She felt as though she'd been slapped. She had to bite her tongue to keep from railing at the man. She didn't deserve to be talked to in that way-she'd done nothing wrong, nothing to give offense. Since her arrival in the sept she'd done all she could to make herself invisible. She wanted only to survive until Grinsa returned, so that they might find a way to get away from this settlement and out of Fal'Borna lands. And yet it seemed that at every turn, someone was yelling at her or insulting her or accusing her of things she hadn't done and had no intention of doing. It was enough to make her want to scream.
But of course she couldn't, any more than she could yell back at him. She couldn't get up and leave, either. She was utterly powerless here. She'd never truly felt this way before. Even when she was still living in the Forelands, a prisoner in the castle of the king of Eibithar, victimized again and again by the renegade Weaver and his assassins, she hadn't been this helpless. She'd been able to fight back, to use her magics and her wits to protect herself. Here, even that comfort was denied her. She could only sit, enduring the sting of this man's ire, willing herself not to cry in front of him.
She put down the bowl, her hands trembling slightly, what was left of her appetite gone.
"May I have some water?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
He stared at her for a moment, then reached for a full skin and handed it to her. She took a drink and gave it back to him.
"Thank you."
L'Norr took it back, drank a bit himself, and placed it on the ground beside him. His jaw muscles were clenched and he refused to look her in the eye.
"A Fal'Borna Weaver has to marry another Weaver," he finally said, his voice so low that Cresenne had to lean closer just to hear him. "You know this. But there aren't any Weavers among the women of E'Menua's sept, except for D'Pera, of course. U'Vara, the a'laq's daughter, shows signs of being a Weaver. But she can only marry one man, and eventually the a'laq's sons will come of age, and they will be given wives before any of the rest of us."
He looked up. "That's why concubines are so important. T'Lisha is young, and she shouldn't have spoken to you as she did, but she's all I have. She may be all I ever have, unless I'm willing to leave here or marry a woman from another sept."
It was more explanation than she had expected, and no doubt he felt that it was more than she deserved. Yet, Cresenne could muster little sympathy for him. Her life had come to a point where she had no choice but to think first of herself and her child.
"Are you saying that you don't want me to come back?"
L'Norr smiled thinly. "If I could tell you such a thing, I would. I have no reason to wish you ill, and I'm sorry for you. But if I could send you away to make T'Lisha happy, I'd do it in an instant." He shook his head. "But E'Menua has made it clear to me that I'm to feed you until your man returns."
Her relief was immediate and profound, making it much easier for her to be generous.
"Then what can I do to make things better between you and T'Lisha?"
The question seemed to surprise him. "What can you do?"
"She's not going to like the fact that I'm here every evening. But perhaps there are ways in which I can convince her that she has nothing to fear from me."
L'Norr shook his head, looking terribly young, his eyes fixed on hers. "I don't know. I'll have to think about this."
"Would you like me to speak with her?"
"No!" L'Norr said quickly. "That would be a bad idea. She's made up her mind about you already. She considers you a rival, an enemy even. You'd be best off staying away from her."
The relief Cresenne had felt a moment before vanished, leaving her feeling cold. It was bad enough that everyone in the sept thought of her as Grinsa's concubine and as someone who was intent on luring every Weaver in the settlement to her bed. But to have an enemy, someone who actually wished her ill… This was precisely why she had wanted to go unnoticed. She knew what it meant when the Fal'Borna declared someone an enemy, and though she couldn't imagine that the enmity of one girl meant the same thing as that of the entire clan, she had no desire to find out what it did mean.
"You have to tell her that I'm not a rival!" she said. "I don't want her for an enemy, L'Norr. You have to tell her that!"
He looked taken aback. "I… I can try to tell her, but I'm not sure she'll listen. If I defend you, she'll only hate you more."
Of course he was right. She once had a jealous lover, and there had been no reasoning with him. Every reassurance she offered him he managed to twist into further proof of her infidelity.
"The last thing I need is for someone else in this sept to have a reason to hate me," she said, trying to sound reasonable. Bryntelle had started to fuss again, perhaps sensing Cresenne's distress, as she so often did. Cresenne kissed her brow and began to rock her gently. "And the last thing you need," she went on, "is for T'Lisha to think you're betraying her every time I come to your shelter for a meal. I understand that you don't want me speaking to her, but then you need to convince her that she has no reason to fear me."
"And I'm telling you I don't know how to do that," L'Norr said.
"Have her eat her meals with us. Let her be here whenever I am. That way she can see that there's nothing more to these meals than there appears."
He shook his head, looking uncertain. "I don't know if she'll agree. And even if she does, it may not satisfy her."
"Then think of something else," she said, her patience waning. "As you said, E'Menua expects you to feed me. So unless you want to lose her, you'll find a way to fix this."
The young Weaver didn't look happy, but after a moment he nodded. They sat without speaking for several moments.
"Thank you for the meal," she finally said. "Do you need help cleaning up?"
He shook his head. "No. You can leave."
Cresenne hesitated. She had hoped that her meals with L'Norr might lead to some sort of friendship. She certainly hadn't wanted this night's meal to end with such bitterness. But she didn't see any way to make matters better; it seemed more likely that the longer she stayed, and the more she said, the worse it would be.
She stood, still holding Bryntelle in her arms, and looked down at him. "Good night, then."
"Good night."
She turned and left the shelter. Glancing around as she emerged from the z'kal, she saw that a few people were looking her way, all of them young women. None of them said anything, and she did her best to ignore their stares as she walked back to her shelter. But she felt their eyes boring into her back, and she expected at any moment to hear them start calling her a whore, or worse. By the time she reached her z'kal she was shaking with anger, her cheeks burning, her eyes brimming with tears. She'd done nothing wrong. Nothing. So why did she feel so ashamed?
As much as she wanted to cry, she refused. Since arriving in E'Menua's sept, she had been treated with contempt by nearly everyone except F'Solya. She had been dismissed as being an unworthy mate for Grinsa, she had been ignored and insulted, and she had been forced to endure all of this in near total isolation. And she'd had enough.
She had no way of fighting back, of course. Most of the Fal'Borna had made up their minds about her long ago; Cresenne had little hope that she could convince any of them that she was anything more or less than they already thought her to be. But she wasn't helpless, and she didn't need anyone else to tell her what she already knew to be true: Grinsa loved her. No matter what they had been through-and the gods knew that they had been through a lot-he had chosen to spend his life with her, and she with him. The Fal'Borna could not take that away from them.