“Yes, Weaver,” she whispered.
“Perhaps you’ll be fortunate and he’ll be killed in battle without any help from you. But one way or another, I want him dead.”
“It shall be done.”
“I expect no less.”
She awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright, her chest heaving. Her hair and clothes and sleeping roll were soaked with sweat, and her head spun so violently that she feared she might throw up. Glancing to the side, she saw that her guard was awake, propped up on one arm, eyeing her in the dim light of the moons.
She briefly considered sending the man to Kearney’s tent with word that she needed to speak with the king immediately. But in the next moment she dismissed the idea. It would serve only to draw attention to her and it might convince others working for the Weaver that she remained loyal to the king. Certainly she needed to tell Kearney what the Weaver expected her to do, just as she needed to dispatch a message to Cresenne warning her of the Weaver’s intent to kill her himself. But she had some time. It would be days before Kearney would lead the men into battle, and Cresenne spent her nights awake, sleeping by day so that she might avoid dreams of the Weaver. Keziah could wait until morning with little risk to either of them.
The archminister lay back down, turning her back to the guard. A gust of wind swept over the Moorlands, scything through her damp clothes and making her shiver. She wasn’t fool enough to think that she could get back to sleep, but if she sat up again, or changed clothes, or took a walk, which is what she really longed to do, the guard would follow, watching her, dogging her every step. So Keziah lay there, trembling in the chill air, jerking occasionally as she recalled the Weaver’s assault, staring at the swaying grasses.
When at last the dawn broke, the eastern sky glowing gold, she rose and, heedless of the stares of the men around her, changed her clothes. Then she walked to the guard.
“Tell the king his archminister requests a word with him.”
She thought he might argue with her, but he seemed to hear something in her tone. He nodded once, then set off across the camp.
When he returned a short while later, one of Kearney’s captains was with him.
“I’m to escort you to the king, Archminister.”
Keziah nodded. It was a nice touch. It would seem to those watching that Kearney didn’t trust her enough to allow her to approach him unguarded. “Very well, Captain. Lead the way.”
When they reached Kearney’s tent, the captain had the archminister and her guard wait outside while he stepped within and spoke to the king. A moment later he pushed the tent flap aside and motioned for her to enter.
“Thank you, Captain,” Kearney said. “Find something to eat. We’ll be riding shortly. You, too,” he added, looking at the guard.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the captain said.
When both men were gone, Kearney stood, regarding her with obvious concern. “You don’t look well. What’s happened?’
“I had a visit from the Weaver last night.”
“Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” she said, ignoring the second question. “He was angry with me for not killing Cresenne, but he still needs me. Otherwise I’d probably be dead.”
“This is madness, Kez! It has to stop!”
“There’s no way to stop it except to see it through to the end.”
“But-”
“Please,” she said, fearing that she might cry at any moment. “Just let me finish. He told me that he intends to kill Cresenne himself. We have to get a message to her, quietly but quickly. She has to know what he plans to do.”
“All right. We’ll send someone today.”
“Thank you.” She took a breath, remembering once again the fire that had tortured her the night before. “There’s more. He gave me another task, another test of my loyalty to the movement. He wants me to kill you.”
Kearney actually smiled. “Is that why you’ve come?”
She laughed. How could she help it? There were tears in her eyes, but this man had always been able to make her laugh. “I’m to do it during the battle. I won’t, of course, but I thought you should know, because he may have others working for him who will make the attempt.”
“They won’t be alone, Kez. Half the men on that battlefield will be trying to kill me.”
“I know. But all the emperor’s men are nothing compared to this Weaver and his servants.” She swallowed. “I’m afraid for you,” she whispered.
Kearney took a step toward her, and, glancing at the tent flap to be certain no one was there, he took her hand. “And I am for you. I suppose somehow we’ll have to keep each other safe.”
For a moment that stretched to eternity they remained utterly still, their eyes locked. More than anything, Keziah wanted to kiss him; just this once, just so that she could taste his lips again and feel his arms around her. She sensed that he wanted this as well, and she knew that if they unleashed their passion for each other, even if only for one stolen kiss, they would never find the strength to quell it once more.
And so Keziah did the only thing she could, the only thing she dared. Pulling her hand free, she fled the tent.
Chapter Eighteen
Kentigern, Eibithar
For some time now, Aindreas had been preparing the castle and city for a siege, making certain that the quartermaster had all the gold he needed to provision the castle, ordering his swordmaster, Villyd Temsten, to drill the men relentlessly in defensive tactics, and having the prelate and his adherents transform the castle’s cloister into a spacious surgeon’s chamber. There had been little doubt in his mind that the attack would come, and soon. He hadn’t needed his allies in the Qirsi movement to tell him that much. But until this very morning, he hadn’t been certain whether the first assault would come from the Aneirans or from the army of Eibithar’s king.
Villyd’s scouts had been telling him for nearly a turn that the army of Mertesse, just across the river in northern Aneira, was more active than at any time since the siege a year before. And considering all that Aindreas knew of the conspiracy and the recent movements of Braedon’s fleet in the waters off northern Eibithar, he fully expected that the renegade Qirsi would do all they could to spark a war along the Tarbin. Why else would they have been pushing him to break with Kearney? United, Eibithar could hold off attacks from both the north and south. Such a war would exact a high price, to be sure, but Aindreas had little doubt that the invaders could be defeated. Divided, however, the realm had a far less certain future.
Aindreas felt certain that had it not been for the presence of Braedon’s fleet in the waters off Galdasten, Kearney would already have laid siege to Kentigern Castle. As matters stood, however, the Aneirans were the first to attack the tor. Just after dawn this morning, under cover of a sudden mist no doubt conjured for them by their sorcerers, the soldiers of Mertesse crossed the Tarbin into Eibithar and began building siege engines. Even now, sitting in his presence chamber, drinking his wine, Aindreas could hear the distant beat of axes and hammers on wood and the singing of the Aneiran army. He had stood on the ramparts for a time after Villyd first came to him with word of the mist and the crossing of the river, but the Aneirans remained beyond the reach of Kentigern’s archers. There was nothing for any of them to do but watch and wait. A year ago perhaps Aindreas would have stayed with his men. Now all he wished to do was drink his wine and listen in solitude to the sounds of the coming siege.
“Let the Aneirans cross,” the Qirsi woman had said. “We want this war.”
Yes, but was he to let them have the castle, too? Should he and his men simply lay down their arms, or did his Qirsi masters want him to defend the fortress? In the end Aindreas decided that he didn’t care what they expected of him. Kentigern would not fall without a fight. Mertesse could have the rest of the realm for all he cared, but the tor was his. The Tarbin gate, which had failed during the last siege after being weakened by Shurik jal Marcine, his traitorous first minister, had been rebuilt, and though it had not yet been tested in battle, he thought it strong enough to withstand Mertesse’s assault. These walls, built and defended by his forebears, would not fail him a second time.