At the time, Cresenne had wanted desperately to believe him, and in the turns since she had come to accept that he was right. Yet every morning, as the castle began to bustle with activity, and she and her child lay down to rest, she wondered if this would be the day when she closed her eyes for the last time.
She had come to enjoy the solitude of her nights. With the king leading his army to war in the north, and Eibithar’s other nobles long since gone, Cresenne and Bryntelle were no longer confined to the chamber in the castle’s prison tower. Though they could not leave Audun’s Castle, they were free to wander its corridors and courtyards. There were guards on duty at all hours, of course, and they eyed her with manifest distrust. But she saw few people aside from them. Occasionally she sat in one of the wards, staring up at the moons or Morna’s stars. Mostly, though, she just walked, singing to Bryntelle, or speaking to her of Grinsa, of her own mother and father, of the world that awaited the girl.
Once, when Cresenne still belonged to the Weaver’s movement, she had cursed this world, where the Eandi ruled in all the noble courts, and the success of a Qirsi was measured by how far she advanced in the ministerial ranks or which of the traveling festivals she managed to join. Holding Bryntelle in her arms, however, she found that the world no longer seemed quite so bleak. There was beauty to be found here, and joy, and, yes, love. It wasn’t just that she no longer shared the Weaver’s desire to change the Forelands. Rather, she feared what might be lost if he and his movement prevailed.
Had she found virtue in the Eandi courts? No, far from it. She had merely come to understand that there was more to the world than nobles and ministers, Qirsi and Eandi.
For her part, Bryntelle seemed perfectly content to listen to her mother’s prattle and poor singing. She could stare up at the moons for hours without growing bored or distracted. And on more than one occasion Cresenne had noticed that the child grew especially animated when she heard tales of Grinsa, cooing loudly and giving a wide toothless grin.
On this particular night, they had been forced by rain and a chill wind to remain within the corridors. Cresenne kept to the south end of the castle, away from the queen’s tower. Leilia, the queen, apparently had little use for Qirsi and had instructed the guards to keep “the traitor” as far from her as possible. Cresenne was more than happy to comply, having no more wish to encounter the queen than the woman had to cross paths with her.
The midnight bells tolled in the city as she and Bryntelle turned yet another corner onto a torchlit corridor. She had only taken a few steps when she caught sight of the man at the far end of the passageway, lurking near one of the chamber doors. She halted, then took a step back.
He was Qirsi. Cresenne could tell that much. He was tall and so lean that he looked frail. But something about him frightened her. Perhaps it was merely his presence here in the hallway. She saw so few people during the night that any encounter struck her as odd. But more than that, he was one of her people, and she didn’t recognize him. A voice in her mind screamed at her to flee. The Weaver had servants throughout the Forelands, including men and women right here in the City of Kings, perhaps even in Audun’s Castle. If he couldn’t reach her by entering her dreams, he could send any one of them to kill her.
She was in a dark portion of the hallway and she took another step back, hoping that he hadn’t seen her, wondering if she could slip back into the corridor she had just left and return to the safety of her chamber. Before Cresenne could take another step, however, Bryntelle let out a small cry. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to draw the attention of the strange man.
He looked up sharply, then strode toward her. Pausing at a torch, he lifted it out of its brace and continued down the corridor, holding the flame high to light his way. Halfway to where she stood, he cast a quick look over his shoulder. Cresenne wondered if he had an accomplice. She thought about running, but with Bryntelle in her arms, she wouldn’t have gotten far, and she wasn’t certain it was wise to turn her back on the man. Instead she stood her ground. She possessed fire power, and she reached for it now, readying herself for battle, should it come to that.
As the man drew nearer she saw that despite his slight build, he was young, with ghostly pale eyes, a severe, angular face, and close-cropped white hair.
“Stop where you are,” she said, when he was still a few strides away from her.
He slowed, looking confused. “What?” He switched the torch to his other hand and reached for something on his belt.
“Stop there!” She held out a hand in warning, clutching Bryntelle to her side with her other arm until the child cried out a second time.
The man halted, raising both hands, as if to show her that he carried no weapon. He still clutched in his hand the object he had taken from his belt, but Cresenne couldn’t tell what it was. “All right, I’ve stopped.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Nurle jal Danteffe. I’m a healer here in the castle.”
“What’s that in your hand?”
He looked at the object, then held it out to her on an open palm. It was a vial of some sort.
“What is that? Poison?”
“Poison? No. It’s a tonic, for the man I was just treating. I thought you were his wife. I sent her away with their child, but I thought perhaps she had returned.” He frowned. “Poison?” he said again. “I told you, I’m a healer.”
She scrutinized his face. “I don’t recognize you.”
“Well, I haven’t been here very long. I came with the king from Glyndwr.”
Glyndwr? Cresenne felt herself begin to relax. He didn’t even know who she was, or else he would have realized that she had come to Audun’s Castle well after he did. “I suppose that must be why.”
Nurle glanced back over his shoulder. “Do you live on this corridor?”
“No, I-” She shook her head. “Our chamber is near the stock house. We were just walking.”
“Well, you might want to consider a different corridor. There’s a man in the chamber at the far end-one of the older courtiers. He has a fever, and a rash. I fear it may be Caerissan pox.” He nodded toward Bryntelle. “It wouldn’t be good if the little one got it.”
A different kind of fear gripped Cresenne’s heart and she looked past the healer, as if expecting the sick man to step out of his chamber and join their conversation. “Yes, of course.”
“What’s his name?” Nurle asked.
“What? Oh, actually, she’s a girl. Her name is Bryntelle.”
The man smiled. “My apologies, Bryntelle.” He shifted his gaze to Cresenne, the smile lingering. “And yours?”
She looked down at her child, not wanting to answer, but not knowing how to extricate herself from the conversation. In the end she decided that it was best just to tell him and be done with it. “My name is Cresenne.”
“Cres-” He faltered, recognition flashing in his eyes. “You’re her, aren’t you? I should have known. I’ve heard of the attack on you, and of your wanderings at night.” Abruptly his eyes widened. “That’s why you thought it was poison! You thought I was. . I’m sorry I frightened you.”
“It’s all right.”
He took a step forward, then halted again. “May I?”
Cresenne hesitated, then nodded.
The healer came closer, and examined her face. “You’ve healed well,” he said. “The scars are hardly noticeable.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “We should probably go.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t. I just know. .” She shook her head. “Most people prefer to avoid us.”
He frowned again. “Why?”
She looked at him as if he were simple. “Because of all that I’ve done. I’m a traitor.”
“You were a traitor. It seems to me that you’re not anymore.”
“You’re more generous than most.”
He shrugged again, suddenly looking bashful. “Maybe. But I think you’re very brave.”