Seeds of Betrayal

Chapter Thirty

City of Kings, Eibithar

No one doubted that the threat of a new war with Aneira loomed like a storm cloud over all Eibithar, and like the king’s other ministers, Wenda had heard rumors of Braedon’s naval activity at the north end of the Scabbard. Kearney would have been remiss had he not taken these threats seriously. Yet it struck her as a measure of how alarmed he was that the king would arrange a meeting between the dukes of Rouvin in Caerisse and Grinnyd in Wethyrn on such short notice and in the middle of the snows. Aylyn the Second, the old king, whom she served for fourteen years, would have issued invitations to the two men only after a good deal of discussion and planning.

This was not to say that she disapproved of Kearney’s decision. On the contrary-she admired his boldness. But once more she could not help but notice the vast difference between the two kings she had served. Some of it sprang from Kearney’s youth, the rest from contrasts in their natures. Regardless of the cause, however, Wenda still found herself questioning whether she was suited to serving this new king.

Under the best of circumstances, a meeting between the two dukes would have presented great challenges to their host. Caerisse and Wethyrn had long been enemies. Over the course of their history, the two lands had fought several major wars and dozens of smaller skirmishes. Their most recent conflict, the so-called Queen’s War, had ended just over a century before and had led to an uneasy peace along Orlagh’s River, the border between the two realms. Though both had strong ties to Eibithar, this had never been enough to overcome their mutual hostility, which was rooted in an ancient dispute over a narrow strip of land now held by Caerisse.

Kearney would need both as allies if there was to be war with Braedon and Aneira. Neither Wethyrn nor Caerisse was considered a major power in the Forelands. Caerisse had been great once, but it had been supplanted long ago by Eibithar, Sanbira, Aneira, and, of course, the Braedon Empire. But the Caerissan army would be of great importance in the event of a land war along the Tarbin, and Wethyrn’s navy, while small, still enjoyed a well-deserved reputation as the finest among the six, second only to Braedon’s in all the Forelands.

The dukes of both Rouvin and Grinnyd, though not of their realms’ royal families, wielded great influence with the men who led the kingdoms. If Kearney could convince them that it was in the interests of Caerisse and Wethyrn to put aside their differences and form an alliance with Eibithar, they in turn, might convince their leaders.

Unfortunately, Kearney’s already formidable task had been greatly complicated by recent events here in Audun’s Castle. One needed only to look as far as the seating for this night’s welcoming feast in the castle’s great hall to perceive the depth of the king’s troubles. Wenda, who would normally have been seated at a lesser table with the rest of the king’s underministers, had been placed instead at the table of honor, just next to the archminister.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to her. Like the other ministers, Wenda had watched as the resentment and mistrust between Keziah and the king deepened. She even thought that she understood. There had been rumors about the two of them almost from the moment they arrived in the City of Kings. They had been lovers in Glyndwr, these stories said, bound by a passion so great that they defied the law of the land and risked the honor of Kearney’s house for a forbidden love. Though Wenda disapproved of such scandalous talk, particularly where it concerned the king, she could not help but believe all that she had heard. It explained so much-not only the bitterness of their estrangement, but also the awkwardness that had come before.

Still, recognizing the source of this rift between Keziah and the king did not make her any less fearful of what it could mean for Eibithar. In recent days, Wenda had begun to find fault with much of the counsel Keziah offered the king. It almost seemed that the archminister wanted him to make bad decisions. On those few occasions when her advice made sense, Kearney ignored her, as if he no longer trusted anything she said. It would have been best for all concerned had he just ordered Keziah to leave his court-her service to him had all but ended anyway. Keeping her here benefited no one.

But Wenda sensed that Kearney was incapable of sending her away. Perhaps he still loved her, or perhaps his sense of loyalty for the years she had served him in Glyndwr prevented it. Whatever the reason, her continued presence in the castle endangered the king and all who served him faithfully.

The high minister had never liked Keziah-she and the other ministers had resented Kearney’s decision to make her archminister, passing over Dyre and Paegar and Wenda herself, all of whom had served in Audun’s Castle for years. Indeed, in some small way, their hostility to her might have contributed to her unhappiness. But though Wenda didn’t care for the woman, she hadn’t thought to question Keziah’s loyalty, at least until now. With word of the Qirsi conspiracy spreading through the Forelands like smoke from a grass fire, it was both foolish and dangerous to allow this woman to work each day beside Eibithar’s king. If the conspiracy’s leaders hadn’t already lured her into their movement, they would soon. It should have been clear to all of them. Certainly Gershon Trasker should have seen it. As swordmaster and leader of the King’s Guard, he was responsible for Kearney’s safety. Yet he did nothing.

The king’s answer was to treat Wenda as a second archminister. He turned to her now as he once did to Keziah, asking for her counsel on all matters before anyone else’s, and having her draft messages to his dukes and lesser nobles. She had never imagined that he would go so far as to seat her at the table of honor, but she should have known better. He couldn’t rid himself of Keziah, but he couldn’t trust her either.

“It’s been many years since I last visited your castle,” the duke of Grinnyd said, smiling briefly at Wenda before looking past her to the archminister. “I had forgotten how magnificent it is.”

A brief, thin smile flitted across Keziah’s face and was gone.

“Yes,” she said. “I suppose it is.”

The man cleared his throat and smoothed his black beard with a meaty hand before trying again. “Can you tell me what the banners signify? I know they must be for Eibithar’s twelve houses, but which seal belongs to which house?”

He was still looking at Keziah, who was younger than Wenda, and far prettier, but the archminister merely sat there looking bored. After a moment, Wenda answered him, giving the history of each banner and naming the current dukes of the various houses.

“Curgh,” the duke repeated, interrupting her as she started to speak of the great bear on Curgh’s sigil. “That’s where the boy is from, isn’t it? The one who is said to have killed Kentigern’s daughter?”

“Yes, it is,” Wenda answered. “Though His Majesty believes the boy innocent and granted him asylum after his escape from Kentigern’s dungeon.”

“I had heard of this as well. That took a great deal of courage. Did your king think of this on his own, or did you counsel him to grant the boy protection?”

Wenda hesitated. “Actually, he was still duke of Glyndwr at the time and I still served Aylyn the Second, though he was quite ill.”

“I advised him to do it,” Keziah said. She took a drink of wine, then faced the duke. “It may have been the last counsel I gave him to which he paid any heed at all.”

Grinnyd raised an eyebrow. “If one of my Qirsi spoke as you do, Archminister, I’d soon find myself questioning her loyalty.”

“I’m not surprised, Lord Grinnyd. It’s been my experience that Eandi nobles are often quick to do so.”

“That’s enough, Archminister!” Wenda said. She faced the duke, though not before casting a beseeching look at the swordmaster. “You must forgive the archminister, my Lord Grinnyd. She sometimes expresses her opinions too freely. I assure you, she meant no offense.”

Wenda expected Keziah to berate her for presuming to apologize on her behalf, but instead the woman just raised her goblet to her lips once more, as if nothing had happened. The duke stared at the food sitting before him, his jaw tight.

A moment later Gershon joined them, a look of concern in his blue eyes.

“I hope you’re enjoying your meal, my Lord Duke. There’s an old saying in Eibithar, ‘An empty stomach is a poor foundation for statecraft.’ ”

Grinnyd smiled, though clearly it took an effort. “The food is excellent, swordmaster. Thank you.”

“I take it the ministers are good company.”

“Perhaps ‘interesting company’ would be a more appropriate way of phrasing it.”

“I see,” Gershon said, frowning at Keziah.

The archminister glanced up at him, the same indifferent expression on her oval face. “You needn’t worry, swordmaster. The high minister has already apologized for me.”

“It troubles me that either of you had to apologize. I shouldn’t have to remind you that the duke is a guest of our king.”

“Of course, swordmaster,” she said, sounding too obsequious. “I’ll be certain to keep that in mind.”

“I should hope so.”

“You have my apologies as well, my Lord Duke,” she said, lifting her cup again. “As the high minister said, I meant no offense.”

“Thank you, Archminister.” The duke smiled again, and this time it appeared genuine. “As long as you’re here, swordmaster, perhaps you and the archminister can tell me something of your king. I never knew him when he was duke of Glyndwr, although I met his father once. If I’m to recommend to my archduke that we strengthen our alliance with Eibithar, I should first know something of the man who leads her.”

“Then I suggest you speak with him yourself, my Lord Duke, though I’m happy to answer any of your questions. You’ll find that Kearney of Glyndwr is a man without pretense. There’s no trick to knowing him.”

“High praise indeed for an Eandi noble,” Keziah added. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Grinnyd?”

“It seems high praise for any man, Archminister. Qirsi or Eandi. In these times especially, we’re all desperate for people we can trust, no matter the color of their eyes.”

“Well said, my Lord Duke,” Gershon said pointedly, eyeing the archminister.

Before Keziah could answer, the king stood, raising his goblet in a toast, his silver hair shining in the torch fire and candlelight. “Once again, Leilia and I would like to welcome our guests and thank them for undertaking such arduous journeys, particularly at this time of the year. For centuries Eibithar has valued our close ties to both Caerisse and Wethyrn. I’m hopeful that in the days to come, we can use those ties as the basis for an even stronger partnership among all three of our kingdoms. I speak not of an alliance for war-though we must be able to rely upon one another if we find ourselves embattled-but rather of a union that will give us the strength to preserve peace throughout the Forelands no matter how we are assailed.

“Nine centuries ago, when invaders came to the Forelands, the ancient clans put aside their differences and joined forces to protect themselves and preserve their sovereignty. Out of their triumph grew the seven realms of the Forelands, and all that we have accomplished since.”

He was speaking of the Qirsi Wars, of course, and though Wenda thought Aneira and Braedon greater threats to Eibithar than the Qirsi conspiracy, she could hardly blame the king for drawing on that chapter in the kingdom’s history. She stole a glance at Keziah, wondering if the king’s words would enrage her. But while the archminister looked wan and young as she watched the king, her expression revealed nothing.

“We have endured wars since,” Kearney went on, “and times of darkness. But always we have prevailed, and through the centuries one truth has stood out above all others: never are we stronger than when we are united and at peace.” He lifted his glass high and looked first at Rouvin and then at Grinnyd. “My Lord Dukes, I drink to friendships, old and new.”

“To friendships!” the others in the hall echoed.

“We have more food and wine,” the king said, smiling as he placed his goblet on the table. “And we have music to dance. I hope all will join us.”

He nodded to the musicians standing near his table on the dais and they began to play. Then he took Leilia’s hand and led her down the small stairway to the open floor just in front of his table. For a few moments, as was appropriate, others in the hall simply watched the king dance with his queen. Then, slowly, couples joined them on the floor.

“He does seem a fine king, swordmaster,” the duke of Grinnyd said, regarding Kearney. “One cannot help but be impressed with him.”

“He’s been that way since I met him, my lord, and that was many years before he became duke of Glyndwr.”

Grinnyd nodded. “You expect that he’ll survive Kentigern’s challenge?”

Wenda sensed Gershon bristling.

“I do,” the swordmaster said, steel in his voice.

The duke turned to him. “Forgive the question, swordmaster. But before I ask my archduke to swear himself to an alliance with this man I must know that he’ll still wear the crown a year from now. Wethyrn places great value on its ties to Eibithar. I daresay we rely on Eibithar’s friendship more than you do on ours, even now. If we pledge ourselves to your king, only to find in a few turns that his place on the throne has been taken by a man who despises him, where will that leave Wethyrn?” His eyes strayed briefly to Keziah. “As formidable as Kearney may be, I see many perils in his path, some distant, and some quite near. We’ll be watching to see how he navigates them.” The duke smiled and faced Wenda. “High Minister, I find myself drawn to this music. Would you join me in a dance?”

Wenda returned his smile. She wasn’t fond of dancing, but she could hardly refuse an invitation from one of the king’s guests. “Of course, my Lord Grinnyd. It would be an honor.”

The duke rose, pulling out Wenda’s chair and taking the minister’s hand when she stood. She didn’t look back at Keziah and Gershon, but she felt their eyes following her as she left them alone together. She would have given all the gold Kearney paid her to be a mouse under the table during the conversation they were about to have.

She couldn’t take her eyes off of them, though Qirsar knew she wanted to. It seemed that everyone in this shining hall was staring at the king and queen, though Keziah was certain that the sight of them dancing didn’t do to others what it did to her. Kearney looked as he always did, wearing his usual battle garb, the Glyndwr baldric-silver, red, and black-strapped to his back. The silver in his hair and the youthfulness of his face made him appear ageless and regal, as a true king should. Leilia, on the other hand, looked even older and sadder than usual. Keziah had expected that the end of her affair with Kearney would give new life to the queen, but clearly it hadn’t. Perhaps she realized now that Keziah hadn’t destroyed their marriage or stopped Kearney from loving her; she had done all of that herself.

“What did you say to the duke?” Gershon asked in a low voice, his eyes on the king as well.

“Not much, really. I complained about Kearney not following my counsel and remarked that Eandi nobles were quick to question the loyalty of their Qirsi. Other than that I said nothing offensive, though I’m sure I proved a rather poor dinner companion.”

“Do you think you might be taking this too far?”

“They’ve given me gold, but I’ve heard nothing from them since,” she said. “This isn’t a time to temper my behavior.”

“Nor is it a time to get yourself banished from the king’s court. You heard Grinnyd. He thinks that you’re a threat to the king, and he won’t hesitate to say so to Kearney.”

“I know. To be honest, I don’t know if I can stop myself anymore. I don’t plan any of the things I say. They just come to me. It’s almost as if I’ve actually started to believe them.”

She knew that Gershon was staring at her, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the king.

“Are you a threat to the king?”

Keziah managed a small smile. “No, it’s not that bad.”

“Not yet.”

At that she did look at him. “I’ll do nothing to harm him or the kingdom. You have my word.” Her eyes drifted to Kearney again. “I’m more a danger to myself than to anyone else.”

She sensed him frowning. “What does that mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Nothing.” She closed her eyes. “Have I stayed long enough yet? I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“Yes, you can go. The way you’ve been lately, you’re likely to draw more attention remaining to the end than leaving early.”

“Do we need to have words first?”

“You’ve done enough tonight. I think a simple ‘goodnight’ will do it. Just make it convincing.”

“That doesn’t seem to be a problem. Be well, Gershon. We’ll speak again soon.”

He nodded, saying nothing.

Keziah stood abruptly, draining her goblet and setting it on the table smartly. “Goodnight, swordmaster,” she said, her tone heavy with sarcasm. She turned and strode from the great hall, certain that most of those who remained were staring after her.

She returned directly to her chamber, only allowing the scowl to leave her face when she had closed and locked the door behind her. Crossing to her bed, she lay down and, as she had every night for the last half turn, began to cry, muffling her sobs with her pillow. She had thought that this deception would become easier with time, but it hadn’t. Just the opposite was true. Every day that drove her further from Kearney brought new, deeper grief, until she began to fear for her sanity. She missed Paegar almost as much as she did her brother, though she knew that had it not been for the minister’s treachery, she would never have found herself in these circumstances.

After a time, when she was too weary even to cry anymore, Keziah forced herself up, splashed some cold water on her face, and put on her sleeping gown. The fire in her hearth had burned down, and she added two logs before climbing back into bed.

She must have fallen asleep instantly, for it seemed the next moment she was dreaming.

She stood on a plain, a cold wind cutting through her sleeping gown and making her hair dance. Tall grasses bowed like novices in a sanctuary and hulking boulders loomed like great grey beasts in some child’s tale. There was something both familiar and alien about the scene and for a moment she wondered if her brother had come to speak with her. Except that this wasn’t the moor near Eardley, and in all the visions Grinsa created for her, there had been daylight. It was night here on this plain.

Or so she thought. Looking up at the blackened sky, straining her eyes to see something, she realized that there was nothing. No stars, no moons, no clouds. Just darkness, as absolute as death.

Keziah shivered. And in that instant, she heard a single word spoken. “Come.” It brushed past her like the feathered seed of a harvest flower riding the wind. Before she understood what she was doing, she had turned and started walking toward the sound.

Confused and frightened, her arms crossed over her chest against the chill wind, she opened her mouth to call out Grinsa’s name. At the last minute, though, she stopped herself, not quite understanding why.

Soon she was climbing a gentle slope. She had heard nothing more, but she knew this was the way, and even as the climb grew more difficult, she didn’t stray. After some time, the ground became level again and she stopped, breathing hard.

The light that stabbed suddenly into her eyes made her cry out and cower, as if Bian the Deceiver had revealed himself to her. She didn’t realize that she had dropped to her knees until the voice spoke again.

“Rise.” His voice was deep, powerful, as she imagined a god’s might sound.

Keziah stood slowly and, still shielding her eyes with a hand, tried to see who had come. A figure stood before her, tall and imposing, as black as the sky against that brilliant white glare. Wild hair twisted about his shoulders in the wind, and a long cape stirred like pine boughs.

“You believe you’re dreaming,” he said.

“Aren’t I?”

“People often think so the first time they encounter a Weaver this way. You are asleep, but this is not dreaming as you know it.”

Precisely because this wasn’t her first encounter with a Weaver, Keziah knew immediately that he was telling the truth. She felt a fool for not anticipating this. Of course the conspiracy would be led by a Weaver, perhaps several.

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“I sense no surprise on your part. You expected this?”

“No, I-”

“Then what?”

“This isn’t the first time a Weaver has entered my dreams. My father was a Weaver. He spoke to me this way many times.” The lie came to her easily. She’d been lying about so many things for so long-Grinsa, her affair with Kearney, and, most recently, her feigned resentment of the king and all the Eandi. At this point, she felt as comfortable with deceit as she did with the truth.

“Your father was an underminister for the House of Eardley.”

She swallowed. How much more did he know about her?

“Yes. He never told anyone but my mother and me about the true extent of his powers.”

Keziah held her breath, terrified that he would ask about her brother.

“I see. This pleases me. You bear a Weaver’s blood and so your children might be Weavers.”

She had thought of this many times. Even though neither of her parents had been Weavers, Grinsa’s powers made it clear that there was Weaver’s blood in her veins.

“Yes, they might.”

“And you must also know that if they have the gift, and if their true powers are discovered, they will be killed and you with them.”

Keziah nodded.

“Do you know why I’ve come to you?”

Before she could answer, she felt a strange sensation, as if she were being distracted by another sound, though there was nothing here but the wind and the Weaver. An instant later her head began to spin, and she nearly fell to the ground again.

“Well?” the Weaver said. “Do you?”

At first she thought the Weaver was doing this to her, and she tried to guard herself, as if from an assault. Then she heard another voice calling her name, as distant and soft as a whisper, but insistent and drawing nearer. Grinsa.

“The movement,” she managed to say. “You lead the movement.”

“That’s right.”

She sensed a light behind her, and though she didn’t dare turn to look, she guessed that Grinsa had added his landscape to her dream. The Weaver didn’t appear to notice-she couldn’t imagine why, but she thanked the gods for her good fortune.

“Do you know how I found you?” the Weaver asked.

“Paegar. He told you about me.”

“Yes, he did. He said that you were once in love with your king. Is that true?”

She considered lying again. At that moment she would have said nearly anything to end this dream before the Weaver learned of Grinsa and of all she had done to convince the movement that she could be turned against Kearney. But she had sacrificed too much to lure the man here. She could hardly drive him away now.

“Yes, it’s true. I loved him, and he cast me from his bed as soon as they gave him the crown.”

“You hate him.”

Keziah hesitated. Even here, speaking with this man, she couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

“It’s all right,” the Weaver said gently. “Perhaps it’s too much to ask you to hate him already. But you long to strike back at him.”

She heard Grinsa approaching and in her mind she shouted for him to leave her, to return another night. But he couldn’t hear her any more than could the man standing before her.

“I do.”

“I can help you,” the Weaver said. “I can make you part of a great movement that will rid the Forelands of your foolish king and others like him. Already, throughout the seven realms, Qirsi like you are rising up against the Eandi courts. You can join us. You can punish the Glyndwr king for what he did to you, and assure your children of a glorious future.” He took a step toward her. “All you must do is pledge yourself to my service and open your mind to me, fully, without reservation.”

She faltered. How could she do such a thing without revealing too much?

“You resist,” he said, his voice harder. “Why?”

Keziah sensed that Grinsa was close and she had to fight an urge to whirl on him and yell for him to leave her.

“I can’t do this. Not yet.”

“I have revealed myself to you, because you have made it clear with your actions and your words that you no longer wish to debase yourself in service of the Eandi. You have been chosen and you must join me now.”

She felt his magic buffeting her mind and she struggled to hold him off, fearing that her defenses would fail her at any moment.

“Others before you have fought me as well,” he said. “They suffered for their defiance. Is that what you want?”

“No,” Keziah answered, her voice quavering. “I don’t mean to defy you. But I’ve never had someone ask this of me before. I don’t know what to do.” This last, she intended for Grinsa. Surely he could hear the Weaver now. Couldn’t he see that he had to leave her?

“Merely open yourself to me,” the Weaver said.

“I’m afraid. You have to give me a bit of time.”

“Kezi?” Grinsa whispered, as if standing just beside her.

Go! Please! I can’t hold him off muck longer!

“There is no time. You received your gold, didn’t you?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Call me Weaver. I’m not some dull-witted Eandi noble, and I won’t be addressed as such.”

“Yes, Weaver. Forgive me.”

“You have your payment,” he said again. “Now it is time for you to give yourself to me and this movement.”

“But-”

“Enough!”

Pain exploded in her mind, blinding, searing. He was crushing her eyes, though she hadn’t seen him take a step toward her. She threw up her hands, trying to shield herself. She tried to draw upon her magic, but no power she possessed could protect her from a Weaver.

“Give yourself to me!”

Helpless, lost, she collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony.

She heard Grinsa cry out her name and abruptly, the pain ceased.

“What was that?”

Keziah managed to open her eyes, though for several moments she could see nothing at all.

“What, Weaver?” she said, her voice barely carrying over the sound of the wind.

“I heard a voice cry out. I think it spoke your name.”

He was looking about, as if expecting to see someone step out of the darkness.

“I cried out, Weaver. But I heard nothing else.”

“No, it sounded…” He stopped, shaking his head.

Keziah still felt Grinsa standing nearby, and now she heard him whisper again.

“I love you,” he said, and then was gone.

She choked back a sob.

The Weaver faced her once more, his features still shrouded in shadow. “Stand up.”

The archminister stood slowly, her legs trembling so violently that she barely trusted them to support her. Even with Grinsa gone, she realized that she could not open herself to the Weaver. She needed to conceal too much from him-her reasons for seeking out the conspiracy, her real feelings for Kearney, Grinsa’s powers. Standing on that darkened plain, facing for the first time a man who might have been stronger than her brother, it seemed to Keziah that her entire life consisted of secrets that had to be guarded. She had never given a thought to what a Weaver might do to her through her dreams. There had been times in her dreams of Grinsa when he had put his arms around her, or kissed her brow, and she had felt all of it. It never occurred to her that he could hurt her as well. Why would it? But having felt the Weaver’s wrath, she didn’t doubt for a moment that he could truly maim her, perhaps even kill her. She thought abruptly of Paegar and shuddered. Had he angered the Weaver? Was that why he was dead?

“Are you ready to open your mind to me now?” the man demanded.

“I can’t,” she whispered, flinching at the mere thought that he might hurt her again.

“You know now what I can do to you.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“Yet still you resist. Tell me why.”

“I don’t trust you.” Even keeping herself closed to him, she sensed that lying to him again might be dangerous. So she sought refuge in those truths she could chance. “I’m archminister to the king of Eibithar. You may want me to join your cause, or you may wish only to learn from me what you can and then kill me. As you say, I know now what you can do to me. If anything I fear you more than I did before.”

“I can kill you where you stand,” he said, his voice like a drawn sword. “Yet I don’t. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“It says only that you need something from me. I can’t be certain what it is.”

They stood in silence for several moments, Keziah staring at the black space where the Weaver’s face should have been. She felt his eyes upon her, but she couldn’t begin to guess at what he was thinking. She could only steel herself to endure more pain and hope that she could withstand another assault.

When he spoke again, he surprised her, as much with his words as the gentle tone of his voice. “I can see why Paegar loved you.”

Her face grew hot.

“You do know that he did.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“But you still loved your king.”

She nodded, feeling fear rising in her throat. Had he found some way to read her thoughts without her consent?

“Those whom I hurt as I did you usually relent before I have to resort to pain a second time. That you continue to resist speaks well of your courage if not your sense.”

“Thank you, Weaver.”

“While I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I need you, I will admit that winning the loyalties of Eibithar’s archminister would be a great boon for the Qirsi movement. For that reason, I’ll give you time to reconsider your decision to refuse me. I’ll come to you again a few nights hence, at which point you will open yourself to me or die. I’m afraid there are no other choices. I have given you gold and I have revealed myself to you. Even granting you this small grace, I risk all. But I’m hopeful that with such a gesture I can convince you to trust me.”

Keziah nearly laughed aloud. You’re threatening to kill me, she wanted to say. And this is supposed to ma’te me trust you?

Instead she lowered her gaze and said, “Thank you, Weaver.”

He nodded once. “We’ll speak again soon.”

Keziah opened her eyes to find herself lying in bed, her sleeping gown, bed linens, and hair soaked with sweat. She sat up and felt her room lurch, as if from an earth tremor. For several moments she held herself utterly still, gritting her teeth against the bile rising from her gut. Then, surrendering, she rushed across her room to her chamber pot and vomited until her stomach was empty and her throat ached.

She washed her mouth and face with frigid water and sank to the hard floor, tears coursing down her face again.

More than anything, she wanted to go to Kearney, to confess all and seek comfort in the warmth of his arms. The king couldn’t protect her, of course. Not from this enemy. Neither could Gershon, though she knew that she should go to the swordmaster and tell him of the Weaver. Keziah had felt the power of the man’s magic-there wasn’t an Eandi noble in all the Forelands who could stand against him. Few Qirsi could either. Certainly she couldn’t save herself.

In her foolishness and her arrogance she had thought to defeat the conspiracy on her own. She felt like a general who leads an army to battle, only to find himself overwhelmed by the strength of his foe. True, there weren’t thousands of lives to be lost here, at least not yet. There were only two. Her own and Grinsa’s. But it might as well have been all the soldiers of the seven realms. For she was certain that if anyone could defeat this Weaver, it was her brother. And she feared that before long, the Weaver would know this as well.