Bonds of Vengeance: Book 3 of Winds of the Forelands (Winds of the Forelands Tetralogy)

by DAVID B. COE

  “It’s nothing. I had a vision, that’s all.”

  “Of what?” He could hear fear tightening her voice, and he regretted saying even this much.

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it does. What did you see?”

  “I saw Tavis fighting the assassin.”

  “Did you see the outcome?”

  “No.”

  She nodded, removing her hand from his arm and shifting on the bed so that there was more distance between them. “Where?”

  “The Crown.”

  “Is that where you’re going next?”

  “I don’t intend to go anywhere, Cresenne.” He made himself meet her gaze. “I don’t know yet what this vision means. I’m not even certain that I’m to be there with them.”

  “Of course you are. You’re tied to the boy in some way. You told me that long ago, in Galdasten.”

  The gleaner remembered, of course. There had been a storm that night, much like the one to which he had wakened out of this most recent vision. Was there meaning in that as well?

  “You must be tired,” he said. “You should get some rest. Bryntelle will be fine with me.”

  Cresenne leaned forward and kissed the baby on the forehead. Then she stretched out on the bed, closing her eyes.

  “If it means anything,” she said, already sounding sleepy, “I know that you don’t want to leave us, that it will pain you to go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I think you are. In the end I think you’ll decide that you have no choice. You’ve pledged yourself to protecting both Tavis and me, but you can only be with one of us at a time. And you feel somehow responsible for the boy.”

  “Don’t you think I feel the same way about you, about Bryntelle?”

  “Bryntelle isn’t in danger. Keziah told us so. And whatever danger I’m in is of my own making. That’s what you’ll decide.” She opened her eyes for just a moment. “And you’ll be right.”

  She closed her eyes once more and rolled away from him. After a few moments he stood and began walking around the chamber with Bryntelle, rocking her gently and singing an Eibitharian folk song in a near whisper. Soon both the baby and her mother were asleep.

  The day passed slowly. Grinsa couldn’t keep the vision from his mind, nor could he help but think that in the end, Cresenne’s words would prove as prescient as any gleaning. It seemed that Bryntelle was beginning to adjust to the strange hours she and her mother were keeping. She slept for the rest of the morning and well past midday before waking, hungry and wet. Grinsa changed her swaddling, then woke Cresenne so that the baby could nurse.

  As Bryntelle ate, the city bells began to toll. It was far too early for the prior’s bell.

  Cresenne frowned, looking from the window to Grinsa.

  “Has another duke arrived?”

  “None were expected after Labruinn and Heneagh. The rest have refused to come.”

  “Then what?” She sounded alarmed, and Grinsa silently cursed the Weaver once more. Cresenne had lied to him when they were still lovers and the gleaner couldn’t be certain that he had known her as well as he believed at the time. But she hadn’t struck him then as the type of person who was easily frightened. Only now, bearing scars from the Weaver’s assault, did her face turn the color of ash at the merest hint of danger.

  “It’s probably just a messenger,” he said. “From one of the other dukes, I’d guess.” He made himself smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  But he could feel his own pulse pounding too hard in his temples, and though he tried to appear calm, he found himself looking repeatedly toward the window on the chamber’s steel door, as if expecting at any moment to see Keziah’s face, or the king’s.

  Eventually the pealing of the bells ceased, and though he could hear voices rising to the narrow window from the castle ward, none of what he heard gave him cause for concern. Still, he wasn’t entirely surprised when at last he heard the scrape of a boot in the corridor and a low voice speaking to the guards.

  A moment later a face loomed at the door’s steel grate. It wasn’t the king or Keziah. Rather, it was Tavis.

  “Forgive me,” the young lord said, his dark eyes flicking briefly toward Cresenne, who covered herself with a corner of the bed linens.

  “What is it, Tavis?”

  “A message. I think you should hear it.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “It’s all right,” Cresenne said, her voice low and tense. “I won’t be able to sleep anyway.”

  He looked at her and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head, swiping at a tear that had appeared suddenly on her cheek. “It’s not your fault. I knew this would come. Actually I dreamed it. I just didn’t expect it would happen so soon.”

  Grinsa and Lord Tavis entered Kearney’s presence chamber together but quickly separated, Tavis going to where his father stood near the window, and the gleaner sitting on the arm of Keziah’s chair. The other dukes were there as well, as were the thane of Shanstead and Gershon Trasker. All of the nobles had brought their ministers, so that the chamber felt crowded and warm.

  When Tavis and Grinsa arrived, the king had just asked the older dukes—Javan, Lathrop, and Welfyl, the duke of Heneagh—about the realm’s past relations with the matriarchy in Sanbira. Now Welfyl, bent and frail looking in his chair by the dormant hearth, began a rambling reply, telling of his one visit to Sanbira in 853, when the queen at that time, Meleanna the Ninth, had honored him with an invitation to Castle Yserne.

  “What’s happened?” Grinsa asked, his voice so low Keziah could barely hear him.

  “Didn’t Tavis tell you?”

  Welfyl paused long enough to frown at the two of them before continuing his tale.

  “Only that a message had come,” Grinsa went on, lowering his voice even further. “I gather it’s from the queen.”

  “Yes.”

  “My pardon, Lord Heneagh,” Marston said, interrupting the old duke before Keziah could tell her brother more, “but I’d be interested in knowing if the queen ever spoke to you of an alliance between our two realms.”

  “I was getting to that,” Welfyl said crossly. “Meleanna told me at dinner that night that the Matriarchy wished to avoid alliances with any of the northern realms. She said that the Sanbiris valued their friendship with Eibithar, but that they didn’t wish to risk offending the lords of Aneira and Braedon. ‘We have no wish to be party to your quarrels,’ is how she put it.” His brow furrowed. “Or something to that effect.”

  “It seems Olesya is more willing than were her grandmother and mother to take such risks,” the thane said, turning to the king. “I believe this is a fine opportunity, my liege. We’d be wise to accept her offer as quickly as we can.”

  Grinsa was watching the king as well. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. But am I to understand that the queen of Sanbira has proposed an alliance?”

  “Yes, she has. I assumed that Lord Tavis had informed you on your way here.”

  “No, Your Majesty. He merely said that a message had come. I believe he thought it more appropriate that you inform me, since the message was clearly intended for you.”

  Keziah knew better. The tension between the young lord and her brother had been thick as a coastal fog when they entered the chamber. She could imagine the two of them walking in complete silence all the way from the prison tower. But Grinsa would conclude properly that the state of their friendship was no concern of Kearney’s or the other nobles. The message was what mattered.

  “I’ve already read it to the other lords,” Kearney said, “so I won’t waste time with it again. Briefly, the queen writes of an attempt on the life of one of her duchesses, Diani of Curlinte. Diani is young—her mother just passed to Bian’s realm a few turns ago—and she survived the attempt. But House Curlinte is closely tied to the royal house, and it seems Diani’s first minister was behind the assassination attempt. The
queen fears the conspiracy will strike at her again, and she proposes an alliance to fight the Qirsi threat.”

  Grinsa’s gaze had shifted to the boy, who was staring back at him, his face pale, so that the scars he bore appeared even more livid than usual. Keziah couldn’t say what passed between them in those few moments, but within the span of a single heartbeat, Grinsa looked as troubled as the boy.

  “I must disagree with the thane, Your Majesty,” Fotir said from where he stood, near his duke and the young lord.

  “How so, First Minister?”

  “I don’t believe this message represents a change in the Sanbiri attitude toward alliances. The queen doesn’t suggest that we join forces with her against any other realms, but rather only against the conspiracy. I can’t know for certain, of course, but I would guess that she sent similar messages to every sovereign in the Forelands.”

  Grinsa nodded, his mouth still set in a thin line. “That sounds likely to me, as well.”

  “This isn’t to say that we shouldn’t pursue the alliance anyway,” Fotir went on. “But you should recognize her offer for what it is.”

  “The queen’s letter also proves beyond doubt what we’ve thought for some time now.” Javan. “The conspiracy is a threat to every realm and every court. From this day forward, any time we hear of a noble’s death, we must question the circumstances surrounding it. We can’t assume that anything is as it seems. Not until this threat has passed and the Qirsi have been defeated.”

  Marston nodded. “I agree with Lord Curgh. And though it saddens me to say it, I’d add that we can no longer simply trust the counsel of our Qirsi without question. It seems there are more traitors in the Forelands than we feared. Blind trust can only lead to disaster.”

  “So we’re to assume then that all of them have betrayed us?” Lathrop shook his head. “That’s nonsense.”

  Keziah felt as if an arrow had buried itself in her chest. Several of the other ministers looked angry. She thought Evetta might cry. Even Xivled, who had appeared unfazed by the decision of the king to exclude Qirsi from his discussion with the dukes a few days before now seemed disturbed by what his lord had said. But Keziah’s pain had far less to do with Shanstead’s words than with the way Kearney was looking at her. She had worked hard to make him doubt her. But more recently, since the Weaver instructed her to begin winning back the king’s trust, she had tried as best she could to do just that. It had seemed a gift, a spar of light in the shadows she had woven about herself. She had known it wouldn’t last, but for just a short while she had thought to continue her deception of the Weaver while also repairing some of the damage she had done to what remained of the love she and Kearney once shared.

  Seeing how he regarded her now, however, she understood that it was too late. She saw fear in his green eyes, and so much suspicion. There might have been love there as well, a residue of the passion she remembered from their time in Glyndwr. But it had been twisted and defiled by all that had come since. Marston might find it hard to convince the other nobles to stop trusting the Qirsi who served them, but he had already swayed the king.

  Caius of Labruinn glanced at his first minister, the oldest of the Qirsi in the king’s chamber. “Forgive me, Ottah,” he said, “but I’m not ready to dismiss the thane’s suggestion so quickly. No doubt the duchess of Curlinte trusted her minister, just as Lord Shanstead’s father trusted his.”

  Caius was a young man in comparison to the other dukes. Not as young as Marston, but close. The young ones, it seemed, would lead this battle. Perhaps they hadn’t grown as close to their ministers, having only led their houses for a few years. Perhaps, having come into their birthrights at a time when the conspiracy was already beginning to spread across the land, they found it easier to question the loyalty of those who served them. Whatever the reason, Keziah found herself hating this man, and the thane as well.

  Caius had risen from his chair and was pacing the floor now. “It seems there’s something in the Qirsi heart that breeds treachery. It runs like a river through the history of your people.”

  Fotir bristled. “With all respect, Lord Labruinn, I find what you’ve said offensive.”

  “As do I.”

  Everyone in the chamber turned to look at Tavis.

  “If it wasn’t for the Qirsi I never would have escaped from Kentigern. In all likelihood I’d be dead by now.”

  Marston gave a small laugh. “My Lord Curgh,” he said, as if speaking to a child. “If it wasn’t for the Qirsi, you might never have been in Kentigern’s dungeon in the first place. Lady Brienne would still be alive and you would be in line behind your father for the throne.”

  “That’s true, Lord Shanstead. Not all the Qirsi can be trusted. But neither can they all be dismissed as traitors. Even I can see that, though I have more cause than any of you to hate them.”

  “The boy makes a good point,” Gershon said from the far corner of the chamber. Then his face reddened. “I mean Lord Curgh. Forgive me, my lord.”

  Tavis actually smiled. “Apology accepted, swordmaster.”

  The king stood, compelling the rest of them to their feet. “I’ll consider a response to the queen of Sanbira,” he said. “As to the rest . . .” He faltered, his eyes straying to Keziah for just an instant. “We’ll speak of it again tomorrow.”

  The nobles and ministers bowed to him and began to file out of the chamber. Keziah lingered a moment, and Grinsa with her. She hoped that Kearney would call her back. Perhaps if she could talk to him, she might allay whatever fears Marston had planted in the king’s mind. But Kearney kept silent and soon she and Grinsa were in the corridor.

  Tavis was waiting for them. It struck her as strange that this young lord, whom she still thought of as spoiled and undisciplined, should be the most vocal defender of the Qirsi among all the gathered nobles. Even stranger, Gershon Trasker had been the only person to agree with him.

  “You think it was him,” Grinsa said to the boy without preamble.

  “I think he was behind it, yes. According to the message, the assassins are all dead. But I find it difficult to believe that the singer would have allowed himself to be killed.”

  “You almost managed it in Mertesse.”

  Tavis’s eyes narrowed, as if he thought Grinsa were mocking him. “I was fortunate, and you know it.”

  Grinsa looked away, twisting his mouth sourly. There was more to this than Keziah could possibly have understood. “So, you think we should go to Sanbira,” he said.

  “If we’re going to look for him, we should start there.”

  If we’re going to look for him. . . . The words hung between them like a lofted arrow between two armies. A challenge.

  “You can’t go,” Keziah said. She watched Grinsa, searching for some response. When he offered none, she turned her glare on the boy. “You know that he can’t. Without him, Cresenne will die.” She realized there were guards nearby and she started down the corridor away from them, drawing Tavis and Grinsa after her as if by the sheer force of her will. She didn’t stop until they had reached her chamber and she had sent away the servants and closed the door. “Cresenne needs Grinsa here,” she began once more, keeping her voice as low as her emotions allowed. “It’s just a matter of time before the Weaver tries again to kill her. We all know it, just as we all know that Grinsa is the only one who can protect her, the only one who can pull her from the dreams.”

  “Keziah—”

  “I know that you want vengeance,” she said to the boy, ignoring her brother. “I can even understand why you might need it. But it’s more important that he remain here.”

  “Then, I’ll go alone.”

  “No,” Grinsa said, “you won’t.”

  “I don’t answer to you, gleaner.”

  “I know you don’t. That’s not what I meant.”

  The boy said nothing, looking more astonished than relieved.

  Keziah could think of nothing to say. Grinsa couldn’t leave the castle; it was as obvi
ous to her as the scars on Cresenne’s face, as clear as the sound of Bryntelle’s cries. Whatever he owed this young lord, whatever they had shared during their travels through Aneira, none of it could mean as much to Grinsa as his family. Surely he knew that.

  “You can’t mean that you intend to leave with him,” she finally managed in a quavering voice.

  “I do.”

  “But—”

  He held up a hand, silencing her. “There’s more at work here than my wishes, more to this than any of us can understand.”

  “Your dream.”

  She looked at Tavis, then turned back to Grinsa. “What dream?”

  He was eyeing the boy. “I had a vision last night. I saw Tavis fighting the assassin on the shores of the Wethy Crown. I don’t know the outcome; I’m not entirely certain what it meant. But it seems the gods are telling me to go.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  At last he met her gaze. “Cresenne dreamed that I’d be leaving.”

  Keziah opened her mouth to argue, closed it again. She couldn’t begin to guess what it might mean. She wished she could deny that it meant anything at all, but she knew better, possessing gleaning magic herself.

  “But who’ll protect her?” she asked, tears stinging her eyes. “Who’ll protect me?”

  Grinsa stepped past the boy and gathered her in his arms. “You’re the answer to both questions, Kezi,” he whispered.

  “I can’t protect her from a Weaver.”

  “He expects you to kill her. He won’t do anything himself so long as he believes he can count on you. You told me yourself that he intends this as a test of your commitment to the movement. He’ll give you every opportunity to succeed, because he has ample reason to want you to.”

  She clung to him, laying her cheek against his broad chest. “But I can’t put him off forever. Eventually he’ll lose patience with me, and then we’ll both die.”

  “Tavis and I won’t be gone that long.”

  “You’re going to the Crown, Grinsa, and then you’ll be searching for a single man. This could take you half the year.”

  “It won’t. Can you prevail upon Kearney to give us two mounts?”