DAVID COE - Seeds of Betrayal

“What now?” Tavis asked, his voice low.

“I need to go to the castle and see if I can learn where Shurik is. The duke and his company should have returned from Solkara several days ago. I want to know if the traitor was with them.”

“And if he wasn’t?”

“I’d rather not think about it. I expect that he was, in which case it becomes a matter of waiting for him to emerge from the castle.”

“If he thinks you’ve followed him here, he’s not likely to come out any time soon.”

The gleaner nodded. “I know. Let’s find out first if he’s in Mertesse. Then I’ll worry about the rest.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Remain in the marketplace. We’ll find an inn later.”

“All right.”

“And stay out of trouble, Tavis,” he added. “We’re too close to Shurik to muck things up now.”

The young lord opened his arms wide. “Why do you always think I’m going to find trouble?”

Grinsa frowned and started to walk away without responding. The answer seemed as plain as the scars on Tavis’s face.

The journey back from Solkara had left her weary and weak. Even after five days resting in her chamber in Castle Mertesse, Yaella found that she wanted nothing more than to sleep, or to huddle in the great chair beside her hearth. She ate little-the mere thought of food or, even worse, wine, left her queasy-and she had only left her chamber twice, once to speak with the duke, and a second time to satisfy the castle surgeon, who urged her to walk the corridors in order to regain her strength.

She couldn’t help but notice that Rowan, who had been poisoned as well, appeared to have made a full recovery already. Shurik assured her that this was simply a matter of his being Eandi.

“There’s no question that they’re physically stronger than we are,” he told her, soon after their return to Mertesse. “The duke especially. He may be a dullard, but he’s built like his father. Of course he’s mended faster than you have.”

Yaella feared that there was more to it than that, however. Except for the Night of Two Moons nine evenings before, when the god’s gift of magic seemed to bolster her physical strength, she hadn’t felt whole since first leaving Mertesse nearly a turn before. She wasn’t a young woman anymore-at thirty-one the minister was only four years younger than her mother had been when she died. True, her father lived to be almost forty, but even if that proved to be her fate also, she was approaching the final years of her life. What if she never recovered fully from the poisoning? What if her near encounter with the Deceiver marked the beginning of a slow decline toward death? Notwithstanding what Shurik had told her, she didn’t feel ill anymore. She felt tired. She felt old.

Shurik spent much of his time with her, encouraging her to eat and offering to make tea for her and fetch her something more from the kitchens. Though grateful for his company at times, now and again she would have liked to tell him to leave her. She understood, though, that he needed to care for her in order to keep his mind from his own troubles. He slept poorly at night, twitching like a sleeping cat and crying out at the demons that haunted his dreams. His face, always thin and pale, had a pinched, unhealthful look that worried her.

Having felt the power of the Weaver, having faced him in his wrath and awakened to find her heart pounding, tears on her cheeks, Yaella could hardly fault Shurik for his fear of the man. On the other hand, she didn’t know what to make of his worries about this second man, whom he also believed to be a Weaver. She couldn’t deny that it was strange for a Revel gleaner to conceal the fact that he possessed other powers. Yet neither could she say that this alone meant he was a Weaver. Weaving magic had not been bred out of her people, as some of the Eandi seemed to believe, but Weavers were rare and she remained skeptical that Shurik had managed to make enemies of two of them.

As a younger man Shurik had never allowed his fears to overmaster his good sense. But like her, he was growing older. Add to that his recent exile from Kentigern and his harsh treatment at the hands of the Weaver, and Yaella could see how he might imagine dangers at every turn. She didn’t dare say any of this to him, of course. She listened as he ranted on about the ill will of the gods and how they had cursed him with bad fortune, and she tried to put his fears to rest.

On this morning, to her surprise and relief, he appeared to have forgotten both Weavers, at least for the moment. He wasn’t even urging her to eat, though that would soon change if she didn’t climb out of her chair and return to the breakfast he had brought her, which sat untouched on the bed. He merely sat near the hearth, staring at the patterned tapestry that hung on the wall. When he finally spoke, however, it became clear to her that the Weavers were anything but forgotten.

“It’s possible that they caught him,” he said abruptly, as if they had been talking all this time.

“Who?” she asked, knowing well who he meant.

“Grinsa, of course. The Solkarans might have him already, and the boy as well. That may be why word of their escape never reached the guards here in Mertesse.”

“I’ve told you, Shurik. Solkaran guards would have ceased their search at the northern fringe of the Great Forest whether they had him or not. That’s where Solkaran lands end and those of Mertesse begin.”

“But surely soldiers of the royal house can ride where they please.”

“Yes. But with Numar new to his power and fears running high throughout Aneira, they aren’t about to stray too far from the royal city in pursuit of two men.” She closed her eyes briefly, angry with herself for arguing the point. Better to let him believe that Grinsa was no longer a threat. “He may very well have been captured. I certainly hope that he was. But it’s just one possible explanation. They may simply have decided that the gleaner and the Curgh boy weren’t worth so much effort.”

Perhaps he sensed more in her tone than she meant to convey. He stared at her a moment, a pained expression in his eyes. Then looking down, he asked, “Is that what you think?”

“No.”

But he heard the hesitancy in her answer and his face colored.

“He’s a Weaver, Yaella. I’m certain of it. I know it seems odd that I would have drawn the attention of two of them, but I have.” He smiled grimly, the wounded look in his eyes remaining. “It seems I’m more important than either of us ever realized.”

“I’ve never doubted that you’re important, Shurik. You should know that. But I know that my own fear of the Weaver has made me wary of every new Qirsi I meet. You first encountered this man just after you weakened the gates at Kentigern, and you immediately thought that he knew somehow you had betrayed Aindreas. Isn’t it possible that you allowed your fear of being discovered to color your impression of the man?”

Shurik stood, his lips pressed thin, his cheeks reddening further. “No,” he said, his voice icy with rage. “It’s not. And you should know better.”

He stalked to the door.

“Shurik, please. I’m sor-”

The door slammed behind him before she could finish her apology.

A small part of her was glad to see him go, and she wondered if on some level she had meant to make him angry. She knew she should find him and apologize. If he was right, and this Grinsa was a Weaver, the Solkarans would have little chance of capturing him and even less of preventing his escape. She might have been tiring of Shurik’s company, but she knew that he was safer with her than alone. Still, Yaella continued to sit before the fire, watching the flames dance and enjoying her solitude.