by DAVID B. COE
“Your Highness?”
“Is she the reason you turned away from the conspiracy?”
Cresenne didn’t want to talk about this, not with Grinsa, or Keziah, or the king, and certainly not with this odd woman standing before her. But how did one refuse a queen?
The truth was, everything she had done, both on behalf of the Weaver and to thwart him, she had believed she was doing for this child, or at the very least, for the promise of her. She joined the movement to create a better world, not only for herself, but also for the child she knew she would someday bear. After Bryntelle’s birth, Grinsa threatened to take the child from her in order to compel Cresenne to confess her crimes to Kearney. He knew as well as did Cresenne that she would do anything to keep her child. And in the days since, she had come to see that the future once promised to her by the Weaver-a future in which Qirsi ruled the Forelands through torture and murder and deception-was not the one she wanted for her daughter. More than anything, she wished to see Dusaan’s movement defeated, and she had resolved long ago that she would not allow herself to be killed, not merely because she wished to live, not merely because by surviving she defied the Weaver, but because she would not allow her child to grow up without a mother’s love. Bryntelle had been the most powerful force in her life for as long as she could remember, going back far beyond the consummation of her love affair with Grinsa.
“Yes, Your Highness, I did it for Bryntelle, at first because I feared having her taken from me, and more recently because I’ve come to realize that I don’t want the Weaver’s tyranny to be my legacy to her and her children.”
“That’s more of an answer than I expected.”
Cresenne looked down at Bryntelle, whose pale yellow eyes shone in the lateday sun like torch fire. “It’s merely the truth.”
“I’ve never had much use for your kind, and I never thought I’d go looking to a Qirsi for any kind of truth. But you impress me.”
Cresenne couldn’t help the small noise that escaped her.
“You find that amusing?”
She knew that she should just deny it and end their conversation, but she had been honest up to this point, and pride would not allow her to be anything less now.
“Not amusing, Your Highness. But I have to wonder if you truly think I should be flattered by what you just said.”
Leilia’s face shaded to scarlet and Cresenne felt certain that she had pushed the queen too far. The woman surprised her, though.
“No,” the queen said, the smirk returning. “I don’t suppose I do. You’ll have to forgive me. My past … encounters with Qirsi women have been rather unpleasant.”
Now she was certain about Keziah and the king, although she knew better than to reveal as much to the queen.
“There’s nothing to forgive, Your Highness. Our peoples have struggled with such misunderstandings for centuries. Perhaps if more of us simply spoke our minds, we’d find a way past these conflicts.”
“Perhaps.” A faint smile touched her lips and was gone. “I should return to my ladies before they send the guards out to search for us.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Shall I accompany you back to them?”
Leilia waved the suggestion away. “No need, my dear. I daresay I know the way.” She started to turn, then paused, eyeing Cresenne once more. “Is there anything you need?”
“Anything I need?” she repeated, knowing how foolish she sounded.
“Yes. Are you comfortable? Are you and your child getting enough food, enough blankets? Would you feel better with more guards outside your door?”
On more than one occasion in the past several turns, Cresenne had been surprised by the kindnesses shown to her by Eandi men and women, be they wandering merchants in the Glyndwr Highlands or lords and sovereigns in the noble courts. But nothing that any of them had done surprised her more than this question from Eibithar’s peculiar queen.
“Thank you, Your Highness. We’re just fine.”
“Very well. If you think of anything, you only need ask.”
“Again, Your Highness, my thanks.”
Cresenne curtsied once more, then straightened and watched the queen walk away. Only when Leilia had disappeared into the small courtyard did Cresenne leave the gardens and make her way to the castle kitchen. It would soon be dark, and the kitchenmaster had made it clear to her long ago that she was to be out of his way before it came time to feed the queen and the ladies of her court.
Besides, after dusk the courtyards and corridors emptied, leaving Cresenne and her daughter free to wander in solitude. It was her favorite part of the day.
Chapter Two
Dantrielle, Aneira
Not long ago-only a few days by his reckoning, though it was hard to keep track in this prison cell-Pronjed jal Drenthe had been archminister of Aneira, the most powerful Qirsi in all the realm. Now, with the failure of Numar of Renbrere’s siege at Castle Dantrielle and the collapse of the Solkaran Supremacy, which Pronjed had served, he was but a prisoner of Dantrielle’s duke, his ministerial robes tattered and soiled, his hair matted, his skin itching with vermin and sweat. For another man, this might have been a humiliation, cause to despair in his dark, lonely chamber. But not for Pronjed. He was a powerful sorcerer, a man with resources beyond the imaginings of the foolish Eandi who guarded him day and night. He possessed shaping power with which to shatter the iron door to his cell. He wielded mind-bending magic with which he could turn Dantrielle’s guards to his purposes. He could raise mists and winds, which would allow him to elude his captors once he was free of the tower. Even the silk bonds holding his wrists and ankles wouldn’t be enough to stop him, though they presented something of a challenge. He had been planning his escape almost since the moment of his capture. He knew just how he would win his freedom. Despite what the Eandi might have thought, this prison of theirs couldn’t hold him.
And yet here he remained. Pronjed had thought to escape several nights before, in the tumult just after the breaking of Numar’s siege, when Tebeo, duke of Dantrielle, was still occupied with removing dead soldiers from the wards of his castle and determining, with the aid of his allies, how best to proceed now that the Supremacy had been toppled.
But somehow one of his own people, Evanthya ja Yispar, Dantrielle’s first minister, had divined his mind. Not only did she know of his intent to escape; she had guessed as well that he planned to head north from Dantrielle to meet the Weaver in Eibithar, on the battle plain near Galdasten. She claimed that she would do nothing to hinder him, that all she wanted was to follow, so that she might find her lover, Fetnalla ja Prandt, Orvinti’s first minister, who had betrayed and killed her duke. But Pronjed had been so badly shaken by their conversation that he now found himself afraid to make the attempt. He had sensed no deception on Evanthya’s part-it truly seemed she wished only to find her love. But what if he was mistaken? What if he allowed himself to be followed, only to find that the minister had found some way to thwart the Weaver’s plans? He thought this unlikely, but he would have been a fool to dismiss the idea entirely.
The Weaver expected him to join the Qirsi army; Pronjed desired this, as well. He expected his service to the movement to be rewarded with power and wealth. The Weaver had often spoken to him of creating a new class of Qirsi nobility, and the archminister had every intention of claiming his place among them. The previous night he had resolved at last to escape his chamber, notwithstanding the risk of being followed by the first minister. Although still unwilling to trust that she meant no harm to the movement, he was confident he could kill her should the need arise.
And yet, even after the midnight bells tolled in the city he couldn’t bring himself to try. Fear held him in the chamber; fear as unyielding as that iron door, as immune to his power as the silk bonds. How had Evanthya known so much about him and his intentions? She was but one woman-what danger could she pose to a movement as vast as theirs? Though blessed with a keen mind and more courage than he would have expected from o
ne with such a slight frame and reserved manner, she would have been no match for Pronjed in a battle of magic. Yet, several hours later, when the dawn bells rang and the sky began to brighten, the dark of night giving way to the soft grey light of early morning, Pronjed still sat in his prison.
He had made the mistake of angering the Weaver once-when he killed Carden the Third, Aneira’s king, assuming incorrectly that the Weaver would be pleased. He could still feel the way the bone in his hand had shattered, the pain so severe he could barely remain conscious. The Weaver, who could be so generous with his gold, was no less stingy with his punishment when the occasion demanded. That memory, as much as anything, kept Pronjed in his chamber, grappling with his uncertainty.
Nothing in his past, however, could have prepared him for the conversation he had later that same morning. The last peals of the midmorning bells were still echoing through the castle when he heard a light footfall in the corridor outside his chamber and then a woman’s voice he recognized immediately.
“Open the door and then leave us,” Evanthya told the two guards.
“We’re to remain in the corridor at all times, First Minister,” one of the men answered. “Duke’s orders.”
Silence. After several moments, she said, “Fine then. Let me into the chamber.”
“Yes, First Minister.”
It took the man but a moment to find the correct key. After he opened the door, Evanthya stepped past him into the chamber, then pulled the door shut behind her.
“One of us should be in there with you, First Minister.”
“It’s all right. I’ve a dagger with me. I’ll call for you when I’m ready to leave.”
She faced Pronjed, her cheeks flushed, her expression grim. Her yellow eyes were as bright as blooms in the castle gardens, and her fine white hair hung loose to her shoulders. Pronjed knew that she loved another, a woman at that, but he couldn’t help noting how attractive she was.
“You realize, of course, that your dagger will do you no good against me,” he said quietly, not bothering to stand. He held up his wrists so that she could see the silk ties. “There’s a reason I’m bound with these.”
“Yes, Archminister. You may remember, they were my idea in the first place. We both know that I won’t need the weapon at all. You have no intention of harming me.”
“How can you be so sure?”
She had stepped closer to him and now she cast a quick glance at the door. “Because,” she whispered, “if you try to hurt me you’ll either be executed or thrown in the castle dungeon. You aren’t ready to die, and if you’re placed in the dungeon, you’ll have a much harder time escaping.”
Pronjed’s eyes flicked toward the door. Neither of the guards appeared to be listening. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Stop it. Of course you do. And I want to know why you’ve yet to make the attempt.”
“What?”
“Why haven’t you tried to escape?”
Perhaps there was an opportunity here. “Because I have no intention of escaping. I never have.”
“You’re lying.”
“You seem terribly sure of yourself, First Minister, and yet, as you yourself point out, I’ve made no attempt to win my freedom. Isn’t it possible that you’ve been wrong about me, that in your haste to pursue Fetnalla, you’ve imagined a traitor where there is none?”
“No, it’s not,” she said. But Pronjed heard doubt in her words and pressed his advantage.
“I can imagine how hard it must have been for you, hearing of Lord Orvinti’s death, knowing that there could be little doubt but that Fetnalla was responsible.”
“Be quiet!”
“Still, just because the first minister proved false, doesn’t mean that I will as well. I’m sure that would be of great comfort to you, but it’s just not-”
“I told you to be quiet!” In a swirl of her ministerial robes and a blur of white and steel, she was on him, her forearm pressed against his chest so that he was forced back against the stone wall, her blade at his throat.
It was all Pronjed could do not to shatter the dagger instantly. He tried to reassure himself that she needed him too much to kill him, and that she couldn’t risk harming him in any way and thus raising the suspicions of her duke. But he was trembling, and the edge of her blade felt cold and dangerous against his neck.
“First Minister?” one of the guards called from the grated window in the iron door, sounding alarmed.
“Leave us alone!” she said.
The man looked at Pronjed briefly, a smirk on his lips. Then he turned away.
“Why don’t you shatter my blade, Archminister?” she said, her voice dropping once more. “Or do you intend to tell me now that you’re not really a shaper?”
“This is foolishness, Evanthya. As you’ve already made clear to me, I can’t afford to harm you. Nor are you going to hurt me. You still believe that I can lead you to Fetnalla. So put your dagger away, and let’s speak of this civilly.”
Evanthya glared at him another moment, her weapon still held to his throat. Finally, slowly, she released him and sheathed the blade. “All right,” she said. “Tell me why you’re still here, or I’ll go to the duke and convince him to put you in the dungeon.”
“Another empty threat. As I say, you need me, or at least you think you do.”
“I need you as an excuse to go after Fetnalla, Archminister. Nothing more. Tebeo won’t let me pursue her-he sees no sense in it so long after Brall’s murder. But if you escape, I can prevail upon him to let me follow you. He hasn’t enough men left to send soldiers after you, so he’ll send me.”
“As I said-”
“But if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll send you to the dungeon and then leave Dantrielle without his permission. I’ll forfeit my title and place in his court if I have to. As I’ve told you once before, all I want is to get Fetnalla back. I don’t care about anything else. I certainly don’t give a damn about you.”
A braver man might have been willing to test her resolve, to force her either to give up her position in Tebeo’s court or prove that her threats amounted to nothing. But Pronjed felt his nerve failing him at the mere suggestion of being sent to the castle dungeon.
“I haven’t made the attempt,” he said at last, “because I’ve been unable to decide whether you truly wish to find her, or have been hoping to lure me into a trap.”
That, of all things, seemed to leave her speechless. She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. The archminister would have laughed had he not been trembling at the realization of what he had done. With that small admission he had, in effect, confirmed for her all that she had been assuming about him.
“Is that true?” she finally asked him, her voice so soft that he could barely hear her.
“It is.”
“Damn.” She raked a hand through her hair, closing her eyes briefly. “We’ve lost a good deal of time. There’s no telling where she is by now.”
“Perhaps then, it no longer makes sense for you to follow me.”
“I didn’t say that I was ready to give up.”
“And I didn’t say that I was ready to let you follow me.” She started to respond and Pronjed raised a hand, stopping her. “I know: you don’t need my permission, and I might not be able to prevent it. But I’m obligated to try. I’d be a fool not to.”
After a moment, she nodded. “So, when?”
Pronjed shook his head. He must have been an idiot. “Tonight,” he whispered. Seeing the doubtful look on her face, he added, “I swear it. I can’t afford to wait any longer either.”
She glanced toward the door. “Don’t hurt the men. You have delusion magic. Use it.”
He should have denied this, too. But like before he found himself helpless in the face of her certainty. He could argue the point for the rest of the day without convincing her. Instead, he shook his head. “I make you no promises in that regard. I’ll do whatever I have to.
If you really want to ensure their safety, you’ll have these silk bonds removed. I can shatter manacles, but with these…” He shrugged.
“But your powers-”
“I can’t control two men at one time, which means that the second guard will have to be incapacitated somehow. It’s up to you, First Minister. If you truly care about these men, you’ll help me.”
Evanthya offered no reply, save to hold his gaze for a few moments more before straightening and crossing to the door.
“Guards!” she called.
One of the men was there immediately, unlocking the door and letting her out. An instant later he clanged the door shut again and threw the lock, the sound echoing in the chamber.
“Watch him closely,” he heard Evanthya say to Tebeo’s men. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he tried to escape.”
Pronjed just gaped at the door. The silk at his wrists and ankles felt tighter than ever.
Evanthya was trembling as she descended the stairway of the prison tower. Tonight.
She had never known that she could be afraid of so many things at one time. The archminister, the Weaver, the castle guards, her duke and his reaction if he learned what she intended. And behind it all, the fear of her next encounter with Fetnalla. She no longer doubted that her beloved had betrayed the realm or that she had killed her duke, Brall of Orvinti. Nor did she have any illusions as to her own power to turn Fetnalla from the dark path she had chosen. Yet she had to try. She owed that much to herself, to both of them.
The two soldiers outside Pronjed’s chamber had regarded her strangely when she stepped back into the corridor, a testament to how deep suspicions of the Qirsi still ran in Aneira. All the men in Castle Dantrielle knew how she had fought against the soldiers of Solkara and Rassor during the recent siege. They had seen her doing battle, back to back with the duke, risking her life on Tebeo’s behalf. They had seen as well the mist and wind she raised to protect Dantrielle’s men from enemy archers when Numar’s invaders briefly took control of the castle ramparts. After all that, none could question her loyalty to Tebeo and his house.
