The Qirsi woman groaned again and Kearney glanced at the door, the color draining from his face.
“She labors still?”
Tavis nodded. “She doesn’t cry out as she did earlier, but I’ve heard no babe yet.”
Kearney faced him. “I’ve posted guards as you suggested, but I’d like to know more of this woman. You say she’s part of the conspiracy?”
“We believe so, yes. My companion, the gleaner, knew her in the Revel. When he left for Kentigern, intending to win my freedom, she sent an assassin for him.”
“So after her child is born, I should imprison her?”
One of the guards glanced at Tavis, then quickly looked away, his face twisting sourly. Kearney had seemed afraid of him a few turns before, when they met at Kearney the Elder’s investiture. He since seemed to have accepted that Tavis was innocent of Brienne’s murder, treating the Curgh lord as he would any noble from a rival house. Glyndwr’s soldiers might consider Tavis a murderer, but their duke did not, and the young lord vowed silently to remember the boy’s courtesy when he finally reclaimed his rightful place in the Curgh court.
“To be honest, Lord Glyndwr, I’m not certain what you should do. I felt you should know who the woman was before extending to her the hospitality of your house. But as to her future, I would have to defer to Grinsa’s judgment.”
“The Qirsi? He’s but a gleaner.”
“He’s as wise as any of my father’s ministers,” Tavis said. “And the woman bears his child as we speak. I would ask you to consider his counsel before you do anything with the woman.”
Kearney appeared to weigh this briefly before nodding once. “Very well. Still, we’d be wise to guard against any possible dangers. Aside from your friend, I intend to keep all Qirsi out of her chamber. My father and I don’t suspect any of the white-hairs who serve Glyndwr, but we’d be fools to ignore all we’ve heard from other courts across the Forelands.”
“It seems a most sensible precaution, Lord Glyndwr,” Tavis said, and meant it. Kearney might look callow and ungainly, but there was more to this young duke than Tavis had thought. It seemed the king’s faith had been justified.
“I trust you’ve been treated well since your arrival, Lord Curgh,” the young duke said after a brief silence. Tavis noted that Kearney’s eyes were fixed on the nearest of the guards.
“I have, Lord Glyndwr. Your castle is all it was reputed to be, and more, as are those who serve in your name.”
“Thank you.”
Tavis expected the duke to leave then, but Kearney surprised him
again, leaning against the opposite wall, as if intending to take up Tavis’s vigil as his own.
“You said she bears his child,” the boy began, meeting the young lord’s glance for just an instant. “Yet she sent an assassin for him?”
“Yes.”
The duke pursed his lips. “What does a man do after such a thing?”
Tavis gave a small, sad smile and shook his head. “I hope never to find out, Lord Glyndwr.”
Kearney grinned, but quickly grew serious again. “You also said that the woman hoped to stop your friend from reaching Kentigern. Do you believe she had something to do with . . . with the events there?”
“We believe the conspiracy did. We suspect that they wanted to make me appear her killer in order to drive a wedge between my father and Aindreas of Kentigern.”
“It seems they succeeded.”
Tavis felt his throat constrict. They had indeed. True, with Grinsa’s help, and the timely intervention of Kearney’s father, the kingdom had managed to avoid a civil war. But Tavis’s father had been forced to relinquish his place in the Order of Ascension and Tavis had become an exile, cast out of his own court until he could prove his innocence, something he had not yet been able to do, though he’d confronted Brienne’s killer in a tavern in Mertesse. From all Tavis had heard, Aindreas still threatened war against Curgh and had even gone so far as to challenge the legitimacy of Kearney the Elder’s reign.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose they did.”
“Forgive me, Lord Curgh, but my point is this: if this woman was involved with Lady Brienne’s murder, then she can help prove your innocence.”
Tavis stared at the boy as if he had just conjured mists and winds like a Qirsi.
“I’m not certain anyone would listen to her,” he said, hoping the duke would gainsay him. So many times already in the turns since Brienne’s murder, Tavis had thought that his redemption was at hand. The discovery of blood on the window shutter outside his chamber in Kentigern Castle; his encounter with Brienne’s spirit in the Sanctuary of Bian; his struggle with the assassin in Mertesse. Yet each time, his hopes had been dashed. “She’s a Qirsi traitor. Some will claim that she’d say anything to escape execution.”
“Perhaps. But others may listen.”
He had denied himself the luxury of hope for so long that he couldn’t bring himself to embrace it now.
“Not the ones who matter. Not Galdasten or Eardley or Rennach. Certainly not Kentigern.”
“Perhaps not at first. But you have to try. Surely you don’t mean to ignore the possibility.”
Tavis would have smiled had it not been rude to do so. He remembered what it was to be this young. Not very long ago he would have argued much as Kearney did now. But Aindreas’s prison had aged him. Every cut of Kentigern’s blade, every searing touch of his damned torches had struck at Tavis’s faith in justice, or even in the mercy of the gods.
“No, Lord Glyndwr. I won’t ignore the possibility. But neither will I celebrate my absolution prematurely. I’ve done that before, to my rue.”
The boy nodded, seeming to sense that there was more at work here than he could fathom.
A lengthy silence ensued, to be pierced at last by a long wail from within the chamber that trailed off into gentle sobs. A moment later came a different sound, unexpected after so much anguish, and welcome as rain after drought: the cry of a babe.
For just a few seconds it was easy to forget that this was the child of a Qirsi traitor. Even the guards grinned.
“I should tell the prelate,” the duke said, pushing away from the wall. Then his face reddened. “Though I suppose the child’s mother will prefer that the prior come from Morna’s Sanctuary.”
This time Tavis did smile. “I would think so, yes.”
Kearney started leave. “I’ll send a message.”
“Don’t you want to see the child?”
The boy shook his head. “I still remember when my brother was born, and my sister as well. I’m not very fond of babies.”
Tavis watched Kearney walk away, deciding that he liked this boy-duke. Finding himself alone once more with the guards, the young lord allowed himself a quick glance at the men positioned around him. Still, none looked at him. Even their duke’s acceptance was not enough to overcome their suspicions.
The baby soon stopped crying, to suckle, or perhaps to sleep, but still Grinsa did not emerge from the chamber. After some time Tavis began to wonder if he should return to their room rather than wait any longer. Abruptly he realized that his journeying with the Qirsi was
about to change drastically. Perhaps it had even come to an end. Grinsa was a father now and regardless of whether or not the woman was to be punished, Grinsa’s first responsibility had to be to their child. For all he knew, the gleaner had forgotten that he was in the corridor and had no intention of leaving the woman’s side until morning. Tavis could hardly blame him, and yet neither could he deny that he felt angry, even betrayed.
Just as he was ready make his way back to the chamber, however, the door opened, and the gleaner stepped out into the hallway, his skin flushed deep red, and his hair damp with sweat. In the past nine turns, he and Grinsa had been pursued by the king’s guard in Aneira and the soldiers of Kentigern. Yet Tavis had never seen the gleaner look so weary.
“Is she all right?” the young lord asked.
“Yes. They both are, though we almost lost each of them in turn.” A smile touched his lips and was gone. “I have a daughter. Cresenne tells me she’s to be called Bryntelle.”
“This was her decision? You have nothing to do with naming your own child?”
“You forget. My daughter is Qirsi. She’ll always bear my name. Bryntelle ja Grinsa. I couldn’t have chosen any better.”
Tavis nodded. “Well, I’m . . . I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you. I’m not sure that I am.”
“What do you mean?”
Grinsa eyed the guards for a moment. “Walk with me.” They started toward the nearest of the towers, descended the stairs, and stepped out into the castle’s upper ward. The wind had died down, but snow still fell, the flakes soft and cold on Tavis’s face.
For a short while, the two of them merely walked, following a meandering path through the Glyndwr gardens.
“What have I told you about her?” Grinsa finally asked, his voice low.
“Very little. I gather that you thought her a gleaner, just as she did you. I believe you loved her and that you only learned she was with the conspiracy after you left her.”
“I should have known earlier.” He shook his head. “She kept asking me about your Fating, about what I saw in the stone. The night I left she pretended to be hurt that I was leaving her, but I could tell there was more to it than that. I just chose not to see it for what it was.”
“You were in love.”
“That’s a poor excuse.”
Tavis started to argue, but quickly thought better of it. Grinsa expected a great deal of himself, more than was fair, it sometimes seemed to the young lord. If the gleaner had decided to blame himself for the woman’s betrayal, there was little Tavis could do to talk him out of it. And since he had never been in love, Tavis could hardly claim to be knowledgeable on the subject. Instead he walked and waited for Grinsa to continue.
“I’d always known that I would have to find Cresenne eventually. She serves the conspiracy and she may know something about the Weaver who leads it. But I had hoped to put this off as long as possible. I wanted to find Shurik first, and since his death I’ve hoped that my sister could find out what I might otherwise have to learn from Cresenne. I didn’t expect to see her this soon, and certainly not under these circumstances.”
He didn’t want to ask, but there seemed little choice. “Now that she’s here, what are you going to do?”
The gleaner shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Do you still love her?”
“I’d be a fool if I did.”
Tavis grinned. “That does nothing to answer my question.”
Grinsa actually laughed. “I don’t suppose it does.” His smile gave way to a grimace that told Tavis all he needed to know. “I don’t know if I can love her after what she’s done. But I am still . . . drawn to her.”
“Does she know that you’re—?” He stopped himself, searching the ward for Kearney’s guards.
“Does she know the extent of my powers?”
“Yes.”
“I never told her, but I think she’s reasoned it out by now. It’s one of the reasons she called for me today, maybe the only reason. She needed my healing magic.”
“I expect that she called for you because you’re the child’s father. Whatever else lies between you, nothing can change that.”
The gleaner smiled and put his hand on Tavis’s shoulder. “Thank you. You may be right. But still your question raises an interesting point. If she knows I’m a Weaver, she’s a danger to me, to Keziah, and to our hopes of defeating the conspiracy.”
“Maybe now she can be turned from their cause.”
“You mean because of the baby.”
“I’m sorry, Grinsa,” Tavis said, retreating quickly. “I wasn’t implying that we should use your daughter as—”
“It’s all right, Tavis. Before this is over, we may have to think in such terms. For now, though—for tonight—I’d just like to think of Bryntelle as my babe, and nothing more.”
“Of course.”
They both fell silent, though Grinsa gave no indication that he was ready to return to the herbmaster’s chamber.
“There’s more on your mind,” the gleaner said at last. “I can always tell.”
Tavis was eager to tell him of his conversation with Kearney, but this didn’t seem to be the time.
“It’s nothing.”
The Qirsi halted, forcing Tavis to face him. “I don’t believe you. Just speak and be done with it.”
“All right.” He took a breath. “The duke came to the chamber during Cresenne’s childbirth. We spoke briefly, and he suggested that if she is or once was a part of the conspiracy, and if she had anything to do with arranging Brienne’s murder, she might be able to prove my innocence.”
Tavis saw the gleaner’s jaw tighten, but his expression remained the same, and when he finally replied, his voice was even and low. “The duke makes an interesting point. What is it you’d have me do?”
“I don’t know. First, we need to learn all she knows about what happened in Kentigern.”
“I already intended to ask her about that, along with a host of other matters. What then?”
He shrugged. “If it turns out she knows something of the plans to kill Brienne and of the assassin, I suppose we’ll need to bring her before the other dukes, perhaps even the king.”
Grinsa looked away, his lip pressed in a tight line. “I don’t want her journeying with us.”
“It wouldn’t be for long.”
“Any time at all will be too much. She’s dangerous, Tavis. For you, and especially for me.”
“Even now? Even after what you two have shared this night?”
“She lied to me!” Grinsa said, his voice rising. “She tried to have me killed!”
“Perhaps she can change.” It seemed to Tavis that he and the gleaner had reversed roles for just a moment. How often had Grinsa urged him to use reason, to move beyond his anger and resentment?
“Just because of the child?” The Qirsi shook his head. “That’s a great burden to put upon such tiny shoulders.”
“It’s not just the child. You said yourself that you almost lost both mother and daughter tonight. If it weren’t for you, Cresenne might be dead, or she might be mourning the babe rather than nursing her. Whatever happened between you before tonight, it’s all different now. You saved her despite her betrayal, and together you share responsibility for another life.” He chanced a smile. “Even I know enough to see the significance of that.”
“We’re not a family, Tavis. I don’t think we ever can be. We’re adversaries in a war. That’s more powerful than any bond that ties us to each other.” He rubbed a hand over his face, looking haggard and worn. “I’ll consider what you’re asking of me. Truly I will. And I’ll speak with her tomorrow. But I make you no promises.”