from the water at his approach, alighting on a high ledge just below the white ceiling. Just beyond the courtyard, he turned to enter the broad, tiled corridor leading to the emperor’s chambers. Guards stood on either side of the door, both of them dressed in gold and red, both holding pikes that gleamed in the sunlight from the glazed windows that lined the outer hall.

They bowed to him as he stepped past them and pushed open the door.

“Dusaan jal Kama!” another guard called out as Dusaan paused in the doorway. “High Chancellor to the Emperor of Braedon!”

Harel sat on his marble throne in the center of the chamber, his fleshy chin cradled in his hand, his small green eyes downcast. He looked utterly disconsolate, like a child trapped in his house by an untimely rainstorm. He wore white as always, his robe and cape fringed with red and gold. His jeweled crown sat upon his head in a nest of tight brown curls, and the Imperial Scepter lay across his lap, its diamonds and rubies glittering, calling to Dusaan’s eye like beacons in the night.

Like the hallway, the emperor’s chambers were bright with sun. Even the great castles of Thorald and Solkara, Enharfe and Yserne, did not have glazed windows, Harel often reminded anyone who would listen. Only here, in the Imperial Palace of Braedon, could the leader of one of the Forelands’ seven lands-the wealthiest and most powerful of them all-pass the cold months in the warm glow of the sun, rather than in the murky light of torches, lamps, and candles.

In the near corner of the chamber, a harper played a slow ballad, her slender hands moving like spiders over the strings. The empress’s court ladies sat in a tight circle near the musician speaking in low tones, though the empress herself was nowhere to be seen.

Harel sat up straighter when Dusaan was announced, his round face brightening considerably.

“High Chancellor,” he called, beckoning to the Qirsi with an outstretched hand.

Dusaan walked to where the emperor sat, dropping to one knee just before the throne and bowing his head.

“Your Eminence.”

“Rise, High Chancellor.”

Dusaan stood again, and the emperor regarded him gravely, as if they had both lost a dear friend.

“You heard?” Harel asked.

“Yes, Your Eminence. Word of the message reached my quarters not long ago.”

The emperor shook his head. “Terrible business. I never would have thought that Carden could do such a thing.”

Dusaan had to grit his teeth. “It’s a great loss for Aneira,” he managed to say. “And for all of us who considered the king an ally.”

“I always liked Carden,” the emperor said, chewing his lip, and staring off toward the harper. “He was a wise leader and a reliable friend.”

Actually he was a fool and as poor a leader as ever ruled a kingdom of the Forelands, but Dusaan kept that to himself, nodding solemnly. He knew as well as Harel that the emperor’s concerns lay elsewhere.

“We’ll need to start again, you know, building an alliance with the new king, whoever that may be.” Harel looked up at him. “Have you any idea who’s next in line for the Aneiran throne?”

“No, Your Eminence, I don’t. There was a daughter, but I can’t imagine she’d be accepted as Carden’s heir. Which leaves his brothers.”

Harel frowned. “I don’t like what I’ve heard about them. Particularly the eldest. What is his name?”

“Grigor, Your Eminence. And his reputation does leave much to be desired.”

“I’ve no tolerance for brutes, High Chancellor, and I certainly don’t wish to find myself allied with one. I spent a good deal of time and gold winning Carden’s allegiance. Do you know how many ships I sent him? I believe it was fourteen. Fourteen ships at more than seven thousand imperial rounds each. None of that will matter to the new king. He’ll just think of it as his navy, as if we’d done nothing at all to make it the strongest among the six. He’ll know nothing of the weaponry we sent either, or the mercenaries. This man, this…” He shook his head, frowning once more.

“Grigor, Your Eminence.”

“Yes, yes. This Grigor. Where is my mind today?” He looked past Dusaan to the harper. “You there!” he called. “That’s enough music for today. Leave us.” Then, looking at the ladies, he added, “All of you as well. Leave my chambers. I wish to speak with the chancellor in private.”

The musician curtsied and stepped out of the chamber, leaving her instrument in the corner against the wall. The ladies followed close behind her, looking back at the emperor with frightened faces.

“This will delay the attack on Eibithar, won’t it?” Harel asked, once they were alone.

“I’m afraid it must,” the chancellor said, feeling his ire rise once more, and moving swiftly to quash it. “A new king, whoever it might be, will need time to consolidate his power. Even a man like Grigor won’t rush into a war so soon. It will be several turns before we can act, at the very least.”

“Several turns?” the emperor asked, looking relieved. “That’s not so bad.”

“At the very least,” the Qirsi said again, pointedly this time. Sometimes the emperor seemed to him more child than man. Harel had held the scepter for more than half his life, taking the throne after his father died, just a year past his Fating. It often seemed to Dusaan that twenty-two years later he remained a frightened boy, out of his depth, foolish, and weak, even for an Eandi. “If Grigor does assume the crown, and if he can move quickly and decisively, then it will only be half a year,” he explained, his patience strained. “But if he meets with resistance from the other houses it could take far longer. And if by some chance, Carden’s death leads to war among Aneira’s more powerful families, it could be years.”

“Which means,” Harel said, “that as soon as the king takes the throne, we must act quickly to back him, to make it clear to others in Aneira that the emperor of Braedon recognizes him as the legitimate successor to Carden.”

“Yes, Your Eminence,” the chancellor said, taken aback by the clarity of Harel’s reasoning. “That’s just what we must do.”

“And in the meantime?”

Dusaan thought for a moment. “In the meantime, I believe we should continue with our plans as if nothing has happened. The training of the men should go on uninterrupted, and the bulk of the fleet should be divided between Ayvencalde and Bishenhurst. The longer the ships remain there, posing no threat to Eibithar, the greater the surprise when they finally cross the Scabbard. The delay is unavoidable, but perhaps in this small way we can use it to our advantage.”

The emperor fairly beamed. “Excellent, High Chancellor! See to it, will you?”

“Of course, Your Eminence.” He stood before the emperor another moment, neither of them speaking. “Is there more?”

“No,” Harel said, looking troubled again. “No, nothing more.”

“Very good, Your Eminence.” Dusaan knelt again, then rose and started quickly toward the door.

“What makes a man take his own life?” the emperor asked, just as the Qirsi reached the door. “What could cause a king, with all his wealth and power, to take a dagger to his own heart?”

Dusaan stood unmoving, his back to the throne, biting down on his tongue until he tasted blood.

“Send the harper back in, would you?” Harel said after a moment. “And tell the kitchenmaster that I require my supper a bit early today.”

“Yes, Your Eminence,” Dusaan said, his voice thick. He faced the emperor again, sketching a quick bow. Then he left, fearing that the man would keep him there longer if given the chance.

After seeing to the harper and the emperor’s meal, Dusaan returned to his chambers and summoned the other chancellors so that he could inform them of the tidings from Solkara and his conversation with the emperor. It was a waste of his time and theirs, but Harel expected it of him. Like all Eandi rulers, the emperor had a great number of Qirsi in his palace. Ostensibly they were here as advisors-most bore the title of chancellor, a few were ministers. But Harel rarely met with any of them, relying almost entirely on Dusaan. He collected Qirsi, just as he did swords from Sanbira and Uulrann, and horses from Caerisse. The more Qirsi he possessed, the wiser he appeared to both his people and his rivals in other kingdoms. Braedon was the most powerful of the seven realms-few would have argued the point, even in Eibithar. People here spoke of Braedon and the six, as if the other kingdoms were mere dukedoms standing in the vast shadow of the empire. Of all the realms, only Braedon dared call itself an empire, and in fairness to Harel and his predecessors on the throne, Braedon did have territorial holdings as far away as Enwyl Island, in the Gulf of Kreanna. So it was only natural that Harel should surround himself with Qirsi advisors.

From all that Dusaan could tell, Harel assumed, as did the other Qirsi, that the advice Dusaan gave the emperor was not just his own, but rather a compendium of the counsel offered by all the chancellors and ministers in their daily discussions. Dusaan, of course, did nothing to dispel this notion.

Most of the other advisors were typical of court Qirsi throughout the Forelands: blindly loyal to Braedon and House Curtell, almost pitiable in their desire to please the emperor and rise in his esteem, and disturbingly eager to try to surpass each other in this regard. With each day that passed, it became harder for Dusaan to meet with them without revealing the contempt in which he held them. A few showed signs of being more, of being capable of rising above their current station, with his help, of course, but the time for that had not yet come.

This day’s discussion proved to be a somber affair, with the older chancellors and ministers falling over each other in their attempts to exalt the dead king. Dusaan had told them as little as possible about the emperor’s plans to attack Eibithar, and now he said merely that the attack would be put off indefinitely.

Speaking of it served only to enrage Dusaan once again. He ended the meeting abruptly, dismissing the other Qirsi and locking the door to his chamber once they were gone. Stepping to his window, he pushed open the wooden shutters and gazed out over the ramparts of the palace and the swift waters of the River of Swords, which lay beyond. The windows in this part of the palace were not glazed, and a brisk wind stirred his hair and chilled his quarters. The sun had set, but the western sky still glowed orange and pink with the last glimmers of daylight. It would still be some time before he could do anything more than brood on his anger, and given the night that lay in store for him, Dusaan decided that he was best off using this time to sleep.

He closed the shutters again, lay down on his bed, and, closing his eyes, fell almost instantly into a deep, dreamless slumber.

The chancellor awakened to the sound of bells ringing in the city. The gate close, no doubt. He hadn’t been asleep very long, but he felt refreshed and ready to speak with those who served him. He had taught himself long ago to sleep when he could and to arise when he needed. It didn’t matter what thoughts filled his head; over the years he had disciplined his mind to shunt them aside, and to ward off dreams that might keep him from getting the rest he needed. He had mastered sleep, his own as well as that of others. As a Weaver who walked in the dreams of other Qirsi, he could hardly have done less.

He was most eager to speak with Pronjed jal Drenthe in Solkara, but it was early yet to find him sleeping, and it had been some time since he last visited with the woman in Kett.

Dusaan closed his eyes, drawing upon the vast ocean that was his power and reaching eastward with his mind. For a time he felt as a hawk must when it soars on a warm wind, unassailable and without equal, secure in the knowledge that even then, his consciousness gliding high above the Forelands, he had barely tested the extent of his magic. Soon he sensed the Caerissan Steppe looming before him and he reached downward toward Braedor’s Plain and the city of Kett.

He found her quickly, and, touching her mind with his own, called forth the image of the moor that he used whenever he entered the dreams of a Qirsi. It was Ayvencalde Moor that he used, a desolate expanse of rocks and grasses that lay but a few leagues from the emperor’s palace. But knowing as he did that those with whom he spoke always hoped to recognize the plain, and thus learn who he was, he darkened the landscape, making it impossible for them to see beyond the reach of his light. He had no intention of allowing his servants to divine his secret.

He liked to make them work to find him, situating himself atop a rise and making the climb arduous for those who had angered him. Later that night, Pronjed would face a daunting and wearying ascent. But for the woman, he made an exception. She was with child and had served him well as one of his chancellors. If Dusaan had his way-and he usually did-she would be his queen when he finally ruled the Forelands. When she opened her eyes to this dream, finding herself on the moor, Dusaan was already there standing before her, lit from behind by the great white sun he had conjured for these visions.

She looked even more beautiful than she had the last time they spoke. Her belly had grown larger, her breasts fuller with milk for her child. She stood before him in a simple shift, her fine white hair falling over her brow and down around her shoulders, her pale eyes bleary with sleep. Yet, for all Dusaan could tell, she might have been wearing glittering jewels and a banquet gown.

“You’re well?” he asked at last, unable to say more.

She stared at the ground. “I am, Weaver. Thank you.”

She feared him, of course. They all did. And though he hoped that someday she would love him, for now her fear suited his purposes quite well.

“You’ve been eating?”

A small smile sprung to her lips. “Yes, Weaver.”

“You think me foolish for asking.”

Her eyes snapped up, a frightened look on her face. “No, Weaver. You’re very kind to show such interest in my baby and me.”

“I may be a bit foolish,” he admitted. “But as I’ve told you before, I foresee a glorious future for this child. And for you, as well.”

The woman nodded. “Yes, Weaver. Thank you.”

“I trust you’ve heard no news of the child’s father?”

“No, none. All the talk here is of the king and who will take his place on the throne.”

“I’m sure it is,” he said, his voice tightening.

“The men who run the Festival are talking of going to Solkara, not for the funeral of course, but when the new king is invested. Do you wish that I remain here, or may I accompany them?”

“If you feel that you can make the journey, you’re free to go. Assuming the man we seek is still in Aneira, he may be there also.”

“I’d thought of that, as well,” she said.

Dusaan narrowed his eyes, staring at her now. There was something in her voice and manner…

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Yes, Weaver. Everything is fine.”

“And you’re certain you’ve heard nothing?”

“Quite certain.”

“You told me some time ago that you spoke to an assassin of this man, that the white-hair had killed this assassin’s partner.”

“Yes, Weaver. I remember.”

“Is it possible that this assassin has already found him and killed him?”

And there it was, in her eyes, in the terror he sensed abruptly flooding her mind, like the surge of a storm tide. She still loved this man. She had seduced him for the movement, acting on Dusaan’s instructions, and she had sent assassins for him twice now. Yet she still loved him. It shouldn’t have surprised him so. Seduction was a difficult matter, and she was terribly young. Add the fact that she was carrying his child, and it would have been stranger if she had never loved him. But she served the Weaver and his movement. She was to be Dusaan’s queen. That she should still carry such passion for this gleaner, that she could conceal this from Dusaan, made suspect all that she had done on the Weaver’s behalf, and all that she had told him the past several turns. He could hardly contain the rage and jealousy that flared in his chest like Qirsi fire. He wanted to hurt her. Had it not been for the child, he might have. Then again, had it not been for the child, he might not have cared. Most of all, he wanted to kill this man, this Gnnsa jal Arriet. Not through assassins and the dispensing of gold, but with his own blade, guided by his own hand. He wanted to feel the man’s blood on his fingers. He wanted to watch as the spark died in his yellow eyes, leaving them empty and sightless.

“It is possible, Weaver,” the woman said, though it seemed to Dusaan that her words came from a great distance. He could barely remember what he had asked her.

He just stared at her. She couldn’t see his face for the light. She wouldn’t know how his wrath twisted his features, how his eyes burned with his thirst for blood. Only his voice could give him away, and that he could control.

“Perhaps, it would be best if you didn’t go to Solkara,” he said, sounding bored, as if already tiring of their conversation.

“Weaver?”

He sensed her eagerness to go. This would be her punishment, though she might never recognize it as such. “The last time we spoke you seemed reluctant to travel to the steppe. It may be that you’re best off remaining where you are.” The child might still amount to something, even if he could never trust the woman again. Certainly he couldn’t allow her to find the gleaner. “Yes,” he went on, as if convincing himself. “Stay in Kett. I’ll have others look for him in Solkara.”

“But-”

Dusan reached out with his mind, placing an invisible hand over her mouth. He took care not to hurt her, but he saw from the widening of her pale eyes that he had frightened her. Never forget what I can do to you if I choose.

“My mind is set. You will remain in Kett. Do you understand?”

He removed the unseen hand.

“Yes, Weaver,” she whispered.

“Very good.”

His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, hungry for her despite the fire searing his heart. Then he released her mind, his consciousness hurtling back over Aneira and the Scabbard so swiftly that Dusaan felt as though he were falling. When he opened his eyes, he started violently, as one does awakening suddenly from a disturbing dream.

“Damn her!” he whispered to the darkness, gritting his teeth against a wave of nausea. “And the man as well.”

He walked to the hearth and sat in the nearest chair, fighting desperately to ease his pulse and purge his mind of the visions abruptly clamoring for his attention. Images of Cresenne, her legs entwined with those of another man, and of his own fingers closing around her throat.

He took a slow, shuddering breath, staring at the flames dancing before him. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he began slowly to take control of his thoughts once more. It was a long journey, and a difficult one, but he had spent years training his mind to retain its focus, to overcome his passions and the distractions foisted upon him by others. He was a Weaver. To do less would have been to risk discovery and execution.

Eventually, he was able to look away from the flames, and to think once more of the tasks that awaited him that night.

Pronjed would be sleeping by now, and if a residue of anger remained from his conversation with the woman, so be it. The Solkaran minister had earned Dusaan’s fury as few ever had before.

The Weaver closed his eyes again, and sent his mind soaring eastward once more. He hadn’t as far to travel this time and before long he sensed the Great Forest beneath him. He allowed his thoughts to spiral downward to Castle Solkara, where he found the king’s archminister asleep.

Taking hold of the man’s mind, he again called forth the image of the moor, this time placing himself atop a steep, unforgiving rise and leaving Pronjed a good distance from the base of the mount. He even raised a wind to blow down the slope, slowing the minister further. Let the man walk and climb. Let him enfeeble himself so that he might know how he had displeased the Weaver. And let him tremble with that knowledge as he dragged himself up the rocky slope.

The Weaver had a long wait, and though it was of his own making, he had little patience for the delay. He had to resist the urge to shorten Pronjed’s climb, reminding himself again and again that he was punishing the man. When at last the minister reached the top of the rise, appearing in the distance as a small, slow-moving figure, Dusaan started toward him, his long strides covering the ground between them far faster than Pronjed could have on his own.

As they drew nearer to each other, Dusaan saw that the minister had indeed suffered in his ascent. Pronjed’s bony face was flushed to a deep scarlet, and the sweat on his brow and cheeks shone in the Weaver’s light. Still, though breathless, he wore a small grin on his thin lips, looking anything but contrite.

“Weaver,” he said, stopping before Dusaan and bowing. He looked up, eagerness in his pale eyes. “You’ve heard?”

“What happened?” the Weaver demanded, his voice like a frigid mountain wind.

The grin vanished. “I don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand? I want to know why your king is dead!”

“But surely you’re pleased. I’d have thought-”

“Tell me what happened!”

Pronjed licked his lips, the avid gleam in his eyes replaced now by something far more satisfying.

“There was a visitor. One of the dukes, one of Chago’s allies. He gave the king a dagger the night of his arrival-”

“So you sought to make it a murder?”

“No, Weaver,” the minister said, beginning to sound desperate. “A suicide. The king had seen the surgeon earlier in the day, and had learned that he was sterile. Carden was so galled by this that he had the surgeon garroted. So I saw an opportunity to-”

“You convinced the others that he was dying,” Dusaan said, nodding. He could see the logic of what the minister had done, although he still wasn’t ready to forgive the man’s presumption. “And they believe it?” he asked.

“The queen believes it. What choice do the others have?”

“They can be suspicious. The king would have had to believe that Qirsi magic would fail to heal him. He would have had to believe beyond doubt that his line would continue to rule Aneira. And he would have had to believe that his death would spare his family suffering and humiliation. Failing any one of these, his suicide threatens to draw the attention of those who oppose us. All it takes is one doubter, one person with the persistence and courage to challenge you and the queen.”

“That may be true elsewhere,” the minister said. “But not here, not in Aneira. Those who knew Carden well enough to pose any threat to us, would realize that he was too vain and too callow to be stayed by the considerations of which you speak.” He paused, seeming to realize abruptly that his tone had grown too familiar. “Though of course, for any proper king, you’d be entirely correct, Weaver. It was only Carden’s vast shortcomings as a leader that allowed me to think I could do this.”

“So you think I should be pleased,” Dusaan said, “that I should be praising you for your bold actions.”

The minister couldn’t see his face and he appeared uncertain as to what response the Weaver expected.

“Well, I… I think that… No one has raised questions regarding the king’s death. And already there is talk of the coming struggle for the throne.”

“You assume that because I hoped for civil war in Eibithar, I want it in Aneira as well?”

Pronjed swallowed, his eyes widening. Clearly he had. “You had the duke of Bistari killed,” he said quickly. “You made it look as though Carden had ordered the assassination. Didn’t you wish to sow dissent among the other houses?”

“Dissent is one thing, you fool! Open conflict is another! If you’re too dull to know the difference, I may have to reconsider the faith I’ve placed in you.”

Pronjed opened his mouth to speak, but Dusaan stopped him, clutching his throat with the same power he had used to silence the woman.

“Did it never occur to you that I might want the king alive, that indeed I might need him? Do you believe that I tell you everything? Do you presume to think that you understand all that I have in mind for the Forelands? Or is it that you think you know better than I what our movement should do next?”

The archminister shook his head, trying to speak, as a look of panic crept into his eyes.

He tightened his grip on he man’s neck. “Don’t you think that if I had wanted Carden dead I would have commanded you to kill him long ago? Have you decided that you don’t need me telling you what to do anymore? Is that it? You long to rule the Forelands yourself and so you’ve taken it upon yourself to make such decisions.”

The minister’s eyes began to bulge from his head, and he clawed at his throat like a beast trying to free itself of chains.

“The movement is mine, Pronjed. Never forget that. Only I have the power to speak with all of you any time I wish. Only I have the ability to combine our magics and make the Qirsi the most powerful force in the Forelands. The Qirsi of the seven realms need a Weaver to lead them. Any one of the rest of you can be replaced.”

He thought of the woman then, and her child, wondering if this last applied to her as well. Surely it should have, but he couldn’t say for certain that it did, and this disturbed him.

Pronjed dropped to his knees, his face turning a dull blue.

“Your actions have greatly complicated my plans,” the Weaver said. “You’ve cost me a good deal of time and an even greater amount of gold. Only time will tell if the damage you’ve done will prove even more severe, but for now this is enough. I could let you die, and it wouldn’t matter at all. It would satisfy my anger, and Qirsar knows it would be justified. I want you to know that so that later you can thank me for the gift of your life. Do you understand?”

The man managed a nod.

Dusaan smiled, letting him struggle a moment longer before finally releasing him.

The minister fell forward with a loud gasp and lay panting on the ground, his eyes closed as his color slowly returned to its usual shade of white. The Weaver let him lie there for a time before ordering him to his feet again.

“So now that it’s done, who is to be the next king?”

“That remains to be seen, Weaver,” the man said, his voice ragged. “The queen hopes to place the king’s daughter on the throne, but fears giving Carden’s eldest brother the power of a regent. I’ve encouraged her and promised my aid in guarding her child against the brother’s ambitions.”

“Will Aneira’s dukes consent to being ruled by a queen?”

“Some of them may; others may decide the time has come to end Solkaran rule.” He faltered. “If you like, I can try to persuade the queen to take a different course. Giving the kingdom over to the brother may be the safer course. He’d make a poor king, but he will be easy to bribe.”

“No,” Dusaan said. “That won’t be necessary.” The truth was that while Carden’s death forced the emperor to postpone his attack on Eibithar, it did weaken Aneira considerably, particularly if his successor, whoever that might be, did not enjoy the support of all the land’s houses. When the time came, other kingdoms might be more willing to come to Eibithar’s defense if the armies arrayed against the northern kingdom were less formidable. And the wider this war grew, the better for the Weaver and his movement. He wasn’t about to let Pronjed know any of this-better to let the man think that each time they spoke his life hung by a wraith’s hair. “Let the queen do as she wishes. If she succeeds, you’ll have her gratitude, and if she fails, we can see to it that the brother is made king. Either way, we’ll have some influence with the throne. That should mitigate the costs of your recklessness.”

Pronjed lowered his eyes. “Yes, Weaver.”

“When is Carden’s funeral?”

“Not for several more days, Weaver. Aneira’s nobles are just beginning to arrive in Solkara.”

“And when will the next king-or queen-be chosen?”

“It’s hard to say. I expect the decision to be made in the days after the funeral. I doubt the dukes and Carden’s brothers will leave the city until the matter is settled. Unless, of course, they intend to go to war.”

“I’d prefer that didn’t happen, Pronjed. A civil war would complicate matters greatly. If Aneira’s houses go to war, I’ll hold you responsible.”

The minister paled. “Yes, Weaver. I’ll see to it that they don’t.”

“It seems you’ve suddenly become a patriot,” Dusaan said, grinning. “How curious.”

Pronjed nodded, but said nothing.

“Is there anything else?”

“No, Weaver.”

Dusaan nodded. “Very well. I don’t want to have to hurt you again, Pronjed. But I feel it necessary to impress upon you how important it is that you not take matters into your own hands. As it were.”

Taking hold of the minister’s magic as only a Weaver could, Dusaan used the man’s shaping power to shatter the bone in his thumb.

Pronjed clutched his hand with a shriek, doubling over in pain. So great was his agony that the Weaver had to strain to hold their connection a moment longer.

“I’m sure you’ll find a healer in the castle who can attend to that,” he said. “But it should serve to remind you never to trifle with me again. I hope we understand one another.”

“Yes, Weaver,” Pronjed said through gritted teeth.

Dusaan nodded his satisfaction, then released his hold on the man’s mind, allowing him to awaken to his pain and his darkened chambers in Castle Solkara.

It occurred to the Weaver that Harel would want to attend Carden’s funeral, something Dusaan could not allow. None of the men and women who served him had ever actually met him outside of a dream-this was why he had yet to turn any of the Qirsi in the emperor’s palace-and though he thought that he could disguise his voice and, by tying back his hair, his appearance as well, it was not a risk he was willing to take. More than that, the emperor’s appearance in Solkara might further inflame the situation there. Even in Aneira, which was regarded as Braedon’s closest ally among the six, the emperor was not well liked. Such was the price of ruling the wealthiest and most powerful realm in the Forelands. His appearance at Carden’s funeral might be perceived as a gesture of support for the queen and her daughter. This, in turn, would increase the likelihood that several of the dukes, in particular Noltierre and Dantrielle, would oppose the girl’s investiture.

He would have to advise the emperor against making the journey. Fortunately, Chago’s death and Harel’s constant fear of assassination promised to make this rather simple.

His conversations with Cresenne and Pronjed had wearied him. Even the power of a Weaver had its limits. Usually he limited himself to no more than one or two visitations in a night. He had his chancellors to give instructions to the other Qirsi who served him. But because of what he had learned speaking with the woman, there was one last conversation he needed to have this night. After that he would rest.

For a third time he reached out across the Scabbard to the kingdom of Aneira. This time, however, he stayed to the north, his consciousness descending toward Castle Mertesse. Usually he found two of his servants sleeping side by side, but on this night he found just the one. It took him a moment to remember that Yaella would be near Solkara by now, accompanying her duke to the funeral. Her absence would actually make this easier.

Since the failure at Kentigern during the growing turns, he had made this one endure an arduous climb, much as he had just done to Pronjed. On this night, though, he was eager to be done so that he might enjoy a few hours’ rest. Before long, the renegade stood before him, bowing and offering an obeisant greeting.

“They didn’t take you to Solkara, Shurik. I’m sure you must be terribly disappointed.”

The man gave a thin smile. “I never expected to go, Weaver. You know the saying. ‘The traitor walks a lonely path.’ ”

“How did Mertesse’s duke take the news of the king’s death?”

“As you’d expect. He was struck speechless at first, and a moment later he was asking his minister how he might turn the tragedy to his advantage.” Shurik hesitated. “We’d heard that Carden took his own life. Were we misinformed?”

“Do you honestly think I’d tell you one way or another?”

The man frowned, looking like a chastised boy. “No, Weaver.”

“So Mertesse covets the throne for himself.”

“Of course,” Shurik said. “He’s Eandi. But he knows better than to risk much in trying to win it. Instead, he seeks to curry favor with Carden’s most likely successor.”

“And who does he think that is?”

“Grigor, the eldest brother.”

Dusaan nodded. “I see. How would the duke feel about a regency, with Grigor ruling until Carden’s heir took the throne?”

“But Carden had no-” He stopped, his yellow eyes widening comically. “You mean the daughter?”

“That’s what the queen wants.”

Shurik seem to weigh this briefly, shaking his head. “I’m certain the duke has never even entertained the notion,” he finally said. “I don’t know how he’ll feel about it. I’m sorry, Weaver. I’m afraid you’ll need to speak with Yaella about that.”

“It’s no matter. That isn’t the reason I’ve come to you tonight.”

The renegade regarded him warily, straining as all of them did to see beyond the shadows, to catch just a glimpse of his face. “It’s not?” he asked.

“No. I remember speaking with you just after your failure at Kentigern. You offered then to search the Forelands for this other man, this Gnnsa jal Arnet, whom you believed to be another Weaver.”

“I remember as well,” Shurik said. “You forbade me to go after him. You told me to remain in Mertesse with Yaella.”

“At the time, it was the best course to follow. Now circumstances have changed. I want you to find him for me. If you have the opportunity to kill him, you may. But hear me well, Minister. If you try to kill him and fail, thus revealing to him that I want him dead, I’ll see to it that you die a slow, agonizing death. Is that clear?”

The renegade blanched, but he managed a small, mirthless smile. “Quite clear, Weaver. Where would you have me begin this search?”

During his previous conversation with Cresenne, before their troubling talk this night, the woman told him that she believed Grinsa was still in Aneira. At the time, he dismissed this as little more than a wish on her part. She didn’t want to leave the Festival or brave the cold winds of the steppe, and so she chose to think that the gleaner remained in Carden’s kingdom. Knowing what he did now, however, Dusaan was forced to consider that she might have been right.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in Solkara,” the Weaver said. “Or at least on his way there.”

Shurik made a sour face. “It would be… awkward, if I were to go to Solkara just now.”

Dusaan nodded. “I agree. Start south in a few days, but stay out of the royal city. Once the funeral is over and the mourners begin to return to their homes, you may enter Solkara. That way you won’t embarrass your duke, and you may still be able to track him.”

“And if it turns out he hasn’t been to Solkara?”

Dusaan felt a muscle in his cheek begin to jump and was grateful the man couldn’t see his face. “If he’s not in Solkara, I can give you the name of a woman to follow. I have a feeling she might lead us to him.”