Speaking of it served only to enrage Dusaan once again. He ended the meeting abruptly, dismissing the other Qirsi and locking the door to his chamber once they were gone. Stepping to his window, he pushed open the wooden shutters and gazed out over the ramparts of the palace and the swift waters of the River of Swords, which lay beyond. The windows in this part of the palace were not glazed, and a brisk wind stirred his hair and chilled his quarters. The sun had set, but the western sky still glowed orange and pink with the last glimmers of daylight. It would still be some time before he could do anything more than brood on his anger, and given the night that lay in store for him, Dusaan decided that he was best off using this time to sleep.
He closed the shutters again, lay down on his bed, and, closing his eyes, fell almost instantly into a deep, dreamless slumber.
The chancellor awakened to the sound of bells ringing in the city. The gate close, no doubt. He hadn’t been asleep very long, but he felt refreshed and ready to speak with those who served him. He had taught himself long ago to sleep when he could and to arise when he needed. It didn’t matter what thoughts filled his head; over the years he had disciplined his mind to shunt them aside, and to ward off dreams that might keep him from getting the rest he needed. He had mastered sleep, his own as well as that of others. As a Weaver who walked in the dreams of other Qirsi, he could hardly have done less.
He was most eager to speak with Pronjed jal Drenthe in Solkara, but it was early yet to find him sleeping, and it had been some time since he last visited with the woman in Kett.
Dusaan closed his eyes, drawing upon the vast ocean that was his power and reaching eastward with his mind. For a time he felt as a hawk must when it soars on a warm wind, unassailable and without equal, secure in the knowledge that even then, his consciousness gliding high above the Forelands, he had barely tested the extent of his magic. Soon he sensed the Caerissan Steppe looming before him and he reached downward toward Braedor’s Plain and the city of Kett.
He found her quickly, and, touching her mind with his own, called forth the image of the moor that he used whenever he entered the dreams of a Qirsi. It was Ayvencalde Moor that he used, a desolate expanse of rocks and grasses that lay but a few leagues from the emperor’s palace. But knowing as he did that those with whom he spoke always hoped to recognize the plain, and thus learn who he was, he darkened the landscape, making it impossible for them to see beyond the reach of his light. He had no intention of allowing his servants to divine his secret.
He liked to make them work to find him, situating himself atop a rise and making the climb arduous for those who had angered him. Later that night, Pronjed would face a daunting and wearying ascent. But for the woman, he made an exception. She was with child and had served him well as one of his chancellors. If Dusaan had his way-and he usually did-she would be his queen when he finally ruled the Forelands. When she opened her eyes to this dream, finding herself on the moor, Dusaan was already there standing before her, lit from behind by the great white sun he had conjured for these visions.
She looked even more beautiful than she had the last time they spoke. Her belly had grown larger, her breasts fuller with milk for her child. She stood before him in a simple shift, her fine white hair falling over her brow and down around her shoulders, her pale eyes bleary with sleep. Yet, for all Dusaan could tell, she might have been wearing glittering jewels and a banquet gown.
“You’re well?” he asked at last, unable to say more.
She stared at the ground. “I am, Weaver. Thank you.”
She feared him, of course. They all did. And though he hoped that someday she would love him, for now her fear suited his purposes quite well.
“You’ve been eating?”
A small smile sprung to her lips. “Yes, Weaver.”
“You think me foolish for asking.”
Her eyes snapped up, a frightened look on her face. “No, Weaver. You’re very kind to show such interest in my baby and me.”
“I may be a bit foolish,” he admitted. “But as I’ve told you before, I foresee a glorious future for this child. And for you, as well.”
The woman nodded. “Yes, Weaver. Thank you.”
“I trust you’ve heard no news of the child’s father?”
“No, none. All the talk here is of the king and who will take his place on the throne.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said, his voice tightening.
“The men who run the Festival are talking of going to Solkara, not for the funeral of course, but when the new king is invested. Do you wish that I remain here, or may I accompany them?”
“If you feel that you can make the journey, you’re free to go. Assuming the man we seek is still in Aneira, he may be there also.”
“I’d thought of that, as well,” she said.
Dusaan narrowed his eyes, staring at her now. There was something in her voice and manner…
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes, Weaver. Everything is fine.”
“And you’re certain you’ve heard nothing?”
“Quite certain.”
“You told me some time ago that you spoke to an assassin of this man, that the white-hair had killed this assassin’s partner.”
“Yes, Weaver. I remember.”
“Is it possible that this assassin has already found him and killed him?”
And there it was, in her eyes, in the terror he sensed abruptly flooding her mind, like the surge of a storm tide. She still loved this man. She had seduced him for the movement, acting on Dusaan’s instructions, and she had sent assassins for him twice now. Yet she still loved him. It shouldn’t have surprised him so. Seduction was a difficult matter, and she was terribly young. Add the fact that she was carrying his child, and it would have been stranger if she had never loved him. But she served the Weaver and his movement. She was to be Dusaan’s queen. That she should still carry such passion for this gleaner, that she could conceal this from Dusaan, made suspect all that she had done on the Weaver’s behalf, and all that she had told him the past several turns. He could hardly contain the rage and jealousy that flared in his chest like Qirsi fire. He wanted to hurt her. Had it not been for the child, he might have. Then again, had it not been for the child, he might not have cared. Most of all, he wanted to kill this man, this Gnnsa jal Arriet. Not through assassins and the dispensing of gold, but with his own blade, guided by his own hand. He wanted to feel the man’s blood on his fingers. He wanted to watch as the spark died in his yellow eyes, leaving them empty and sightless.
“It is possible, Weaver,” the woman said, though it seemed to Dusaan that her words came from a great distance. He could barely remember what he had asked her.
He just stared at her. She couldn’t see his face for the light. She wouldn’t know how his wrath twisted his features, how his eyes burned with his thirst for blood. Only his voice could give him away, and that he could control.
“Perhaps, it would be best if you didn’t go to Solkara,” he said, sounding bored, as if already tiring of their conversation.
“Weaver?”
He sensed her eagerness to go. This would be her punishment, though she might never recognize it as such. “The last time we spoke you seemed reluctant to travel to the steppe. It may be that you’re best off remaining where you are.” The child might still amount to something, even if he could never trust the woman again. Certainly he couldn’t allow her to find the gleaner. “Yes,” he went on, as if convincing himself. “Stay in Kett. I’ll have others look for him in Solkara.”
“But-”
Dusan reached out with his mind, placing an invisible hand over her mouth. He took care not to hurt her, but he saw from the widening of her pale eyes that he had frightened her.
Never forget what I can do to you if I choose
.
“My mind is set. You will remain in Kett. Do you understand?”
He removed the unseen hand.
“Yes, Weaver,” she whispered.
“Very good.”
His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, hungry for her despite the fire searing his heart. Then he released her mind, his consciousness hurtling back over Aneira and the Scabbard so swiftly that Dusaan felt as though he were falling. When he opened his eyes, he started violently, as one does awakening suddenly from a disturbing dream.
“Damn her!” he whispered to the darkness, gritting his teeth against a wave of nausea. “And the man as well.”
He walked to the hearth and sat in the nearest chair, fighting desperately to ease his pulse and purge his mind of the visions abruptly clamoring for his attention. Images of Cresenne, her legs entwined with those of another man, and of his own fingers closing around her throat.
He took a slow, shuddering breath, staring at the flames dancing before him. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he began slowly to take control of his thoughts once more. It was a long journey, and a difficult one, but he had spent years training his mind to retain its focus, to overcome his passions and the distractions foisted upon him by others. He was a Weaver. To do less would have been to risk discovery and execution.
Eventually, he was able to look away from the flames, and to think once more of the tasks that awaited him that night.
Pronjed would be sleeping by now, and if a residue of anger remained from his conversation with the woman, so be it. The Solkaran minister had earned Dusaan’s fury as few ever had before.
The Weaver closed his eyes again, and sent his mind soaring eastward once more. He hadn’t as far to travel this time and before long he sensed the Great Forest beneath him. He allowed his thoughts to spiral downward to Castle Solkara, where he found the king’s archminister asleep.
Taking hold of the man’s mind, he again called forth the image of the moor, this time placing himself atop a steep, unforgiving rise and leaving Pronjed a good distance from the base of the mount. He even raised a wind to blow down the slope, slowing the minister further. Let the man walk and climb. Let him enfeeble himself so that he might know how he had displeased the Weaver. And let him tremble with that knowledge as he dragged himself up the rocky slope.
The Weaver had a long wait, and though it was of his own making, he had little patience for the delay. He had to resist the urge to shorten Pronjed’s climb, reminding himself again and again that he was punishing the man. When at last the minister reached the top of the rise, appearing in the distance as a small, slow-moving figure, Dusaan started toward him, his long strides covering the ground between them far faster than Pronjed could have on his own.
As they drew nearer to each other, Dusaan saw that the minister had indeed suffered in his ascent. Pronjed’s bony face was flushed to a deep scarlet, and the sweat on his brow and cheeks shone in the Weaver’s light. Still, though breathless, he wore a small grin on his thin lips, looking anything but contrite.
“Weaver,” he said, stopping before Dusaan and bowing. He looked up, eagerness in his pale eyes. “You’ve heard?”
“What happened?” the Weaver demanded, his voice like a frigid mountain wind.
The grin vanished. “I don’t understand.”
“What is there to understand? I want to know why your king is dead!”
“But surely you’re pleased. I’d have thought-”
“Tell me what happened!”
Pronjed licked his lips, the avid gleam in his eyes replaced now by something far more satisfying.
“There was a visitor. One of the dukes, one of Chago’s allies. He gave the king a dagger the night of his arrival-”
“So you sought to make it a murder?”
“No, Weaver,” the minister said, beginning to sound desperate. “A suicide. The king had seen the surgeon earlier in the day, and had learned that he was sterile. Carden was so galled by this that he had the surgeon garroted. So I saw an opportunity to-”
“You convinced the others that he was dying,” Dusaan said, nodding. He could see the logic of what the minister had done, although he still wasn’t ready to forgive the man’s presumption. “And they believe it?” he asked.
“The queen believes it. What choice do the others have?”
“They can be suspicious. The king would have had to believe that Qirsi magic would fail to heal him. He would have had to believe beyond doubt that his line would continue to rule Aneira. And he would have had to believe that his death would spare his family suffering and humiliation. Failing any one of these, his suicide threatens to draw the attention of those who oppose us. All it takes is one doubter, one person with the persistence and courage to challenge you and the queen.”
“That may be true elsewhere,” the minister said. “But not here, not in Aneira. Those who knew Carden well enough to pose any threat to us, would realize that he was too vain and too callow to be stayed by the considerations of which you speak.” He paused, seeming to realize abruptly that his tone had grown too familiar. “Though of course, for any proper king, you’d be entirely correct, Weaver. It was only Carden’s vast shortcomings as a leader that allowed me to think I could do this.”
“So you think I should be pleased,” Dusaan said, “that I should be praising you for your bold actions.”
The minister couldn’t see his face and he appeared uncertain as to what response the Weaver expected.
“Well, I… I think that… No one has raised questions regarding the king’s death. And already there is talk of the coming struggle for the throne.”
“You assume that because I hoped for civil war in Eibithar, I want it in Aneira as well?”
Pronjed swallowed, his eyes widening. Clearly he had. “You had the duke of Bistari killed,” he said quickly. “You made it look as though Carden had ordered the assassination. Didn’t you wish to sow dissent among the other houses?”
“Dissent is one thing, you fool! Open conflict is another! If you’re too dull to know the difference, I may have to reconsider the faith I’ve placed in you.”