“Naturally.”
She was watching, as if waiting for him to leave, but the duke continued to stand where he was.
“I’m surprised that I found you here,” he said, his gaze fixed on the floor, his hand again on the hilt of his sword. “You told me that your travels take you from one end of the Forelands to the other, and yet the one night I come looking for you on the Tarbin I’m fortunate enough to find you.”
“I told you, Lord Kentigern. I dreamed three nights ago that you would come to me. I was already in the Scabbard at the time, and so I sailed to Tarbin Port. I assure you, there was nothing more to it than that.”
Aindreas nodded, and let himself out of the chamber. To his surprise, there were no men waiting for him outside her door. Apparently they didn’t think he posed any real danger to their captain, even armed. Once more, he thought back to their first meeting when she had used magic to shatter her wine goblet, merely by way of telling him that the Qirsi movement had no need for Kentigern’s arms. That was why they didn’t bother guarding her. Jastanne was a shaper. She could have broken the duke’s sword with a thought. Indeed, she could have done the same with his neck.
He left the ship as swiftly as he could, retreating from the quay and returning to the small cluster of trees where his mount was tied.
As he approached the horse he realized that there was something on his saddle, glittering in the moonlight that shone through the bare limbs of the trees. Slowing, he glanced around, but saw no one. He walked cautiously to the beast and looked more closely at what lay on the saddle. It was a dagger, the blade of which had been broken in two. Instinctively he reached for his own blade, but it was still there. This one must have belonged to the Qirsi.
There was a message here, he felt certain. This, it seemed, was a day of messages. But he couldn’t say what this one meant. He knew only that he wanted to be back in his castle, where, at least for this night, he would be safe.
Only when the duke was gone, his lumbering footsteps no longer echoing through her ship, did Jastanne allow herself to slump back in her chair, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Demons and fire!” she muttered, rubbing her brow with her thumb and forefinger.
There could be no doubt but that Kearney’s message was genuine. She had been telling Aindreas the truth when she said that even chancellors in the Weaver’s movement didn’t know all that was done in his name, but she had no doubt that the Weaver’s will had been behind Brienne’s death. Not that he had told her so, or that she had asked. She merely understood him, as she did the sea. She could read his thoughts as she could currents, his moods like she could the sky. And she knew that in his own way the Weaver was as powerful as Amon’s Ocean. She would no more defy him than she would steer her vessel into a storm. In the depths of his magic she glimpsed her own future, and a brilliant future it was. His wisdom and strength would sustain her and carry her to glory, and if he asked it of her, she would give all to him.
Right now, serving him meant learning all she could of this traitor disgracing herself in Kearney’s prison tower. What kind of a woman would betray her people this way? What means had they used to compel her confession? Certainly mere torture shouldn’t have been enough. True, it had been sufficient for Qerle, the cloth merchant Aindreas had used to find Jastanne. Qerle, however, was but a courier in the movement. He was no one.
But this woman, if the missive from the king was to be believed, had a hand in Lady Brienne’s death. She had to be someone of importance, perhaps another of the Weaver’s chancellors. In which case, she should have been willing to die for the movement. She should have been capable of withstanding all forms of torture and coercion.
Had Jastanne been there with her, she would have shattered her skull like a clay bowl. Traitors to the cause deserved no better.
She stood and began to undress. It was growing late and there was a chance the Weaver would come to her tonight, walking like a god in her dreams. Jastanne slept unclothed for him. She thought of it as an offering of sorts, a way of showing him that she was devoted to him and to his movement, a way of telling him that her mind and body were his.
And he had responded by making her a chancellor, and so much more.
For the Weaver had plans for her, important plans. Only half a turn before he had ordered Jastanne to the western waters. Again, there had been some truth in what she told the duke. She had dreamed that he would come. But her return to the Scabbard had been no coincidence.
“It is all coming together,” the Weaver had told her that night, caressing her body with his mind. “Soon, very soon, we will begin the final battle with the Eandi. And you will be there when I reveal myself. You will be there to share my victory.”
His caresses had grown more urgent then, more powerful, until she cried out in her sleep with pleasure and desire.
She was to be his queen. He hadn’t said so, not yet. But she knew from the way he touched her. She knew him as she did the sea. He would return to her soon, to tell her how she could serve him next, and to touch her again.
It was yet another measure of the Weaver’s power and of the strength of the movement he commanded that Jastanne could exact her revenge against the traitor without even leaving port. She climbed into bed, already anticipating the Weaver’s caresses. Tonight, perhaps. Or tomorrow. No later than that. He would appear before her, framed against the brilliant sun, and he would speak to her again of his plans, of the future he was shaping for them all. And she would tell him then of the message from Kearney, trusting him to strike at the woman for her, for all Qirsi. He would know who this traitor was. He would know how to reach her. And he would make her pay dearly for her treachery.
Chapter Seventeen
Galdasten, Eibithar
It was always the same dream. He was in Audun’s Castle in the City of Kings, standing at the front of the fortress’s magnificent great hall, with the Oaken Throne just behind him. All the dukes, thanes, earls, and barons of Eibithar sat before him, along with the queen of Sanbira, the king of Caerisse, the archduke of Wethyrn, and many nobles he didn’t recognize. All had come, he knew, for his investiture. Renald of Galdasten, the first king of Eibithar to come from the house of eagles in nearly a century. Above them all flew the pennons of all the houses of the realm, led by the bronze, black, and yellow of Galdasten, and beside him, seated in a smaller version of his own great throne, sat Elspeth, looking resplendent in a red velvet gown. His three boys stood beside her, all of them dressed as young soldiers, in the colors of their house with golden hilted swords on their belts.
A prelate he didn’t recognize stood with him, holding the jeweled golden circlet that was to go on Renald’s brow. But before the man could give him the crown, the ceremony was interrupted by a disturbance at the rear of the hall. Everyone stood, so that Renald, standing farthest from the noise, could not see. A woman screamed, then several more, and in a moment the hall was in turmoil. The would-be king strained to get a glimpse of what was causing such panic, but though the tumult seemed to be drawing nearer, he still could see nothing.
Beside him, Elspeth stood, calmly bowed to him, and walked away, leading their sons out of the hall through a small door that had escaped Renald’s notice until then. He called to her, even took a step as if to follow. But before he could, the horde before him finally parted revealing a horror beyond his imagining. A man was striding toward him, a Qirsi. The stranger’s face was flushed and bathed in sweat, and his limbs were covered with swollen red welts-bites from vermin. The front of his shirt was stained with vomit and blood and in each hand he held a mouse. Renald wanted desperately to flee, to follow his wife through the doorway, but his feet would not move. And as the man stopped before him, laughing so that his foul, hot breath blasted the duke’s face, he held out the rodents he carried, crushing their fur against Renald’s face.