“Yes, Weaver.”
“But you still loved your king.”
She nodded, feeling fear rising in her throat. Had he found some way to read her thoughts without her consent?
“Those whom I hurt as I did you usually relent before I have to resort to pain a second time. That you continue to resist speaks well of your courage if not your sense.”
“Thank you, Weaver.”
“While I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I need you, I will admit that winning the loyalties of Eibithar’s archminister would be a great boon for the Qirsi movement. For that reason, I’ll give you time to reconsider your decision to refuse me. I’ll come to you again a few nights hence, at which point you will open yourself to me or die. I’m afraid there are no other choices. I have given you gold and I have revealed myself to you. Even granting you this small grace, I risk all. But I’m hopeful that with such a gesture I can convince you to trust me.”
Keziah nearly laughed aloud. You’re threatening to kill me, she wanted to say. And this is supposed to ma’te me trust you?
Instead she lowered her gaze and said, “Thank you, Weaver.”
He nodded once. “We’ll speak again soon.”
Keziah opened her eyes to find herself lying in bed, her sleeping gown, bed linens, and hair soaked with sweat. She sat up and felt her room lurch, as if from an earth tremor. For several moments she held herself utterly still, gritting her teeth against the bile rising from her gut. Then, surrendering, she rushed across her room to her chamber pot and vomited until her stomach was empty and her throat ached.
She washed her mouth and face with frigid water and sank to the hard floor, tears coursing down her face again.
More than anything, she wanted to go to Kearney, to confess all and seek comfort in the warmth of his arms. The king couldn’t protect her, of course. Not from this enemy. Neither could Gershon, though she knew that she should go to the swordmaster and tell him of the Weaver. Keziah had felt the power of the man’s magic-there wasn’t an Eandi noble in all the Forelands who could stand against him. Few Qirsi could either. Certainly she couldn’t save herself.
In her foolishness and her arrogance she had thought to defeat the conspiracy on her own. She felt like a general who leads an army to battle, only to find himself overwhelmed by the strength of his foe. True, there weren’t thousands of lives to be lost here, at least not yet. There were only two. Her own and Grinsa’s. But it might as well have been all the soldiers of the seven realms. For she was certain that if anyone could defeat this Weaver, it was her brother. And she feared that before long, the Weaver would know this as well.
Chapter Thirty-one
Mertesse, Aneira
Their first few days in Mertesse had been no better than their conflict-ridden journey north from Dantrielle. Despite the understanding Dario thought they had reached during the night they spent at the inn just outside the northern city, Cadel remained a difficult business partner, finding fault with nearly everything Dario did, not only musically, but also with respect to their other profession. The lutenist thought he understood the cause of Cadel’s dark moods. They still had not learned the name of the Qirsi they were to kill, they knew nothing of his powers, and they couldn’t even be certain that he intended to return to Mertesse with the duke’s company. Dario could not deny being on edge as well, and he wasn’t the one who would have to kill the sorcerer when the time came. This had to be far worse for Cadel. Still, that didn’t excuse the man for treating him this way. Young as he was, Dario was no child. There wasn’t a lutenist north of Noltierre who could play with him, and while he might not have been killing for hire as long as Cadel or for as much gold, he knew how to use a blade and defend himself in a fight. Hearing how the singer picked at him, one might think that he was still apprenticing.
They did manage to get a job playing in the west quarter of the city, just a short distance from the marketplace. The tavern, called the Swallow’s Nest, bore a disturbing resemblance to Dantrielle’s Red Boar, though the clientele seemed a bit more respectable. They were paid six qinde for each night they played and given a room and all their food for free. They had to pay for their ales, but neither of them drank much. All in all, the arrangement suited them well. It was a job, and getting it should have pleased Cadel.
Instead, it just made matters worse. Now that they had committed themselves to nightly performances, he grew even more critical of Dario’s playing, until the lutenist began to wonder if any amount of gold could justify remaining with the man.
Cadel’s mood finally changed for the better on the Night of Two Moons, though Dano couldn’t really say why. The duke’s company had not yet returned, and though their performance of The Paean to the Moons went quite well that night, the crowd was no better than any other.
When they returned to their room late that night, Dario asked Cadel why he seemed so pleased. The singer merely smiled mysteriously and said, “The wisdom of the moons, boy. At times the legends are worth more to men like us than Uulranni blades.”
No doubt Dario should have tried to think through what the man meant, but he was so angry at being called “boy” that he barely heard the rest of what Cadel said.
Four days later, the duke finally returned to Mertesse. Few saw him enter the city. Coming north from Solkara, he entered the castle through the south gate, without passing through the city’s marketplace. Word of his return spread quickly, however, as did rumors of the grave condition of his first minister.
The following morning, Cadel and Dario ventured into the city streets and, choosing a prominent spot among the peddlers’ carts began to play. Dario did not like playing his lute outside, particularly with the air so cold, but he knew that Cadel had reasons for asking him to do so. They told the innkeeper at the Swallow’s Nest that they were hoping to draw more customers to the tavern by giving the city folk a taste of their music. In reality, Cadel hoped to draw some of the castle guards into conversation between songs.
It worked. The first minister, one soldier told them, was not nearly as ill as some believed. She had suffered greatly from the poisoning and had slowed the company’s return to Mertesse, but she would live and she continued to serve the duke.
“I had heard the duke has a new minister,” Cadel said casually as Dario pretended to tune his lute yet again.
The guard shook his head. “The traitor you mean? No. The duke would never stoop to making him a minister, not even a lesser one.”
The traitor! Dario forced himself to keep his eyes on the instrument in his hands.
“Why do you call him the traitor?”
“You don’t know?” the guard said, obviously pleased to be the bearer of such fascinating news. “You must not be from here. Caerissan aren’t you?”
Cadel smiled, though Dario could see that it was forced.
“Yes, I am.”
“Thought so. I can pick any accent in the Forelands. Not just realms mind you. But even cities. I’d guess you’re from Jetaya.”
“Very good. That’s quite close.”
Actually, Cadel had once told Dario that he came from the Adlana dukedom, which was more than fifty leagues south of Jetaya, but if he didn’t care to correct the man, Dario certainly wouldn’t.
“The traitor?” Cadel prompted after a brief silence.
“Oh, right. He used to be first minister in Kentigern. They say he betrayed his duke during the siege and was given asylum here.”
“And he lives in the castle?”
“He lives in the first minister’s quarters,” the man said with a wink. “If you get my meaning.”
The singer gave the same thin smile and nodded. “I once met a minister in Kentigern. I performed there many years ago. Perhaps it’s the same man. I believe his name was Bekthad jal Pors.”