“You’re awfully quiet, gleaner,” Gershon Trasker said after a time. “You had much to say in the days before the war. What say you now?”
Grinsa shrugged, the deformity of his shoulder making the movement appear awkward and strange. “There’s little I can say, swordmaster. You’re all speaking of trusting one another, of taking the first tentative steps down a long, difficult path. I’m a Weaver. There’s no place for me in your society, at least not for now. In a sense, this discussion has nothing to do with me.”
Fotir turned to face him, his brow furrowed. “Surely you can offer us some counsel. How are we to overcome these divisions?”
“Truly, I don’t know. The only advice I can give you is to be patient. As Lord Tremain has said, this question is old as the seven realms. It won’t be answered in a day, or a year, or even ten years. And in the meantime, you must guard against falling back into old conflicts, into fear and mistrust. Patience, and tolerance-they will see you through.”
“It seems you had counsel for us after all, gleaner,” the king said, smiling. “You have our thanks, once again, as well as my promise that we’ll heed your words.” He reached for a flask of pale wine and filled his goblet. “Come friends. Let us eat, and enjoy one last day of Lord Curgh’s hospitality. It’s important that we speak of these matters, but there comes a time when we must simply live and do the best we can.”
Slowly, the others filled their cups. When they had, Kearney raised his goblet. “To Eibithar,” he said. “Long may she know peace.”
“To Eibithar,” the others answered.
Their small feast lasted much of the morning. Soon after the ringing of the midday bells, the nobles and their ministers began to say their farewells and leave the hall. Most, it seemed, intended to leave Curgh the following morning. Marston and Lady Curlinte were among the last to leave, and though Tavis hadn’t known what Xivled would do, in the end the minister followed his lord from the great chamber. Soon, all had left the hall save for Tavis, Grinsa, and Kearney. They sat together in silence for some time, until at last the king cleared his throat. “I think it’s time I was returning to the City of Kings,” he said. “I’m grateful to you for your courtesy, Tavis, but I have a family as well, and I’m eager to see them.”
“Yes, of course, Your Majesty.”
“If you’d like, I can leave a small contingent of soldiers, at least until you’ve had some time to rebuild your army.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty, but I don’t think that’s necessary. Curgh has protected her own walls for centuries, and she can do so now.”
The king nodded. “Very well. Then I’ll be riding in the morning.”
Grinsa, who had been staring at his wine, looked up at the king. “If I may, Your Majesty, I’d like permission to ride with you.”
“You’re leaving, too?” Tavis said, though of course, he shouldn’t have been surprised.
“It’s been too long since I saw my daughter, Tavis. You didn’t really think I’d remain here forever, did you?”
“No, but…” He shook his head. “No.”
“You’re welcome to ride with me, gleaner. But what will you do once you reach the City of Kings?”
“That depends in large part on you, Your Majesty. Cresenne remains a prisoner in Audun’s Castle. And it’s now common knowledge that I’m a Weaver.”
Tavis had wanted to say something during their discussion, but the time hadn’t been right. Now, though, he didn’t hesitate. “After all that Grinsa’s done, it shouldn’t matter that he’s a Weaver!”
“But you know it does, Tavis,” the king said. “Even before we left the Moorlands, nobles were speaking to me of having him imprisoned or even put to death. Throughout Eibithar, people are more frightened of Weavers than they’ve been in centuries. I can’t simply ignore the laws of the realm.”
“Even if those laws are unjust?”
“We’ll try to change the laws, and perhaps over time we will. But as Grinsa himself has said, we’re just starting a long and difficult process. The people aren’t ready to have Weavers living among them, not so soon after this war.” Kearney looked at Grinsa. “As I’ve told you before, I have no desire to see you executed, nor do I wish Cresenne ill. But I’m at a loss as to what to do.”
“I have an idea,” Grinsa said. “But it will demand some pliancy on your part, Your Majesty.”
Kearney regarded him a moment, then nodded. “I’m listening.”
Since arriving in Curgh, Keziah had managed to avoid them both. She walked in the city marketplace or wandered the castle wards and gardens. She attended the feasts, of course, as well as Tavis’s investiture and this day’s discussion. But she always kept to herself and she excused herself from the celebrations and feasts as quickly as she could. Anything to avoid being alone with Kearney or Fotir. Soon she would be leaving for Audun’s Castle, and none of this would matter anymore, but until then, she had no desire to speak with either of them.
Or so she wanted to believe.
Her wounds had healed. The bones in her ribs and leg no longer ached as she walked, and her hands, shattered by Sanbira’s archminister, hadn’t hurt for several days now. She had slept better over the past several nights than she had in more than a year. What a joy it was to lay down at night without dreading her dreams. A part of her, she realized now, had never truly believed that the Weaver could be defeated, or that she would ever be free of him. Their victory on the Moorlands had come at a great price, but it seemed to her miraculous nevertheless.
So why did she remain so unhappy?
Late on this day, the ninth of the waxing, she found herself in the gardens once more, strolling past brilliant, fragrant blooms of rose and sweet violet. The sun angled sharply across the courtyard, casting long, dark shadows that cooled the air. Her thoughts had turned again to Fotir, as they often did these days. They had hardly spoken to one another since reaching Curgh. The first minister was occupied with Curgh’s young duke and its grieving duchess. They needed him far more than did Keziah, and it was only right that he should be more concerned with them than with anything, or anyone, else. She couldn’t help but remember, however, how their conversation ended the night before the war with Dusaan. She could still feel the warmth of his hand holding hers. And she could still hear his question, so deserving of an answer, so difficult to address.
What about the king?
Indeed.
She heard footsteps on the stone path behind her and she turned, half expecting to see the minister. Instead it was Gershon Trasker.
“Am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all, swordmaster. Is there something you need?”
“I just thought you should know: the king has decided that we’re to leave tomorrow morning.”
Why did that make her so afraid? “All right. Thank you.”
She thought he would go, but he didn’t. He glanced about, looking at the flowers as he might a collection of daggers or battle shields. Keziah couldn’t remember ever seeing Gershon in the gardens of Audun’s Castle, or Glyndwr for that matter.
“Have your injuries healed?” he finally asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Good. And my men are treating you better?”
Keziah had to smile. “Yes, they are. Thank you for that, as well.”
“It’s the least you deserve, given all that you’ve done for us.”
“I did it for myself, swordmaster. You speak as though I did the Eandi a favor. That wasn’t it at all. I was trying to protect my king, my realm, and my people. I was trying to save myself.” She looked away. “Besides,” she went on, trying to soften what she had said, “I’m not certain that what I did mattered in the end.”
“Of course it did.”
“The Weaver very nearly defeated us, despite my efforts. And I had little to do with our victory. That was Grinsa, and a woman in the Weaver’s army who turned against him at the end. We don’t even know her name.”
“You showed courage and loyalty. You helped us kill the three traitors from Sanbira. They might well have tipped the balance in the Weaver’s favor before the end.”