David Coe - Shapers of Darkness

Instead she raised another matter. “A moment ago, when I told you what Gershon, Kearney, and I had discussed, I left out one detail. The king also spoke of moving you to Glyndwr. That was to be the pretext for sending me away.”

“I can’t say that I’m surprised. Before the Weaver tried to kill me His Majesty offered to grant me asylum in the highlands as an alternative to keeping me here as a prisoner.”

“Yes, I remember.” When they had first discussed the possibility, Keziah had thought it a fine idea. So long as Cresenne remained in the City of Kings, she would never have any freedom at all. At least in Glyndwr, she would be free to roam the castle grounds whenever she liked without fear of having to return to this chamber every time a noble came to visit the king.

“So are Bryntelle and I to leave then?” Cresenne asked, her tone surprisingly light.

“I told the king that I thought you should remain here, where we can protect you. But I have to admit that this was somewhat selfish on my part. So long as the Weaver believes that I intend to make an attempt on your life, he won’t do so himself. As soon as he hears that you’ve left, he’ll try to kill you, and then he’ll punish me for failing to do as he instructed.”

“That’s not selfish, it’s sensible.”

The archminister stared at the narrow window near Cresenne’s bed. “It seemed selfish to me,” she said softly. “My point in raising all this is that if you would rather leave the castle now, I think I can still prevail upon the king to let you go.”

“Do you think I should?”

“As I said, once you’re away from here-away from me-the Weaver will come for you himself. But it may take him some time to find you.”

Cresenne smiled grimly. “It never has before. Besides, he knows that I’m the king’s prisoner. If he doesn’t find me here, Glyndwr will be the next place he looks.”

“You’re probably right. Leaving here would be quite dangerous, but it might also allow you a bit more freedom.”

“There is no freedom when you’re afraid for your life.” Cresenne pushed the hair back from her brow. “Grinsa left me-left us-in your care. I have to trust that he did so for good reason. We’ll stay here.”

Keziah smiled. “I’m glad.”

“Have you heard anything from him?” Cresenne asked after a lengthy silence.

It had been only a few days since the two women last spoke, but this was a question they asked each other every time they were together.

“No, nothing. You?”

“The last I heard he was on his way here,” Cresenne said. “But that was some time ago.”

The minister put her hand on Cresenne’s. “I’m sure he’s all right. He’s probably just intent on getting back here as quickly as possible, so that he can see you and Bryntelle.”

The woman grimaced in response. It took Keziah a moment to understand that she was trying to smile.

“You fear for him.”

“Of course, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I sense that there’s more to what you’re feeling than you admit.” Keziah gave a slight shudder. “Have you seen something?”

“No.”

She knew immediately that the woman was lying. Keziah clasped her hands together in her lap, and hunched her shoulders as if against a chill wind.

“Grinsa told me before he left that you had dreamed he’d be going. What else did you see, Cresenne?”

“Nothing I can name,” she said, an admission in the words. It seemed to Keziah that she wanted to say more, but she merely pressed her lips together in a tight line and gazed down at Bryntelle. A single tear rolled slowly down her cheek.

The archminister would have liked to press her on this, but she was a gleaner as well, and she knew how great a burden incomplete visions of the future could be.

“Perhaps I should leave you.”

Cresenne nodded, wiped the tear away.

Keziah stood, but Cresenne took her hand before she could walk away from the bed.

“I think Grinsa will make it back here safely,” she said. “But I’m afraid that I won’t be alive when he does.”

The archminister knelt before her, forcing the woman to meet her gaze. “Are you certain you don’t want to leave here? Isn’t it possible that you could hide from the Weaver long enough for Grinsa to learn his identity and destroy him?”

“It doesn’t matter where I am. You should know that as well as anyone.” Cresenne’s tears were falling freely now. Was there no end to the anguish the Weaver had caused?

“I’ve told you what Grinsa explained to me about the Weaver’s magic. When he’s in your dreams and he’s hurting you, he’s using your own magic against you. He can’t do anything to us-”

“That we don’t allow him to do.” Cresenne nodded. “You’ve told me. But even knowing that, I’m not certain that I can stop him. Grinsa told you that it’s all an illusion, but look at me.” She gestured at the scars on her face. They were fading slowly, but they still stood out, stark against her fair skin. “What he did to me was real. It doesn’t matter whose magic he used, he was able to hurt me. Had it not been for Grinsa, he would have killed me.”

“I know what he can do. I’ve felt it, just as you have.” The memory of her first encounter with the Weaver still made Keziah’s blood run cold. He had appeared before her, an imposing black figure framed against a blazing white light that pained her eyes. And when she resisted his attempts to read her thoughts, when she tried to hide the fact that Grinsa was in her dreams as well, the Weaver brought the full weight of his power down upon her mind. The pain was searing, unbearable. At that moment, she would have preferred to die than endure the man’s wrath for a moment longer. She understood Cresenne’s fear all too well. “He didn’t scar me as he did you, and he wasn’t trying to kill me. But I know what it is to have him turn my power against me. I remember how helpless I felt. And that’s the illusion, Cresenne. The pain is real, the marks he leaves on us are real. But we’re not helpless. That’s what Grinsa was trying to say.”

“Do you know how to resist him? Do you know how to take back control of your powers so that he can’t use them? Because I don’t, and I have no time to learn. The next time he comes for me, I’m dead.”

She tried to say more, but her words were lost amid her sobbing. Bryntelle stopped suckling and began to cry as well. Keziah stood and took the baby, so that Cresenne might have a moment to gather herself.

She hadn’t been holding Bryntelle for long, however, when she heard footsteps in the corridor outside her chamber. Both women looked toward the steel grate at the top of the door. A guard was looking in at them.

“What is it?” Keziah asked the man.

“The king wishes to speak with you, Archminister.”

“Damn,” she muttered.

“It’s all right,” Cresenne said, reaching for her child. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll come back later.”

The woman nodded. Keziah felt that she should say more, but the guard was waiting, and so, it seemed, was the king. The guard opened the door and Keziah stepped into the corridor.

“Where is His Majesty?” she asked.

“His presence chamber, Archminister.”

She glanced back at Cresenne one last time, then descended the stairs and hurried across the ward toward Kearney’s chamber.

She had thought to find the king with Gershon, or, far worse, with Marston of Shanstead. But Kearney was alone, standing near his writing table when she entered the chamber.

He gestured stiffly at a nearby chair. “Please sit.”

She bowed, then stepped to the chair, lowering herself into it, her eyes fixed on his face.

“I thought we should speak a bit more about. . about all that’s happened.”