David Coe - Bonds of Vengeance

“Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you.”

He left her, closing the door softly behind him. Once more Cresenne found herself thinking that there was more to him than she had thought. True, he had angered her-who was this Eandi king to question her choices? — but clearly he had been disturbed at having to imprison her, despite what she had done, despite the consternation his generosity was sure to evoke from his dukes. When she asked herself if the Weaver would do the same for an Eandi in her position, she had to admit that he wouldn’t. No doubt others in the movement would take Kearney’s compassion as a sign of weakness, but Cresenne saw it differently. It seemed to her that if all Eandi were like Kearney of Glyndwr, there might never have been a conspiracy.

Keziah came for them a short time after Cresenne’s encounter with the king. Two soldiers stood with her in the corridor, but otherwise she was alone.

“I have a key to the tower chambers,” she said. “The king and I thought it best that we involve as few others as possible.”

Yet another kind gesture from the king and his minister. And in that moment an odd thought struck her: what must Tavis of Curgh have thought of all Kearney had done for her? He would have had every right to be offended, even appalled. But for some reason Cresenne doubted that he was. Forced to reconsider her opinion of the king and his archminister, she had begun to question her perceptions of all Eandi, as well as the Qirsi who served them.

The archminister glanced at the soldiers for a moment. “Stay here,” she said. “We’ll be out in a moment.” Without waiting for a reply, she stepped into the chamber and shut the door.

Cresenne gave a puzzled look.

“I need to examine your things before I allow you to take them to the tower. Kearney made me promise that I would, at Gershon’s urging no doubt.” She smiled, as if at a great joke. “I didn’t think you’d want the soldiers watching.”

Cresenne made herself smile as well, but her stomach was knotting again. It seemed each time she decided that she had misjudged the Eandi, something new happened to make her question that decision.

“You have a weapon in here, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Yes, a dagger.”

“I’ll have to take that of course.”

“Of course.”

“And you have gold?”

The minister was pretending to serve the movement. She would have been paid by the Weaver, just as Cresenne had.

“You know I do,” she said, her voice flat. “You have to take that as well?”

“Not all the men who serve the king are immune to bribery. A prisoner with gold is halfway to freedom.”

It was an old saying, but it did nothing to cushion the blow.

“I’ll keep it for you,” Keziah told her, misreading her silence as she pulled the blade and leather pouch from Cresenne’s satchel. “The dagger as well. Both will be returned to you.”

“You told me my imprisonment was for appearances only, that I would be freed after the dukes left.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Then why is any of this necessary?”

Keziah straightened, her eyes meeting Cresenne’s. “I also told you that the dukes would likely be here for some time. Imprisonment does strange things to people. Even knowing that you’re to be released eventually, you may find yourself desperate to win that freedom before we can offer it.”

Cresenne wanted to argue, but looking down at Bryntelle, she knew that the minister was right. It would take all of her strength just to endure a few days in the tower. What if the dukes remained in Audun’s Castle for half a turn, or more?

“This is your life now, Cresenne. Freedom as you’ve known it is no longer yours. It pains me to say this, but it is the truth.”

Cresenne felt tears on her face, but she didn’t bother to wipe them away. Hadn’t she said much the same thing to Kearney just moments before? Why would hearing it from this women affect her so?

“Surely you’ve thought of this yourself,” Keziah said, sounding nearly as forlorn as Cresenne felt.

“Yes,” she said through her tears. “And I’ve spoken with the king of going to Glyndwr, of accepting asylum there to escape the confines of this castle.”

The minister appeared to consider the idea for a moment. Then she nodded. “I think you should.”

Cresenne agreed. She knew in that moment that she and Bryntelle would be making the journey to the highlands as soon as the last of the dukes left the city of Kings. But she kept this to herself for now.

“I told the king I’d think about it,” was all she said.

Keziah nodded a second time. “Good.” For several moments she continued to watch Cresenne, holding the dagger in one hand and the pouch of gold in the other. “We should go,” she said at last. “Javan arrives within the hour. Preparations have already begun.”

Holding Bryntelle tightly in her arms, she followed the woman out of the room and then down the stone corridor as the two guards fell in step just behind her. It would have been a far shorter walk had Keziah crossed through the inner ward, but the minister kept to the shadowed hallways, sparing her the humiliation of walking past Gershon Trasker’s soldiers; one more kindness among so many.

Despite their roundabout route, they reached the prison tower far too soon. Cresenne had hoped that the anticipation of her captivity would prove to be worse than the reality, but upon stepping foot in the sparse chamber, she began to tremble so violently that she had to sit for fear of collapsing. There was a single straw bed against the wall opposite the door, and she lowered herself onto it, still clutching her child. A simple wooden cradle had been placed by the bed, and a clean woolen blanket laid within it.

“Are you all right?” the minister asked.

“I will be,” she managed, her voice shaking.

“Shall I stay?”

“No. We’ll be fine.”

Keziah started to say something, then stopped herself. “Very well. The next few days promise to be quite full, but I’ll do my best to come see you.”

“Thank you.”

The minister stepped out of the chamber and one of the guards pushed the door shut, the clang of iron on iron making Cresenne jump. She heard him lock the door, his keys jangling like gold coins, but she didn’t look up. She didn’t want him seeing the tears on her cheeks.

“I don’t want her mistreated in any way,” the minister said, her voice barely audible through the small iron grate on the door. “If she needs anything, or if her child is in any distress at all, I want you to come to me immediately, no matter the time, day or night. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Archminister.”

Even as Keziah’s footsteps retreated down the stairway, Bryntelle awoke and began to cry.

“Are you hungry, little one?” she asked, swiping at her own tears and unbuttoning her shirt.

Lifting the baby to her breast, she happened to glance toward the door, only to find one of the guards leering at her through the iron bars.

Didn’t you hear the archminister? she wanted to scream at the man. Don’t you think that mistreatment includes gaping at me as I feed my baby? She glared at him, but he didn’t look away. At last, she lay down on the bed, her back to the door, and fed Bryntelle that way.

She heard his boot scrape on the floor as he finally turned away, heard him mutter, “Qirsi whore.”

After a time, Bryntelle tired of eating, but she remained awake, cooing at Cresenne and gazing around their new surroundings with wide eyes. Eventually Cresenne refastened the buttons on her shirt and sat up, casting a dark look toward the door. The guards were ignoring her.

From the city, she could hear horns blowing and people cheering. It seemed Javan of Curgh had arrived. She stood and carried the baby to the lone window, but could see nothing from there save the spires of Morna’s Sanctuary, and the ridge of the Caerissan Steppe rising beyond the great walls of the city.