David Coe: Weavers of War

City of Kings, Eibithar, Adriel’s Moon waxing

The touch of his mind on hers was as gentle as the Weaver’s had been brutal, as tender and loving as the Weaver’s had been vengeful and cruel. She sensed in that touch his passion, his longing to be with her, his hope that he could shield her from the pain that seemed to have enveloped all the land. And she wanted nothing more than to hold him in her arms-really to hold him, beyond this haven he had created so that he might speak with her as she slept-to show him that she yearned for him, too.

Theirs was the most unlikely of loves, having overcome deception, betrayal, and her devotion to the Weaver’s conspiracy. But feeling the caress of his thoughts, Cresenne could not question the power of what they shared.

“Tell me about Bryntelle,” Grinsa whispered, still holding her close amid the sun-warmed grasses of the plain he had conjured for this dream.

How could she not smile at the mention of their daughter? The girl had been the lone spark of light in a darkness that had consumed her days and nights over the past several turns.

“Bryntelle’s fine. She’s been up much of the day, crying, but I think that’s because she’s getting her first tooth.”

He pulled away slightly, looking down at her, his face lit by a dazzling smile. “A tooth? Really?”

Cresenne nodded. “It’s not much right now-just a little bump on her gums. But one of the healers tells me that once it appears it’ll grow in very quickly.”

Grinsa was still smiling, but there was a pained look in his eyes. “I wish I could be there to see it.”

“Soon,” she said, looking down, her chest tight. She sensed that he wanted to kiss her, and she kept her face turned away from his. “Has the fighting begun?”

“Yes, we fought our first skirmish this morning.”

At that she did look up. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine.”

“And Keziah?”

“She is, too. As are Kearney and Tavis.”

“Good.” She nodded again, shivering as if the warm breeze had grown icy and harsh. “That’s good.” She hesitated. Then, “Have you seen the Weaver yet?” Her stomach turned to stone as she spoke the words, but she tried to keep her voice even.

Grinsa shook his head. “Not yet. I expect he wants the war to begin in earnest before he reaches the Moorlands. The more damage the Eandi do to each other, the easier his task when the time comes.”

She felt certain that he was right. While Grinsa and the Weaver had little in common beyond their powers and their formidable appearance, Grinsa had come to understand the conspiracy’s leader quite well. Only a year before, Grinsa had been but a gleaner in Eibithar’s Revel, concealing the true extent of his powers and spending his days and his magic showing others glimpses of their futures. Now he was an advisor to kings and nobles, though still they called him gleaner. Cresenne of all people, having been one of the Weaver’s most trusted servants-a chancellor in his movement-knew how strong the enemy was, and so how great the land’s need. If anyone could destroy the Weaver and his movement, her beloved could. So why did she find it so difficult to take comfort in Grinsa’s arms, to believe that he could prevail in this war that loomed before them, as black and menacing as some seaborne storm summoned by Amon himself?

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Cresenne sensed that Grinsa was gathering himself to end the dream. She could feel his despair at the distance between them, how he begrudged every day they spent apart. No, there could be no doubting the power of their love.

All of which made what the Weaver had done to her that much more galling.

“I should return to the front lines,” he said, grimacing. “Who knows when the empire’s men will attack again?”

“I understand.”

“You’ll kiss Bryntelle for me?”

Again she smiled. “Of course.”

Grinsa pulled her close again, kissing her deeply. Cresenne returned the kiss with as much passion as she could muster, not wanting him to sense how she suffered for it.

At last he released her, a frown on his handsome face.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“It’s nothing.”

“Cresenne-”

“Please, Grinsa,” she said, closing her eyes, wishing she could just sleep. “I just … It’s going to take some time for me to … to heal.”

“I want to help.”

“You can’t. No one can,” she added, seeing how this hurt him. “Just make certain that you win. Killing the Weaver will do more to help me than you can know. Destroy him for me, and I’ll see to the rest.”

He just gazed at her, looking so sad. “I’ll do what I can.”

That’s not enough! she wanted to say. You can’t fail at this! He’ll kill me! He’ll kill Bryntelle! But he knew all of this. As much as she wanted Dusaan jal Kania dead, Grinsa wanted it more.

“I know you will.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her brow with the back of his hand. And even this gesture, done with such care and tenderness, was nearly enough to make her shudder with the memory of the Weaver’s brutality.

“I love you, Grinsa.”

“And I love you, more than you know.”

She awoke to the sound of swifts chattering as they soared past the narrow window of her chamber. Bryntelle still slept in her cradle, her arms stretched over her head, her mouth making suckling movements. Cresenne sat up, taking a long breath and running both hands through her hair. Grinsa deserved better from her. He carried the burdens of every man and woman of the Forelands on his shoulders, and all she could think to do was tell him what he already knew: that in order to be whole again she needed for him to destroy the Weaver.

Her wounds had healed, and in recent days she had finally begun to eat again, slowly regaining her strength after the poisoning that almost killed her. But the Weaver had left her with other scars that remained beyond a healer’s touch. True, she had managed to fight Dusaan off and then to end that horrific dream before he could take her life, but the memory of rape clung to her bed, her hair, her body-the stench of his breath, hot and damp against her neck. She could still feel him driving himself into her again and again, tearing her flesh, his weight bearing down on her until she wondered if she could even draw breath. She could hear him calling her “whore.” It had only been a dream, she tried to tell herself, an illusion he had conjured by using her own magic against her. But did that lessen the humiliation or deepen it? It had been a violation in so many ways and on so many levels. Did his invasion of her mind make what he seemed to have done to her body any less real?

She feared that she might never again be able to bear Grinsa’s touch. The Weaver had poisoned all of her dreams, even those in which her love spoke to her. Grinsa’s merest kiss when he walked in her sleep, his most gentle caress, made her feel once more the savagery of Dusaan’s assault. Cresenne wanted desperately to believe that it was the dreams that did this, that once she and Grinsa were together again, and he could hold her in his arms without touching her mind, everything would be all right. But she had no way of knowing this for certain, and doubt lay heavy on her heart.