by DAVID B. COE
“And Curgh,” Javan added.
“You have no place in this matter, Javan,” Kearney told him. “Your son has requested asylum from the House of Glyndwr. If you wish to protect him, I’ll withdraw my offer of protection. But since he can’t escape Kentigern’s justice in his own court, I’d suggest you leave this to me.”
The duke of Curgh’s face reddened and he opened his mouth. But the duchess laid a hand on his arm, stopping him.
“You’re right, of course, Lord Glyndwr,” she said. “Please accept our apologies.”
Kearney nodded to her, before facing Aindreas again.
After several moments, Kentigern sheathed his sword, looking off to the side. “Fine, Kearney. You win. But you’d best get him out of my castle, before one of my men decides to take matters into his own hands.”
“That, too, would be an act of war,” Kearney said, refusing to back down.
“Which is why you’d do well to get him away from here. You threaten war, Kearney, but we both know that Glyndwr’s army is no match for mine.”
Glyndwr’s swordmaster gave a harsh laugh. “I’m not so sure of that.”
“Quiet, Gershon,” Kearney said. He faced the duke again, taking a long breath. “Our threats serve no purpose, Aindreas. This land—this castle—has seen enough war for one day. We need to honor our dead and rebuild Kentigern. Having just fought as allies to drive the Aneirans from our kingdom, can’t we all agree to do those things?”
Aindreas and Javan glanced at each other, their eyes meeting for a moment. Both of them appeared to consider Kearney’s plea, and Grinsa believed he saw their expressions soften.
The gleaner wanted to believe that they could work together, at least for a time. Not only because the kingdom’s future depended upon it, but because he was anxious to leave them. A voice in his mind was screaming for him to go after Shurik. If the minister had betrayed Kentigern to the Aneirans, he wouldn’t be coming back from the errand on which Aindreas had sent him. The risks to the man were too great.
With every day that passed, with every new revelation, Grinsa grew more convinced that talk of a Qirsi conspiracy in the Forelands was more than just the idle prattle of frightened Eandi nobles. He had no real evidence; he was guessing, groping for answers to questions he only barely understood. But Cresenne—just thinking of her made his heart ache—Cresenne had sent an assassin to keep him from reaching Kentigern. Brienne had been killed and Tavis made to look guilty. And now Shurik had betrayed his duke and his castle to the Aneirans. These things had to be connected. He was sure of it.
He was just as certain that he would never find Cresenne again. Even if they found the assassin who murdered Brienne, the gleaner doubted that he would know any more about this conspiracy than the man Cresenne had sent for him. Shurik, though, was a different matter. He was first minister to one of Kentigern’s major houses. If he was involved, he would know a good deal. More than anything, Grinsa wanted to find the minister and question him, even if he had to beat the answers out of him.
But the three dukes standing before him had more to do than just honor their dead and mend the castle gates. The shadow of civil war still hung over the land, and at that moment he seemed to be the only one who realized it.
“With all respect, Lord Glyndwr,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward the north gate for just a moment, as if he could will Shurik to remain in Kentigern a bit longer, “I’m afraid that you and the other dukes have greater responsibilities than seeing to your fallen soldiers.”
Kearney narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Your king is dead, and the land awaits his successor.”
“Javan of Curgh is his successor,” said Hagan MarCullet. “The Rules of Ascension are clear.”
“Damn the Rules of Ascension!” Aindreas leveled a rigid finger at Curgh’s duke. “I’ve told you before, Javan, you’ll not rule so long as I live! The boy is beyond my reach, but this isn’t. I will never consent to a Curgh king.”
“Even at the risk of war?” Kearney asked.
The duke nodded. “Even so.”
Glyndwr turned to the duke of Curgh. “Javan?”
“What?” the man said. “He’s threatening war, not me.”
“But you can avert this war by renouncing your claim to the throne.”
Javan stared at Kearney as if he thought the duke mad. “And give the crown to him? Never!”
“It seems, Lord Glyndwr,” Grinsa broke in, “that there’s only one solution. You must take the throne.”
“What?” It was Keziah, of all people, who in that instant spoke for all of them. “You can’t be serious.”
“There is no other choice,” the gleaner said. “Thorald and Galdasten are powerless in this matter. Not only do they lack legitimate heirs, they don’t even have the authority to go against the Rules of Ascension. If we take this to a council of the major houses, Curgh will prevail, regardless of how Glyndwr votes. If there’s a solution to be found, the three dukes you see before you must find it. Kentigern will not accede to a Curgh king, nor Curgh to one from Kentigern. That leaves Lord Glyndwr.”
Grinsa could see that he was hurting her, that she saw her life and her love crumbling before her eyes. It was one thing for a duke to take a Qirsi as his mistress. It was quite another for Eibithar’s king to do so. I’m sorry, he wanted to say. It’s the only way. But all he could do was gaze into his sister’s pale eyes and hope that she understood.
“I have no wish to be king,” Kearney said. “I never have.”
From any other man it would have sounded hollow and false. But Grinsa believed him.
The gleaner nodded and offered a small smile. “Which is why you’re such a fine choice, my lord.”
He looked at Javan, then Aindreas. “My lords?”
“Kentigern’s threats should not keep Lord Curgh from the throne!” Hagan said, shaking his head. “The Rules of Ascension—”
Javan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Hagan.” He pressed his lips together, looking first at Grinsa and then at Kearney. At last, his eyes came to rest on the duke of Kentigern. “I’ll consider this, Aindreas, if you will as well. We both lost good men today, and our houses have suffered a good deal more in the last turn. I don’t want another war.”
Aindreas gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll think on it.”
“Lord Glyndwr?” Grinsa asked.
Kearney was gazing at Keziah, as if he too realized what his ascension would mean for them. “If the other choice is civil war,” the duke said, “I can hardly refuse.” Grinsa sensed that he wasn’t answering the question. Rather, he was reasoning with Keziah, trying to make her understand. But the others couldn’t have known this, except perhaps Tavis, who was watching them both, his expression unreadable.
“We should see to the dead,” Javan said after a lengthy silence. “It’ll be dark before long.”
The others nodded and started to walk off, but Grinsa caught Fotir’s eye.
“A word?” he said.
The minister looked to his duke, who nodded before walking toward one of the towers, hand in hand with the duchess. Tavis watched them go, before joining Kearney, his expression like that of a lost babe.
“I want to find Shurik,” the gleaner said, lowering his voice so that only Fotir could hear him.
“Now?”
“I don’t think we’ll have another chance. If I were in his position, I’d be looking for the quickest route to the Tarbin.”
“Then let’s go,” the minister said.
Grinsa held out a hand. Fotir gripped it and swung himself onto the gleaner’s horse. They rode quickly through the north gate into the outer ward, then turned west toward the Tarbin gate. Grinsa saw no sign of Shurik. The minister had been on horseback, too. There was a chance he was already in Aneira, though Grinsa thought he would have ridden slowly, to keep from drawing attention to himself.
The two Qirsi crossed through the outer gate, past the
twisted iron and wood of the ruined portcullises, and followed the winding road down toward the river. At the bottom of the tor, they turned south again, following the curving bank of the Tarbin toward the shallows. Only then did they spot Shurik. He was a good distance ahead of them and had already turned off the road and ridden down the bank to the water’s edge. There was no way they could reach him in time to keep him from crossing.
“Damn him!” Grinsa said, spurring his mount to a full gallop though he knew the effort would be in vain.
“Isn’t there some magic we could use?” Fotir asked.
“Not at this distance, not unless you think a wind would stop him.”
“It might.”
“Can you raise it while we ride?”
Fotir said nothing. An instant later, however, a wind began to rise, slowly at first, but building swiftly until the river waters grew turbulent and white, like the Western Sea during a storm. Shurik’s horse struggled against the gale and the rough waters, but the traitor continued to cross. Had the water been deeper it might have stopped him; as it was, Grinsa and Fotir were going to have as much trouble reaching him as Shurik was having fording the river.
“Can you add your magic to mine?” Fotir asked, his voice strained.
“Not without revealing to Shurik that one of us is a Weaver.”
By the time they came to the shallows, Shurik had managed to reach the far bank. The minister was watching them, the smile on his lips seeming to say that he knew he was beyond their reach. Fotir allowed his wind to die away, and Shurik’s grin broadened. After a moment he raised his sword, as if saluting them. Then he turned his horse from the river, and disappeared into Mertesse Forest.
“We might be able to catch him before he makes it to Castle Mertesse,” Fotir said.
“And what if we meet up with the rest of the Mertesse army?”
“You’re a Weaver!”
Grinsa looked back at him. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not suggesting we fight them. But certainly we could raise a mist to get away if we had to.”
“No,” the gleaner said, shaking his head. “Shurik won today. There’s nothing more we can do.”
He faced the river again, gazing at the line of trees beyond its waters. A part of him wanted to go after the man. He deserved to be punished, not only for his betrayal, but also for the role he had played in Tavis’s suffering. More than that, though, even without bolstering Fotir’s wind with his own magic, Grinsa had begun to wonder if the man knew somehow that he was a Weaver. He couldn’t stop thinking about the minister’s strange comment on the road leading to the castle, and the way Shurik looked at him during their brief silent exchange in the keep. In all likelihood, he was merely imagining things. As a Weaver, Grinsa lived in constant fear of having his true powers revealed, and in the past he had allowed such concerns to get the better of him. But in this case, the danger felt especially real. Shurik had already shown himself to be a cunning enemy. Armed with this knowledge, he would be a threat to Grinsa’s life, and perhaps to Keziah’s.
“I’ll find him eventually,” Grinsa said, his voice low. “I won’t even have to work very hard. I have a feeling that Shurik will be looking for me as well.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Xaver and his father were still in Kentigern’s inner ward when Fotir and the gleaner returned to the castle. Xaver’s father was overseeing the gathering of the Curgh dead, not something he would usually have been anxious to let Xaver watch. But Hagan had not strayed more than a step or two from Xaver’s side since their reunion a short while before. It almost seemed to the boy that his father feared letting him out of his sight, lest they be separated again. In truth, Xaver was just as reluctant to leave Hagan.
He had already told his father much about their time in Kentigern, particularly about the last few days as they battled the Aneirans, and the swordmaster was eager to thank Fotir for all the minister had done to keep Xaver safe.
Before they could reach the Qirsi, however, the minister and Grinsa rode to where Aindreas stood. The two sorcerers dismounted and began talking to the duke and gesturing toward the gates.
“Impossible!” Xaver heard the duke say. Aindreas started to walk away from the Qirsi, shaking his head and saying, “I won’t listen to this.”
Grinsa followed him, speaking once more, though in a voice too low for Xaver to hear.
After a moment Aindreas whirled on the man, raising a finger as if in warning.
By this time Kearney had joined them, and a few seconds later Javan and the duchess did the same.
“Come, lad,” Hagan said, hurrying to the duke of Curgh’s side with Xaver close behind him.
“Is this some Curgh trick, Javan?” Aindreas demanded, his face crimson.
The duke stared at him, his expression blank. “Is what a trick?”
“This gleaner and your first minister are telling me that my first minister is a traitor, that he’s the one who weakened my gates.”
“Is it true?” Javan asked, facing Fotir.
“I believe so, my lord.”
Aindreas shook his head again. “It can’t be true. Shurik isn’t even a shaper.”
“That’s what he told you, Lord Kentigern,” Grinsa said. “But he might have been lying.”
“Or he might have been telling the truth,” Fotir added, “and working with a second traitor who is a shaper. Either way, the man has betrayed you. And now he’s crossed the river to Aneira.”
“What?” Javan said. “You saw him go?”
“Yes, my lord. Grinsa—” He hesitated, glancing briefly at the other Qirsi. “We both have had our suspicions about him and when we saw him leave the keep, we followed. He managed to get across the river before we could stop him.”
“There must be another explanation,” Aindreas said, beginning to pace. “I’ve known Shurik for nearly ten years. He’d never do this to me.”
“Have you noticed him behaving strangely?” Kearney asked.
“He’s Qirsi! Of course he behaved strangely!”
“More so than usual? Perhaps just before you left the castle to march against Curgh?”
Aindreas stopped in midstride, his eyes flying to the face of his swordmaster. “Demons and fire!” he whispered. “The day we left. When he claimed he’d been walking and that he was feeling ill. ‘Battle sickness,’ I called it. He was sweating and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.”
Fotir glanced at the gleaner. “That’s how I’d look if I’d just come from weakening all those portcullises.”
The duke squeezed his eyes shut, as if his head were hurting. “Bian throw him to the fires.” He opened his eyes again, looking warily at Grinsa and the minister. “I swear I’ll never trust one of you people again.”
“We’re not all traitors,” Fotir said.
“Perhaps not, but it does seem to run in your blood.”
Fotir glared at the duke, but he kept his silence.
“There’s nothing more we can do,” Grinsa said. “He’s well into Mertesse Forest by now.”
Javan nodded. “Then we should return to what we were doing. I’d like to have some daylight by which to make camp, and we still have work to do here.”
The three dukes began to walk off in different directions once more, like warriors at a tournament returning to their corners of the field. Hagan turned to join Javan, but Xaver hesitated, watching Tavis follow Kearney. The young lord had washed the dried blood from his face, but he still moved stiffly, no doubt from the injury he had suffered earlier that day. He stared at the ground as he walked. No one said anything to him or walked with him. It almost seemed that he was of another world, that the others in the castle couldn’t see him.
The two of them hadn’t spoken since the last time Xaver saw his friend in Aindreas’s dungeon. Earlier in the day, when they were all standing in the center of the ward, Tavis barely even looked at him. Xaver wanted to go to him. A part of him felt that it was his duty to do so. In spite of
all that had happened, he was still Tavis’s liege man. Yet something held him back. The distance between them felt greater now than it ever had before. He couldn’t begin to comprehend all that his friend had been through since Brienne’s death, nor could he guess at what the young lord was feeling now. The expression Tavis bore in his dark blue eyes made him look far older than his sixteen years, and the scars he carried had changed his face, making it severe where once it had been youthful and handsome. Had Xaver seen him on a farm lane, far from the walls of Kentigern or Curgh, he might not have recognized him. In a sense, with Tavis now under Glyndwr’s protection, they weren’t even of the same house anymore.
“You coming, Xaver?” his father called to him.
Xaver continued to watch his friend, unsure of what to do. Finally he turned to his father and shook his head. “I’ll be along soon,” he said.
Hagan’s eyes flicked toward Tavis for an instant, as if he had read Xaver’s thoughts. He nodded his consent.
Taking a breath, Xaver ran after Tavis, calling to him as he drew near.
The young lord stopped, but at first he didn’t turn. It almost seemed that he was trying to decide whether to speak with Xaver or flee.
Xaver halted a few steps from him. “If you want me to leave you alone, I will.”
He saw Tavis take a breath. “No,” the boy said, facing him at last. “I almost looked for you earlier. I’ve wanted to talk to you. I just …” He shrugged, then winced slightly, rubbing his side.
“You all right?”
“You mean this?” he asked, patting his side. “I’m fine.” He dropped his gaze. “I got lucky, Stinger. He would have killed me if he hadn’t fallen.”
Xaver shuddered, remembering his own first kill from the night the siege began. “You know what my father says. ‘I’d rather be a poor swordsman with luck than a good one without it.’”
Tavis smiled, though even then he looked sad. “A poor swordsman with luck,” he repeated. “That definitely was me today.”
“You should have seen me a few night ago,” Xaver said. “I was fighting like we used to when we were ten. If my father had been there he would have had me running the towers. Right then, in the middle of the siege.”
