“Say there,” he called, narrowing his pale eyes. “Are you a healer?”
Grinsa hesitated, but only for an instant. Eibithar was his home, but he could ill afford to reveal too much about his powers, even here. “No, I’m not. Doesn’t the castle have a Qirsi healer?”
“It does, but I haven’t been able to find him.”
“Is the need urgent?” Preserving his secret was one thing, letting an innocent die to preserve it was quite another.
“Not terribly,” the herbmaster said, turning to walk away. “A woman at the gate in a difficult labor. I’ll see to it.”
“If I see the healer, I’ll send him to you.”
The older man raised a hand, but did not look back again. Grinsa watched him briefly, then resumed his search for the kitchenmaster.
The head of Glyndwr’s kitchen, like most men in his profession, proved rather reluctant to part with any of the food in his realm. Grinsa had anticipated this, however, and had brought with him the message from Kearney. Though the king’s words had no direct bearing on Tavis’s need for food, they had the desired effect on the kitchenmaster, who, upon reading the letter, began barking orders at the servants around him. Suddenly, there wasn’t a man or woman in Glyndwr who could give the gleaner what he wanted fast enough. Within a short while, Grinsa had two satchels packed full with dried meats, cheeses, hard bread, dried fruits, and even some wineskins, filled from the duke’s private cellar.
He carried the satchels back to the chamber he shared with Tavis, intending to talk next with the stablemaster. The journey to Curgh would be easier and faster if they had mounts. Reaching the room, however, he found the door ajar and a pair of guards speaking with the young lord. Fearing for the boy’s safety, he shoved the door open.
“What’s all this?” he demanded, eyeing the soldiers warily and resting his hand on the hilt of his blade.
“This is the man you’re looking for,” Tavis said evenly, nodding in the gleaner’s direction as the guards turned.
“What do you want with me?”
“There’s a woman come to the south gate, sir. She’s with child.”
“Yes, I’d heard. I’ve already told your herbmaster that I’m not a healer.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but that’s not why we’ve come. She was asking for you.”
Grinsa narrowed his eyes. “What? By name?”
“Yes, sir. She even knew you was with Lord Curgh.”
For some time, the gleaner didn’t move. It hadn’t been too long since he traveled with Bohdan’s Revel, Eibithar’s great festival. Certainly he knew a few people in the highlands, but none he could think of who had a daughter of age to bear children. Could it be a deception of some sort, an attempt by Tavis’s enemies to leave the boy unprotected? Or had the Weaver found him already and sent this woman to kill him?
“Did she give her name?”
“No, sir. She came with a merchant, but he’s gone now. We don’t know who she is.
He didn’t like the sound of this at all.
“All right,” he said at last, gesturing toward the door. “Lead the way.”
The soldiers stepped from the room and Grinsa started to follow.
“Do you want me to come?” Tavis asked.
The gleaner hesitated. “Yes.” The boy would be safer if they were together.
“You have no idea who it could be?” Tavis asked.
He shook his head.
“Guess he’s been busy,” one of the men whispered, drawing a snicker from his companion.
Even as Grinsa felt his face redden, realization crashed over him, cold as Amon’s Ocean in the snows. He faltered in midstride. It had been Elined’s turn when he left her in Galdasten, and they had been together for nearly a full turn before that. Certainly it was possible. .
“Grinsa?” Tavis asked, stepping closer to him. “Are you all right?”
“Is the woman Qirsi?” he asked the guards.
“Yes, sir.”
“You know who-?” The boy stopped, staring at him. They had spoken of Cresenne only a few times. The pain of her betrayal still scored his heart and though he had cursed her name a thousand times since their last night together, the very thought of her still made his breath catch. Tavis had asked few questions about her, but for all his faults, the boy was observant and uncommonly clever.
“It’s the woman from the Revel, isn’t it? That would have been about the right time.”
“It would have.”
They started walking again, then broke into a run.
“Does your duke know of the woman’s arrival?” Tavis asked the men, his voice carrying over the beat of their footsteps.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Tell him that Lord Tavis suggests he post guards outside her room at all times. She may be a member of the Qirsi conspiracy.”
Grinsa looked at the boy sharply, but then gave a reluctant nod. Tavis was right. If this was Cresenne she needed to be watched, no matter her condition. He had loved her-perhaps he still did-but that did nothing to change the fact that she was a traitor, that her gold had bought Brienne’s death.
They reached the herbmaster’s chambers a few moments later and were greeted by a breathless scream from within. Grinsa reached for the door handle, only to draw back his trembling hand. His heart was a smith’s sledge hammering in his chest. He tried to take a breath and nearly retched.
“Stay out here,” he managed through gritted teeth.
“Of course,” Tavis said.
Another scream made them both wince.
Grinsa gripped the door handle and entered the chamber. It was far too warm within, and the air smelled of sweat, vomit, and an oversweet blend of healing herbs. The gleaner gagged.
The herbmaster looked up at him, his face pale, a sheen of sweat on his brow glowing in the candlelight. “Are you the one she’s been asking for?”
Grinsa nodded, unable to tear his eyes from the figure propped up in the bed next to the man. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her damp face a mask of pain, her white, sweat-soaked hair clinging to her brow. Her breath came in great gasps and she rocked her head from side to side as if trying to break free of some great evil.
Yet through it all, Grinsa could see the exquisite woman with whom he had fallen in love ten turns before. Silently he cursed Adriel, goddess of love, for smiting him so.
“Well, come on, then, and help me,” the herbmaster said, laying a wet cloth on her forehead. “She’s worsening, and the child may be lost already.”
At that the gleaner hurried to the bed.
“What do you mean, it may be lost?”
“The baby is blocked somehow. I’m not a healer, and it turns out the duke’s healer is gone from the castle. There may be an outbreak of Murnia’s pox in one of the baronies and he’s gone to check on it.”
“So there’s no one here at all?”
“I’m doing the best I can. I’ve given her dewcup and groundsel to stanch the bleeding, and dittany and maiden’s weed for the blockage.” He handed Grinsa a cup of pungent, steaming liquid.
“What’s this?”
“A brew of a bit more dittany, as well as some common wort to calm her and ease the pain. She barely kept any of the first cup down. See if you can get her to take more.”
The gleaner knelt beside the bed and carefully raised the cup to Cresenne’s cracked lips.
“Drink,” he whispered.
She took a small sip, choked on it, and turned her head away. An instant later, though, as if his voice had finally reached her, she turned to him, opening her eyes. Pale yellow they were, the color of a candle’s flame, the color of passion and love and, ultimately, deepest pain. Unable to hold her gaze, he looked away, though he raised the cup again.
“You need to drink this,” he said.
“You came.” Her voice was scraped raw from her ordeal, and even as she spoke, her body convulsed.
“Yes. Drink. It will ease the pain.”
“Save our baby, Grinsa. Please. She’s dying. I know she is, and I’m not strong enough to help her.”
“The herbmaster-”