Unlike Cresenne, who by her treachery had earned the painful death
he had in mind for her. Instead, the gleaner had saved her, that golden fire in his palm a declaration of sorts, a warning to the Weaver that Grinsa intended to oppose him.
Dusaan couldn’t be certain how much the gleaner had seen—he had severed his contact with Cresenne as quickly as possible in a vain attempt to keep the man from seeing too much. Their eyes had met, so surely Grinsa saw the Weaver’s face. But had he seen Ayvencalde Moor as well? Had he recognized it?
“Damn her!” he muttered through clenched teeth.
He would go to her again this night. He would kill her, painfully to be sure, but quickly as well, so that the gleaner would be powerless to stop him.
It means nothing if Grinsa knows who you are
.
The golden light had been on his face for less than a heartbeat, no more than a flicker of lightning on a warm night during the growing. Surely he hadn’t seen enough.
Dusaan spat a curse. He had been leading this movement for too long to allow himself to believe that. He had no choice but to assume that Grinsa had seen everything, that already the gleaner knew where he could be found. So what would the gleaner do next?
He couldn’t leave Cresenne, not if he wanted to keep her alive. As far as Dusaan knew, there wasn’t another Qirsi in the Forelands who could protect her. And as the father of her child, a man who had loved her, he wouldn’t just leave her to die.
The high chancellor felt his grip on the chair begin to relax.
Grinsa couldn’t send anyone to Braedon either. He couldn’t even tell the Eandi nobles with whom he had allied himself what he knew, not without revealing to all that he was a Weaver as well. Even if Grinsa knew his name and his title, he could do nothing.
Dusaan should have been pleased. He had seen Grinsa’s face as plainly as the gleaner had seen his, and for far longer. He didn’t have to rely on Cresenne anymore. Not only did he know the gleaner’s name and face, he even knew where the man was. Audun’s Castle. He could send assassins. Or he could enter the man’s dreams himself and test his strength against the gleaner’s. Surely he could prevail in such a battle, and even if he couldn’t, so long as their encounter took place in Grinsa’s mind, the gleaner could do no worse than drive him away.
Dusaan had lost nothing the previous night. At least this is what he told himself again and again, fighting an urge to scream out in frustration. The truth was, he had lost his first battle. Grinsa might still prove to be no match for him when next they faced each other. But for this one night, the gleaner had bested him. And the chancellor had no one to blame but himself. It had never occurred to him that Grinsa was with the woman, though of course it should have. Who else could have convinced her to defy him, to risk certain death by betraying the movement? She had been searching for Grinsa since the growing turns. Was it so strange that she should have found him in Audun’s Castle? The Weaver should have known, and he should have made certain that she died. Above all else, he needed her dead, so that she could do no more damage to the movement. Instead, he had allowed his thirst for revenge and his lust for her pain to cloud his mind. He had been a fool, a difficult admission for a man who did not willingly suffer fools.
He stayed in his chamber for the entire morning and well past midday. Servants came to his door with food, or with inquiries from the emperor after his health, but he did not move from his chair, and he gave none of them leave to enter. Late in the day, however, when yet another of the emperor’s pages came calling, he roused himself from his brooding and opened the door.
Clearly the boy hadn’t expected this. For several moments he just stared up at the high chancellor, his dark eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.
“What is it you want, boy?”
“The emperor, sir!” he blurted out. “He asks for you. He . . . he sounded angry.”
“Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”
The boy bowed, managing to say, “Yes, High Chancellor,” before hurrying away.
Dusaan wasn’t certain that he trusted himself to speak civilly with the emperor just now, but he had little choice. If he passed much more of the day in his chamber, the emperor himself might come looking for him. Better to face the fat fool in the imperial hall, whence he could excuse himself after a time.
Reaching the emperor’s hall, he thrust open the door and strode in, only remembering to pause when he heard the guard by the door call
out his name and title. Harel sat on the marble throne, his fleshy face red, his mouth set in a thin line.
“High Chancellor,” he said archly, as if a parent speaking to a tardy child.
Dusaan dropped to one knee, lowering his gaze. When the time came, he would enjoy killing this man. “Your Eminence.”
“I summoned you a number of times. There are matters I’ve wished to discuss.”
“Yes, Your Eminence,” the high chancellor said, still kneeling. “I sent word in return that I wasn’t well.”
“You seem well enough now.”
“The rest you allowed me did much good, Your Eminence. I’m most grateful.”
Harel frowned, then made a vague gesture with a meaty hand, his gemmed rings sparkling. “Rise.”
Dusaan stood. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”
“What was the matter with you?” He flinched away, pressing himself against the back of his throne. “It wasn’t something contagious was it?”
“No, Your Eminence. I had a difficult night and feared that I might be succumbing to a fever. But I’m well now. You needn’t be concerned.”
Not that you cared a whit for me, you coward
.
The emperor straightened. “Well, good. As I said, there are matters I’ve been waiting to discuss with you.”
It was almost comical. One might have thought that the high chancellor had been in his bedchamber for half the year. “I’m here now, Your Eminence. How can I be of service?”
“I hardly know where to begin.” He toyed with the jeweled scepter that lay across his lap. “This business in the south has only gotten worse.”
“The land dispute in Grensyn, Your Eminence?”
“Yes. The lord there was quite disturbed by the message we sent last turn. He’s refusing to abide by my decision.”
It was more than Dusaan could have expected. Manyus of Grensyn had never struck him as being particularly bold, nor had he ever seemed inclined to oppose any decree coming from Curtell. Granted, he and his people had long been at odds with the lordship of Muelry, with whom the emperor had ordered them to share the farming lands west of the Grensyn River. But to defy the emperor in this way invited a harsh response.
“Have you had word from the lord of Muelry, Your Eminence?”
Harel waved his hand again, as if dismissing the question. “Patrin sent the letter informing me of what Manyus had done. You know as well as I that the man is too weak minded and timid to act on his own. He begs me to intervene, no doubt hoping that I’ll send the imperial guard to take a corner of the plain and protect his farmers.”
Dusaan had to agree with Harel’s opinion of Patrin of Muelry, and also with his guess as to what the lord wanted him to do.
“Then you’ve heard nothing from Manyus directly?”
“Not yet, no.”
“It may be wisest to await his response before taking any action, Your Eminence. Grensyn may intend to comply, but only after making Muelry wait for a time.”
“It’s almost Amon’s turn,” the emperor said. “If he delays too long, the harvest will suffer.”
“Perhaps it would be appropriate to send a second message stating as much, and making it clear how displeased Your Eminence would be were he to doom Muelry’s crops to failure.”
Harel nodded. “Yes. A fine idea. See to it, won’t you, High Chancellor?”
“Of course, Your Eminence.” He continued to stand there, waiting. “Is there more, Your Eminence?”
“Yes, there’s more!” the emperor said, sounding like a peevish child. “We’ve had word from Lachmas as well. They still have no proof that the lord’s death was anything more than an accident.”
Actually this message had arrived the day before. Dusaan had brought it to the imperial hall and waited there as the emperor read it. But clearly Harel wished to impress upon Dusaan that he was to be by the emperor’s side at all times. The “matters” he claimed to have wanted to discuss with Dusaan were a pretense, nothing more.
“Yes, Your Eminence,” he said. “I recall from yesterday.”
“Well, what do you make of this?”
He had to answer with care. Lachmas’s death had frightened the emperor, and while Dusaan anticipated that Harel’s fear might prove useful at some point, he couldn’t risk having the man grow so afraid of the movement that he lost faith in all his Qirsi.
“They may well be correct, Your Eminence. Hunting mishaps are said to be quite common. In all likelihood, Lord Lachmas’s death was nothing more or less than a tragic accident.”
“I’d like to believe that.”
“As would I, Your Eminence. But we should remain wary nevertheless. The leaders of this conspiracy have shown themselves to be cunning and dangerous. Just because the soldiers of Lachmas have found no evidence of a murder, we can’t assume that there was none.”
“If you wish to put my mind at ease, you’ve done a damned poor job of it.”
Good
. “Forgive me, Your Eminence. Perhaps I should leave you.”
“No. Tell me of the fleet.”
Dusaan shrugged. “From all I hear, the ships are in place off Wantrae and Mistborne Islands. They await only your word to begin their assault. Eibithar’s fleet has been active as well, perhaps in response to our own maneuvers, but this could hardly be avoided.”
“Maybe we should begin the invasion earlier than planned.”
“If Your Eminence wishes it. But I believe we’ll fare better if we wait for the lords of Aneira to ready their army. Eibithar’s fleet is no match for our own. They can take whatever positions they wish off the north coast; they still won’t withstand our attack.” He paused, watching the emperor’s face. Harel didn’t look pleased. “Do you wish to alter our plans, Your Eminence?”
“No. I’d just like to get on with them.”
“Of course, Your Eminence. I believe, however, that your patience will be rewarded. There can be no question of the brilliance of the strategy you’ve devised.” Actually, Dusaan and the master of arms had done most of the planning for the war, but he knew that Harel would gladly take credit for it.
“Very well,” Harel said.
He heard weariness in the emperor’s voice, and once more he thought to excuse himself. “I’ll leave you now, Your Eminence. Again, you have my apologies for my failure to answer your earlier summons.”
“I expect the master of arms shortly,” Harel said, as if he hadn’t heard. “He’ll be reporting on the day’s training. I think you should remain for that. Afterwards you may join us for dinner.”
It was almost as if the emperor were punishing him for his absence that morning. All the Weaver wanted was to return to his chamber and await nightfall, so that he could be done with Cresenne and turn his attention fully to the gleaner.
“Tell me about the treasury.”
“What about it, Your Eminence?” trying to keep his tone light.
“We’ve a war to wage. My father always used to say that no weapon was more essential to a successful war than gold.”
“Quite true, Your Eminence. Your father was a great man.”
“I take it we have enough gold to wage and win this war.”
He should have known better, but he couldn’t resist giving voice to the first response that came to him. “You’ve enough gold in your treasury to fund two wars, Your Eminence.”
“Ean forbid it should come to that.”
Dusaan suppressed a smile. “Ean forbid.”
The master of arms arrived a few moments later, and as he and the emperor spoke of the training of soldiers and the poor fighting skills of the latest probationers, Dusaan had little choice but to stand and listen. Eventually, the three men walked to the palace’s great hall where they were joined by Harel’s wives for the evening meal. The emperor said little to Dusaan; once again the chancellor sensed that this was intended as punishment and nothing more.
The Weaver should have been able to endure the evening without effort, but knowing that Harel sought to teach him a lesson, he found himself suffering as if he were on a torture table. Every foolish statement the emperor made, every attempt at wisdom that came out as the trite truism of a child, every fawning compliment paid to the man by the master of arms grated on him until he thought he would shatter his teeth for the clenching of his jaw. The dinner lasted an eternity—it almost seemed that the emperor lingered over the meal, hoping to prolong Dusaan’s misery.
When at last it ended, the emperor returning to his sleeping chamber with the youngest of his wives, Dusaan nearly ran back to his own chamber. A freshly fed fire awaited him there, as did a basin filled with steaming water. He splashed his face repeatedly, as if to wash the ignominy of the evening from his skin, before settling into the large chair by his hearth. It was already well past the ringing of the gate closing bell. No doubt Cresenne was asleep.
Or so he thought. When he cast his mind eastward toward Audun’s Castle, he found that though he still sensed her presence there, he couldn’t reach into her mind. She was awake still, tending to her child perhaps, or making love with the gleaner. He recoiled from the image,
opening his eyes to the firelight in his chamber, and clamping his mouth shut against a sudden wave of nausea.
“She’s a traitor and a whore,” he said aloud. “She’s nothing.”
Yet he knew better. He had tried to kill her, and would do so again this night. But he could not deny that he still wanted her as his own. Never had he felt this way about a woman before, not even Jastanne ja Triln, the merchant who slept naked so that she might offer herself as a gift to the Weaver each time he walked in her dreams. Yes, Cresenne was beautiful, but there were others who were as well; it was more than that. It was the child she had borne, it was all that she had once given to the movement despite her love for the gleaner. He had intended to make her his queen when the time came. And though he knew now that he could not, that dream would prove far harder to kill than the woman herself.