“Trin,” he said again. After a moment he laughed. “What a day.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Not now,” he said, shaking his head. “I need to rest. But soon. I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”
“All right.” She kissed him again, deeply this time. Then she smiled, the dazzling smile he remembered from so long ago. He hadn’t seen her smile like that in more turns than he could count. “I love you.”
Grinsa brushed a strand of hair from her face. “And I love you.”
He opened his eyes to the late-day sun, blinking against the brightness. He sat there a moment, then forced himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. His legs felt well enough, though-the healers had worked their craft well-and he turned gingerly to face the battle plain.
Dusaan’s body still lay amid the grasses. Other bodies, Eandi and Qirsi alike, had been moved. But no one had bothered with the Weaver. Or maybe none had dared go near him.
Grinsa reached out with his magic and tried to touch the Weaver’s mind, much as a soldier might prod a fallen enemy with the toe of his boot. Nothing. Dusaan was dead; his war was done. Over the next several turns, perhaps stretching to years, all the realms of the Forelands would continue to pay a price for what the man and his movement had done. Even now, Grinsa could hear Gershon Trasker in the distance, barking commands to the archers who would soon execute Jastanne and Pronjed. In the days to come, parents would weep for children lost in battle, sons and daughters would learn their first painful lessons about war and death, lovers would grieve at the realization of their worst fears.
But too, the land would begin to heal itself. At least Grinsa could hope as much. Throughout the Forelands, suspicions ran deep and in all directions, like fissures in dried earth. It would take time, he knew, for trust to take root again. Already though, he saw signs that the process was under way. Kearney had lied to preserve Kentigern’s honor. Soldiers in the king’s army were treating both Keziah and Tavis with the courtesy and respect that were their due.
These were trifles, to be sure. But they were a start. And on this day, when so much blood had been spilled and the Weaver had come so very close to defeating them all, Grinsa could hardly ask for more.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Curgh, Eibithar, Morna’s Moon waxing
They remained on the Moorlands for several days, collecting the dead, building pyres from the scant brush found among the grasses, and sending dark black clouds of smoke into the clear planting sky. At the insistence of Kearney and Sanbira’s queen, even the renegades were given the honor of a single vast pyre that for hours poured foul smoke into the air. Only the Weaver’s body was left to rot under the sun, its putrid remains picked at for days by crows and vultures.
Tavis’s father and Xaver MarCullet were given over to flame and vapor the first night after the battle, as stars burned brightly over the moor and slivers of moonlight shone weakly in the east. Tavis stood with Hagan MarCullet, his hand resting on the swordmaster’s stooped shoulder, his vision blurred with tears. He hadn’t cried so much in a single day since he was a child, and his throat and chest ached. Later that night, Aindreas of Kentigern was laid out on his own pyre, and Tavis watched that one burn as well, his emotions as roiled as a river in flood.
The following morning, the last of Adriel’s turn, he penned a message to his mother, informing her that he would be returning to Curgh early in the new turn, accompanied by the king and a number of nobles. He had planned to tell her of the duke’s death upon reaching the castle, but she needed to know that Kearney was coming, and she would not have wanted to have the king there when she learned that her husband was dead. As it was, he needed only write of their plans to tell her all she needed to know. Had Javan been alive, he, and not Tavis, would have sent such a message.
At first, Tavis had been reluctant to have the king accompany him back to Curgh. He liked Kearney a great deal, but even without accepting the king’s offer of asylum and a home in Glyndwr, he had lived under the protection of the Crown for too long. Kearney had argued, though, that now more than ever, Tavis needed his help.
“You lead your house now, Lord Curgh. We must make it clear, to friend and foe alike, that I trust completely in your innocence and your ability to govern a major house.”
His innocence. Tavis knew that some in the realm would die of old age still believing that he had killed Brienne, and he no longer cared to try to convince them otherwise. But he was wise enough to recognize the generosity of Kearney’s offer, and to know that he would have been a fool to refuse him.
And had he not, Fotir, ever the first minister, would have prevailed upon him to accept anyway.
“He puts himself at risk for you, my lord,” the Qirsi told him quietly. “There are many, including ministers in his own court, who would tell him that you’re not worth the cost of such a gesture.”
“I know. I have no intention of refusing him. I just wish for a bit of peace.”
Fotir had smiled at that. “I don’t doubt it, my lord. You’ll have it soon enough.”
When at last they set out for Curgh, Tavis was accompanied by a host of soldiers, nobles, and ministers. Not only did Kearney ride with him, but so did Lathrop of Tremain, Caius of Labruinn, Marston of Shanstead, and their companies. Naturally, Grinsa rode with him, too, although not without some reluctance, for he was eager to return to the City of Kings and see Cresenne and his daughter. Tavis noticed as well that the duchess of Curlinte rode with Marston rather than setting out for Sanbira with her queen.
Well before they reached Curgh, Tavis began to feel that he was home at last. He hadn’t seen the castle of his forebears in more than a year, since he set out with Xaver and his father for Kentigern. In the time since, he had sailed the waters of Kreanna to Wethyrn and had battled the assassin Cadel on the rocky shores of the Wethy Crown. Yet only now, still leagues south of the castle, but sensing the first hint of brine in the wind, did he find himself thinking of the high cliffs of Curgh and the frothing waters of Amon’s Ocean below.
They came to the great walls of Curgh City late on the fourth day of their journey from the battle plain. The King’s Guard and the armies of Thorald and Tremain stopped at the gates and made camp in the shadow of the city. Kearney and the other nobles followed Tavis through the gates and into the streets of Curgh, where they were greeted by cheers from the city folk. For Tavis, it was a bittersweet homecoming. He had assumed since Kentigern that he would never hear his name shouted with such reverence by Curgh’s people. But he sensed as well the shock of those lining the streets at not seeing their duke in the king’s company. Upon entering the castle, he leaped from his horse and rushed to his mother’s outstretched arms. For several moments they held each other, heedless of the king and the protocol of royal visits, and they wept, grief for Javan mingling with joy at Tavis’s redemption.
“If I could have saved him, I would have.”
“I know that.”
At last, Shonah released him, wiping the tears from her face and curtsying to the king.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she said.
“There’s nothing to forgive, my lady. I hope that you’ll accept my condolences on the loss of your husband. He was a wise leader, a courageous warrior, and a good friend. The land grieves for him.”
“You honor us, Your Majesty.”
“You do us the honor, my lady, by making us guests in your home at such a time.”
The duchess curtsied again, then turned to Hagan, who had yet to dismount. She favored him with a smile, then faltered searching the ranks of Curgh’s army. After a moment, she spun toward Tavis.
“Xaver?” she whispered.
Tavis swallowed and shook his head.