It was an omen, but for good or ill, Dusaan couldn’t say. He saw great promise in all of them, but peril as well If Jastanne found a way to control Aindreas, to make him a reliable tool for the movement, they might be able to bring civil war to Eibithar, their success atoning for Shunk’s failure at the siege. Still, though he had much faith in Jastanne, Dusaan disliked relying on any Eandi, particularly one as dangerous as the duke of Kentigern.
Yaella had served him well for several years, but the Weaver could not help but wonder how Shunk’s death would affect her What if her suspicions of him lingered beyond this night? And what if Cresenne’s love of the Revel gleaner proved more powerful than her devotion to the movement and her fear of Dusaan? He had little doubt that she would find Gnnsa, but he couldn’t say with any certainty what she would do once they were together.
All of which brought him to Kearney’s archminister. Dusaan and Keziah had much in common. They were the highest-ranking Qirsi in the two most powerful realms of the Forelands Both knew what it was to harbor a secret, one that would bring execution were it revealed. True, she wasn’t a Weaver herself. But to be the daughter of a Weaver was no less dangerous. In many ways it was more so, since she hadn’t a Weaver’s powers to draw upon in case the Eandi learned the truth There remained so much that he didn’t know about her, but that would change soon. Already one of his chancellors, another merchant captain who frequented the ports of the eastern Forelands, including those near Keziah’s old home in Eardley, had begun to learn what he could of the woman. Dusaan suspected that before long, Keziah ja Dafydd would prove more important to the success of his movement than any other Qirsi in the seven realms.
Certainly one of them would. There had been four of them, and the gods worked in fours One of these women would help him carry the Qirsi movement to glory. Even as he formed the thought, however, he heard an echo in his mind, as if the gods themselves were warning him Perhaps to glory, their voices seemed to say Or else to ruin.
Chapter Thirty-five
North edge of the Moors of Durril, Aneira
It had been five days since their encounter with the singer in Mertesse, five days since their hasty departure from the inn at which they had been staying, five days since Tavis had spoken a word to him. They had traveled a good distance in that time, skirting Mertesse Forest as they walked eastward, putting as many leagues as possible between themselves and the assassin. Tavis had made no effort to slow their progress, though Gnnsa knew that the boy wanted to return to the walled city and face the singer again Perhaps he realized that he had little hope of besting the man a second time, that if he tried again, he’d be killed. If so, he must also have known that Gnnsa had cost him the best opportunity he might ever have to avenge Bnenne’s death. Whatever the reason, he walked when Gnnsa asked him to, stopped when the Qirsi did, and ate what food he could find in his carry sack, all the while refusing even to meet Gnnsa’s gaze.
For his part, the gleaner had tried to justify his choice every waking hour since leaving the walled city He did more that night than stop Tavis from taking his revenge and possibly reclaiming his place in the Order of Ascension. He kept the boy from killing an assassin, a man who was as certain to murder again as Ihas was to follow Panya into the night sky, a man who had sold his blade to the conspiracy and would likely do so again. And for what? So that this assassin might kill Shunk and preserve Gnnsa’s secret. The gleaner didn’t need Tavis’s bitter silence and smoldering glare to make him question the choice he had made His own doubts were almost more burden than he could bear He tried to convince himself that Shunk’s death had been necessary, if not for himself, then for Keziah. “If the Weaver contacts him we’re lost,” she had said several nights before, confirming what he already knew to be true. “Just kill him and get out of Mertesse.” Little did she know that he would find a way to kill Shunk without having to raise the blade himself.
In recent days he had come to understand that it was this last point, his reliance on the singer, that lay at the core of his guilt Not that he had let an assassin live, or that he had allowed a man to be killed, but rather that he had not killed Shunk himself. He didn’t question that it had been the safest course, nor did he think that Keziah would fault him for his choice. He had no doubt that the assassin would find a way to enter the castle, kill the traitor, and escape with his life His own chances of success would have been far less certain. Yet, he couldn’t help feeling that he had taken the coward’s way out, at a terrible cost to the boy.
Midway through this fifth day, it began to snow, in heavy, wet flakes that clung to their clothes and hair. Before long they were soaked and Gnnsa was shivering with cold. Had they still been in the forest, they might have taken shelter among the trees and risked a fire, but the moor offered neither refuge from the storm nor kindling for a warming blaze.
“We should stop at the next village,” the gleaner called to Tavis, who was walking a few paces ahead of him.
The young lord turned just slightly, not enough to allow Gnnsa to see his face, but enough to indicate that he had heard. He gave a small nod, before facing forward again. A meager response, but more than he had offered in days.
Gnnsa quickened his stride, so that he was walking just behind the boy. He had apologized countless times since Mertesse, to no avail. Still, he briefly considered asking Tavis’s forgiveness once again.
“There are small towns throughout the moor,” he said instead. “None is likely to have more than one or two inns, but we should be able to find somewhere to stay.”
Nothing
“I know it’s cold, but can you walk a while longer, or do you need to rest?”
Again, no reply.
Gnnsa dropped back again, and they continued on in silence.
Several hours later, with the sky above them growing dark, they came at last to a small farming village that sat along a narrow stream, most likely a tributary of the Tarbin. The village consisted of a few homes, a smithy, a wheelwright’s shop, and a small marketplace that might have drawn a few peddlers in the warmer turns In most of the Forelands, a village of this size would not have had an inn, but this one, located in an area of the moor crossed with some frequency by those traveling between Mertesse and the Caenssan Steppe, had a single tavern with a few rooms for rent.
The innkeeper, a ruddy-faced Eandi man who made little effort to conceal his distaste for anyone with yellow eyes, refused at first to rent them a room. Eventually, however, his wife prevailed upon him to relent, pointing out that the inn had not seen any paying guests in nearly half a turn.