“I’m a friend of Corbin.”
His eyes flew back to her face, widening for just an instant. He stepped farther into the corridor and pulled the door closed.
“No,” she said. “Not out here. In your room.”
Jedrek frowned, but then opened the door once more and led her inside.
“Who is that?” a woman asked from the bed.
Cresenne brightened her flame, revealing a dark-haired woman sitting up in bed. She was naked and large-breasted, pretty for an Eandi woman.
“Who in Bian’s name are you?” she demanded, looking Cresenne up and down.
“I’m his wife.”
“His wife? But you’re …” Hearing Jedrek’s laughter, she stopped, glaring at one of them and then the other. “You bastard,” she said to him. “You can both rot, as far as I’m concerned.”
She rolled herself out of the bed, grabbed her clothes and walked to the door. Flinging it open, she started down the corridor, not bothering to shut it again. Jedrek walked to the door as well, watching her go before closing it.
“It took me three days to talk her into my bed,” he said, facing Cresenne once more. “This had better be important.”
She was in no mood to even pretend that she cared. “Get me a candle. I don’t want to sustain this flame the rest of the night.”
He brought her a large candle from the table by his bed. She held the wick to the flame in her hand before letting the conjured fire die out.
“What is it you want?” he asked, standing in front of her, his hands on his hips.
She sat on the bed, keeping her eyes on his face.
“You know where Cadel’s gone?”
He nodded. “To Kentigern.”
“And you know why?”
“I know enough. He doesn’t always tell me everything. He says it’s safer that way.”
She considered this briefly. “He’s probably right.” She rubbed a hand across her mouth, then pushed her damp hair back from her brow. In spite of all that had happened that night, she didn’t want to do this. She tried to tell herself that she had no choice, that everything was at risk if Grinsa wasn’t stopped, but she wasn’t certain it was true.
Can you risk letting him live?
a voice asked within her.
“No.”
“No, what?” he asked.
Cresenne hadn’t even realized she had answered aloud.
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m here because one of the Qirsi in the Revel, the man who was present at Lord Tavis’s Fating, has decided to ride to Kentigern.”
Jedrek looked puzzled. “Why?”
“He had a vision. He knows the boy is in trouble. He may even have seen what Cadel has in mind for the boy. It’s possible that was what Tavis himself saw in his gleaning.”
He whistled through his teeth. “Are you certain?”
She looked toward the window. The rain had slackened. “No. I’m not certain of anything. But I do know the gleaner is going to Kentigern. The rest is unimportant.”
“All right. What do you want me to do?”
“Follow him. And when you’ve put some distance between yourself and the Revel, kill him.”
He paled and lowered himself into a large chair near the window. “But he’s … You said he’s a gleaner. So that means he’s … he’s like you.”
Cresenne couldn’t help but smile. “He’s Qirsi, if that’s what you’re trying to say.” She leaned forward. “Is that a problem?”
“I’ve never killed a Qirsi,” he said, averting his gaze. “Cadel usually handles them.”
He wasn’t making this any easier for her. “He’s just a gleaner,” she told him. “He shouldn’t be any different from others you’ve killed.”
Jedrek nodded, though he still looked disquieted.
“When were you to meet up with Cadel again?”
“Two turns from now, in southern Aneira.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Two turns. It won’t make much sense for you to rejoin the Revel when you’re done.”
“That’s not a problem,” he said.
“Perhaps not for you. But two of you leaving the Revel on the same day might attract unwanted attention.” Cresenne chewed her lip for a moment. “Can you track him if he leaves a few days before you do?”
The man grinned, showing no trace of the doubts he had expressed a few moments before. “If he’s in the Forelands, I can find him. All I need to know is his name and what he looks like.”
Her heart was beating so hard she could hear it. She wondered if he could as well.
“His name is Grinsa jal Arriet.” She almost didn’t get it out for the trembling of her voice. “He’s tall, broader in the shoulders than most Qirsi. He wears his hair long and untied. He has a wide mouth and high cheekbones.”
And his hands are slender and more gentle than any I’ve ever known.
“Is he a full-blood? White hair, yellow eyes?”
She nodded.
He frowned, but said nothing. Still, she knew what he was thinking. Like most Eandi he probably found it difficult to tell one Qirsi man from another.
“How many days do you want me to wait?”
She shrugged. “Can you afford to wait three or four?”
“It doesn’t make any difference to me. Like I said, I’ll find him.”
“Four then. That should be enough. People will remark on the fact that you’ve both left, but they’ll think it a coincidence, nothing more.”
He nodded again. “Anything else?”
“I don’t have any gold for you. All that I had for … for things of this sort, I gave to Cadel before he left.”
“That’s all right,” Jedrek said. “Cadel handles the gold anyway. He’ll make sure we get paid.”
“Do you have enough gold to buy a horse? He’ll be on horseback.”
“Yes, I have enough.”
Cresenne hesitated, then stood. There didn’t seem to be much else to say, but she was reluctant to leave.
“I’ll take care of this,” he said, as if sensing her uncertainty. “He’ll never make it to Kentigern.”
Cresenne walked slowly to the door, but halted before she reached it, and faced him again.
“When the time comes,” she said, “don’t let him suffer. Do it quickly.”
He took a breath, the worried look returning to his lean face. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do it any other way with a Qirsi. If I’m lucky, he won’t even see me.”
Kentigern, Eibithar, Elined’s Moon waning
F
otir knew that he should have been grateful. On that dreadful morning, as Brienne’s body lay covered with blood in Tavis’s bed, he had wondered if any of them would survive the day. Certainly he’d expected that Tavis would be killed immediately. Late that day, when Javan returned to the guest quarters of the castle following his meeting with the duke of Kentigern, he too appeared to have lost all hope of saving his son’s life.
“I’ve done all I can for him,” he said at the time. “But I fear he’ll be dead before sunset tomorrow.”
The duke told Fotir little of his meeting with Aindreas, save that he had threatened war if Tavis was executed without fair consideration, and that Aindreas had vowed to block his ascension to the throne.
For his part, Fotir did little better with Shurik. The friendship they had started to build during their evening together at the Silver Bear crumbled under the weight of subsequent events. When he went to speak with the minister the morning after Brienne’s murder, Shurik refused to see him. As much as Fotir wished to offer reassurances to his duke, he had none to give.
It seemed, however, that Javan’s threats carried more weight with Aindreas than either Fotir or his duke had believed. Five days had passed since Brienne’s death and Tavis’s imprisonment, and still the young lord lived. He remained in prison, enduring conditions that Fotir could only describe as abominable. But at least he was alive.
The day before, four days after her death as custom dictated, Brienne was honored by the people of Kentigern. Despite his loyalty to the house of Curgh and his belief in Tavis’s innocence, Fotir couldn’t help but be moved by what he heard from the castle ward as the people of Kentigern filed into the castle cloister to view her body. Men and women alike wailed in their grief and screamed for Tavis’s execution. At dusk, when Brienne’s body was carried back to the ward and laid upon the pyre, the thousands who had lingered in the castle abruptly began to sing the lament from
The Paean to the Moons
. It was not at all the custom—they were supposed to remain silent as the fire was lit. But this only served to make their tribute more poignant. Recalling it now, though, as he walked with Javan and Xaver to the prison, Fotir realized that even this act of devotion and love had a darker side. It didn’t matter if they proved Tavis innocent or not. Aindreas wanted the boy dead, and, it seemed, so did his people.
The Qirsi dreaded these visits to the dungeon, though he would never have dreamed of staying behind. Not only was the place foul and dismal, but the conversations between Javan and Tavis had grown painfully awkward. Yet each day the duke returned. Fotir would not have expected Javan to go to his son so often under such circumstances, but the duke surprised him. Perhaps he had not fully appreciated Javan’s affection for the boy, or perhaps Javan himself had not realized until now how much he cared for his son. After the first day, Tavis seemed surprised to see his father as well, but he had the good sense to express only his gratitude at their return.
When they reached the dungeon on this morning, Tavis looked to be in worse condition than the day before. Javan had prevailed upon the jailers to lengthen the chains holding the boy’s arms, but had been unable to do more for him. His legs were still bound, allowing him little movement. His meals remained meager and vile—mostly stale breads and half-rotten meat—and his allotment of water so small that his lips had grown dry and cracked. He was soiled and filthy, his hair matted with sweat and Qirsar knew what else. Overnight, the sores on his wrists and ankles where the manacles held him had grown darker and angrier. There were fresh bites on his arms and legs from the vermin in the prison. But more than that, Fotir saw nothing but despair and surrender in his eyes. The boy seemed to flinch at the merest sound, and he was shivering, though it was not particularly cold in the prison. It was as if the
stench and the darkness, and the oppressive weight of the stone walls, had battered his spirit into submission. The duke and his men had yet to hang him, but their prison was killing him a bit at a time.
It took the young lord some time to realize that they had come, and even then, he did not appear to trust his senses.
“Father?” he said weakly, his chains ringing as he roused himself.
Javan regarded his son with a pained expression. “Yes, it’s me. Fotir and Xaver are here as well.”
“Good morning, my lord,” Fotir said, trying to sound cheerful.
Xaver could not even bring himself to speak. He merely stared at his friend, looking like he wanted to cry, or perhaps kill.
“What day is it?”
“It’s the first day of the waning,” Javan answered. “Last night was the Night of Two Moons.”
“In which turn?” Tavis grimaced. “Forgive me, but I can’t remember.”
“Elined’s Turn.”
The planting moon, Fotir thought. It hadn’t even occurred to him until now. Throughout the land, farmers had sown their last crops the night before by the light of Panya and Ilias. Most of the planting took place earlier in the year, with the return of the rains and warm nights, but the last seeds were saved for the Night of Two Moons in Elined’s Turn. Planting on this night, legend told, would bring a successful growing season. The same legends also warned that if these last seedlings were not up by Pitch Night, all the crops would fail. Had they been back in Curgh, the duke would have been riding last night, visiting as many of the towns around the castle as he could reach, sharing in the ritual plantings with the people of his realm. Instead, they were here, and the simple beauty of Curgh’s farms seemed terribly far away.
“When am I to be executed?” Tavis asked.
Fotir shivered to hear the words spoken so plainly.
“They’re not going to execute you,” Xaver said. “We’ve told you before that we won’t allow it.”
The young lord closed his eyes and gave a small, sad smile. “There’s no preventing it, Xaver. You haven’t found anything yet, have you?”
For a moment none of them answered.
“No,” the duke finally said. “They still haven’t allowed us into
the room. But one of the guards told us to return today, so perhaps Aindreas has had a change of heart.”
“Have you told Mother yet?”
Javan’s mouth twitched. “I sent a messenger the first day. I’ve heard nothing back yet.”
“You should go to her, Father. You can do more for her than you can for me.”
“Your mother is a strong woman. She’ll be all right. And she’d never forgive me if I left you without doing all I could to win your freedom.”
Tavis conceded the point with a nod.
“My lord,” Fotir said, “have you remembered anything more from the night you spent with Lady Brienne? Is there something we should be looking for in the room?”
He shook his head, as he had each time Fotir asked him the question. “I was drunk. I remember very little. We were together, I remember that much. I remember kissing her and locking the door at her insistence. A few moments later she fell asleep; soon after I did as well. Too much wine.” He shook his head a second time. “The next thing I knew the guards were pounding on the door and Brienne was dead.” The young lord swallowed as if to keep himself from being sick. “I wish I could tell you more.”
“It’s all right,” Xaver told him. “Maybe we’ll find something in the room.”
“You’ll find nothing. It’s been days. They’ve probably cleaned the room by now. Ean knows I would have.”
“Did you see anyone in the corridors?” Fotir asked. “Do you think you were followed?”
“No. We followed a winding route back to my room. I barely knew where she was taking us. She wanted to be sure that we weren’t seen by any of her father’s guards. We were very much alone.”
Javan let out a low sigh. “Well, someone must have known where you were going.”
“Or perhaps I really did kill her.”
His father looked at him, his dark blue eyes glinting like a dagger blade in the pale light let in by the dungeon’s high window. “Is that truly what you think?”
Tavis hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I dream of her when I
sleep and I think of her constantly when I’m awake. I honestly believe that I could have loved her. I just wish I could remember.”
Listening to Tavis speak, Fotir found himself remembering how he had spoken of the boy to Shurik several nights before. At the time he had been truthful. He saw the boy as undisciplined and thoughtless. He resented the young lord’s disregard for the standing of the House of Curgh and his father’s reputation. But seeing Tavis now, listening to him struggle with his own doubts and fears, it was hard to hold onto such feelings. If the boy was innocent—and Fotir wanted to believe that he was—the gods had been terribly cruel to him. No one deserved such a fate.
“We should go,” Javan said abruptly. He started to reach a hand out to his son, faltered, then grasped the boy’s shoulder, causing the chains to rattle slightly. “Ean willing, we’ll find something in your chamber.”
“Thank you, Father.”
The duke pulled away and started up the prison stairs. Fotir nodded once to Tavis before following. Xaver lingered, however, looking as if he wished to say more.
“We’ll find something,” he said at last. “I’m sure of it.”
Tavis lowered his gaze, but managed a nod. The MarCullet boy frowned.
Xaver had offered similar assurances during earlier visits and they had started to sound forced. It was no longer clear if Xaver even believed them.
The MarCullet boy gripped Tavis’s arm, then hurried to the stairs. A few moments later the guard at the door let them out and Fotir felt a cool breeze touch his face, like Morna’s hand. Still, the stench of the dungeon seemed to cling to his clothes, and he longed to strip them off and bathe. Small wonder Tavis was losing hope.
They walked back to the guest quarters in silence, Javan setting such a quick pace that Fotir and Xaver struggled to keep up with him. The duke did not bother stopping at his own room, choosing instead to go straight to Tavis’s chamber. The new door to the room had been put in place the day after Brienne’s death, and had been locked ever since. On this morning, however, it stood slightly ajar. Javan glanced briefly at Fotir, a question in his eyes. Then he pushed the door open.
Shurik was standing in the middle of the chamber gazing at the
empty space where Tavis’s bed had been. There were three guards there as well, two by the door and one standing closer to the first minister.
The Qirsi turned at the sound of the creaking door hinges.
“My Lord Duke,” he said, offering a halfhearted bow. His eyes flicked in Fotir’s direction. “First Minister.”
The duke stepped into the room. “One of your guards said that we would be allowed to examine Tavis’s chamber today.”
“I know,” Shurik said. “I’m here to oversee your search.”
Fotir entered the room as well, and as he did he felt what little hope he had left wither and die. Not only had the bed been removed, but so had all of Tavis’s clothes and the flask of wine. The floor was spotless and smelled vaguely of soap. Tavis was right: there was nothing to be found here.
“Any evidence that was here has been washed away,” he said, looking at Shurik. “This is what you intended all along, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” the Qirsi said. “But what would you have had us do? Leave the bed as it was? Leave the lady’s blood on the blankets and the bedding and the floor? We had the duke and duchess to consider. Our first duty was to them, and to the memory of their daughter.” His expression changed, and Fotir suddenly had the impression that the man was enjoying himself. “Besides, it seems to me that Lord Tavis’s blade was the single most important piece of evidence in the chamber. And if memory serves, First Minister, you shattered it that first morning.”
Fotir took a step toward him. “You bastard!”
“That’s enough, Fotir,” the duke said. “What’s done is done. We can still search the room. Perhaps the washers missed something.”
He glared at Shurik for another moment before nodding and turning away. Xaver and Javan were already moving in slow circles around the perimeter of the chamber, examining the floor and the pieces of furniture that remained, the tapestries that hung on the side walls and the stones they covered.
Fotir crossed to the window. The wooden shutters were open, allowing the bright daylight to fill the room. It was hard to believe that Brienne had died here. He looked down at the inner ward far below, and at the closely fitting blocks of stone that made up the castle wall. The duke had suggested a few days before that the murderer might have entered the room through this window, but seeing now what that would have entailed, Fotir was even less inclined to
believe it. Even assuming that someone could have made the climb, he felt certain that at least one of Kentigern’s guards would have noticed.
“What do you think?” Javan asked, standing behind him. “Could someone have reached the chamber from below?”
“I think it unlikely, my lord,” he said, not bothering to turn. “It looks like a difficult climb.”