by DAVID B. COE
Eventually, he was able to look away from the flames, and to think once more of the tasks that awaited him that night.
Pronjed would be sleeping by now, and if a residue of anger remained from his conversation with the woman, so be it. The Solkaran minister had earned Dusaan’s fury as few ever had before.
The Weaver closed his eyes again, and sent his mind soaring eastward once more. He hadn’t as far to travel this time and before long he sensed the Great Forest beneath him. He allowed his thoughts to spiral downward to Castle Solkara, where he found the king’s archminister asleep.
Taking hold of the man’s mind, he again called forth the image of the moor, this time placing himself atop a steep, unforgiving rise and leaving Pronjed a good distance from the base of the mount. He even raised a wind to blow down the slope, slowing the minister further. Let the man walk and climb. Let him enfeeble himself so that he might know how he had displeased the Weaver. And let him tremble with that knowledge as he dragged himself up the rocky slope.
The Weaver had a long wait, and though it was of his own making, he had little patience for the delay. He had to resist the urge to shorten Pronjed’s climb, reminding himself again and again that he was punishing the man. When at last the minister reached the top of the rise, appearing in the distance as a small, slow-moving figure, Dusaan started toward him, his long strides covering the ground between them far faster than Pronjed could have on his own.
As they drew nearer to each other, Dusaan saw that the minister had indeed suffered in his ascent. Pronjed’s bony face was flushed to a deep scarlet, and the sweat on his brow and cheeks shone in the Weaver’s light. Still, though breathless, he wore a small grin on his thin lips, looking anything but contrite.
“Weaver,” he said, stopping before Dusaan and bowing. He looked up, eagerness in his pale eyes. “You’ve heard?”
“What happened?” the Weaver demanded, his voice like a frigid mountain wind.
The grin vanished. “I don’t understand.”
“What is there to understand? I want to know why your king is dead!”
“But surely you’re pleased. I’d have thought—”
“Tell me what happened!”
Pronjed licked his lips, the avid gleam in his eyes replaced now by something far more satisfying.
“There was a visitor. One of the dukes, one of Chago’s allies. He gave the king a dagger the night of his arrival—”
“So you sought to make it a murder?”
“No, Weaver,” the minister said, beginning to sound desperate. “A suicide. The king had seen the surgeon earlier in the day, and had learned that he was sterile. Carden was so galled by this that he had the surgeon garroted. So I saw an opportunity to—”
“You convinced the others that he was dying,” Dusaan said, nodding. He could see the logic of what the minister had done, although he still wasn’t ready to forgive the man’s presumption. “And they believe it?” he asked.
“The queen believes it. What choice do the others have?”
“They can be suspicious. The king would have had to believe that Qirsi magic would fail to heal him. He would have had to believe beyond doubt that his line would continue to rule Aneira. And he would have had to believe that his death would spare his family suffering and humiliation. Failing any one of these, his suicide threatens to draw the attention of those who oppose us. All it takes is one doubter, one person with the persistence and courage to challenge you and the queen.”
“That may be true elsewhere,” the minister said. “But not here, not in Aneira. Those who knew Carden well enough to pose any threat to us, would realize that he was too vain and too callow to be stayed by the considerations of which you speak.” He paused, seeming to realize abruptly that his tone had grown too familiar. “Though of course, for any proper king, you’d be entirely correct, Weaver. It was only Carden’s vast shortcomings as a leader that allowed me to think I could do this.”
“So you think I should be pleased,” Dusaan said, “that I should be praising you for your bold actions.”
The minister couldn’t see his face and he appeared uncertain as to what response the Weaver expected.
“Well, I…I think that…No one has raised questions regarding the king’s death. And already there is talk of the coming struggle for the throne.”
“You assume that because I hoped for civil war in Eibithar, I want it in Aneira as well?”
Pronjed swallowed, his eyes widening. Clearly he had. “You had the duke of Bistari killed,” he said quickly. “You made it look as though Carden had ordered the assassination. Didn’t you wish to sow dissent among the other houses?”
“Dissent is one thing, you fool! Open conflict is another! If you’re too dull to know the difference, I may have to reconsider the faith I’ve placed in you.”
Pronjed opened his mouth to speak, but Dusaan stopped him, clutching his throat with the same power he had used to silence the woman.
“Did it never occur to you that I might want the king alive, that indeed I might need him? Do you believe that I tell you everything? Do you presume to think that you understand all that I have in mind for the Forelands? Or is it that you think you know better than I what our movement should do next?”
The archminister shook his head, trying to speak, as a look of panic crept into his eyes.
He tightened his grip on he man’s neck. “Don’t you think that if I had wanted Carden dead I would have commanded you to kill him long ago? Have you decided that you don’t need me telling you what to do anymore? Is that it? You long to rule the Forelands yourself and so you’ve taken it upon yourself to make such decisions.”
The minister’s eyes began to bulge from his head, and he clawed at his throat like a beast trying to free itself of chains.
“The movement is mine, Pronjed. Never forget that. Only I have the power to speak with all of you any time I wish. Only I have the ability to combine our magics and make the Qirsi the most powerful force in the Forelands. The Qirsi of the seven realms need a Weaver to lead them. Any one of the rest of you can be replaced.”
He thought of the woman then, and her child, wondering if this last applied to her as well. Surely it should have, but he couldn’t say for certain that it did, and this disturbed him.
Pronjed dropped to his knees, his face turning a dull blue.
“Your actions have greatly complicated my plans,” the Weaver said. “You’ve cost me a good deal of time and an even greater amount of gold. Only time will tell if the damage you’ve done will prove even more severe, but for now this is enough. I could let you die, and it wouldn’t matter at all. It would satisfy my anger, and Qirsar knows it would be justified. I want you to know that so that later you can thank me for the gift of your life. Do you understand?”
The man managed a nod.
Dusaan smiled, letting him struggle a moment longer before finally releasing him.
The minister fell forward with a loud gasp and lay panting on the ground, his eyes closed as his color slowly returned to its usual shade of white. The Weaver let him lie there for a time before ordering him to his feet again.
“So now that it’s done, who is to be the next king?”
“That remains to be seen, Weaver,” the man said, his voice ragged. “The queen hopes to place the king’s daughter on the throne, but fears giving Carden’s eldest brother the power of a regent. I’ve encouraged her and promised my aid in guarding her child against the brother’s ambitions.”
“Will Aneira’s dukes consent to being ruled by a queen?”
“Some of them may; others may decide the time has come to end Solkaran rule.” He faltered. “If you like, I can try to persuade the queen to take a different course. Giving the kingdom over to the brother may be the safer course. He’d make a poor king, but he will be easy to bribe.”
“No,” Dusaan said. “That won’t be necessary.” The truth was that while Carden’s death forced the emperor to postpone his attack on Eibith
ar, it did weaken Aneira considerably, particularly if his successor, whoever that might be, did not enjoy the support of all the land’s houses. When the time came, other kingdoms might be more willing to come to Eibithar’s defense if the armies arrayed against the northern kingdom were less formidable. And the wider this war grew, the better for the Weaver and his movement. He wasn’t about to let Pronjed know any of this—better to let the man think that each time they spoke his life hung by a wraith’s hair. “Let the queen do as she wishes. If she succeeds, you’ll have her gratitude, and if she fails, we can see to it that the brother is made king. Either way, we’ll have some influence with the throne. That should mitigate the costs of your recklessness.”
Pronjed lowered his eyes. “Yes, Weaver.”
“When is Carden’s funeral?”
“Not for several more days, Weaver. Aneira’s nobles are just beginning to arrive in Solkara.”
“And when will the next king—or queen—be chosen?”
“It’s hard to say. I expect the decision to be made in the days after the funeral. I doubt the dukes and Carden’s brothers will leave the city until the matter is settled. Unless, of course, they intend to go to war.”
“I’d prefer that didn’t happen, Pronjed. A civil war would complicate matters greatly. If Aneira’s houses go to war, I’ll hold you responsible.”
The minister paled. “Yes, Weaver. I’ll see to it that they don’t.”
“It seems you’ve suddenly become a patriot,” Dusaan said, grinning. “How curious.”
Pronjed nodded, but said nothing.
“Is there anything else?”
“No, Weaver.”
Dusaan nodded. “Very well. I don’t want to have to hurt you again, Pronjed. But I feel it necessary to impress upon you how important it is that you not take matters into your own hands. As it were.”
Taking hold of the minister’s magic as only a Weaver could, Dusaan used the man’s shaping power to shatter the bone in his thumb.
Pronjed clutched his hand with a shriek, doubling over in pain. So great was his agony that the Weaver had to strain to hold their connection a moment longer.
“I’m sure you’ll find a healer in the castle who can attend to that,” he said. “But it should serve to remind you never to trifle with me again. I hope we understand one another.”
“Yes, Weaver,” Pronjed said through gritted teeth.
Dusaan nodded his satisfaction, then released his hold on the man’s mind, allowing him to awaken to his pain and his darkened chambers in Castle Solkara.
It occurred to the Weaver that Harel would want to attend Carden’s funeral, something Dusaan could not allow. None of the men and women who served him had ever actually met him outside of a dream—this was why he had yet to turn any of the Qirsi in the emperor’s palace—and though he thought that he could disguise his voice and, by tying back his hair, his appearance as well, it was not a risk he was willing to take. More than that, the emperor’s appearance in Solkara might further inflame the situation there. Even in Aneira, which was regarded as Braedon’s closest ally among the six, the emperor was not well liked. Such was the price of ruling the wealthiest and most powerful realm in the Forelands. His appearance at Carden’s funeral might be perceived as a gesture of support for the queen and her daughter. This, in turn, would increase the likelihood that several of the dukes, in particular Noltierre and Dantrielle, would oppose the girl’s investiture.
He would have to advise the emperor against making the journey. Fortunately, Chago’s death and Harel’s constant fear of assassination promised to make this rather simple.
His conversations with Cresenne and Pronjed had wearied him. Even the power of a Weaver had its limits. Usually he limited himself to no more than one or two visitations in a night. He had his chancellors to give instructions to the other Qirsi who served him. But because of what he had learned speaking with the woman, there was one last conversation he needed to have this night. After that he would rest.
For a third time he reached out across the Scabbard to the kingdom of Aneira. This time, however, he stayed to the north, his consciousness descending toward Castle Mertesse. Usually he found two of his servants sleeping side by side, but on this night he found just the one. It took him a moment to remember that Yaella would be near Solkara by now, accompanying her duke to the funeral. Her absence would actually make this easier.
Since the failure at Kentigern during the growing turns, he had made this one endure an arduous climb, much as he had just done to Pronjed. On this night, though, he was eager to be done so that he might enjoy a few hours’ rest. Before long, the renegade stood before him, bowing and offering an obeisant greeting.
“They didn’t take you to Solkara, Shurik. I’m sure you must be terribly disappointed.”
The man gave a thin smile. “I never expected to go, Weaver. You know the saying. ‘The traitor walks a lonely path.’”
“How did Mertesse’s duke take the news of the king’s death?”
“As you’d expect. He was struck speechless at first, and a moment later he was asking his minister how he might turn the tragedy to his advantage.” Shurik hesitated. “We’d heard that Carden took his own life. Were we misinformed?”
“Do you honestly think I’d tell you one way or another?”
The man frowned, looking like a chastised boy. “No, Weaver.”
“So Mertesse covets the throne for himself.”
“Of course,” Shurik said. “He’s Eandi. But he knows better than to risk much in trying to win it. Instead, he seeks to curry favor with Carden’s most likely successor.”
“And who does he think that is?”
“Grigor, the eldest brother.”
Dusaan nodded. “I see. How would the duke feel about a regency, with Grigor ruling until Carden’s heir took the throne?”
“But Carden had no—” He stopped, his yellow eyes widening comically. “You mean the daughter?”
“That’s what the queen wants.”
Shurik seem to weigh this briefly, shaking his head. “I’m certain the duke has never even entertained the notion,” he finally said. “I don’t know how he’ll feel about it. I’m sorry, Weaver. I’m afraid you’ll need to speak with Yaella about that.”
“It’s no matter. That isn’t the reason I’ve come to you tonight.”
The renegade regarded him warily, straining as all of them did to see beyond the shadows, to catch just a glimpse of his face. “It’s not?” he asked.
“No. I remember speaking with you just after your failure at Kentigern. You offered then to search the Forelands for this other man, this Grinsa jal Arriet, whom you believed to be another Weaver.”
“I remember as well,” Shurik said. “You forbade me to go after him. You told me to remain in Mertesse with Yaella.”
“At the time, it was the best course to follow. Now circumstances have changed. I want you to find him for me. If you have the opportunity to kill him, you may. But hear me well, Minister. If you try to kill him and fail, thus revealing to him that I want him dead, I’ll see to it that you die a slow, agonizing death. Is that clear?”
The renegade blanched, but he managed a small, mirthless smile. “Quite clear, Weaver. Where would you have me begin this search?”
During his previous conversation with Cresenne, before their troubling talk this night, the woman told him that she believed Grinsa was still in Aneira. At the time, he dismissed this as little more than a wish on her part. She didn’t want to leave the Festival or brave the cold winds of the steppe, and so she chose to think that the gleaner remained in Carden’s kingdom. Knowing what he did now, however, Dusaan was forced to consider that she might have been right.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in Solkara,” the Weaver said. “Or at least on his way there.”
Shurik made a sour face. “It would be…awkward, if I were to go to Solkara just now.”
Dusaan nodded. “I agree. Start south in a few days
, but stay out of the royal city. Once the funeral is over and the mourners begin to return to their homes, you may enter Solkara. That way you won’t embarrass your duke, and you may still be able to track him.”
“And if it turns out he hasn’t been to Solkara?”
Dusaan felt a muscle in his cheek begin to jump and was grateful the man couldn’t see his face. “If he’s not in Solkara, I can give you the name of a woman to follow. I have a feeling she might lead us to him.”
Chapter Twelve
Solkara, Aneira
Fetnalla was already awake and dressed when she heard the knock at her door. It was early still—the sun had yet to rise, though the night had given way to the ghostly light of morning—but she had slept poorly. Any day now, Evanthya would reach the royal city, and the anticipation had begun to affect her sleep. Nevertheless, she was surprised to learn that others were awake as well, and more surprised still when she called through the door to ask who had come.
“It’s the archminister.”
She and Pronjed had done their best to avoid each other for the past several days as preparations continued for Carden’s funeral. For him to come now to her quarters so early in the morning seemed strange indeed. What choice did she have, however, but to let him in?
Opening the door, she found him looking ill. He was sweating and his face looked ashen, even for a Qirsi. He appeared to be trembling, and he cradled his right hand against his chest as if it pained him greatly.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, First Minister,” he said, his voice weak. “But I’m wondering if you’re a healer, or if there’s one in your company.”
“Of course, Archminister,” she said, forgetting everything else as she helped him into her chamber. “I’m a healer.”
