The gleaner laughed. “Not at all. You think too poorly of yourself.”
“You’re the one wishing for my bravery, gleaner. If either of us needs a better opinion of himself, it’s you.”
Grinsa shook his head, his smile lingering. “Forget I mentioned it.”
They stood in silence for a few moments.
“You’re thinking about the Weaver again, aren’t you?”
I certainly wish I had your insight. “Yes,” Grinsa admitted. “I have been all morning.”
“That’s good,” Tavis said, surprising him. “You should be. You should spend every waking hour thinking about how you’re going to defeat him, imagining how your war might go, anticipating his tactics. Hagan always used to say that a strong mind and a shrewd battle plan were the most powerful weapons any swordsman could carry into battle. I find it hard to believe that this is any less true for sorcerers.”
“Hagan MarCullet is a wise man. Unfortunately, that’s hardly the direction my thoughts have taken.”
“You’re frightened.”
Grinsa looked at him. “Yes.”
“I think that’s probably a good thing, too.” Seeing the expression on the gleaner’s face, the young lord said, “I’m serious, Grinsa. I was terrified before my fight with the assassin. Both fights, really,” he added with a quick smile. “And I’m sure that helped me survive. Fear makes us wary, it makes us think. If you weren’t afraid riding to this war, I’d be worried for all of us.”
For some time Grinsa said nothing, until eventually Tavis glanced his way.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” the boy said. “Probably I am. I was lucky to live through my second encounter with Cadel. It’s possible I was too scared. Or just too weak.”
“I don’t think you’re wrong, Tavis. I’m just thinking that maybe I should be wishing for your wisdom, rather than your courage.”
“I think you should stop wishing at all, and just accept your strengths and your limitations for what they are.” Tavis cast a quick look at the gleaner, smiling once more. “I learned that from you.”
“And here I thought you weren’t even listening.”
When they had finished readying their horses, Tavis climbed into his saddle.
“Do you mind if we ride with my father? I’d like more time with Xaver.”
Actually, Grinsa had also been looking forward to riding with the men of Curgh. Keziah rode at the rear of Kearney’s army, still trying to convince all who saw her that she had fallen out of favor with the king. It would have been inappropriate for Grinsa to ride with her. Instead, he wished to speak with Fotir jal Salene, Javan’s first minister. First, though, there was something else he needed to do.
“That’s fine,” said. “But before we ride, I want to reach for Cresenne. It’s been some time now.”
Tavis nodded. “Of course. Catch up with us when you can.”
The young lord rode off toward the banners of his house, leaving Grinsa alone, or as close to alone as a man could be amid six thousand Eandi soldiers. Still, he led his mount even farther from the warriors, stopping by the banks of a small stream that flowed past the army camp. There, he sat on the grasses beside the glimmering waters, closed his eyes, and sent his mind southward toward the City of Kings. He quickly found Cresenne and stepped into her dreams, summoning the familiar vision of the plain near Eardley.
An instant later, she stood before him, though some distance away. He sensed immediately that she was warding herself, expecting at any moment to be attacked.
“Cresenne?”
“Grinsa!” She ran to him, throwing her arms around him and pressing her face to his chest, her body racked by sobs.
“What’s happened?” he asked, his throat so tight he could barely breathe. When she didn’t answer, he tried to look at her face. “Cresenne?”
“Just hold me.”
“Let me see you.”
“Not yet.”
He found that he was shaking, though whether from apprehension at what she might tell him, or rage at the Weaver for whatever new atrocity the man had committed, he couldn’t say for certain. At last, unable to wait any longer, he put his hands on her shoulders and gently forced her to take a step back.
One side of her face bore a newly healed burn and he could see the faint remnants of several bruises. Whoever had tended her wounds had done so with great skill and care. Yet even the touch of healing magic couldn’t hide the gauntness of her cheeks, or the unhealthy sallow color of her skin, which made her old scars appear more stark than Grinsa remembered from the last time he walked in her dreams.
I should never have left you. I should be by your side now.
“Tell me what happened,” the gleaner said, struggling to keep from being overwhelmed by his grief.
“I was poisoned.”
Grinsa frowned. “Poisoned?” That was the last thing he had expected her to say.
“Yes. One of the castle’s healers gave me a tonic that had nightshade in it.”
“A Qirsi healer?”
She nodded. “A man named Lenvyd jal Qosten.”
The name meant nothing to him. “Have they questioned him? Do they know what else he’s done for the Weaver?”
“He got away. By the time the master healer learned what had happened, Lenvyd had long since fled.”
He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, feeling a tear roll down his face. “How bad was it?”
Cresenne shrugged, looking away. “I was unconscious for three days.”
“Three days!” he whispered, pulling her to him again. “Damn him!”
They stood that way for some time until at last, Cresenne stepped back, her face damp with fresh tears.
“Is Bryntelle all right?”
She nodded, smiling faintly. “Yes, she’s fine. She’s beautiful. I wish you could see her.”
“So do I. I’m so sorry I’m not there with you. I’m so sorry I let this-”
She held a finger to his lips, shaking her head. “Don’t. None of this is your doing.”
“Wait,” Grinsa said narrowing his eyes. How could it have taken him so long to realize what she had told him? He felt addled, as if he were the one dreaming. “You said a healer did this to you. Why did you need a healer?” He examined her wounds a second time. “Did he also heal that burn and the bruises?”
She averted her gaze. “No. That was another healer.”
“The Weaver attacked you again?”
Cresenne nodded, crying once more.
“He burned you?”
“Yes,” she said, so softly it might have been the wind.
“And he hit you?”
“Please don’t ask me anymore, Grinsa.”
“He tortured you, didn’t he?”
“He did nothing to me that I couldn’t heal.”
“That you couldn’t heal. .” He swallowed, feeling ill. “Cresenne, did he-”
She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “Please don’t,” she whispered.
I’m going to kill him. He didn’t say it aloud, knowing how fatuous it would sound, how much like the empty, vengeful oath of a man consumed with his own vanity. But those were the words that repeated themselves again and again in his mind. I’m going to kill him.
Once again, he took her in his arms, his hands shaking with fury and bloodlust.
“He called me your whore,” she said quietly. “And then he said he was going to make me his whore, too.”
“But you’re alive.”
She looked at him, pride in her pale eyes. “Yes. I finally grasped what you’d been trying to tell me about taking control of my own magic. I couldn’t do it in time to. . to stop him. But I managed to wake myself before he could kill me.”
Grinsa smiled. “That’s very nearly more than I did.”
“What?” she said, frowning.
“It’s not important. What matters is, you defeated him.”
“Hardly.”
“You did, Cresenne. He wants you dead. Whatever else he took from you, he couldn’t kill you. And that means that you won.”
“I saw him strike at me with a dagger. I felt the blade in my heart. But when I looked at the wound, the skin healed itself.”