“Thank you, my lord,” she said again, despising him.
Yaella remained in the chamber for a few minutes more, then walked back to her own quarters and curled herself into a ball on her bed, sobbing as she hadn’t since she was a girl Her stomach felt hollow, and no matter how tightly she wrapped herself in her blankets, she couldn’t stop shivering.
Her mind was clear, however, and she thought of the two Weavers. If her Weaver had wanted Shurik dead, he wouldn’t have needed assassins to kill him. He could have done it in a dream. It had to have been Gnnsa, to whom Shurik would never have opened his mind Yet, Yaella could not keep herself from blaming both of them. Had the Weaver who haunted their sleep not sent Shurik after Gnnsa, this might never have happened. She had been more than happy to work on behalf of the movement when its enemies were Eandi, and Shurik fought by her side. But if one Weaver opposed the other, their war already claiming Shurik’s life, how was she to choose between them? The Weaver had spoken of a glorious future, in which Qirsi ruled the Forelands and aspired to be more than festival performers and servants of Eandi nobles. And though she was drawn to such a vision, she increasingly found herself repelled by the thought that the Weaver she knew, the one who had bought her loyalties with gold and who held them with cruelty and the constant threat of a painful death, should claim the throne for himself She could never turn to this other Weaver as an alternative, not with Shurik’s blood staining his hands. But perhaps she didn’t need to. Perhaps there was another way. Shurik was gone, and though she couldn’t bring him back, she might be able to strike a blow on his behalf, one that would be felt by both Weavers.
Chapter Thirty-four
Curtell, Braedon, Eilidh’s Moon waxing
It promised to be a long, difficult night. He needed to speak with several of the Qirsi who served him, and with one whom he hoped would pledge herself to him before dawn. Fortunately, Dusaan had slept well the previous night. He might have been a Weaver, but he could not escape the limitations placed upon Qirsi magic by the moon legends. Qirsar’s Pitch Night affected him as it did all his people, and so, unable to reach for the dreams of others, he allowed himself a night of rest. He felt better for having done so.
The emperor had long since dismissed Dusaan for the night, taking to his bedchambers with one of his wives. Aside from the palace guards, the Weaver assumed that no others were awake. Still he waited, poring over the treasury accounting until he was certain that those he wished to contact were sleeping. Finally, as the midnight bells tolled in Curtell City, he put aside the treasury volume, added some wood to the fire in his hearth, and sat beside the blaze.
Closing his eyes, he sent his mind eastward, first seeking out one of his chancellors, a merchant who had last been in Kentigern. This promised to be the quickest of his discussions and so the easiest.
Usually he made his servants walk to him, requiring them to climb the rise on Ayvencalde Moor before they could speak with him. On this night, however, he hadn’t time for such games. Dusaan allowed himself a smile. Well, perhaps there was time enough to make just the next one climb. But not the others, not tonight.
He found Jastanne’s ship at the top of the Scabbard, just a few days’ journey north of Kentigern. Touching the woman’s mind, he summoned the vision of the plain, with its great white sun. He saw her appear before him, naked, as she always was when she slept, and seeing her there, he stepped forward so that she would see him, black as night and framed against the brilliance of his white sun. If she felt abashed speaking to him unclothed, she had never shown any sign of it. Nor did she have reason to, he had to admit. The woman was lovely.
“Yes, Weaver,” she said, her voice strong. “How may I serve?”
“Did you hear anything more from Kentigern before you set sail?”
“No, Weaver. But neither did I expect to.”
“You believe he intends to honor our agreement?”
“I believe, Weaver, that before speaking with me, the duke of Kentigern failed to grasp the power and scope of your movement. He thought to use it as a weapon against his king, whom he hates as we do the Eandi. I made him understand that we are no mere sword in his armory, that in fact we’re more formidable than any Eandi court. He’ll need some time to accept this, to alter his ambitions to match the reality of what we are. But his needs haven’t changed, his hatred for Kearney is no less than it was. He’ll serve you, Weaver. I’m certain of it.”
“Very good,” Dusaan said.
“Is there anything else, Weaver?”
He merely gazed at her, her fine white hair and golden eyes; her skin, as white and flawless as the stars. Without raising a hand, he caressed her cheek and the side of her neck. He had longed to make Cresenne his queen-if not for her lingering affections for the gleaner, whose child she carried, he might have already. But this woman who stood naked on the moor-eyes closed now, a small smile on her full lips-was, in her own way, even more perfect for him than the other. One needed only listen as she spoke of taming Lord Kentigern to know that.
He allowed his touch to travel down her shoulder and then to circle her breasts. Her lips parted and her nipples grew hard, but she did not flinch away as some women might. Yes, she would make a fine queen.
“You serve me well,” he said, his voice rough.
He made himself stop touching her. It was to be a long night.
Slowly, she opened her eyes, her smile deepening. “Yes, Weaver.”
“We’ll speak again soon.”
An instant later he withdrew from her dream, opening his eyes to the orange glow of the fire in his chambers. He sat for several moments, savoring the memory of her smooth, cool skin, before shutting his eyes once more and reaching toward Mertesse, where he expected to find Shurik jal
Marcine. This conversation would be a brief one as well, not only because he had but a few questions for the man, but also because he didn’t care to be in Shurik’s company any longer than was necessary. When he couldn’t find Shurik in Castle Mertesse, he sent his mind southward to Solkara and then Dantrielle. Failing to find the man in either of those cities, Dusaan began to feel a familiar quickening of his pulse.
Less than a turn before, he had tried to reach for Enid ja Kovar in Thorald Castle, only to find that he couldn’t perceive her consciousness there or anywhere else in Eibithar. A few days later, he received word of what he already suspected. The woman had died, her betrayal revealed to her duke. She kept faith with the movement to the end, taking her own life rather than submitting to her duke’s torture, but her death disturbed the Weaver nevertheless. True, she had outlived her usefulness to him, but after having killed Paegar and lost the first minister of Bistari in the Solkara poisoning, Dusaan could scarcely afford to replace another minister.
Now it seemed something had happened to Shurik as well. It almost seemed that the gods were against him, though he refused to believe that. At least this time, he might not have to wait for word of Shurik’s fate. Turning his mind back to Mertesse, he sought out the man’s lover, Yaella ja Banvel.
As soon as he saw the woman, he knew. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face discolored. Judging from how she looked, Dusaan deemed himself lucky to have found her sleeping at all.
Finding herself in the dream, the woman turned to face him, but she kept her eyes trained on the ground in front of her.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, as gently as he could. He hadn’t liked Shurik, but he valued this woman, and if the traitor was indeed dead, he needed her more than ever.