David Coe - Bonds of Vengeance

“I probably would be, were I in your place,” he went on a moment later. “But this is obviously a precaution he’s taking with all the ministers-it has nothing to do with you personally.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“And yet that makes no difference to you.”

Fotir looked up. The duke was watching him closely, a troubled look in his blue eyes.

“May I speak frankly, my lord?”

“By all means.”

“Every time we divide ourselves it weakens us. It doesn’t matter if the divisions lie between realms, between houses, or even between a lord and his ministers. No doubt the king believes that he’s merely being prudent. But to what end? If what we hear of the attack on the woman is true, the leaders of the conspiracy already know that she’s helping us. And assuming that no duke would bring to the royal city a minister he didn’t trust, I would think it likely that all of us will hear eventually of what’s said in your discussion, despite our absence. On the other hand, if by some chance one of the Qirsi in this castle is wavering in his loyalty to the courts, this is only likely to drive him or her closer to the conspiracy.”

“All that you say may be true, First Minister,” the duke said, his expression still grave. “But the king obviously feels that in light of recent events we cannot risk any more betrayals. He’s convinced that the conspiracy is real, that it was responsible for Brienne’s death. The time has come for the courts to plot a response to this threat. And it behooves us to keep the nature of that response a secret, even at the risk of offending our ministers.” He opened his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Of course, my lord. Thank you.” He did his best to keep the hurt from his voice, but knew that he had failed.

They stepped into the corridor and walked much of the distance to the presence chamber in silence. At the door, Fotir bowed to the duke before continuing on toward the great hall, where the ministers were to meet.

“First Minister,” the duke called to him, forcing Fotir to stop and turn. “You do understand that I’ll tell you all I can of what’s discussed here today.”

The minister had to smile. Again, it was a kindness the duke would not have shown him a year ago. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

Javan entered the chamber, and Fotir turned once more and resumed his walk to the hall. For a second time, however, he stopped. With the nobles speaking among themselves, the ministers were left with certain freedoms they might not have enjoyed otherwise. And if the court Qirsi were to develop their own strategy for combatting the conspiracy, they would be well served by consulting all who would be aiding them in the coming struggle. Taking the nearest stairway down to the castle’s inner ward, the minister crossed to the prison tower, where he knew he would find the gleaner, Grinsa jal Arriet.

There was a good deal Fotir wished to ask Grinsa-about the man’s journey with Lord Tavis, about Shurik’s death and the strange remarks Tavis had made to Javan about all that happened in Mertesse, and about this woman who had confessed to arranging Brienne’s murder, and with whom Grinsa had apparently once been in love. But knowing what he did of the gleaner’s powers, Fotir realized that these questions would have to wait. He had aided the gleaner in his efforts to win Tavis’s freedom from the dungeon of Kentigern Castle, and so knew that the man was a Weaver. And he knew as well that there was no one in the Forelands he was more eager to have on his side in the coming war.

As the minister expected, Grinsa was there, holding the child he had fathered and walking slowly around the corridor just outside the woman’s chamber.

“Good morning,” Fotir said, emerging from the stairway.

Grinsa held a finger to his lips, then whispered, “Good morning,” in return.

Fotir approached him, eyeing the baby. “Is she asleep?” he asked, lowering his voice.

The gleaner nodded toward the chamber door. “They both are.”

Glancing through the iron grate at the top of the door, Fotir saw the woman sleeping peacefully on the small bed against the opposite wall. There were livid scars on her face that seemed eerily similar to those borne by Lord Tavis.

“They’ll fade eventually,” Grinsa said, standing beside him, “though they won’t disappear entirely.”

Fotir nodded, unable to tear his gaze from her. Even marked so, she was beautiful. “You healed her?” he asked.

“Yes.”

The minister looked back at the guards, who would have been close enough to hear, had the two Qirsi been speaking in normal voices. “It seems,” he said, his voice even softer than it had been a moment before, “that you’ve revealed a good deal of yourself in recent turns.”

Grinsa nodded. “And it hasn’t gone unnoticed by the king.”

Fotir raised an eyebrow. It was one thing for him to know that Grinsa was a Weaver. He was Qirsi himself, and though loyal to the courts, he had no intention of betraying the man’s confidence; not after all Grinsa had done for Tavis. Not after he had seen to it that Shurik jal Marcine paid for his betrayal. It was quite another matter, however, for an Eandi noble, particularly the king, to learn of Grinsa’s true powers. “Do you think he knows?”

“I’m certain of it. I told him.”

“What?”

“I had little choice, and there are. . other matters to consider, other secrets that must be preserved. Believe me when I tell you that Kearney is the least of my concerns.”

“I do believe it. In a way, that’s why I’ve come.”

The gleaner eyed him sidelong. “What do you mean?”

“Shanstead, Tremain, and my duke are meeting right now with the king. The ministers are meeting separately in the great hall. We all intend to discuss the conspiracy and what we’ve learned from. .” He gestured toward the woman.

“Her name’s Cresenne.” Grinsa exhaled. “You want me to join your discussion.”

“Yes. I think you’d have much to offer.”

The gleaner gave a small smile. “I’m not certain the others would even sit in the same chamber with me. You know who I am. The others will see only a Revel gleaner, one who’s tied to both Cresenne and Lord Tavis. I can hardly claim to be impartial in this matter.”

“Some may see that as a weakness. I don’t. And I believe the rest are reasonable enough to consider that your opinions might be of value.”

“I’d rather not leave her alone.”

“You can bring her with you if you’d like.”

“I mean Cresenne. I’m afraid the Weaver will try to kill her again. I don’t know that anyone else can protect her.”

“I understand,” Fotir said. “I certainly wouldn’t want you to do anything that might endanger her life.” He turned to leave. “We can speak again later. I’ll tell you what was said.”

“Wait.” Grinsa beckoned one of the guards to the door and had him open it. Entering the chamber, he sat on the bed and laid the baby beside the woman. Cresenne stirred, opening her eyes.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her gaze straying to the open door and Fotir.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” he told her. “I need to go for just a short while. I won’t be long, but I think it best that you remain awake until I return.”

She nodded, sitting up and passing a hand through her tangled hair. She glanced at the baby, then looked at Grinsa once more, smiling. “You got her to sleep.”

The gleaner grinned, looking embarrassed. “I told you I could.” His eyes flicked to Fotir, then back to her. “I’ll return soon.”

The woman crossed her arms over her chest, the smile slipping from her face. Abruptly she looked frightened and very young. “I’ll be all right.” She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself as well as the gleaner.