by DAVID B. COE
And then there was the matter of the Weaver. Javan had become more tolerant of the Qirsi as he had grown older, thanks in part to the influence of the duchess. He seemed to appreciate the counsel offered by his underministers, and he paid them a generous wage. And Fotir felt certain that the duke had come to consider him a friend as well as a trusted advisor. But Weavers were another matter entirely, and even under these extraordinary circumstances he didn’t know how Javan would respond to the news that a Weaver had saved his son’s life.
“Yes, my lord,” he said, stepping to the door of his room and looking through its small window.
Torches burned in the corridor between their rooms, casting dim shadows on the guard standing against the wall. Javan stood at his own door, looking haggard, his eyes fixed on Aindreas’s man.
“My first minister and I need a moment alone to speak,” the duke said.
The guard glanced at one of them, then the other. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said, sounding young and unsure of himself. “I was told to keep watch on all of you.”
“Is my door locked?” Javan asked.
“Well, yes, my—”
“Is his?”
“Yes. But—”
“Then you have nothing to fear. Go down and talk to your friends for a while. By the time you return, we’ll be done.”
The man shook his head. “I have my orders, my lord.”
“You know who I am?”
“Of course, my lord. You’re the duke of Kentigern.”
“And you know who I’ll be a year from now?”
The guard swallowed, then nodded. “You’ll be king, my lord.”
“That’s right. So what do you suppose you ought to do when your future king gives you an order?”
Fotir had to keep himself from laughing at what he saw on the man’s face. For some time the guard stood there, chewing his lip, looking from one door to the other. Finally he checked the locks on both doors and with a last furtive glance toward Javan he walked to the stairs.
“I’ll be right below you, my lord. If you try to escape, I’ll know it.”
“I understand,” Javan said solemnly. “You have my word as your next king. We’ll be here when you return.”
The man nodded, as if satisfied. Then he started down the stairs.
Javan waited until his footsteps had died away before speaking. “He won’t be gone for long,” the duke said, meeting Fotir’s gaze again. “So I’ll make this quick. I’m guessing that you’re not telling me all you know. I think I understand why. But I need to know if Tavis is safe.”
Fotir took a breath. He would have preferred not to tell the duke anything at all. But Javan deserved this much.
“To the best of my knowledge, he is, my lord.”
“Is he alone?”
“No.”
“You trust those he’s with?”
“Completely, my lord.”
The duke nodded. “Do you know where he is?” Immediately, he held up a hand and shook his head. “Don’t answer. I shouldn’t know either way.”
Abruptly Fotir knew how the guard had just felt and he regretted his amusement at the man’s discomfort. Denying Javan anything could be difficult, even for his first minister. He sensed Xaver just behind him, listening to their conversation, and he could guess what the boy was thinking.
“I don’t know where he is, my lord,” he said at last, “nor do I know when any of us will see him again. But given the chance to choose his guardian from all the men and women of your kingdom, I couldn’t have found anyone better.”
It wasn’t much to offer, probably less than Xaver thought appropriate. But it was far more than Fotir had intended to say.
Javan appeared to sense this as well. “Thank you, Fotir. I won’t ask anything more.”
“I think it best that way, my lord.”
The duke nodded, looking away. “Of course.”
Fotir heard voices from the stairwell, and a moment later footsteps as well.
“They may torture you,” Javan said quickly, peering at him through the window once again. “Perhaps all of us. Ean knows what Aindreas is capable of doing.”
I know, Fotir almost said, shuddering at the thought. I’ve seen it. “Yes, my lord. I’ll die before I tell them anything.”
“As will I, my lord,” Xaver said from behind him.
Javan actually smiled. “My deepest thanks, to both of you. Your father would be proud of you, Xaver MarCullet.”
The boy had no chance to respond. Fotir had expected the guard to return, though he had feared that it might be Aindreas. Instead, it was Shurik who stepped into the corridor, accompanied by two guards Fotir did not recognize. The Qirsi minister paused between the two chambers, looking first at Javan and then at Fotir.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your private talk. I wouldn’t expect to have many more. You may be interested to know that your guard has lost his wages for this turn as a result of his foolishness. None of his comrades is likely to make the same mistake.”
“He was following the orders of his future king,” Javan said. “He shouldn’t be punished.”
“He defied his duke. He’s lucky to be alive.” The minister faced Fotir, turning his back on Javan. “I’d like a word with you, First Minister.” He nodded once to one of the guards, who stepped forward and unlocked the door.
“If you’re going to torture one of us it should be me,” the duke said, his voice rising.
Shurik looked back over his shoulder. “I assure you, my Lord Duke, if the duke of Kentigern decides that torture is necessary, he won’t spare any of you.” He turned to Fotir again. “As it happens,” he went on, “I’ll be speaking to your minister myself. And I have no intention of torturing him.”
Even with the door to his room open, Fotir did not move. “Would you rather I remained here, my lord?” he asked, looking past the minister to his duke. Shurik might treat Javan with disdain, but Fotir never would.
“No, Fotir,” the duke said. “Go with him. Perhaps some good will come of it.”
“Very well, my lord.” He looked back at Xaver and made himself smile. “I’ll be back soon. Attend to the duke.”
The boy nodded.
“No harm will come to the boy or your duke,” Shurik said, gesturing for him to come forward. “You have my word.”
Fotir looked one last time at Javan, who nodded his encouragement. Then he stepped into the corridor and followed Shurik down the stairs. He heard the door to his room being closed and locked and the guards joining them in the stairwell, but no one spoke until they reached the bottom of the tower.
“Remain here,” Shurik told the guards. “I’ll bring him back when I’m through with him.”
“But, Minister, he’s a prisoner. You yourself said that one of us—”
“I know what I told you, and now I’m telling you to leave us alone. Unless you care to take this matter up with the duke.”
“No, Minister,” the man said quickly, his eyes widening. “Of course not.”
“Good.” The Qirsi started walking away, motioning once more for Fotir to follow. “I thought we’d return to the Silver Bear,” he said. “It seems as good a place as any to chat.”
“Do all the duke’s prisoners enjoy such treatment?”
Shurik gave him a grave look. “I think you of all people know that they don’t.”
It was all Fotir could do to keep his stride. They had been alone for just moments and already the minister had him backed into a corner. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said, knowing that the denial sounded forced and hollow.
Shurik merely glanced at him again, raising an eyebrow.
They walked the rest of the way to the tavern without speaking. Once inside, they made their way directly to the back room, where one of the serving girls brought them ale and two bowls of a flavorful, spicy stew.
“Pipeweed?” Shurik asked, breaking a lengthy silence.
“No, thank you.” He would have liked some, but
he could not help thinking of Javan and Xaver, and the tasteless meal they had been given in the tower. It was bad enough that he could enjoy the stew and ale. Pipeweed, particularly Uulranni weed, would have been too much.
“Don’t tell me you’re worrying about your duke even now,” the minister said.
It was not a discussion Fotir wished to have, least of all with this man. “Why did you bring me here, Minister? What is it you want?”
“I want to avoid a war, if I can. I brought you here because I think you had a hand in Lord Tavis’s escape, and because I hope that you and I can find a way to end this crisis quickly and peacefully.”
“What makes you think I had something to do with Tavis’s escape?”
Shurik grinned. “Come now, cousin. It’s one thing to lie to the dukes. It’s quite another to fool a Qirsi.”
Fotir held the man’s gaze, but offered no response.
“All right,” the minister said. “If you insist on playing this game. I’ve been to look at the hole in the castle wall, the one through which Lord Tavis must have escaped. That hole was made by magic, First Minister.”
“You’re certain?”
“The edges of the hole were far too clean. No Eandi could have made such an opening.”
“And you think I could have? You told your duke that I would have been too tired to stand had I even made the attempt.”
“I tell my duke many things, First Minister. What I neglected to mention that night was that you could have done it if you had help from other Qirsi.”
Fotir laughed. “You believe I was part of an army of shapers coming to Tavis’s rescue?”
“It may be far-fetched, but it’s possible.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything to the duke?”
“Come now, Fotir!” Shurik said, propelling himself out of his chair. He began to pace the room. “Did you listen to anything I said the night we spoke? I may serve the duke of Kentigern, but I’m Qirsi above all else. I’m sorry the duke lost his daughter, and I’m inclined to believe that Tavis killed her. All the evidence points to his guilt. But if you tell me right now, Qirsi to Qirsi, that he’s innocent, I’ll believe you.”
Fotir stared at the man, trying to gauge what he saw in Shurik’s pale yellow eyes. “He is innocent,” he said. “I’ve been telling you so for days. Why would you believe me now?”
“Because the dukes aren’t here. Because we can speak freely. We’re Qirsi, Fotir. That bond goes far deeper than the petty rivalries that divide our houses. That’s what I was trying to tell you the last time we were here. While you were fretting about loyalty to your duke and avoiding indiscretions, I was trying to find out what kind of a man you are. I couldn’t tell then; I still can’t. So I’m asking you now, straight to the point, does your blood flow Qirsi or Eandi?”
“You say that the issues dividing our houses matter less to you than the color of our eyes,” Fotir said, evading the question for at least a moment. “Yet I told you in confidence of Tavis’s attack on the MarCullet boy, and you wasted no time betraying that confidence to your duke.”
Shurik stopped his pacing. “You’re right, I did. As I told you a moment ago, I thought the boy was guilty of a foul crime. I did that more for Brienne than I did for the House of Kentigern.”
Fotir wasn’t certain that he believed this. Indeed, he couldn’t say that he believed any of what the minister was telling him. The man had him badly confused, which might well have been Shurik’s intention. For all he knew, Aindreas had arranged this meeting so that Fotir might reveal what Tavis had not, even under torture.
“Well?” the minister said. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“I’m not certain I can. You seem to believe that a man can’t be Qirsi and also a loyal subject of the kingdom. I disagree. As I tried to tell you the other night, my pride in being Qirsi does nothing to compromise my loyalty to Javan and the House of Curgh.”
“So when you freed Tavis from the dungeon were you acting for our people or for your duke?”
It almost worked. He almost said, Both. He managed to stop himself, though not in time to keep Shurik from seeing the truth. He felt certain of that.
“You give me too much credit, cousin.” He said it because he had to, because Shurik would be expecting some kind of denial. But Fotir felt once more that the minister had him trapped.
“There was one other possibility I considered,” the minister said, resuming his pacing. “I suppose it’s no more plausible than the idea of you leading ‘an army of shapers,’ as you put it. But it did occur to me that you might have been helped by a Weaver.”
He felt the blood drain from his face, and this time Shurik smiled at his response.
“Don’t worry, cousin. I’ve tried to make you understand: in a contest between my loyalty to Kentigern and my devotion to our people, the latter will always prevail.” He returned to his chair and leaned his elbows on the table, bringing his face close to Fotir’s. “Have you known the Weaver long, or did you meet him here?”
Fotir shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There is no Weaver, and I had nothing to do with Tavis’s escape.” His voice was steady enough, but no one who heard him would have been fooled. In a way it didn’t matter anymore. Shurik was well beyond believing his denials. But Fotir had to make it clear to him that he wouldn’t admit anything.
The minister continued to stare at him a moment longer, his smile fading. Then he straightened. “What I told your duke was true, Fotir. When Aindreas turns to torture, which he’s bound to do eventually, none of you will be spared. Not you, not Javan, not even the boy. You saw what he did to Tavis. And this time he’ll be more careful. You’ll have no hope of escape. Work with me, and I can save all of you. Defy me, and I promise you a long, painful death.”
Fotir managed a dark smile. “So much for your devotion to our people.”
“Damn you to the demons, Fotir! Don’t you understand what’s at stake here?”
“Apparently I don’t. Perhaps you’d like to explain it to me.”
For the first time that night, Fotir saw Shurik falter, as if he was the one who had said too much.
The minister stood once more. “It’s time I returned you to the tower.”
He picked up his tankard. “But I haven’t finished my ale.”
“That’s too bad. Stand up.”
Fotir did as was told and the minister gave him a firm shove toward the door.
The main room of the tavern was crowded and noisy. The sweet scent of pipe smoke filled the air and several men and women were laughing and singing out of key near the back of the room. Shurik kept a hand on the small of Fotir’s back, pushing him through the throng. Before they reached the door, though, the barkeep called to the minister, forcing him to stop.
“Leaving so soon, Minister?” the man asked.
Fotir didn’t hear Shurik’s answer, for in that instant something caught his eye. The Weaver was there, sitting alone in the corner nearest the tavern’s front door. His eyes were fixed on Fotir and he half rose, as if intending to approach them. Fotir glanced at Shurik to be sure the minister wasn’t watching him. Then he gave the Weaver a slight shake of the head. Grinsa nodded, stood, and slipped out the door into the night.
“Come on,” Shurik said again a moment later, pushing him once more.
Fotir walked slowly, hoping to give Grinsa time enough to slip away. But Shurik grabbed him by the arm and pulled him through the door and out into the street. The Weaver was nowhere to be seen.
“This is your last chance, Fotir,” the minister said, as they started back toward the castle. “Tell me what you know, and I can still save you.”
“There’s nothing to tell you.”
Shurik shook his head. “You’re a fool.”
He said nothing. He had already revealed far too much, and the appearance of the Weaver had left him badly shaken. No doubt the boy was safe; Grinsa wouldn’t have left him alone otherwise. But Fotir ha
d hoped they would be far from Kentigern by now. As long as they stayed here, within reach of Aindreas and his men, the kingdom remained at risk.
Chapter Twenty
Adriel’s Moon waxing
He wandered the streets of the city, walking among the empty markets, until he saw the first pale hint of daybreak in the eastern sky and heard the dawn bells ringing from the city gates. Only then did Grinsa make his way back to the Sanctuary of Bian.
The Qirsi had tried to tell himself that it was the assassin he had wanted to avoid this Pitch Night, that after years of seeing Pheba on the last night of Bian’s Turn in the cold of the snows, he didn’t fear her spirit anymore. But he knew better. The assassin had earned his death. By offering blood for the man the night he entered the sanctuary, Grinsa had done more than anyone could have expected of him. Even now, though, after all this time, after loving Cresenne and feeling the anguish of her betrayal—especially after all that—the mere thought of seeing his dead wife pained him so that he felt a blade had pierced his heart.
He felt ashamed of his cowardice, not so much for Pheba as for Meriel. Living in the sanctuary, the prioress faced her dead every turn. Not just Pheba, but her parents, and the child she bore unjoined before she came to the sanctuary, who died in his infancy. If she could face them each turn, a voice within him demanded, why couldn’t he face Pheba just this once? To which another voice replied simply, Because it hurts too much.
Returning in the growing light of day, Grinsa had thought to find the sanctuary still, save for the cleric posted at the gate. But upon stepping into the main courtyard, he saw someone standing at the entrance to the shrine. It had to be Meriel, he realized, and he hurried toward her, wondering if something had happened to Tavis.
