David Coe - Bonds of Vengeance

He heard laughter and looked ahead once more. The two figures before him continued to circle, the other man, dark haired and tall, just as the gleaner remembered from Mertesse, switching his dagger from one hand to the other, the motion so fluid he seemed a dancer rather than a musician. He was smiling now, his confidence written in his expression, his stance, his pale blue eyes. The singer made a feint with his blade hand, and Tavis flinched. The man laughed a second time. Grinsa was nearly close enough now, though for what he couldn’t be certain. He wanted to cry out to Tavis, to warn the young lord away from this man, from this fight, but he kept his silence, fearing that if he distracted Tavis for even a moment, it would mean the boy’s death. He sensed that he was supposed to do something, that Tavis expected him to use magic against the singer, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to do anything more than watch.

Again the singer pretended to lunge, and when Tavis moved to protect himself-a desperate, clumsy movement with his blade hand-the singer launched himself at the boy. They struggled briefly, a tangle of arms and legs and flashing steel. Then they fell to the stone, rolling to the side. Tavis cried out the gleaner’s name, then shouted something else. Grinsa couldn’t make out what he said, and in the next instant the two figures rolled again, reaching the crest of the boulder on which they fought and dropping out of view. Grinsa hurried toward them, calling to the young lord even as he stumbled again. To his left a wave crashed, sending a towering fountain of foam and spray over the huge rocks. Lightning carved across the purple sky, seeming to plunge into the Gulf of Kreanna like a dagger into flesh. Thunder followed a moment later, the clap so sudden and fierce that it staggered him, as if a blow. In an instant it was raining. But this was not the soft rain that presages a storm during the growing turns, building gradually as the storm grows near. Rather, this rain came like a hail of arrows during a siege. Abrupt and merciless, and so thick he could barely see what was before him. He cried out for Tavis, but the torrent drowned out his voice and swallowed the light. Thunder crashed again, and a voice beside him made the gleaner jump.

“It’s raining.”

Grinsa opened his eyes. Lightning flickered like a flame in the narrow window near his bed. He could hear rain slapping against the stone walls of Audun’s Castle.

Tavis was sitting up in his bed, gazing toward the window as well. Grinsa rubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear his mind. They were in Audun’s Castle still; they weren’t in Wethyrn at all. It had been several days since the arrival of Marston of Shanstead and the discussion among the Qirsi to which he had been party. Little had happened in the intervening days, though the dukes of Heneagh and Labruinn had reached the castle the previous morning.

“You called out my name,” Tavis said after some time. “Were you dreaming?”

Grinsa nodded. Then, when the boy didn’t look his way, he managed to say, “Yes,” in a hoarse voice.

“What about?”

He didn’t want to say. This hadn’t been just another dream. He felt drained, weak, as if he had been healing wounds for the better part of a day, just as he always felt after a vision. As much as he would have liked to believe otherwise, the gleaner knew that what he had seen would happen someday, probably soon. Tavis and the singer would meet on the Wethy Crown. They would fight their next battle-perhaps their last battle-in that storm Grinsa had seen. And, it seemed, Grinsa would be unable to stop them or, for that matter, to do anything more than watch helpless and useless. How was he to explain any of this to Tavis?

“It’s hard to say,” he answered. “I need a chance to sort through what I saw.”

“It was a vision, then.”

The boy was too damn clever. “Yes,” he admitted. “It was a vision.”

“Of me?”

“Give me some time, Tavis.”

The young lord gave a nod, staring at him another moment before turning back to the window and the storm.

“It’s early for a storm like this,” the boy said quietly, as lightning brightened the window again.

“Osya’s turn will be over in another two days. It’s not that early.”

“In Curgh, this would be early. Maybe it’s not down here. I’m not used to spending the planting away from the north coast.”

“You could probably go home now if you wanted. The king believes in your innocence, and though others might not, you no longer need Glyndwr’s protection.”

“I’m not ready to go home.”

I still have to kill the singer . He didn’t have to say it. If by some chance Grinsa thought that Cresenne’s confession had made the young lord any less determined to avenge Brienne, his vision would have been enough to dispel the notion.

“Perhaps you should anyway,” Grinsa said, his voice barely carrying over a rumble of thunder.

“What did you see, gleaner?”

Tavis had turned to face him again, forcing Grinsa to look away.

“Nothing.” He lay back down. “Go to sleep.”

For several moments Tavis continued to sit there, saying nothing. Then he lowered himself to his pillow, pulling his blankets up around his neck.

It seemed that Grinsa fell asleep immediately, for when he awoke once more, the silver light of day lit the chamber and Tavis’s bed was empty. Several turns ago he might have been concerned for the boy’s safety, even with Aindreas of Kentigern and his soldiers fifty leagues away. He had learned during their travels, however, that Tavis could take care of himself. Usually , he amended, recalling his vision.

He dressed and started toward the prison tower. No doubt Cresenne would be weary and ready for sleep.

But as he crossed the ward he saw two men dueling on the grass, the sharp crack of wood echoing off the castle walls as their swords met. Training weapons rather than steel. It took him a moment to recognize one of the men as Tavis. Hagan MarCullet stood nearby, and Grinsa soon realized that the man fighting Tavis was the swordmaster’s son, Xaver. He hesitated a moment, glancing toward Cresenne’s tower. Then he walked over to Hagan, who was shouting encouragement to both lord and liege man.

“Are you to be training the king’s men as well, swordmaster?” he asked.

Hagan regarded him briefly, then gave a short laugh. “Trasker would never allow that, and you know it.” He nodded his head toward the two young men. “Actually it was the boy’s idea.”

“Tavis’s?”

He nodded a second time. “Sword up, Tavis! You can’t defend yourself with the tip held too low!

“His footwork has gotten a bit careless,” he went on a moment later, lowering his voice once more. “And his attacks aren’t quite as precise as I remember. But he still wields a quick blade. He’s nearly a match for his father.” He glanced at the gleaner. “Have you been working him?”

“Not at all. I don’t know much about swordplay.”

“I guess some are just born to it. Was you that healed him though, wasn’t it? After Kentigern?”

Grinsa had long denied this, fearing that if he revealed his ability to heal, some might begin to question what other powers he possessed. But most in the castle knew by now that he had healed Cresenne’s injuries, and though he felt certain that the king would not betray his secret, he sensed that it wouldn’t be long before others learned that he was a Weaver.

“Yes,” he said. “It was me.”

“You did well. Xaver tells me the boy was in a bad way when last he saw him in the dungeon.”

“Thank you.”

Grinsa and Hagan watched them fight for another few moments, before the swordmaster called to them, “That’s enough for now, lads!”