Seeds of Betrayal

Chapter Sixteen

City of Kings, Eibithar

The snows came to southern Eibithar just after dawn on the tenth day of Bohdan’s waning. Unlike most years, when the new season arrived with screaming winds and a blinding, frenzied swirl of snow, this year it came softly and silently. Keziah was still in bed when the snowfall began, though she was awake, her eyes wandering her room as she summoned the courage to leave the warmth of her blankets. Hearing laughter rise to her chamber from the ward below her window, she climbed from bed, wrapped herself in a robe, and stepped to the window. Opening the wood shutters, she saw tiny white flakes falling from a sky of deep somber grey and covering the castle grounds as sawdust coats the floor of a carpenter’s shop. The air was perfectly still, and she could hear the light scratching of the icy snow alighting on the castle walls and roofs.

She was shivering. With the window open and her fire having burned out during the night, her chamber quickly grew as frigid as the kitchen-master’s cellars. Still, the minister couldn’t bring herself to close her shutters again. Instead, she sat on the sill of her window and watched the snow fall, remembering how she and Grinsa had played in drifts on the steppe as children. Like the other castle children, they had spent much time throwing balls of snow and ice at one another, their hands growing numb and sore long before they tired of the sport. At other times, though, when they were alone, they practiced their magic on the pure white fields of Eardley’s outer wards. Young as they were, they hadn’t the power to shape wood. But they could trace patterns in the snow with their minds, drawing flowers, horses, and portraits of each other. As in everything else, Grinsa was better at this than she, though he was always quick to praise her efforts. They spent hours this way, alone, laughing and learning together. And when they were done, fearing that they might be punished for using their powers before their apprenticeships, they would stomp through the snow, erasing all evidence of what they had done. The Qirsi shortened their lives just a bit every time they used their magic, and the danger was greatest for children who had no training in how to control their power and use it sparingly. Had their parents learned of what they were doing, they would have forbidden the children from playing in the snow at all, or worse, kept Keziah and Grinsa apart from each other until the thaw. Such was the danger of the games they played.

Thinking of Grinsa, her mind turned southward, to Aneira and all that she had heard recently of events there. It had been some time since her brother last entered her dreams, and Keziah wondered where he was and whether he and Tavis of Curgh were any closer to finding Brienne’s killer. She still wished that Grinsa hadn’t gone with the boy. For all her brother’s power, she didn’t like the idea of him tracking a hired blade.

Someone knocked at her door, forcing her abruptly from her musings and memories. Pulling her robe tighter around her shoulders and passing a hand through her tangled white hair, she faced the door.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Paegar.”

Keziah smiled. In a castle and city that had long seemed empty of warmth and companionship, the high minister had in recent days become her closest friend, really her only friend. They had spent a good deal of time together since the waning began, talking as they walked through the corridors and wards, and laughing in the kitchens over midday meals. The night before, they had left the castle for a Qirsi tavern Paegar knew in the northern quarter of the marketplace. Keziah hadn’t been to a tavern in years. In Glyndwr, as Kearney’s first minister and lover, she had rarely left his side, much less his castle. Though she missed terribly the nights they spent together, she had found herself reveling in the freedom of being able to leave the confines of the castle walls and breathe in the life she found in the city. For too long, Keziah realized the previous night, she had allowed herself to steep like tea leaves in the grief that followed Kearney’s ascension and the end of their love affair. Without saying a word, perhaps without even knowing it, Paegar had helped her see this. All it had taken was a friend inviting her to live again, to find mirth and good company without the man with whom she had shared her bed. She hadn’t known how to thank the minister, and in a sense, she didn’t have to. It was enough that they enjoyed their time together.

“Come in!” she said. Then remembering that the door was bolted, she crossed the room and unlocked it.

“Good morning, Paegar,” she said, waving him into the room.

He smiled. “And to you, Archmimster.” Noticing her robe, he halted, his face falling. “Did I wake you?”

“Not at all. I was watching the snow.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That would explain why yours is the only chamber in the castle in which I can see my breath.”

Keziah gave a small laugh. “I know. I should start a new fire.” She turned to face the window again and sighed. “But isn’t it lovely? I’ve missed the snows.”

“Spoken like a woman raised on the steppe. To me the snows are a bother. I never feel so old as I do in the cold turns.”

She walked back to the window to push the shutters closed again. “You’re not old, Paegar,” she said, glancing back at him. “Not even for a Qirsi.”

The high minister had stepped to the hearth and was piling new wood for a fire. “You’re most kind, Archmimster, but I’m a good deal older than you and far closer to the end of my life than I am to the beginning of it.”

Bolting the shutters, she turned to look at the man. In many ways he reminded Keziah of her father. Like Dafydd, and unlike most older Qirsi, he had a full, healthy face. To be sure, there were lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, but his cheeks weren’t sunken like those of some, and his color remained a healthy white, rather than the sallow yellow that crept into the faces of Qirsi nearing the end of their lives.

“I’d say you have some years left,” she told him with a grin. “I expect you to be showing me the city’s better taverns for a long time to come.”

“Hardly a pursuit worthy of the king’s ministers.” Paegar placed one last log in the hearth and sat back on his heels. “The wood is ready, Archminister, but I’m afraid I don’t have fire magic. Only gleaning and mists and winds.” He gestured toward the hearth. “Can you?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Gleaning, mists and winds, and language of beasts. How embarrassing. Here we are, two of the king’s most trusted Qirsi, and between us we can’t even light a fire.”

Paegar grinned. “Indeed.” He glanced around the chamber, but Keziah kept no candles or lamps burning during the night.

“Wait just a moment,” Keziah said. She stepped into the corridor, lit a tinder with the torch mounted by her door, and, returning to the hearth, handed it to the minister.

Watching him light the fire, she had to smile at what had just passed between them. She usually told no one what powers she possessed. Grinsa knew, of course, and Kearney, but that was all. Since Paegar had confided in her, however, she felt that she should do the same. More than that, though, she wanted to tell him. She viewed it as a measure of how quickly their friendship was deepening that they could share this so soon.

Which raised another point. “You need to stop calling me Archminister, Paegar. Please.”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to call you Keziah in front of the king or the other ministers,” he said, standing once more.

She considered this. “All right, but certainly there’s no harm in it when we’re alone.”

Paegar shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I suppose not.”

In a few moments, the fire in her hearth was burning bright and hot, warming the chamber.

“Thank you, Paegar,” she said. “But I can’t imagine you came here only to build a fire for me.”

His ears turned red, though he managed a smile. “No, I didn’t. I was hoping you’d join me for a quick breakfast in the kitchens before we meet with the king.”

“Of course,” she said. “I need to dress first. Will you wait for me?”

His color deepened, and for the first time it occurred to Keziah that the minister might be taken with her. She felt her chest tighten. Nothing could ruin their friendship faster. Much as she already cared for him, she knew that she could never love him. She still loved Kearney; she probably always would. When she looked at Paegar she saw her father, someone to whom she could turn when her lingering love for the king became more than she could bear. She could no more fall in love with him than she could with Grinsa.

“I’ll be in the hallway,” he said. “Take your time.”

Keziah nodded and watched him leave, feeling as though she might cry. At last she had found a friend in the City of Kings, and already she was on the verge of driving him off.

She dressed quickly, splashing cold water on her face and brushing out her hair before putting on her ministerial robes.

“Maybe I’m wrong about what he’s feeling,” she whispered to herself.

Maybe you’re not.

She joined him in the corridor and they walked to the kitchens, neither of them speaking.

As always the kitchens bustled with activity, even early in the morning of a day when no feasts were planned and no guests were expected to arrive. The scents of spices, baking breads, and roasting meats filled the air. People, animals, and birds ran or flew in every direction, the kitchenmaster shouted instructions to cooks and servants, and guards tried to sneak tastes of fresh loaves of bread and simmering stews.

“What do you want?” the master demanded, seeing Paegar and Keziah. “Are you here for the king or for yourselves?”

Few people spoke to Qirsi ministers in such a tone. But here, amid the food and the cooking flames, the kitchenmaster was king. He spoke to everyone with disdain and impatience. He might even have done so with Kearney, had the king the courage to venture down here.

“Ourselves,” Paegar said. “We’re just looking for a bit of breakfast.”

The man frowned and shook his head. “Fine,” he muttered. “Take what you want and get out of my kitchens.”

Paegar nodded, a small grin on his face. “Of course, kitchenmaster.”

The ministers gathered some breads and cheeses, and a few pieces of dried fruit, before retreating into the king’s hall to eat.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that man smile,” Paegar said as they took seats in a corner of the hall. “He reminds me of the swordmaster in that way.”

“Oh, Gershon smiles sometimes,” Keziah said. “Just not at anyone with Qirsi blood.”

Paegar nodded. “I see. I sensed that the two of you don’t like each other, but I never understood why.”

Keziah shrugged, taking a bite of bread. “There’s a bit more to it than that,” she said casually. Then she stopped herself, realizing where this was headed.

The high minister stopped chewing and looked at her closely. “Is something troubling you? It’s the swordmaster, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not…” She shook her head a second time. “It’s nothing. There are just certain things I don’t think we should talk about.”

Paegar dropped his gaze. “Of course. I understand.”

She could hear the hurt in his voice and she cursed her own stupidity. She wasn’t handling this well.

“Paegar, there’s a great deal about my life in Glyndwr that you don’t understand, and that I’m not certain I could ever explain.”

The minister kept his eyes fixed on the food sitting before him. “I didn’t intend to make you feel that you had to.”

Keziah sighed, closing her eyes. Grinsa would have done this far better. “You didn’t,” she told him. “But I sense that you… that you harbor some affection for me.”

He looked up at that, the bright red of his cheeks confirming her suspicions.

“I’m flattered,” she went on. “Truly I am. But I’ve been friendless for so long, and I’ve so enjoyed the time we’ve had together these recent days. I don’t want to risk losing you so soon.”

“How do you know you’d lose me? Perhaps you’ll fall in love with me as I have with you.”

She smiled sadly. “Perhaps I would. But after all I’ve been through this past year, I’m not ready to try. My heart still belongs to another, and though he and I can’t be together, I don’t really want to stop loving him.”

“Even though it pains you?”

Abruptly there were tears on her face and an ache in her chest and throat. “Yes,” she whispered. “Even so.”

To her amazement and her profound relief, the man actually smiled at her. “Well, I certainly hope he’s worth all this. I’d hate to think that such an extraordinary woman was wasting her love on a fool.”

She almost told him everything then. About Kearney and their forbidden love, and the distrust this had sown in her relations with Gershon. About how Kearney’s ascension to the throne had forced them apart, though their love continued to burn, like the smouldering remains of some great fire. She longed to speak of it with someone, and it had been so many turns since she last walked in her dreams with Grinsa. But she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Maybe it was too soon after the awkwardness of the morning, or maybe, after all that she and Kearney had shared, she still felt that she owed the king her silence.

In either case, all she could do was smile at Paegar and say in a soft voice, “You’re a good man, High Minister.”

He gave a small shrug, looking down again. “I’ll take your word for it.”

They sat wordlessly for a time, Keziah taking a few bites of her meal, though she was no longer hungry. Occasionally she felt Paegar gazing at her, but she didn’t look up.

“So has the king heard anything from Shanstead yet?” he finally asked.

She met his gaze, smiling gratefully. “Not yet, no. But I only sent the king’s message late in the waxing. We may be well into Qirsar’s Turn before we hear anything.”

“You’re more patient than I. I’d spend each day on the ramparts searching the horizon for any sign of a messenger.”

“Actually, I’m more interested in knowing what Marston and Aindreas talked about when the thane was in Kentigern.”

Their conversation went on this way for some time, until Keziah almost forgot the uneasy moments with which their meal began. Despite her earlier fears, the minister could not help but think that their friendship would survive this day, and-dare she hope it?-even grow stronger for it.

Eventually they heard the midmorning bells summoning them to their daily discussion with the king, and they left the hall to make their way to Kearney’s chambers.

As they walked through the corridors, Paegar glanced at her, a shy grin on his lips. “How did you know?” he asked.

“Know what?”

“That I was falling in love with you.”

Keziah smiled. “Your face gives you away, Paegar. I’m afraid you don’t keep a secret very well.”

“Really^?” he said, looking surprised. “I’ll have to remember that.”

All through their audience with the king, and well after, as he walked the castle grounds alone, Paegar tried to convince himself that it was all for the best. Yes, he loved her. Keziah’s efforts to discourage him that morning had done little to change the way he felt for her. Indeed, the entire time they sat in Kearney’s presence chamber, he could barely take his eyes off her. She wore her hair loose this day, as she had the past two or three days, and it fell over her brow and around her shoulders like fine strands of white gold. Perhaps aware of his staring, her cheeks had more color than usual, making her pale eyes appear almost white. He had never seen her look lovelier.

He knew, however, that the wound she had inflicted on his heart would heal with time. What mattered most was that their friendship continue so that one day soon he could deliver her to the Weaver. In a way all of this would help him. From this day forward, any discomfort she sensed on his part, any dissembling that failed to deceive her, she would attribute immediately to his unrequited affections.

He would pay a price for this, he knew, but pride was the least of his faults, and the cost seemed small enough given the rewards that awaited him. Besides, once Keziah joined the Weaver’s cause, Paegar would become superfluous. Two ministers in the court of Eibithar’s king was a luxury even the Weaver could not afford. No doubt he would have Paegar leave for another court, one where he would be of greater value. Any love affair that might have grown from his friendship with the archminister was doomed to end quickly. Better it shouldn’t begin at all.

Still, convincing her to join the Qirsi movement promised to be far more difficult now, relying on occasional conversations in castle corridors and courtyards, than it would have been in the intimacy of a lover’s bed. He would have to proceed more slowly than he had first hoped, and of course, he would need to make certain that no one overheard their discussions.

Why couldn’t she love me?

What disturbed him most was the possibility that the Weaver would come to him before he had a chance to turn her. He had little doubt that the Weaver would approve of his plans, but as soon as the man learned of them, he would hurry Paegar along. As powerful as he was, and as discreet as he must have been to hide his identity from those around him as well as from those whose dreams he haunted, the Weaver lacked patience. Paegar still recalled how he pushed for the murder of Aylyn the Second during the growing turns, heedless of the difficulties faced by those who had to do his bidding.

Paegar could see Keziah’s conversion to the Weaver’s cause taking many turns, perhaps as much as a year, not only because he saw in the process the opportunity to be with her, but also because it was bound to work better if she came to it on her own, with only gentle prodding. The Weaver, however, would expect him to take the quickest path to the same end. Why take six turns, he would wonder, when it can be done in two? And Paegar would have no answer to offer, except the one the Weaver was least likely to understand. Because, when all is said and done. I want her to love me. Because if she senses that I befriended her on behalf of the movement, I’ll lose even the small piece of her that I have now.

The more the minister considered this, the more agitated he grew, until at last he felt that he needed to flee the castle entirely or give himself away by his pacing and his muttered curses. Striding swiftly to the nearest gate, Paegar left the castle and descended the sloped lanes to the city. Once there, he simply wandered, passing shops and taverns, peddler’s carts and flocks of sheep driven toward the markets by shepherds. He walked the city’s outer streets, passing all four of the sanctuaries. He briefly considered leaving the city altogether, and meandering for a time in the grasses and farmlands that lay beyond the city walls.

But as the day wore on, marked by changes in the rate of the snowfall, and the occasional tolling of the gate bells, Paegar grew increasingly uneasy. At first he merely thought it the lingering effect of his talk with Keziah. As the feeling continued to mount, however, he realized it was more than that. He might not have been the most powerful Qirsi in the castle, but he was a gleaner, and he knew this sense of foreboding had to be more than the product of a pained heart.

Stopping just at the gates of Elined’s Sanctuary, he turned and started back toward the castle, walking as fast as he dared. By the time he had climbed the lane back to the castle’s north gate, he was breathing hard, sweat dampening his brow in spite of the cold and snow. He hurried through the outer ward, into the castle’s inner courtyards, and finally into the shelter of the corridors. Of course Keziah was the first person he saw.

“I was just coming to look for you,” she said. “I was hoping we might have supper together.”

He didn’t even alter his stride. “Tomorrow perhaps. I’ve other matters to which to attend this evening.”

“You don’t look well, Paegar,” she called to him as he walked on. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Archminister. I promise. I’ve been out walking and I’m eager to warm myself by my hearth.”

He turned a corner before she could answer, ran up the nearest stairway, and continued on to his chamber without meeting up with anyone else. His heart was pounding as he reached for the door handle, as much with fear as with the effort of returning to the castle. He hesitated a moment, then pushed open the door and stepped inside slowly.

He saw it immediately, though someone else might have missed it. A part of him had known all along what awaited him here. His thoughts had been carrying him on this path the entire day.

There on his bed, barely visible against the dark brown of his blankets, lay a small leather pouch. He wanted to leave, to turn away from the bed and hurry back out of the castle as if he had never seen the pouch, as if he had no idea what it contained or what it meant.

Instead he closed the door and sat on the bed beside it, staring at it for several moments as if he expected it to move. At last he lifted the bag into his hand, hearing the muffled ring of the coins within. It felt heavy. It must have held fifty qinde, at least. He could judge such things now. He had no idea where the movement got its gold, or how they managed to leave it in his chamber without anyone noticing. But he could gauge the contents of a leather pouch simply by its weight.

He untied the drawstrings and poured the coins onto the bed. Eighty qinde. The Weaver would be coming to him tonight, no doubt to give him some new task. Maybe he knew of Keziah already and wanted her to join the movement. Perhaps he had decided that Kearney had to die. Paegar would know soon enough.

Staring at the gold pieces lying on his bed, glimmering in the murky light of his room, Paegar didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He had no need for more gold. As high minister, his food and bed were provided by the king and he received a handsome wage as well. On occasion he liked to spend a few qinde on a good meal and ale in the city, but he avoided extravagance for fear of drawing attention to himself and his wealth. He still had more than one hundred qinde hidden away in a small wooden box in his wardrobe, gold he had yet to spend from the Weaver’s previous payments. The minister served the Weaver not to gather riches, but to stay alive. The Weaver had sought him out and in so doing had tied Paegar’s very survival to the success or failure of the Qirsi movement. The gold he received had become little more than a harbinger of his conversations with the Weaver.

His stomach felt empty and sour. It occurred to him that he had eaten nothing since his breakfast with the archminister.

A knock on his door made him jump. It had to be Keziah. No one else ever came to his room.

He returned the coins to the pouch as quietly and quickly as he could, and hid the bag under his pillow-no chance of her finding it there, he thought ruefully. He stood and took a step toward the door. Then, as an afterthought, he placed a log on the embers of his fire.

Opening his door at last, he found the archminister in the corridor, looking pale, her lips held in a tight line.

“Keziah.” It was all he could think of to say.

“You’re angry with me.”

“No, I’m not.”

She shook her head. “Don’t lie to me, Paegar. You’re angry about what happened this morning. I could tell by the way you rushed by me just now.

He had to smile. Just as he had expected, this was going to make it easier for him to conceal his betrayal. “I’m not angry, Keziah. I’m disappointed, and perhaps a bit embarrassed-”

“You shouldn’t be,” she said, her eyes growing wide. “There’s no shame in this, Paegar. I just can’t love you. I can’t love anyone right now.

“I understand, Keziah. Honestly I do. And I’m not angry with you. I’m just not ready tonight to dine with you again. Perhaps tomorrow.”

She nodded, looking sad. “Of course. I probably shouldn’t have come. I just… I need you, Paegar. I need your friendship.”

“You still have it. I assure you.”

Again she nodded, turning away as she did. “Thank you, Paegar. Good night.”

“Good night, Keziah.”

Paegar watched her walk back toward her chamber. He had hours yet until the Weaver would come to him, and belatedly he wished that he hadn’t sent the archmimster away. Not that he was at all hungry, but he longed for her company.

“Keziah, wait,” he called to her, just as she reached her door. “I’m being foolish. I would like to dine with you. Why don’t we go back to the tavern? I’ll even pay for your dinner.”

She eyed him doubtfully. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.” He had decided earlier in the day that his pride was to be the first casualty of his effort to win her trust. Perhaps it would take a toll on his heart as well. But that was a small price to pay for being with her. He retrieved the pouch, pulled out two gold pieces, and placed the rest in his wardrobe beside the wooden box.

He and Keziah left the castle and walked through the city streets to the Silver Maple, the Qirsi tavern in which they had eaten the previous night. The barman nodded to them as they entered and a serving girl with the white and black hair of a half-blood and bright yellow eyes led them to a small room at the back of the building. A few moments later, she returned with two tankards of ale and two steaming plates of the same spicy stew they had enjoyed the night before.

For a long time they ate in silence, looking up at each other once or twice and smiling awkwardly. Knowing that he would be speaking with the Weaver in just a short while, Paegar searched his mind for ways he might begin to broach the subject of the movement. None came to him. In the end, though, Keziah did it for him.

“Do you enjoy serving the king, Paegar?”

He looked up, surprised by the question. “Do I enjoy it?”

“Yes. You seem so solemn much of the time. I wonder if you’re happy in the castle.”

The minister made a show of considering the matter for several moments. “I suppose I do,” he said at last. “I’ve never been a favorite of the kings I serve. Aylyn relied mostly on Natan and Wenda, and Kearney turns mostly to you and to Gershon. But I’m paid well, and I lead a comfortable life.” He frowned. “I imagine that sounds terribly ungrateful. There are Qirsi throughout the Forelands who would gladly trade their lives for mine.”

“Do you doubt that Kearney appreciates your counsel?”

“Not at all. But he’s known you far longer than he has the rest of us. Like most Eandi nobles, he probably sees his other Qirsi as faceless sorcerers who aren’t to be trusted.”

“Kearney’s not like that!” she said, her voice rising. She looked to the side, her lips pressed thin. “I’m sorry,” she said a few seconds later, her voice calm once more. “But I know the king, and he’s not like other Eandi. He may not know the rest of you very well yet, but he trusts you and he listens to what you tell him.”

Paegar made himself smile, struggling with an unexpected bout of jealousy. “I’ll take your word for it. As I’ve already said, you know him better than I. But I’ve served several Eandi nobles in my life, and in my experience, they have little regard for their Qirsi.” He took a sip of ale, gazing off toward the fire burning on the far side of the room. “Just once, I’d enjoy the chance to serve in a Qirsi court.” He glanced at her. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I’ve never considered it,” she said coldly.

“Oh, come now, Keziah. All of us have at one time or another.”

“I’m telling you, I haven’t.”

“Not even when you were a child?”

She hesitated. “Well-”

“You see? I knew it!”

Keziah shook her head. “That’s different.”

“Why? Because you were too young to know any better? Nonsense. In many ways the dreams of our childhood are more honest, because as children we haven’t been taught yet which dreams are permissible and which aren’t.”

She eyed him warily. “It seems you’ve given this a good deal of thought, Paegar.”

He smiled broadly, ignoring the slight flutter in his chest. “Not so much, really. When I was younger I thought often of going to the Southlands, to see what the Qirsi homeland is like. But that’s a long way from here, and at this point I’m a bit old to try crossing the Border Range.”

“That’s not what I meant, and I think you know it. We’ve all heard the rumors, Paegar. There are those here among us who would like to remake the Forelands in the image of the Southlands. And you should make no mistake, if I learn that you’re one of them, I’ll destroy you.”

He laughed. “You believe I’m with the conspiracy?”

Her gaze didn’t waver for an instant. “I didn’t say that. But I want you to understand that I don’t take lightly talk of Qirsi courts and serving Qirsi lords. We live in the Forelands. The kingdoms belong to the Eandi. Given the history of our people in the seven realms we’re fortunate to serve them as we do.”

“I’ll remember that, Archmimster.”

She didn’t correct him. And for a long time, she kept her gaze fixed on her food.

“I’m feeling tired,” she finally said. “I think I’d like to return to the castle now.”

Paegar nodded. His stomach had balled itself into a fist, and his head was pounding. Clearly he had miscalculated badly, and in a short time he would have to face the Weaver, far less certain of the prize he intended to offer the man than he had been just a short time before.

They made their way back to Audun’s Castle without a word passing between them. He walked her to her door, where they stopped and faced each other.

“This has been a difficult day,” she said, her voice so low he could barely hear her.

It’s not over. Not nearly. “I’m sorry for that.”

Keziah shook her head. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. Sleep well, Paegar. Tomorrow can only be better.”

“Goodnight, Keziah.”

He left her there and returned to the darkness of his chamber, locking his door behind him. The fire had burned down again, though the embers still glowed an angry red. He put wood on the coals and then lay on his bed, not bothering to undress. His mind raced, and a part of him wondered if he could stay awake through the night, postponing at least for one day his encounter with the Weaver. As he lay in the shadows cast by his fire, though, feeling the chamber gradually grow warmer, Paegar’s fear of the Weaver began to give way to weariness. A difficult day, she had called it. Indeed it had been.

He didn’t realize he was asleep until the dream began, and he found himself stumbling over boulders on the grassy plain. Soon he reached the slope and started to climb. The ascent was not long this time, although he was winded when he reached the summit and saw the Weaver approaching, his body a living shadow against the brilliant light. The same dream every time, yet filled with so much uncertainty that Paegar trembled.

“You were paid?” the Weaver demanded, stopping before him.

“Yes, Weaver. Thank you.”

“Good. You’ve heard of the death of Aneira’s king?”

“Word of it reached the castle several nights ago.”

“There is a fight looming for the throne, just as you might expect. Carden’s only heir is a girl, not yet of age. Carden’s brother seeks the crown as his own, but the other houses fear him and may challenge the Solkaran Supremacy. I want you to counsel your king to make overtures to the other houses. Tell him that the end of Solkaran rule could bring peace to the Tarbin. With all that Eibithar has been through in the past year, the idea should interest him.”

“Do you believe any house in Aneira would be moved by overtures from Eibithar’s king?”

“That’s my concern,” the Weaver said, his voice edged with steel.

“Of course, Weaver. Forgive me.”

“You understand what I want?”

“Yes, Weaver.”

The man nodded once.

“I’ve befriended the king’s archminister!” Paegar said quickly, fearing that the Weaver intended to end their conversation. Immediately he wished that he had kept silent. Keziah would never join the movement. But he had been planning this for so long, and if the Weaver believed there was any chance the minister could win her over, he might leave Paegar alone for a time.

“Well, by all means, seek her help in this matter,” the Weaver said, sounding impatient. “Such counsel will carry more weight coming from two of you.”

“You misunderstand, Weaver.” He winced at his choice of words, but forced himself to continue. “She was once the king’s lover. Before, when he was duke. And now she’s not. She has few friends in the castle-the other ministers were angered when Kearney made her archminister instead of Wenda. They treat her poorly.”

“What is your point?” the man asked, biting off each word.

“With time, I think she could be persuaded to join the movement.” He was lying to a Weaver. He must have been a fool.

For several moments the Weaver said nothing. Then, “You believe Kearney’s archminister can be turned?”

“I do.”

“I sense something else in your thoughts.”

Paegar swallowed, fearing that he was about to die.

“You love her.”

He would have to remember to say a quick prayer of thanks to Adriel when this night was over. “Yes, Weaver. Very much.”

“But she doesn’t love you.”

Paegar shook his head.

Again the Weaver fell silent, standing motionless for so long that the minister began to wonder if he thought this a worthless pursuit, born of Paegar’s fruitless love. But the man surprised him.

“Such things are never easy,” he said softly. “Do what you can with the minister. We’ll speak again soon and you can tell me what progress you’ve made. Maybe we can turn her together.”

His blood turned cold at the thought of enduring another of these dreams so soon, but all he could do was nod. “Yes, Weaver. Again, thank you.”

He expected to awaken then, as he always did when his dreams of the Weaver ended. But the two of them continued to stand there, almost as if the Weaver had forgotten him.

And perhaps he had. For in the next instant the brilliant light blazing behind the Weaver dimmed, so that rather than blinding him, it offered a softer glow by which to see much that he had missed before. It lasted only a moment, but that was enough. Or rather, it was too much. For just an instant, no longer than the flicker of a single lightning strike on a warm night, Paegar looked upon the Weaver’s face. A square face, golden yellow eyes like those of a wild cat, straight nose and full lips. All framed by the wild white hair that always danced in the wind of this plain. This plain, which ran eastward to the Scabbard and overlooked the dark mass of Eibithar beyond the water. Ayvencalde Moor.

Paegar gasped. The Weaver’s eyes widened. The light flared again, but too late. Both of them knew it.

“Stand,” the Weaver said.

“I am standing, Weaver,” he whispered.

“Only in this dream. Stand up from your bed.”

Without knowing how he did it, Paegar felt himself stand up, though his mind still saw only the plain and the Weaver. Ayvencalde Moor, and a man with golden eyes.

“The woman of whom you spoke, what’s her name?”

“Keziah. Keziah ja Dafydd.”

“Thank you.” The Weaver seemed to hesitate. “I’m sorry for this,” he said. “Truly I am. Your love for this woman reminded me… I was careless, and now you must suffer for that. You’ve served me well. Take that with you.”

Paegar didn’t know what to say, and even if he had, terror and grief would have held his tongue.

“It will be quick.”

Almost before he understood what the Weaver had said, he felt himself being grabbed from behind. He didn’t know who or what had him; the Weaver hadn’t moved. The unseen hands held him still for an instant; then he was thrown forward and down with dizzying force. He plunged toward the ground, but then suddenly found himself back in his room in Audun’s Castle. And instead of the grasses of the plain rising to meet him, he saw the blunt stone edge of his hearth.