“Cadel?” Grinsa asked, as they began to make their way across the grasses.
“He’s dead.”
“How. . How did you manage it?”
Tavis shook his head. “Not now. I’ll tell you eventually, but I need time.”
“Of course,” Grinsa said, concern written on his face. After a few moments he said, “I saw a third person with you.”
“Yes. The woman from Duvenry.”
Grinsa glanced at him. “Did you?. .”
“Of course not,” Tavis said with a frown. “She chose to remain behind. It seems she loved him more than she let on.”
The gleaner nodded, and they walked for a time in silence, rain soaking them, wind whipping their clothes and faces.
“So you’ve done it, then,” Grinsa finally said. “You’ve gotten your revenge.”
Tavis swallowed, staring straight ahead. “Yes.”
“How do you feel?”
He shrugged, uncertain of how to answer.
How long had he hungered for the assassin’s blood? How many nights had he lain awake, tormented by the memory of waking to find his dead queen lying beside him on the bed? One needed only look at his face and body to see how he had suffered for Cadel’s crime.
He should have been pleased. The weight he had been carrying for nearly a year had been lifted from his shoulders. Or at least it should have been. But still he felt the world pressing down upon him. He should have been thinking of how it would feel to face Brienne’s spirit once more, to tell her that her murderer was dead, killed by Tavis’s own hand. He should have been looking forward to the day when he could relate to his mother and father how he had struck back at the conspiracy, repaying the Qirsi in small measure for all they had stolen from the House of Curgh.
Instead, he found himself remembering a trivial incident that occurred in the ward of Curgh Castle. It had been a bright, warm day-the day of his Fating, as it happened. The day when all of this first began. He had been training, testing his skills with a wooden sword against a trio of probationers. And in the midst of their mock battle, he had used his weapon on a defenseless man, nearly killing him.
You’re a coward, the woman told him this day, kneeling beside the man he had killed. And he had agreed. It seemed he had always been a coward, and always would be.
What kind of man raised his sword against helpless foes? What kind of noble allowed pride and vengeance to guide his actions?
“Tavis? Are you all right?”
“I feel nothing, Grinsa. And I don’t know why.” He looked at the gleaner, feeling tears on his face, hoping his friend would think them drops of rain. “I should be pleased, shouldn’t I? What’s wrong with me?”
“You killed a man, Tavis. If you were pleased, I’d be concerned for you.”
He knew Grinsa was right, but still he had to fight to keep from bawling like a child. “At least it’s over,” he whispered.
“No, it’s not,” the gleaner said. “It’s only just begun. We’ve a war to fight and you’ve drawn your first blood. But I fear we’ll need your sword again before long.”
What kind of man, indeed?
Chapter Thirty
Glyndwr, Eibithar
The healers in Helke Castle mended his shoulder and eased what remained of the pain in his leg. They healed the cuts on Tavis’s arm, neck, and face as well, though the boy seemed to have suffered other wounds that lay beyond the reach of any healer. The duke of Helke clearly was not pleased to have Tavis of Curgh as a guest in his castle, but, perhaps as a way of honoring Wethyrn’s longstanding friendship with Eibithar, he offered to let them remain for as long as they wished. They stayed only for the one night.
Grinsa was desperate to return to the City of Kings. He wanted to see his daughter once more, to hold Cresenne in his arms and protect her from the Weaver. He could tell that Tavis was nearly as eager as he to be leaving, though he sensed that the young lord’s urgency had little to do with a desire to be back in Eibithar. He simply wished to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Crown.
The morning following their encounter with Cadel and the Qirsi who had attacked Grinsa, they secured passage on a merchant ship bound for Rennach. By the time darkness fell they were back in Eibithar. They slept that night outside the city, knowing that the duke of Rennach had allied himself with Aindreas of Kentigern, and would imprison Tavis if given the chance. Half a turn earlier, before leaving for Wethyrn, they had left their mounts with a farrier in a small village just north of Rennach. They reclaimed them the next morning, paying the man handsomely for his care of the beasts, and began the long journey back to the City of Kings.
Tavis had yet to tell Grinsa about his battle with the assassin, and the gleaner didn’t feel that it was his place to ask questions. He could see that killing the man had left its mark on the boy. He was at once both more at peace than Grinsa had ever seen him, and more withdrawn. During their brief stay in Helke Castle, he had carried himself with the confidence and purpose of a noble, calling for healers immediately upon their arrival and insisting that they attend to Grinsa’s injuries before allowing them even to look at his own gashes. When the duke asked why they had come to the Crown and who had inflicted their wounds, Tavis explained that they had killed two men who had been party to the Qirsi conspiracy, and cautioned the older noble to be wary lest he believe that Wethyrn was too remote to be of interest to the renegades and their movement.
It seemed to Grinsa that with Cadel dead, Tavis had been released at last from the haunting memory of his captivity in Kentigern and whatever guilt he felt for Lady Brienne’s death. He no longer flinched when people stared at his scars, and except for the few hours they spent in and around Rennach, he made no effort to conceal his identity. But while he seemed to have matured five years in the span of a few days, he remained somber and distant. Indeed, if anything, killing the assassin had only served to deepen the darkness that had lurked within him for so long.
On the second night after their departure from Rennach, as they sat beside a low burning fire near Silver Falls, where the Thorald River flowed off the Caerissan Steppe, Grinsa asked the young lord whether he intended to ride with the gleaner back to the City of Kings.
“If you wish to return to Curgh instead, I’ll understand,” he said, eyeing the boy across the fire. “No doubt you wish to tell your mother and father that the assassin is dead.”
“If I tell them that,” Tavis answered, his voice low, “they’ll want to know how I killed him. At least my father will. And I’ve no stomach for that conversation just now.”
Grinsa nearly asked him then, but seeing the pained expression in Tavis’s eyes, he decided against it. As it was, this was the closest the boy had come to telling Grinsa anything about what had happened on the Wethy coast. He doubted that Tavis would tell him more.
Three days after their conversation near the falls, the two riders reached Glyndwr Castle, where they thought to rest their mounts and enjoy for one night the comfort of real beds. Immediately upon riding into the city, however, Grinsa sensed that something was amiss. The marketplace was nearly empty of peddlers and buyers alike, and the few people they did see eyed the two riders warily, as if thinking them the vanguard of some invading force. On the other hand, soldiers were everywhere. The city bristled with them.
“Does this seem strange to you?” Grinsa asked quietly as they steered their mounts toward the gates of Glyndwr Castle.
“The guards, you mean?”
“The guards, the fact that there’s no one in the marketplace. It’s as if. .”
“As if they’re expecting a war?” Tavis said.
Grinsa stared at him, knowing instantly that this was precisely what he had meant to say. He felt an icy hand take hold of his heart.