Seeds of Betrayal: Book 2 of the Winds of the Forelands Tetralogy

by DAVID B. COE

  Finding herself in the dream, the woman turned to face him, but she kept her eyes trained on the ground in front of her.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said, as gently as he could. He hadn’t liked Shurik, but he valued this woman, and if the traitor was indeed dead, he needed her more than ever.

  She swallowed, her gaze still lowered. “I found him dead in his chamber this morning. There was another man there, dead as well. The guards say he was a musician, but I suspect he earned most of his gold as an assassin.”

  Dusaan felt his stomach knotting. On several occasions, the movement had employed an assassin who posed as a singer. Could this have been the same man?

  “What did this second man look like?”

  As soon as Yaella began her description, the Weaver knew it couldn’t be the same man. Still, the very notion that someone would send an assassin for Shurik alarmed him. Under different circumstances he might have blamed his murder on the duke of Kentigern, whom Shurik betrayed. But in light of the duke’s recent overtures to Dusaan’s movement, this didn’t seem likely.

  “You’re certain it was an assassin? Could there be any other explanation?”

  She faltered. “We did find a flask of wine in the room.”

  “Shurik’s?”

  “No. It belonged to the other man.”

  Dusaan suppressed a smile, his relief palpable. “So, he might have been drunk.”

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  He had no desire to be cruel to the woman, but neither could he have her imagining threats where they didn’t exist. “You’ll forgive me for saying so,” he began, softening his tone once more, “but if Shurik managed to kill this man on Pitch Night, it seems far more likely that he was a drunkard than a hired blade.”

  She looked up at that, anger in her deep yellow eyes. But then she clamped her mouth shut, as if afraid to speak her mind.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Say what you will.”

  “I disagree with you, Weaver. I think it very likely that this was an assassin.”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “Shurik went in search of Grinsa, as you commanded. He found him in Solkara and only barely managed to escape him. After their encounter, Shurik became convinced that the man is a Weaver and he feared for his life, not only because Grinsa would want to keep secret the extent of his powers, but also because he knew he had failed you by running from him.”

  This was the last thing Dusaan had expected.

  “So you think I might have sent the assassin.”

  Her eyes flicked away. “I wondered,” she said, showing more courage than he knew she possessed.

  Usually he would have done nothing to dispel her doubts. Such uncertainty and fear could be more effective than gold in keeping his servants loyal. But under these circumstances he didn’t want to risk driving Yaella away from the movement.

  “I didn’t,” he told her. “You have my word.”

  She glanced at him, her gaze dropping again almost immediately. But she nodded and murmured, “Yes, Weaver.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  She was wise enough not to deny it. “Forgive me, Weaver. It’s been a difficult day. I—I don’t know my own mind.”

  He wanted to be generous with her but he could only tolerate so much. “I understand, of course. It must have been terrible for you, finding him like that. But,” he went on, his voice hardening just a bit, “I expect that by the next time we speak, you’ll have abandoned your mistrust. There’s still a great deal to be done, and I must have complete faith in all who serve me. I’d hate to lose someone else so soon after Shurik’s death.”

  The woman swallowed. “Of course, Weaver. Thank you.”

  Dusaan could tell that she wanted their conversation to end, but he kept her there as he pondered all that she had told him.

  “Shurik indicated to me several turns ago that he suspected Grinsa might be a Weaver,” he said at last. “Did something happen in Solkara to convince him further?”

  “Grinsa escaped the city by shattering the swords of several Solkaran soldiers and shrouding himself in a mist. Yet, when Shurik first met him in Kentigern, he claimed to possess only gleaning magic.”

  Dusaan nodded. It didn’t prove the man was a Weaver, but it certainly gave him cause to wonder.

  “You were in Solkara at the time too. Did you see this man when Shurik did?”

  “No, Weaver. I was still in my bed, recovering from the poisoning.”

  “Ah, yes. Forgive me, I’d forgotten. I take it you’re well now?”

  “I’ve healed, yes.”

  “Good,” he said, nodding again. The Weaver had the impression that she was keeping something from him, though her mind seemed open. There was more at work here than mere grief. He would have liked to question her further, but he could feel himself tiring, and he still had more to do tonight, particularly now that Shurik was dead. “I’ll leave you,” he finally told her. “Rest well, and be ready to serve me the next time we speak.”

  “Yes, Weaver.”

  He released her mind and opened his eyes once more to his chamber in the Imperial Palace. He stood and poured himself a cup of water, which he promptly drained. He poured a second, sipped it, and returned to his chair.

  With the traitor gone, there remained only one person who could help him find the gleaner. He was reluctant to turn to her, not only because she loved the man and carried his child, but also because she would be giving birth within this next turn, and any journey she undertook right now would be most difficult for her. But what choice did Dusaan have? If Grinsa was indeed a Weaver, and if he knew enough to send an assassin for Shurik, he threatened the entire movement. Eventually he might even become a danger to Dusaan himself. He had to be found and killed.

  The Weaver explained much of this to Cresenne upon entering her dream. Even as he spoke, however, he could not keep his eyes from straying to her magnificent belly. He could hardly believe that one as lithe as she had been nine turns ago could have been transformed so completely. He could imagine how she must have looked beneath the simple shift she wore, her body as white and smooth and round as Panya on the Night of Two Moons. Yet her face remained just as he remembered it from the first time he walked in her sleep. A bit fuller perhaps, softer in the cheeks, but radiant nevertheless.

  “You understand, I have to send you north,” he told her, barely trusting himself to speak.

  “Yes, Weaver.”

  Just a short while ago he had thought to claim Jastanne as his queen. He had touched her, wanting to do so much more. But now, staring at Cresenne, he couldn’t even summon an image of the other woman’s face.

  “You’re eager to find him,” he said, unable to mask the rage in his voice.

  Cresenne blanched. “No, Weaver. I just—”

  Before he knew what he had done, she recoiled as if from a blow. An instant later a red imprint of his hand began to darken her cheek. He hadn’t moved.

  “You should know better than to lie to me. Now answer. Are you eager to see him?”

  She dropped her gaze, nodding.

  “You love him.”

  “I don’t know.”

  He would have liked to slap her again, but he sensed that this time she wasn’t lying. “Can you continue to serve me?”

  Dusaan knew what she would say. All answers but one would invite death. Her fate would be decided not by what she said, but rather how she said it. Even as he waited for her to speak, though, he wasn’t certain what he would do if he heard another lie. He had no desire to kill her; he wasn’t even certain that he could.

  “I’m devoted to this movement,” she said. “I want my child to grow up in the world you have envisioned, Weaver.”

  A clever response, though not truly an answer to his question. He considered pressing her on the matter, but thought it best not to. He had just hurt her, and he didn’t need his powers to see that she hated him for it. There seemed no sense in forcing
her to lie, and thus forcing himself to kill her.

  “Very well. You’ll find a way north?”

  “With the new turn, there should be peddlers coming to Kett. I’m certain one of them will agree to take me, provided I offer enough gold. I’ll have to go up onto the steppe—crossing the Tarbin during the snows would be difficult. But Grinsa will do the same. He can’t risk the Tarbin so long as the Curgh boy is with him.”

  Dusaan felt his rage returning. She had given this a good deal of thought. He wondered briefly if she had considered making the journey even without his approval. “Do you feel well enough to go?” he asked, keeping the rest to himself.

  She appeared to falter for just a moment, a thin smile flitting across her face. “Yes.”

  “You were going to say something else.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “You wondered if it would make any difference if you told me you didn’t.”

  Cresenne winced and nodded, seeming to brace herself for another blow.

  The Weaver merely shook his head. “Probably not. You wish to serve the movement, to ensure your child a place in a better world. This is the cost you must bear for that glorious future. Believe me when I tell you that it’s far less than others have paid in the past turn.”

  “Yes, Weaver.”

  “Can you kill this man if you have to?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Twice now, I’ve sent assassins for him. But killing him myself…” She shrugged, looking young and frightened, although whether of Dusaan, or of having to kill Grinsa, the Weaver couldn’t say for certain.

  “Perhaps it will be enough if you can tell me where he is. If he is a Weaver, you’ll have no more chance against him than the assassins you’ve sent. I may be the only one who can defeat him.”

  “I’ll do my best to find him, Weaver. You have my word.”

  “I have far more than that. I have access to your dreams. No matter where in the Forelands you go, I can reach you. Never forget that, Cresenne. This man may love you as much as you love him. He may even possess the same abilities I do. But if I choose to kill you, he’ll be powerless to stop me.”

  One of her hands had wandered to her belly, as if she sought to guard her baby from his threats. Her gaze remained steady, however. “I understand, Weaver.”

  “I’m glad. I’ve foreseen great things for you and your child. I’d hate for anything to keep the two of you from your true fates.”

  He released her then, sending the woman to the waking world with fear for her child fresh in her mind. Clearly he would never claim Cresenne’s love as his own. But perhaps her terror would serve his needs just as well.

  Even after becoming aware of his surroundings again, the gentle crackle of his fire and its warmth on his legs and face, Dusaan continued to squeeze his eyes shut. His temples had begun to throb and he rubbed them, taking long deep breaths.

  He had no idea of the hour, but he guessed that little of the night remained. There was time enough for one last conversation, the most important of them all, though he could not let her know that. He had promised to kill her if she did not open her mind to him, but as with Cresenne, he didn’t know if he could follow through on his threat. At any time, he would have leaped at the chance to win the loyalties of Eibithar’s archminister, but with Paegar dead and the invasion looming, his need of her could not have been greater. If she refused him, he would find a way to compel her acquiescence, even if it meant returning to her dreams again and again, even it meant resorting to torture. Regardless of the cost to both of them, she would serve him.

  Sending his mind eastward one last time, over the Scabbard and the bare-limbed trees of Kentigern Wood, the Weaver reached down into Audun’s Castle, finding the archminister in her bedchamber. He could feel himself growing weary and though confident that his magic would not fail him before this last conversation ended, he vowed silently to rest the next night.

  He made her walk a distance—not far, and not up the slope, but just long enough to convey the scope of this vision he had conjured for her. When she finally stopped, just a few steps from where he waited, her cheeks were slightly flushed. She had an oval face and long hair, which she wore tied in twin braids. The last time they spoke, he had failed to notice how pretty she was.

  “I knew you would come to me tonight,” she said, before he could speak. “I gleaned it in a vision last night, as I slept.”

  No one who served the movement had ever said such a thing to him before. He wasn’t certain what it meant, but for some reason it pleased him.

  “Did it frighten you to dream of me?”

  “No. It convinced me that my destiny lies with your cause.”

  “So you won’t defy me anymore?”

  “No, Weaver. My mind is open to you.”

  So it was. Reaching further into her consciousness, embracing her thoughts and feelings as he would a lover, he felt her abandon her resistance. He sensed the doubts that lingered, and even the residue of fear she felt looking upon him. But they were obstacles no longer. He grasped the power of her love for Kearney and the depth of her pain at losing him. He tasted the grief she felt at losing Paegar and even saw that she suspected him of having a hand in the minister’s death. Some shadows remained, darkened places she couldn’t bring herself to show him yet, but this was true of every Qirsi whose mind he had touched. With time, the light of the white sun he brought to her dreams would illuminate even these murky corners. In all ways that mattered, though, she was his, fully and by her own consent.

  “I’m pleased,” he said after some time. “I know that you’ll prove most valuable to our movement.”

  “Thank you, Weaver.”

  “Tell me, does your king still rely on you for counsel?”

  Keziah began to toy with one of her braids, a great sadness in her eyes. “Not very much. He did for the first few turns we were here, but the last turn has been difficult. After Paegar died, I stopped trying to hide how angry I was. I’ve said and done things that Kearney might never forgive.”

  “You’ll have to apologize. Blame your behavior on your grief. Tell him you love him still, and you said what you did to hurt him. Do whatever you think is necessary to win his confidence again.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “You must. You’re of no use to me or our cause if you can’t influence your king.”

  She chewed her lip briefly, looking like a child. “Yes, Weaver.”

  “It won’t be easy, but you have to try. Think of it as a test, the first of many that you’ll face in your service to this movement.”

  What he asked of her carried risks, not only for her, but also for the movement. As she regained Kearney’s trust, she might also begin to rekindle their passion. There was a chance that she would question her loyalties again, that Dusaan might lose her to Eibithar’s king. But as he told her, without the king’s trust, she could offer nothing to the movement.

  “Your king is aware of the threat from Kentigern?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And what does he intend to do about it?”

  “He’s trying to make Aindreas an outcast within the kingdom. He hopes to win the support of the other dukes. If Kentigern sees that he is alone, that civil war will bring only ruin, he might relent.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Not as he had hoped. Several of the other houses, Galdasten among them, remain certain that Tavis of Curgh killed Aindreas’s daughter. They think Kearney is in league with Javan, and they question the legitimacy of his reign.”

  “Is Kearney speaking with the lords of Galdasten?”

  “Not since his investiture. He intends to invite the duke to Audun’s Castle, but he’ll wait until the snows end.”

  “It would be better for the movement if he didn’t meet with Galdasten at all, but I suppose that can’t be helped.” He paused for a moment. “As you win back the king’s trust, I want you to encourage him to take a firmer stance with Aindreas and his
allies. Tell him that a king can’t tolerate such dissent in his realm. Make him see that Kentigern is guilty of treason. Don’t push too hard. You shouldn’t actually call Aindreas a traitor. Just lead him in that direction. Kearney’s pride will do the rest.”

  “Yes, Weaver. I’ll begin right away.”

  “Good. Is there anything you wish to ask, before I leave you?”

  “Yes. When might I expect more gold?”

  The Weaver felt his smile fade. He had spoken of gold to many others within the movement, but had hoped that it would not be necessary with this woman. “Is that why you agreed to serve me? To grow rich?”

  He read Keziah’s retreat in the widening of her eyes and the coloring of her cheeks. “No, Weaver. I never—”

  “This is a war, Archminister. We fight to free ourselves of the Eandi, to break their hold on the Forelands. We fight for our children and the generations that follow, so that they might grow up in a land where they can aspire to be kings and nobles rather than servants and Revel clowns. Service to our people should be compensation enough. Victory will be our reward.”

  “Of course, Weaver,” she said, staring at the ground, looking abashed. “Please forgive me.”

  “You’ve already received a good deal of gold,” he went on, softening his tone. “And in time you will receive more. Eandi nobles shouldn’t be the only ones who know the joys of wealth. But you must be patient. When you’ve proven yourself to me, when I know a bit more about you, I’ll be happy to send you more gold.”

  The woman looked up. “When you know more about me?”

  “We’ve made a good start tonight, and as your service to the movement continues, so will our understanding of each other. I make it a point to learn as much as possible about those who serve me. The more I know about you, the better I can use you to achieve our goals.”

  He felt her apprehension flare like distant lightning. “This troubles you.”

  “I—I don’t want others to learn that my father was a Weaver. I’m sorry, Weaver, but I fear for my life. I know that you live with this fear each day, but I thought when he died…”