Marten pressed his fingertips to his chin. “Some ritual, I daresay.”
He knew exactly why, but he wasn’t prepared to tell her. Her head throbbed with pain, and dazzling sparks clouded her vision. She had to ask the right questions to get answers. But if she knew which were the right questions, she wouldn’t need to ask them.
“It looked, as I left, as if Tresilian was going to drink it.”
Even through her clouded vision she could see the dismay on his face. “You must have been mistaken.” He straightened up, looking around the room. Again he frowned. “All this lavender – it is not good for one who has the sight.” He turned to Erin. “Throw it all out. Immediately.”
The lavender? She’d been choking on the stuff ever since they had arrived at the summer palace. “But, it’s everywhere. In what way is it not good?”
“It suppresses the sight, and dulls the senses of those who are susceptible. And it would prevent one such as yourself from wielding their strength.”
This time she had no doubt Marten was speaking what he believed to be the truth. Alwenna nodded at Erin, who had hesitated. “Do as he says, if you please.”
The girl hurried to do her bidding while Marten made his way to the door. “Try to sleep, my lady. You will feel much restored afterwards.”
He left, closing the door firmly behind himself. Alwenna scarcely noticed as she sank into a dizzy oblivion.
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
Alwenna’s mouth was sour with the taste of the sight as she climbed the stairs, one winding step after the other. She’d climbed them countless times before, as a child, laughing with Tresilian. Once, furtively, after sneaking down to eavesdrop on the grown-ups deciding her future. Other times laughing in glee as the cousins played hide and seek.
And this time. It would be the last time she ever climbed these stairs. The very last time. She climbed slowly, struggling to catch her breath, the biting pain in her belly slowing her, making each upward step a struggle, her back protesting at the extra effort. One last time. And this would be the end of it. Full circle.
The twisted snakes forming the door handle were pitted with rust, but there was no need to touch them this time. The door hung open, skewed, with one corner resting on the stone floor, the top hinge cracked. No one had seen fit to repair it – why would they? And for all Tresilian’s protestations, for all her uncle’s scepticism, she had been the one to destroy Highkell. Three walls of the king’s chamber remained in place, but daylight cleft the western wall, where the stones had been torn away with the collapse of the curtain wall.
Her doing.
She crossed the room. The floor tilted slightly now, but was still supported by the vaulted ceiling beneath. The effect was a mild sense of drunkenness. Perhaps this was how it would end: with her return the stones would finally give up their unequal fight against gravity and the floor would fall away beneath her weight. And this time her body would be buried for ever. If that was how it must be, let it be so. Let Highkell take its vengeance on her.
She closed her eyes, and could hear nothing but the pounding of her heart, the rise and fall of her chest as she caught each breath. And softer still than that she could hear the gentle settling of friable mortar between the loosened stones.
So be it.
She waited.
Nothing happened.
She moved over to the single remaining casement of the window, averting her eyes from the dizzying gap in the wall. Several of the tiny panes of glass had cracked. Last time she had seen this window, rain had been sluicing down it. Now it was dry, sunlight finding its way between the clouds. She gazed out, not seeing the landscape before her, but the scene she’d witnessed from the very top of the tower so many years ago, the huddle of people about the two open graves. It had been raining then. Just as it had rained at Highkell almost continually since. Highkell had taken her parents from her. She’d been cast adrift, rootless, and now she’d torn the foundations from Highkell. Perhaps the vengeance was hers and balance had already been achieved. Was that how it was all meant to play out?
Far below she heard the creak of metal hinges. The scuff of leather boots on stone flags. A murmur of voices. Male voices. They’d answered her summons after all. She turned away from the window and the view across the gorge so she could see the door from the stairs.
For the first time since she had fled Highkell with Weaver she knew calm. She knew what had to be done. She waited patiently, as they approached up the stairs.
Full circle.
The footsteps drew closer. A shadow fell across the wrecked doorway.
Alwenna woke. Her mouth was parched, her head throbbing as the vision receded, leaving her mind empty.
It took her a moment to realise for the first time since she’d arrived in The Marches that her mind was truly empty. The unwelcome voices were silent. In their place was rock-solid certainty.
Alwenna sat up, throwing back her covers. She pressed one hand over the barely discernible mound of her stomach where the baby slumbered. It wouldn’t end here, that much was clear. And it wouldn’t end yet. But, Goddess willing, it would end.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
There were two guards outside Alwenna’s door again when she left her chambers for the evening meal. They tucked in silently behind her and Erin as they made their way to the great hall.
Tresilian was already seated at the top table, and greeted her with magnanimous civility. “My lady wife. I trust you are well rested?”
“Well enough, husband.” He really was becoming more like Vasic with every day that passed. It wasn’t an improvement. Beneath the bandage her arm stung. She surveyed the hall as she sat down. Weaver was sitting well down one of the side tables, speaking to no one, all his attention on his food. There was nothing about him to suggest he’d enjoyed the day’s work, rather the opposite. Alwenna found that discovery perversely satisfying. She would reckon with him at some point over this afternoon’s deeds.
She picked at her food, relieved of the obligation of speaking further with Tresilian as he discussed something with the man seated on his right. The stranger’s garments suggested some religious order. Sharp-faced, he was one to whom she determined to give a wide berth, particularly if he was anything to do with the little priestess. But now her attention had been called to the man, she began to notice others seated about the hall, wearing similar robes. Had they been there other nights? She couldn’t be sure.
As the night before, Tresilian left the table early, this time in the company of the unknown priest. Alwenna watched as they left. Tresilian looked like the man she’d married. He walked like the man she’d married. But he no longer talked like him, nor acted like him.
The table lurched, as another diner arrived at her left-hand side. Marten leaned heavily on the table as he sat down beside her with none of his accustomed elegance. He brought with him a strong smell of wine.
“My lady.” He performed the gesture of welcome without his usual panache. “It is good to see you… so well recovered.”
“Thank you. Your advice was invaluable.”
He spread his hands in a gesture of acknowledgment. “I am glad you found it so, my sister.” He sprawled back in his chair, slurring his words ever so slightly. “There are things we must discuss, you and I. Things I have learned this day which might interest you.”
Alwenna glanced over her shoulder. There was no one within earshot at the top table. Her two guards were slouching by the foot of the steps to the dais, eyes on a servant girl who was laughing and joking with an off-duty soldier as she poured his wine. But further down the hall Weaver had raised his head and was watching her now. For once he didn’t look away as she made eye contact. Alwenna raised one haughty eyebrow and returned her attention to Marten. She was petty enough to smile warmly at the freemerchant.
“You intrigue me. But I am conscious of your advice earlier. Is it wise to speak here? I have two shadows now who follow me wherever I go.” She glanced to where the two men-at-arms loitered.
Marten followed her gaze. “Humour me, my lady. A man as drunk as I could not possibly be discussing anything of import.”
“As you wish.” She slid a dish of chicken over the table to him, leaning closer as she did so. “Speak, my brother.”
Marten slouched over the dish, apparently deliberating over which morsel to choose. “Your husband has made a mistake this day. He thinks he no longer needs me. I cannot hope to bring Vasic to him alive, and he uses this as an excuse to dispute the agreement we made years ago.”
“Excuse? Not incentive to you to bring it about?”
“He thinks our cowled friends will give him what he needs by another means.” He didn’t slur now. “And, to be blunt, my sister, now he has you.”
In her mind’s eye Alwenna saw the dull gleam of the jewels in the handle of the dagger as the blade bit into her flesh. Marten took up a chicken leg from the dish. He was not half so drunk as he appeared.
Alwenna smiled her best court smile. “As you say, he has me for the time being. Whether he keeps me is another matter.”
“Precisely so, sister.” Marten swayed away from her, gesturing with the chicken leg for emphasis. “The bond of kinship is a powerful thing. You, Tresilian and Vasic share the same blood. You even share some of the same memories. And now, unless I’m much mistaken, the dagger has tasted your blood. Tresilian’s father primed the blade long ago. It’s no coincidence Vasic chose it to deliver the fatal blow to your husband. It’s no coincidence you were able to turn it upon Garrad. And no coincidence your friend Drew found it in the ruins.”
“Come now, Marten. That makes a fine tale, but Garrad turned the blade on himself.”
“Did you not will it so, my lady?”
Alwenna shivered, despite herself. “You’re drunk, Marten. These are tales to scare children into obedience, nothing more.”
Marten selected another chicken leg from the dish. “My lady, you called upon the Goddess. You know it is the truth.”
“Then why did the blade not turn upon Vasic when he stabbed Tresilian?”
“The answer is simple: your husband sought death at his cousin’s hand.”
“No. How could that be so? He’d have to be a madman.”
Marten raised his eyebrows. “Indeed, my sister. Tresilian returned much changed from war in the east, did he not?”
He had. Alwenna could remember it clearly. Tresilian had left as an irresolute youth, and returned as a man, steeled by the death of his own father in battle. “He grew up. There is no great secret there.”
“He embraced darkness.” Marten held his chicken leg aloft, swaying slightly in his chair. “It found him there on the battlefield, and he embraced it.”
“That’s another fine tale, Marten, but how can you claim to know so much of it?”
“How, my sister?” He leaned closer. “Your husband made a deal with darkness and I – I am the man who brokered it.”
A chill of recognition ran down Alwenna’s spine at his words. She straightened up. “That’s preposterous. Tell me again when you are sober, and I might listen.” Alwenna pushed her seat back and stood up, ignoring the pain that gnawed at her ankle.
He caught hold of her arm. “Sister, I’ll tell you over and over until you listen. We must call a halt to this business, you and I. He grows stronger by the day. We must stop him now, while we still can.”
This was no drunken maundering. Marten meant every word.
“What do you imagine I can do about any of this?”
“You can call upon the Goddess again.”
“No. You overestimate me.” Alwenna tugged her arm free and swept from the table, his words chasing after her, taking hold and hanging on. To call upon the Goddess was to take responsibility for what had happened at Highkell. For all the lives lost, indiscriminately, in the rubble. People had died alongside her, while she’d survived. All that kept her going now was her conviction it had been coincidence, the work of groundwater over many years. And the flashing of the gemstones had been a trick of the light. And Drew leading the rescuers straight to her, finding the dagger, handing it to her, that…
If she believed everything Marten said, then she also had to believe she was a monster.
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
Weaver watched the two guards hasten after Alwenna as she limped from the room, her face tight with pain. He’d have no chance to speak to her while they followed her everywhere, especially since one of them was Scoular. Maybe that was for the best: she’d flay him with one disdainful glance. She’d been in such haste to leave she’d left her walking stick propped against the top table. Marten lounged there, wine cup in hand and a drunken smile on his face. Weaver could use a barrel or two of whatever the freemerchant had been drinking. For a moment he’d thought the man was speaking to Alwenna in earnest.
Marten noticed his scrutiny and grinned, raising one hand as if to catch Weaver’s attention. He pushed himself to his feet, scooping up his wine cup, then twisted round to pick up the wine flagon gracing the now-empty top table. He made his way unsteadily down the steps and along the hall to where Weaver sat.
“Off duty? You’ll join me in a toast to our fair queen, I’ve no doubt.” The freemerchant sat down heavily, and grinned at Weaver. He slopped some wine into Weaver’s cup and topped up his own – the bulk of its contents seemed to have found its way down the freemerchant’s tunic front. Marten raised his cup. “To the Lady Alwenna’s health. Long may she prosper.”
Weaver raised his cup, keeping his eyes on Marten. What was the fellow about now? He’d no sooner trust him than a cornered rat. Was he about to take issue with Weaver for the day’s events? The Lady Alwenna must have given him a full account over the dish they’d shared. Unwise, perhaps for Tresilian to have left her alone at the table.
“Well, will you drink with me? The lady’s health?”
“The lady’s health.” Weaver lifted the cup to his lips, inhaling carefully. It smelled of nothing but wine.
“Don’t worry, it’s not tainted. You’re no use to any of us dead. And I doubt the king would have you brought back, however good your sword arm.”