“You said the same thing to me once before, in the dungeon.”
“I remember.”
“You wouldn’t explain what you meant then, though I asked. Are you ready to now?”
“It’s very simple really-it should be clear. You weren’t fated to die in that prison, or even to spend very long there, though I’m certain it felt like an eternity at the time. It was your future, but you were destined to win your freedom, to join the fight against the conspiracy and search the land for Brienne’s killer.”
“None of that would have happened had you not freed me from the dungeon. Isn’t it just as possible that what you showed me in the stone was my true fate, and you altered it by coming to Kentigern?”
Grinsa smiled. Here lay the burden of the stone, not only for the gleaner, but also for the child who peered into its depths, hoping to glimpse a promise of glory or joy. He had tried to explain this to Tavis as well, just after the young lord first saw himself in that wretched prison, but Tavis had been beyond reason then, already falling into the black despair that would lead him to raise his blade against Xaver MarCullet.
“Our fate changes all the time, Tavis. Every choice we make, every path we choose to follow, turns us toward a different future. The stone, for all the wisdom we ascribe to it, can only show us our fate at a single moment. More than anything, it serves as a signpost, a marker indicating the direction our lives might take. If we find hope or pleasure in the vision it offers, we make choices that will take us in that direction. If not, then perhaps it can warn us away from decisions that lead to darkness. That’s what I hoped would happen when I showed you what I did. I intended your Fating as a warning, and I hoped that it would save you from the misery we both saw in that image. At the time, I had no idea how you would end up in that prison. I knew only that you were innocent, though you would doubt that yourself. Had I known that you were powerless to prevent what happened, I would never have done what I did. Certainly I never intended to cause you or Xaver such pain.”
He had long expected that when he and Tavis finally had this conversation, the boy would respond to his revelations with outrage. But once more, Tavis surprised him.
“You altered my Fating to guard your secret,” he said, his voice low. “If I had seen us fighting the conspiracy together, I would have known that you were more than a gleaner.”
“Yes.”
“And then you risked everything to save me.”
“After what I’d done, I felt that I had to.”
“A lesser man wouldn’t have.”
“A braver man would have shown you the Fating the stone intended.”
Even in the darkness, Grinsa could see the boy shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know that much about bravery. But I’m grateful to you just the same.”
For several moments neither of them spoke. Tavis lay down on his sleeping roll, wrapping himself in a blanket.
“How soon until you can… go to your sister?”
Grinsa looked to the east. White Panya was just appearing above the trees, her pale glow seeping through the wood like a sorcerer’s mist. Judging from how late she was rising and how far into her waning she appeared, he guessed that they had to be at least three nights past the Night of Two Moons. Perhaps four. Once again, he cursed himself for his carelessness.
“It will be a while yet, at least until Ilias is up.”
Tavis nodded, yawned.
“Sleep, Tavis,” Grinsa said, lying down also. “I intend to. I’ll wake later and reach for her then.”
Again the boy nodded. “Goodnight, gleaner.”
In truth, Grinsa didn’t expect to sleep at all, but it seemed the day’s journey had wearied him. He awoke some time later to the call of a nearby owl. He hadn’t slept long-Panya shone directly overhead and red Ilias hung low in the eastern sky-but he felt dazed from his slumber, as if he had drunk too much wine.
Sitting up and taking a drink of water from the skin that lay nearby, he rubbed a hand over his face and blinked his eyes, trying to wake himself up. Tavis stirred and turned over, but he didn’t wake.
Grinsa sat for several moments, listening to the owl, and to a second bird that hooted in reply from farther away. At last, he closed his eyes and, drawing upon his magic, sent his mind north and east, across the Moors of Durril and the edge of the steppe, which was covered with fresh snow, to Eibithar’s City of Kings. It took him only a few seconds to find her and touch her mind with his power.
He knew instantly that something was wrong. The plain looked as it always did when he went to her, the way it had when they were children living in Eardley. Except that the sky to the west was black, as if from a great storm, and a brilliant light shone at the center of the gloom. Grinsa thought he saw someone standing at the edge of the darkness, or more precisely, on the seam between the light he had brought to her dream and the storm he had found there. Keziah. It had to be. He started walking toward her.
The distance to her turned out to be greater than he had thought at first, but soon he could see her white hair twisting in the wind, and he recognized the sleeping gown she was wearing. Grinsa called to her several times, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t even turn to face him. His apprehension mounting by the moment, the gleaner hurried on until he was running toward her.
As he drew nearer, Grinsa began to hear voices, as if Kezi was speaking to someone else. He slowed, trying to make out what they were saying. Had he come to her in the middle of one of her own dreams? Such a thing had never happened before, but he couldn’t say for certain that it was impossible. Or was he the one dreaming? His mind had been fogged with sleep-perhaps he hadn’t really awakened at all and he was imagining all of this.
The gleaner shook his head. He could feel the magic flowing through his body and mind-this was no dream. And sensing Keziah’s thoughts as he approached her, he understood that though she slept, the vision before her was as real as any he had offered her in the past. She was terrified, not only of what she saw in the darkness, but also of Grinsa. He could almost hear her screaming for him to leave. But all he could do was step closer. He moved slowly now, as if stalking game, and he strained his ears to hear her conversation.
“… Others before you have fought me as well,” he heard a voice say. A man’s voice, deep and laden with power. “They suffered for their defiance. Is that what you want?”
“No,” Keziah answered, sounding desperate. “I don’t mean to defy you. But I’ve never had someone ask this of me before. I don’t know what to do.”
“Merely open yourself to me.”
“I’m afraid. You have to give me a bit of time.”
Something in her voice told Grinsa that she was speaking not to this other man, but to him.
“Kezi?” he whispered.
“There is no time. You received your gold, didn’t you?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Call me Weaver. I’m not some dull-witted Eandi noble, and I won’t be addressed as such.”
“Yes, Weaver. Forgive me.”
A Weaver! Abruptly it all made sense to him. Not just the strange appearance of the sky and plain, but also the man’s mention of gold. He had often wondered who he would find at the head of the conspiracy. A powerful minister perhaps, or a wealthy Qirsi merchant. That this person should also be a Weaver shouldn’t have surprised him. Who else could wield the power necessary to overthrow the courts of the Forelands? Who else could guide a movement that sprawled across so many kingdoms? What puzzled him, though, was the man’s presence in Kezi’s mind. Why would the leader of the conspiracy be speaking to her of gold?