by DAVID B. COE
“Damn you!” he said, forcing himself to sit up.
Honok just glared at him, his own pain written plainly on his face.
In a way, the pain in his shoulder was the least of his problems. Honok knew he was a gleaner, and he had seen him shatter wood and steel, not to mention bone. Now Grinsa had to heal himself, and Honok as well, if he was going to keep him alive. How much could he afford to reveal? And what was he to do with Honok? He couldn’t keep the man with him without putting his own life at risk. Nor could he take him to a town and have him imprisoned. If Honok and his partner were as skilled in their dark trade as he suspected, there were no prisons outside those of the major houses that could hold him. Releasing him, of course, was out of the question, not only because of who he was and what he might do to Tavis and others, but also because of what he knew. If word got back to Cresenne that Grinsa had other powers, it would raise her suspicions, and given what he knew of her now, that seemed the greatest risk of all.
All of which meant that Honok had to die.
Grinsa shivered. Over the course of his life, he had gone to great lengths to preserve his secret, but he had never killed for it.
He’s an assassin, he told himself. He would have killed you tonight if you hadn’t stopped him. Who knows how many others he’s murdered, or how many more he’ll kill if you let him go?
It was an excuse, nothing more. All of it might have been true, but if he did this, that wouldn’t be the real reason. He was protecting himself, and no one else. He was trading the life of this man before him for his own.
Honok started to push himself up, and as he did, his gaze fell to the second dagger lying on the ground between them.
There was nothing else Grinsa could do. As Honok lunged for his lost dagger, Grinsa threw himself forward, grunting at the pain in his shoulder. It seemed to the Qirsi that they met in midair, like falcons battling over the Moorlands, and then crashed to the ground. Grinsa’s good arm, dagger in hand, was crushed against his chest under Honok’s weight. He was fortunate that the blade lay flat, or he might have taken his own life. As it was, he could not free the arm to stab at the assassin. The dark-haired man pounded his fist into Grinsa’s side and then stretched out his arm for the blade that lay on the ground. It was enough to give Grinsa room to move. Arching his back as violently as he could, and exhaling sharply at the white hot pain in his shoulder, he threw the man off of him. Without hesitation, in one convulsive motion, he flung himself over and plunged his dagger into Honok’s chest, collapsing on top of him as he did. The assassin screamed, his back arching as Grinsa’s had a moment before. But then his entire body seemed to sag, and he lay utterly still.
For a long time, Grinsa couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes, much less sit up. His shoulder ached, his fingers had started to grow numb, and his side was tender from where Honok had hit him, once with his elbow and once with his fist.
But it was fear that held him there, that kept his eyes closed so tight it hurt. He had killed.
You had to, he told himself. To protect yourself, to save Tavis.
“You had to.” He said it aloud, as if hearing it could help.
Slowly, he opened his eyes and pushed himself up with his good arm. Honok’s eyes and mouth were still open, his death frozen on his face for all to see. Grinsa pulled his blade free and wiped the blood on his sleeve so that it mingled with his own. He tried to stand, but his head spun until he thought he’d be sick and he had to sit back down.
His shoulder needed healing, but he wasn’t sure he had the strength to tend to himself. He had already used his powers far too much this night. He rested a few moments before crawling to where his mount stood. Forcing himself to stand, he retrieved his waterskin and pulled some food from a sack hanging from his saddle. Then he returned to the fire and dropped down to the ground. He took a long drink and made himself eat, though he nearly gagged on the smoked meat and hard cheese.
Placing his good hand on his shoulder, he closed his eyes and reached with his mind for whatever power remained within him. At first he sensed nothing, and fear gripped his heart. But then he felt it, welling up slowly within him, like a warm spring bubbling forth from the earth. Through his chest it flowed and down his good arm to the hand resting on his wound. Under that healing touch, the icy numbness retreated, leaving a searing pain that made him wince and shudder. Still, he kept his hand there, until at last the fire in his shoulder began to subside. It seemed to take a long time—the gash was deep and the pain stubborn. But eventually his shoulder healed.
Grinsa opened his eyes, only to have the forest roll and spin around him like a whirlwind. Squeezing his eyes shut again, he lowered himself onto his back. He was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the ground.
When he awoke the next day the wood had already grown warm, though a thin mist still drifted among the trees. Sunlight brightened the leaves above him and the trees were alive with the scolding of finches and warblers. It had to be midmorning, perhaps later.
Sitting up carefully, he was relieved to find that his dizziness had passed. He looked at his shoulder and raised his arm, testing the wound. He still bore an angry scar, dark and shaped like a sickle—chances were it would remain with him for the rest of his life—but he could move his arm without too much pain.
Almost against his will, his eyes strayed to the body of the assassin, which lay nearby. The flies had found him, hordes of them with shiny green backs. They buzzed loudly, crowding to the dark wound on his chest and to his mouth and eyes. Grinsa knew that he should do something for the man. You killed him. But he hadn’t the tools or the strength to bury him, and even if he could have built a pyre, he was only a day’s ride from Kentigern and he feared that the smoke might be seen from the castle. He looked away.
“Qirsar forgive me,” he breathed.
He climbed to his feet and walked to his mount, feeling just a bit unsteady. After eating a few bites of meat and taking a long drink that nearly emptied his waterskin, he threw his saddle onto the horse’s back and strapped it into place. He started to swing himself onto the mount, but then stopped, looking back once more at Honok.
Muttering a curse under his breath, he returned to where the body lay. He exhaled heavily, then dragged the body deeper into the woods, dug a shallow grave with his hands, and covered the body with dirt and dried leaves. There was little he could offer in supplication to the gods on Honok’s behalf, so in the end he merely said, “Be just with him, Bian. May there be a place for him in your realm.”
He started back toward his horse, but seeing the assassin’s second dagger lying in the dirt, he stopped again. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked it up and slipped it into his belt. A man never knew when an extra blade might save his life.
He was closer to Kentigern than he had thought. Even with his late start, he emerged from the wood onto the broad plain that lay before the city and tor just after dusk. It had been only two turns since his last visit here with the Revel, but still he could not help but pause for a moment to admire the austere majesty of the castle and the city wall. It was by far the most imposing castle in Eibithar, perhaps in all the Forelands, and gazing at it now, Grinsa found himself wondering if he had been a fool to think his plan could work. Over the centuries, the walls of this castle, and the tor on which it stood, had stopped armies from Aneira and the most powerful houses in Eibithar. Even with the powers he possessed, and the secret he carried, who was he to attempt alone what all those men had failed to accomplish?
He flexed his shoulder again, wincing slightly at the dull pain that remained. The answer, he knew, lay in Honok’s attack on him. And in Cresenne’s betrayal.
He had managed to keep her out of his mind most of the day, but thinking of her now, he felt an unbearable tightness in his chest that threatened to still his breathing. He fought past it, forcing his mind back to Tavis and his reason for being there. The duke’s son needed his help. The boy was on a path no one else could understand; one
that Grinsa had foreseen nearly to its end. He was Tavis’s only hope, and all he had to do was think of Cresenne and the lengths to which she had gone to stop him, to understand how important it was that the boy survive. As formidable as those walls were, he had to try. Besides, though few knew it, he had resources of his own that were, in their own way, just as formidable.
After a brief rest, he rode on, reaching the east entrance to the city a few moments before the bells rang signaling the locking of the city gates. Once inside the city, he dismounted and led his horse through the marketplace toward the castle, not wishing to appear to be in a great rush. He left his mount at the base of the tor, in a small common yard with several other horses and oxen. He didn’t plan to be in the castle for long, but he couldn’t risk leaving the beast in a more obvious spot.
With a quick glance over his shoulder to be sure he wasn’t being watched Grinsa started up the castle road. He was tiring quickly. The day’s ride, while not long, had worn on him, and he still felt weak from his battle with Honok. The magic he would need to get past the guards did not demand as great an effort as the healing or shaping he had done the night before, but it promised to be difficult just the same, particularly since Kentigern Castle had two sets of gates.
The lie had to be simple. Anything too intricate would demand that he expend more power than he could manage. So when the first guard confronted him at the wicket door of the castle’s city gate and asked him why he had come, he offered the easiest answer that came to mind.
“Your duke sent for me,” he said. “He seeks my counsel.”
Simple as this was, even the dullest guard in the kingdom would have been skeptical under most circumstances. But as he spoke the words, Grinsa reached out with his power and touched the man’s mind.
“All right,” the guard said, stepping out of his way and motioning him through the wicket. “He’ll be in bed by now, but someone in the castle can find a place for you to pass the night.”
Grinsa smiled. “Thank you.” He started through the stone archway leading into the castle.
“Hey now!” another man called, from the guardroom. “Who’s he?”
With an inward curse, Grinsa halted and turned again.
“He’s here to see the duke,” the first man said.
“I’m sure he is. But how do we know the duke wants to see him?”
The guard faced Grinsa again. “You say he sent for you?”
“Yes,” the Qirsi said, gently tapping the man’s mind a second time. “In the message I just showed you.”
“It’s all right, Trent,” the guard said, looking over his shoulder at the other man. “He showed me the duke’s message.”
Grinsa held his breath. He didn’t want to risk using his power on a second man.
“Fine, then,” the second guard called at last, turning and stepping back into the guardroom. “Let him go.”
Once more Grinsa smiled, before hurrying through the gate and into the castle’s first ward.
He used the same story, and the same magic, at the inner gate on the south side of the castle. Once more, he only needed to use his power on one guard, who then convinced the rest for him. Even so, he felt himself growing light-headed with the effort. At this point, however, he had no choice but to press on. He was surrounded by guards and the great stone walls of Kentigern Castle. And the hardest part of his task still lay before him.
Chapter Sixteen
Kentigern, Eibithar
He should have been asleep. The gate bells had rung some time ago and a deathly stillness lay over the castle. But Fotir could only lie in his bed, staring out the chamber’s small window at the stars. Judging from the way Xaver was tossing in his bed, it seemed that he couldn’t sleep either. It wasn’t as though they had much to do during the day to tire them out. Since Kentigern’s duke had barred them from seeing Tavis, there was little any of them could do other than sit in their chambers or wander the grounds of the castle. And worry. They had plenty of time for that.
Javan, who had seemed immune to the passage of time in the years Fotir had known him, appeared to have aged ten years in the past few days. Suddenly his face was lined and his back stooped like that of an old man.
“He’s dying,” he had said today, staring out the window, as he seemed to do all the time now. “My boy is dying and there’s nothing I can do for him.”
Fotir wanted to reassure him, to offer some comfort, but his duke deserved more than empty words and false hope. So he kept silent, even as he seethed with frustration and outrage. In truth, he thought it likely that the boy was already dead. A few days before, he had overheard several of the guards speaking of Tavis’s torture at the hands of Brienne’s father and his dogged refusal to confess. He couldn’t be certain that they weren’t saying it all for his benefit, but their stories had the ring of truth to them. Tavis was just past his Fating, and though he was strong and capable for his age, no boy could survive torture for long.
He didn’t say any of this to Javan, of course, but he felt certain that the duke knew, as did the MarCullet boy. In the last day or two, it seemed that all three of them had abandoned their hope for the boy’s release and begun a vigil for his death.
The knocking was faint at first, as if whoever had come feared waking them. It was only when the first minister heard soft footfalls in the corridor that he realized the first knocks had been at Tavis’s door. When the sound commenced again, on their door, it was unmistakable.
Xaver and Fotir sat up in their beds and exchanged a look.
“Light the lamp,” the minister said, his voice low.
The boy fumbled with the flint and steel for several moments before finally striking a flame. Fotir dressed and stepped to the door.
“Who’s there?” he called quietly.
“An ally,” came the reply. “And a friend to Lord Tavis.”
The minister glanced back at Xaver, who raised an eyebrow and drew his sword. Fotir nodded his approval before opening the door.
A tall, powerfully built Qirsi man stood before him. He looked vaguely familiar, though Fotir could not place him.
“First Minister,” the man said softly, offering a slight bow.
Fotir narrowed his eyes. “Do I know you?”
Before the man could answer, Xaver took a sharp breath. “The gleaner,” he said. “From the Revel.”
The minister began to nod slowly. “Of course. We met at the Silver Gull.”
“Yes,” the gleaner said, glancing from side to side. Clearly he wanted to enter the room, but Fotir wasn’t ready to let him in just yet.
“What is it you want, gleaner?”
Their eyes met.
“I want to help,” the man said, sounding earnest.
“You knew this was going to happen!” Xaver said. “You saw it in Tavis’s Fating, and yet you let him come here!”
Fotir raised a hand, silencing the boy, but he kept his eyes on the man’s face. “The Revel is in Galdasten now, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And you came all this way just to help Lord Tavis?”
“Master MarCullet is right. I did see something of Lord Tavis’s fate. Or more precisely, of his future.”
“An interesting distinction,” Fotir said. “Perhaps I wasn’t as far off as you and your friends made it seem when I asked if you had misled him with the gleaning.”
He heard voices approaching. The gleaner looked in their direction, then faced him again. Suddenly he looked frightened. But still Fotir did not allow him into the chamber.
“You asked me if what he saw was real,” the gleaner said. “Obviously it was. I had reasons for not showing him his true fate. You must believe that I meant him no harm. I intended what he saw as a warning.”
“Your warning nearly cost young Xaver here his life.”
“I know that.” He looked past Fotir to the boy. “I’m sorry for it.”
The voices were quite close now. Guards, no doubt. They’d be turning the corne
r onto this corridor in a few more seconds.
“Why did you come here?” Fotir asked again.
“To help!” the man said, desperation creeping into his voice.
“So you’ve said. How?”
“By freeing Lord Tavis from the prison! But I can’t do it alone!”
It was the last thing Fotir expected him to say. Indeed, the minister was so surprised that he nearly left the man standing in the corridor for too long.
Seeing the flicker of the guards’ torches on the corridor walls, he quickly stepped aside, allowing the gleaner to hurry into the chamber before closing the door. They all remained silent as a moment later the guards walked past the doorway, their voices echoing loudly off the stone ceiling and walls.
“What’s your name, gleaner?” Fotir asked, when the guards voices had faded.
“Grinsa jal Arriet.”
“Where are you from?”
“I’ve lived in Eibithar all my life.” He said it proudly, as an Eandi would, or as Fotir himself had on many occasions. “The duke is to be my king,” he went on a moment later. “I wish him and his family no harm. The night we met at the Silver Gull, I offered to help you search for the boy. Now I’m offering my aid again.”
“I remember your offer,” Fotir said. “I also recall that you said you were a gleaner, with no deeper powers. What makes you think that you can free Tavis from the prison?”
The man hesitated, his eyes straying to Xaver. “I’d rather not say. You just have to believe me when I tell you that I can.”
“Shouldn’t we speak with the duke about this?” Xaver asked.
Grinsa shook his head. “Your duke shouldn’t be party to this, Master MarCullet, any more than you should. Even involving the first minister is risky, but I need another Qirsi, one I can trust.” A look of deepest sadness flitted across the man’s features and then was gone. “If we fail,” he continued, appearing to gather himself, “it would be far better that we fail alone. The duke of Kentigern can blame it on Qirsi conspirators, or some such thing. If you or your duke are involved, it becomes grounds for war.”
