“I wouldn’t ask you to.” Tavis gestured toward the tower entrance. “You should sleep. It’s been a long night.”
Grinsa smiled wearily. “Are you ministering to me, Lord Curgh?”
“It seems someone needs to.”
They turned and started back the way they had come. It was snowing harder now and already it was difficult to see their footprints in the dim light of the castle torches.
“I do think you’re mistaken, though,” the young lord said after a few moments. “Whatever else you and Cresenne may have been, you are a family now. Not even this war can change that.”
She would have liked to sleep for days, uninterrupted. But Bryntelle woke her several times during the course of the night, the first few times to suckle, and the fourth time, Cresenne finally realized, because she had soiled her swaddling. When Bryntelle did sleep, Cresenne managed to as well, but as dawn broke, and the baby drifted into slumber during yet another feeding, Cresenne remained awake, lighting a nearby candle with her magic and staring at her daughter in the firelight.
She had promised herself that she would not be one of those mothers who saw her child through ensorcelled eyes. If the babe was ugly,
so be it. She would admit as much to herself and to the world. And seeing Bryntelle for the first time, she had to concede that her baby did not look as she had hoped. Her skin was too red, her eyes swollen from the trauma of her birth, her head somewhat misshapen.
With every hour that passed, however, these flaws seemed to diminish, leaving Cresenne with a child she could describe only as beautiful. Overnight, her skin had lightened to a pale shade of pink, the swelling around her eyes had lessened. Her lips were perfectly shaped, as was her tiny nose. Her fingers and toes, wrinkled like the skin of some ancient Eandi, were smaller than Cresenne had ever imagined possible. Wisps of fine hair covered her head and the back of her neck, softer than Uulranni silk and as white as the new snow covering the highlands. Sitting in her bed, she felt helpless to do anything more than gaze upon her baby and weep, not for fear, or exhaustion, but for a joy unlike any she had known before.
Eventually, Bryntelle awoke again, her yellow eyes opening slowly. They were the color of fire, not quite as pale as Cresenne’s but not so bright as those of her father.
“Are you hungry again, little one?” Cresenne whispered, placing a finger on the child’s lips to see if she wanted to nurse. Immediately, Bryntelle took the finger in her mouth and began sucking on it. Cresenne laughed. “Very well.”
She sat up straighter, wincing at the dull ache in her back and hips. She pulled off her shift and raised Bryntelle to her breast. The babe began to suckle greedily.
“You’d think I hadn’t fed you all night.”
She heard a knock at the door and felt her body tense.
“Come in.”
She had expected Grinsa, but instead the herbmaster bustled in, crossing hurriedly to the shelf near her bed where he kept his herbs and stoppered vials of various extracts.
He glanced at her. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m sore. But other than that I feel all right, thank you.”
“Some pain is normal, particularly after a difficult labor. And the child?”
“I think she’s fine.”
“Good.” He stepped to the bed and looked at Bryntelle a moment. “She’s nursing quite well, and her color seems right for a Qirsi child.” He turned and started for the door. “I’d stay longer, but one of the
guards was wounded in training this morning. I’ll try to return later.” He hesitated at the door, facing her again. “The gleaner is here to see you. Shall I send him in?”
She didn’t answer. As much as Cresenne wanted to refuse him, to avoid this encounter for as long as possible, she knew that she couldn’t, not after what Grinsa had done for her the night before. “Yes,” she said at last, the word coming out as a sigh. “Thank you.”
He nodded and let himself out of the room, leaving the door ajar. A moment later Grinsa walked in.
Cresenne, though very much aware of his presence the night before, hadn’t really looked at him until now. She hadn’t remembered his face being so thin, and though he had always been an imposing man, he appeared taller and broader in the shoulders than he had in Curgh. She silently cursed the racing of her pulse.
His bright eyes fell on her as soon as he entered the room, but he quickly averted his gaze, his face coloring, as if embarrassed to see her nursing the baby.
She should have found a way to use this against him, but instead she felt herself growing discomfited as well. With her free arm, she draped her shift over her shoulders and breast so that only Bryntelle’s face could be seen.
Grinsa paced the room briefly, like a restless dog, finally stopping before the hearth.
“How do you feel?”
She shrugged, glancing down at Bryntelle. The baby’s eyes were beginning to droop again. “Not too bad.”
“And Bryntelle?”
She smiled in spite of herself. It was the first time someone else had used her—their—daughter’s name.
“She’s hungry all the time.”
“Isn’t she supposed to be?”
“I think so, yes.”
He nodded, resuming his pacing.
“I believe she looks a little bit like you.”
“Don’t!” he said, halting near the door and glaring at her.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk to me like we’re husband and wife! Don’t pretend that this child changes who you are and what you’ve done!”
“What do you know about who I am, Grinsa?”
“I know you’re a traitor.”
“A traitor to whom? The kingdom of Eibithar? I was born in Braedon and raised in Wethyrn. How can I betray a kingdom that’s not my own?” She forced a thin smile. “From where I sit, you’re the one who’s guilty of treason. You’ve forsaken your people for the Eandi courts. You, of all people.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”
“I think you know. We live in a land where you risk your life simply by admitting the extent of your powers, yet you willingly serve those who would be your executioners.”
She thought he would deny it. Until this moment none in the movement, not even the Weaver himself, knew for certain that Grinsa was a Weaver as well. They suspected, of course, and Cresenne had been fairly confident of it for some time. But only now, watching him wrestle with the implications of what she had said, did she know beyond doubt.
“Do you really want Bryntelle to grow up in a world where her father fears for his life every day?” she went on. “And what if she inherits more from you than just her name and the shape of her face? What if she carries your power in her blood? Do you want her to live in fear as well?”
The Weaver had said much the same thing to her several turns before, walking in her dreams as he often did. At the time it had been mere speculation, one possibility among many. Yet still, it frightened her, as if the Weaver had already claimed her child for his movement. Yet here she was echoing his words to Grinsa, the one man in the Forelands whose claim to Bryntelle rivaled her own. As she searched Aneira for the gleaner, carrying his child, dreading her next dream of the Weaver, Cresenne had wondered if she could turn Grinsa to her cause and thus trade one Weaver for another. She had thought to control him then, so that rather than serving a Weaver she feared, she might wield this man as a weapon. Gazing at him now, though, seeing how he regarded her, with loathing in his yellow eyes, she wondered if that had been folly.
“Of course I don’t want her to grow up as I did,” he said, “bearing the burden of that secret and that fear.”
“Then why do you fight us?”
“Because I’ve seen what your Weaver can do.”
She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. “What?”
“Yes, I know about him. I know that he’s capable of great cruelty, that he wields his power as a weapon, not just against the Eandi but against Qirsi as well.”
“How is this possible?” she asked. “Has he seen you? Does he know where you are?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were concerned for my safety.”
“I am.”
He let out a bitter laugh, though not before Cresenne saw something else flash in his eyes. “Of course you are. That’s why you sent that assassin for me.”
Actually, I’ve sent two
. She hadn’t intended to give Grinsa’s name to the second man, Cadel, the partner of the one Grinsa killed. But Cadel asked upon learning that Jedrek was dead, and to have denied him the name would have raised his suspicions. “That was before. . . .”
“Before what? The baby? I’ve already told you, this child changes nothing.”
She met his glare as long as she could, seeing once again all the hurt and hatred in his eyes, and knowing this time what lay at the root of it all. He had loved her so deeply. Twisted as it was now, that love still resided within him, waiting to be rekindled. Waiting to be used again. Yes, she loved him, too, though he would never believe that. But she loved Bryntelle more. Her love for this child was already the most powerful force in her life, more so even than her fear of the Weaver. No doubt he would sense this the next time he walked in her dreams. Only Grinsa could protect her now, if he could be convinced to do so. Folly or not, she had little choice but to try.
“She changes everything, Grinsa, and you know it. Not long ago I expect you thirsted for my death. You planned to capture me and have me executed as a traitor.” She looked down at Bryntelle, who had fallen asleep at her breast. “You won’t do that now. How would you explain such a thing to your daughter?”
“So much, for a mother’s love.”
She looked up. “What does that mean?”
“You don’t see a child lying in your arms. You see a tool, a weapon, perhaps even a shield.”
“That’s not true!”
“You think that I’ll spare your life for her sake. You probably even think that you can use my concern for her to turn me to your purposes.”
“I love her more than you could ever know!”
“Good. Because this blade cuts both ways.”
Cresenne shivered. “I don’t understand.”
“I need you to do certain things. You sent the assassin for me, which tells me that you sent his partner—the singer?—to Kentigern. You paid him to kill Brienne and make it look like Tavis’s crime.”
She should have denied it, just as he should have denied being a Weaver. And like Grinsa, she couldn’t bring herself to speak the words. “What is it you want?”
“As soon as you’re able, you’re going to come with us to the City of Kings, where you’ll tell the king just what you’ve done.”
“You can’t be serious!”
He gave a thin smile, his reply.
“Why? So that I can restore the Curgh boy’s good name. Don’t you understand that I hate the Eandi, that I’d sooner bring ruin to the Forelands than help even one of their nobles?”
“Yes, I understand. But you should understand that if you don’t do as I ask, I’ll have Bryntelle taken from you, and I’ll instruct the duke of Glyndwr to place you in his dungeon.”
She searched his face for some sign that he was dissembling. Seeing none, she began to tremble, as if he had doused the fire and thrown open the shutters to the icy wind. “She needs me,” she said in a small voice, holding Bryntelle so tightly to her breast that the baby awoke and began to cry.
“I know she does.” He spoke gently now, stepping closer to the bed. “And if you do as I ask, she’ll remain with you. I’ll do what I can to make certain of that. But you have to begin to make right all that you did in the service of your Weaver.”
“He’ll kill me.”
“I’ll protect you.”
She made herself smile, though abruptly there were tears on her cheeks. “If you really wanted to kill someone, is there a person in all the world who could stop you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been so desperate to kill someone.”
“Not even me?”
“I never wanted to kill you, Cresenne. And I never wanted to see you executed. To be honest, there was a part of me that hoped I’d never have to see you again at all. It would have been far easier that way.”
She nodded, looking at Bryntelle again. A tear fell on the bridge of
the girl’s nose and she wrinkled her brow. Cresenne laughed, wiping the tear away.
He sat in the chair beside her bed. “What do you know about this Weaver?”
She stared at the fire. She had expected this, though she had hoped that she might be able to avoid his questions for a few more days, at least until she had time to decide whether or not to lie to him. For now, however, she realized that the truth would serve her as well as any lie. The fact was, she couldn’t tell him much. “Very little,” she said. “He makes certain of that.”
“Is he in one of the courts?”
“Possibly.”
“He seems to have a lot of gold. Do you know where he gets it?”
“No.”
He exhaled through his teeth. “You have to give me more than this, Cresenne.”
“I don’t know more. I’ve never seen his face, he’s never told me his name, or anything about his life beyond the conspiracy.”
“How does he contact you?”
“He enters my dreams.” She glanced at him for just an instant. “Isn’t that how all Weavers do it?”
“How does he pay you?”
“He seems to have a network of couriers. I imagine he uses merchants to get the gold from one place to another.”
“Are all of them Qirsi?”
“So far.”
Grinsa looked down at his hands. “Has he ever hurt you?”
She felt her stomach clench. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Has he hurt you?”
“Sometimes he needs to demonstrate the extent of his powers. It’s not like he hurts me every time we speak.”
He just stared at her, saying nothing.
“I suppose Eandi nobles never use the threat of pain to maintain discipline among those who serve them.”
“An interesting comparison. If your Weaver is so much like an Eandi noble, what’s the point of this movement he leads?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“No, I don’t suppose it was.”
“I didn’t say he was like the Eandi,” she said, her face growing hot.
“I just meant that a leader—any leader—sometimes has to use force to keep order among those who follow him.”