He allowed himself to sleep for a time, waking again when he heard the midnight bells ringing in the city. He stirred the fire and added a log. Then he reached for Cresenne a second time.
Once more, he found that she was awake, and he had to struggle with a second vision of her and the gleaner, their legs entwined, a candle casting dark, terrible shadows on the wall beside them. But even as he pushed the vision away he realized that it was false, a product of his own jealousy and his lingering feelings for the woman. She wasn’t with Grinsa, and she wasn’t nursing her baby. She was merely awake, avoiding him. She had no intention of sleeping during the night. The gleaner would have seen to that, for he was a Weaver as well and so understood the effort it took for Dusaan to reach across the Forelands and into her mind.
“Demons and fire!” the high chancellor murmured, opening his eyes again.
He should have anticipated this. Instead, he had wasted the day wallowing in his fear of the gleaner and his regret at having failed to kill Cresenne. He would have to find time during the day to kill her—she had to sleep sometime—though, having angered the emperor with his absence this day, he’d have little choice but to wait several days before making the attempt.
In the next moment, however, cursing his stupidity a second time, he realized that he might not have to wait at all. He closed his eyes once more and reached out toward Eibithar’s royal city a third time, this
time seeking not Cresenne but the king’s archminister. He didn’t bother to make her climb the rise, though he took extra care in raising the brilliant white light behind him, as if expecting Grinsa to jump out from the shadows of the plain at any moment.
“Weaver,” she said. “I expected you.”
She had said something like this to him before, the night she opened her mind to him and fully bound herself to the movement. It had pleased him then. Tonight it did not. He had only thought to reach for her in the past few moments—that she had known he would need to do so before he did only served to make him more aware of how foolish he had been. Cresenne did this to him. It was even her fault that Paegar was dead. The sooner she died, the better.
“Then you know why I’ve come,” he said, his voice thick.
“I believe I do. It’s the woman, isn’t it? The one who betrayed you?”
“Yes. How long has she been there?”
“More than a turn, Weaver.”
More than a turn! He nearly struck the archminister, though he knew it wasn’t her fault. He should have contacted her sooner. Not long from now, the invasion would begin and Dusaan would begin in earnest his campaign to take the Forelands from the Eandi. Now was a time for vigilance, and instead he had grown dangerously lax.
“She’s told your king much about our movement?”
“She has, Weaver. Forgive me for not stopping her, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t even know if you wanted me to, or if perhaps this was a ruse of some sort. Only last night did I realize for certain that it wasn’t.”
“You needn’t apologize. What did your king have to say about what happened last night?”
“He was frightened, Weaver. The woman had told him that the movement is led by a Weaver, but until he saw what . . . what you can do, I don’t believe he grasped what it means to face a Weaver in war.”
Dusaan nodded. “I suppose there’s some value in that.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“She sleeps now during the day?”
“That’s her intention, yes.”
“And she was instructed to do this by the gleaner, the father of her child?”
He sensed some hesitation on her part, as if she didn’t wish to speak
of Grinsa. There was fear in her mind as well, though of what he couldn’t be certain.
“Yes, Weaver.”
“You don’t wish to speak of this man. Why?”
“He frightens me, Weaver. He claims to be a Revel gleaner and nothing more. Yet he found a way to save the woman, and then he healed her wounds.”
“Trust your instincts where this man is concerned. They serve you well. He’s more than he claims to be. That’s all you need to know right now.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
Again, he felt that she was holding something back, as if there might have been more to her feelings for the gleaner than she was admitting. It occurred to him then that she might have been attracted to the man. Cresenne had fallen in love with him; wasn’t it possible that the archminister had as well. If she had, he didn’t want to know it. The gleaner had caused him enough trouble already.
“Can you get close to the woman?”
“I’ve befriended her, Weaver. When I heard that she had been with the movement and now intended to betray it, I thought it wise to convince her that I was a friend. After last night, she’s guarded throughout the day and night, and the gleaner is never far from her side. But I believe I can still see her. Why?”
“Because I want you to kill her.”
Keziah blanched and her hands began to tremble. “I don’t know that I can, Weaver.”
“Do you mean that the guards and gleaner will stop you, or that you might not be capable of killing her?”
She lowered her gaze. “Both.”
“You may need to befriend the gleaner as well. Win his trust and he may see fit to leave you alone with the woman. That will be your chance. As to your misgivings about killing, others in this movement have had to make similar sacrifices in the name of our cause. When the time comes, I’m certain you’ll find the strength to do as I command. If you fail, you’ll suffer as the woman has.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“I want her death to appear to be my doing.”
“Your doing?”
“Yes. Give her a sleeping tonic and then smother her. The gleaner will blame me, just as he should. I want her death to be a warning to other Qirsi who would turn against our movement. And I want our enemies to know that I can reach them no matter where in the Forelands they might try to hide.”
“Yes, Weaver. Very well.”
Yet there it was again. Her fear, her reluctance . . .
“What of her child, Weaver?”
And then he understood.
There was risk here as well. The child might well grow up to be a Weaver, and she would have cause to hate him, to want him dead and to oppose all that he would have built by then. But even Weavers didn’t live forever, and by the time Cresenne’s baby grew into her power, Dusaan would probably be dead already. Still, that wasn’t the true reason he would allow the child to live. Since learning of Cresenne’s pregnancy, he had seen this baby as the embodiment of the Qirsi future. She was the heir to all that he sought to build here in the Forelands, if not in name, then at least in spirit. He had wanted the woman to be his queen, not only because she was lovely but also because she seemed to carry the destiny of all their people within her body. Cresenne had forsaken the movement, and would die because of it. But Dusaan couldn’t bring himself to kill the child as well.
“The child can live,” he said.
Keziah’s relief was palpable. “That would make this easier.”
He nodded. “Good. Do you understand what I expect of you?”
“I do, Weaver.”
“Then the next time we speak, I expect to hear that she’s dead.”
“It will take me some time, Weaver. If I’m to win the gleaner’s trust—”
“You’ve already befriended the woman, and she trusts the gleaner. That should make it much easier for you, and quicker as well. I’ll allow you some time, but every day she lives, she further weakens the movement, endangering all of our lives and the cause for which we’re fighting. I won’t tolerate much delay.”
She took a breath, nodded. “I understand, Weaver.”
“Don’t disappoint me.”
Dusaan opened his eyes to the dim golden light of his chamber. The fire had burned low again, but he didn’t bother to add more wood. Instead,
he rose from the chair, stretched, and crossed the chamber to his bed. Dawn was still a few hours off, and after all that had happened the previous night he needed at least some sleep.
Before he could lie down, however, someone knocked at his door. For just a moment he had an urge to reach for his dagger, though his powers were all the protection he needed. The knock came a second time.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“Nitara.”
The underminister. Why would she come to his bedchamber at this hour?
He pulled open the door. She stood before him in a sleeping shift, torch fire reflected in her pale eyes, her hair hanging loose to her shoulders.
“What do you want?” he asked.
The woman faltered, as if unsure of why she had come to his chamber. “I—I wish to speak with you.”
“Now?”
She swallowed, then, “I know who you are, what you are.”
He should have known what to say to this. He should have had some response. But he could only stare back at her, wondering whether to be alarmed or relieved.
More than a turn had passed since Nitara and Kayiv had spoken with the high chancellor about the Qirsi movement. As the chancellor promised, they had each received a payment of gold several days later: one hundred imperial qinde apiece, left on their beds in small leather pouches. The following day, she and Kayiv spoke in private with the high chancellor a second time, though their conversation lasted only long enough for Dusaan to confirm that they had been paid and to promise them that they would soon be called upon to complete some small task. Neither of the ministers had heard anything since.
Kayiv seemed relieved by this—his doubts about the conspiracy and the high chancellor had only grown with the passage of time, forcing Nitara to wonder if he was truly the man she had once believed him to be. He spoke now of the need to find a path to peace, of the dangers the conspiracy presented to all Qirsi in the Forelands. He never said such things in front of the chancellor, of course. He was no fool. Still, she found herself losing patience with his misgivings and his cowardice.
For her part, Nitara was eager to take action on the movement’s behalf. She almost didn’t care what it was, so long as she had the opportunity to do something. She had been waiting for so long to strike at the courts. Listening to Kayiv feet like an old man, she felt her own fervor for the movement growing, until it seemed that every word he spoke against the conspiracy fueled her own hatred of the Eandi and their allies among her people.
She remained fond of him, and she thought him a skilled lover, but had there been other men of interest to her in the emperor’s palace, she would already have turned him from her bed.
This at least is what she told herself. For as it happened, there was one man with whom she had become fascinated in the past turn. The high chancellor himself.
She had never seen a Qirsi who looked as he did: tall as a king, broad in the chest and shoulders, like an Eandi warrior, with wild white hair and eyes as golden as the coins she had hidden beneath her bed. A part of her was ashamed that she should find herself drawn to a man in part because he possessed physical strength more characteristic of the Eandi than the Qirsi. But she saw in his formidable presence and regal features the future of her people, the promise of victory in the coming war. She could no more keep herself from imagining his face as she lay with Kayiv than she could stop counting the gold each night before she slept, running her fingers over the smooth edges of the coins as if they were a lover’s lips.
Even before he revealed to them his involvement in the movement, she had thought him handsome. But she had not allowed herself more than that. He was high chancellor, she had told herself. He had no time for her, no inclination to look at her as anything more than another of his underlings. And back then she had been satisfied to pass her nights in Kayiv’s arms.
As she grew more consumed with her desire for the man, other thoughts began to intrude on her as well, so that it seemed the high chancellor haunted her dreams at night and occupied every waking moment. These thoughts were more dangerous than mere passion, and more intriguing as well.
The movement was led by a Weaver, he had told them, a man who could walk in the dreams of those who served him. All of them answered to this Weaver, and it was this man, not the high chancellor, who would lead them to the glorious future they had envisioned. Except
that Nitara couldn’t imagine the high chancellor answering to anyone, not even a Weaver. Indeed, the more she considered the matter, the more she wondered if Dusaan himself were the movement’s leader. He was the highest-ranking Qirsi in the most powerful realm in the Forelands. Who better to lead a movement that would strike at the Eandi courts? More to the point, how many other Qirsi, regardless of his or her powers, would have the resources and knowledge necessary to create such a movement, to pay those who joined it, and to direct others to strike at the weaknesses of the other realms? It had to be Dusaan. He had access to the emperor’s treasury, and he knew more about Braedon’s rivals than any man in the empire, including Harel. Such a man wouldn’t have taken orders from some festival Qirsi, even if that person were a Weaver, nor would he have allowed himself to be ordered about by a court Qirsi from a lesser realm. He was too proud, too convinced of his own superiority. And why not? He was brilliant and strong and he looked like a king.
Nitara had considered all of this for some time now, and she no longer doubted that Dusaan, despite all that he had told her and Kayiv, was the movement’s leader. But that left her to question whether he had invented for their benefit this Weaver of whom he spoke. He would have good reason for doing so. By telling them that a Weaver led the movement, he not only convinced them that he was a mere soldier in a greater cause but he also fueled their belief that the movement could prevail against the armies of the courts.
Reflecting on all the high chancellor had told them that day, however, Nitara couldn’t bring herself to believe this. She had sensed through much of their conversation that Dusaan was not telling them everything. Kayiv had the same impression and had feared ever since that Dusaan had lied to them, hoping to expose them as traitors. She knew he was wrong, but only when she recalled how he had spoken of the Weaver did she begin to sense how wrong he had been.