“They want me to join them. They don’t care about the child.”
“You’re lying.”
“Not about my willingness to kill her. If you let me go, I promise she’ll be safe. You’re right: I was sent to kill the mother and bring back the child. The Weaver will see that she’s cared for.”
The man stared at her. “A Weaver?”
She hadn’t time for this. It was only a matter of time before they were discovered by soldiers of the king.
“Yes, a Weaver. And he doesn’t deal kindly with those who meddle in his affairs. Now out of my way.”
“A Weaver,” he said again, as if he hadn’t heard. “Of course.”
Yaella could delay no more. She pressed herself against the stone wall and began to edge past the man, still holding the dagger at the babe’s neck.
“Let me pass,” she said.
“Never.” He moved to block her way, just as she knew he would.
With a sudden thrust, she drove the blade into his flesh. She missed his heart, catching him closer to the shoulder, but still the man grunted in pain and slumped against the wall, the dagger jutting from his round body. Yaella hurried to get away from him.
As she reached the corner, however, flames abruptly flared before her, bright and angry, their heat making her flinch.
“Another step and you die!” came a voice from behind her.
Yaella turned at the sound, clutching the child so close to her breast that it began to cry anew. Her dagger was in the fat man. Fire was at her back. And staring at the apparition that faced her now, she felt Bian the Deceiver hovering at her shoulder, waiting to take her to the Underrealm.
* * *
No.
There was comfort to be found in death. Peace at a time when all the land was descending into war. Shelter from all that the Weaver had done to her. Release from a life that had strayed so far from what she had foreseen as a girl.
But no.
It was Bryntelle who reached her. The sound of her crying. Or, more precisely, the retreat of that sound. At first Cresenne thought that she was just fading, the last of her life’s blood draining from the gaping hole in her chest, cold closing in on her, like the snows advancing on Wethyrn’s Crown after a long harvest. But Bryntelle’s cries only retreated for a moment. Then they were joined by voices, a man and a woman. The woman. The one who had done this to her, whose blade had killed her.
But no. Not yet.
The woman was taking her child, or attempting to.
She forced her eyes open, stared up at the stone ceiling. She tried to raise her head so that she might look at the wound, but she hadn’t the strength even for this.
Wouldn’t it just have been easier to surrender, to embrace peace and shelter and release?
She lifted her hand, heavy as a smith’s anvil, and laid it on the wound. Warm blood still flowed, but so weakly. A trickle compared with what it should have been. She probed the wound with cold, leaden fingers. Straight as the blade that pierced her flesh, long enough to kill, but easy enough to heal. She reached for her healing magic. Also a trickle, spent like her blood, but not done quite yet. The effort brought tears to her eyes, made her stomach heave. But after a moment the power welled up within her. And the wound began to close. Magic seeped into her, warm against the deadly cold, and the thaw brought with it pain that death’s chill had masked. She gritted her teeth, squeezed her eyes closed once more.
But she did not relent. Bryntelle’s cries still echoed in the corridor, as did the voices.
Soon the wound had closed. She could feel her heart beating within her bruised, aching chest. With more time and more magic, she might have eased the pain somewhat, but she didn’t dare.
Instead, she fought to turn over, gasping with every least movement. She pushed herself onto her hands and knees, then clawed her way up the wall beside her until she was standing, her legs nearly buckling, her sight swimming. She saw two figures a short distance away. The woman and Trin.
An instant later something glinted in the dim light and Trin fell back against the stone.
The woman began to stride away. Bryntelle was in her arms.
Cresenne didn’t even think, but merely cast the flame, reaching for the wall once more to keep from collapsing to the stone.
“Another step and you die!”
The woman turned slowly to face her, her cheeks ashen, Bryntelle held before her as if a warrior’s shield. “You should be dead,” she murmured.
“Give me my baby.”
The woman glanced about, as if looking for some path to freedom. “I’ll kill her if I have to.”
Cresenne was wearier than she had ever been, but she kept the flames burning at the corridor’s end, determined not to let the woman escape.
“The Weaver doesn’t want her dead. We both know that.”
“You’re a traitor. How would you know what he wants?”
“You didn’t kill her when you had the chance. You took her instead, just as he instructed. He’s wanted this child for himself since before she was born.”
“Is that why you turned on him?”
She wasn’t certain how much longer she could maintain the conjured fire, or even remain on her feet. “Give her to me.”
Cresenne saw the woman waver, her eyes flicking toward the dagger in Trin’s chest, as if she were gauging the distance she would have to cover to retrieve it.
“Please,” Cresenne said, her voice breaking, tears stinging her eyes. “I just want my baby back. Put her down and I’ll let you go.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll kill me.”
“I hope she does,” Trin muttered, glaring up at the woman and pulling the blade free. “You deserve no less.” He flung the dagger toward Cresenne so that it clattered across the stone floor, stopping at her feet. “There you go, cousin. End this.”
Cresenne stooped to pick it up, then decided against it, straightening again. “No. Put down my child, and you’re free to go.”
Before the woman could respond, Cresenne heard shouts coming from beyond the flames. It had to be Kearney’s guards. She let the fires die away, hoping that she was right about the soldiers, knowing that she would never find the strength to raise the flames again if she were wrong.
Two soldiers stepped into the corridor, swords drawn. Cresenne knew one of them; he had guarded her chamber during her time in the prison tower.
“What’s all this?” he demanded, eyeing the three Qirsi with manifest distrust.
“This woman tried to kill me,” Cresenne said, leaning against the wall. “She attacked my friend as well, and she’s trying to take my child.”
The woman raised Bryntelle over her head, as if intending to dash the child against the floor.
“Not another step,” she said, facing the guards.
Cresenne cried out, taking an unsteady step forward. But she needn’t have worried.
No sooner had the woman lifted Bryntelle than she lowered her again, tears on her face. “What am I doing?” she whispered. She held out the child to the guards, shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”
One of the guards took Bryntelle and the other grabbed the woman, turning her so that she had to face Cresenne.
Cresenne staggered forward until she reached the man who held her child. Taking Bryntelle from him, she began to sob, fussing over the babe, kissing the bruise on her head.
“Are ye all right, m’lady?” the guard asked. Maybe it was the sight of her, bloodied and unsteady on her feet, or the piteous cries coming from Bryntelle. Perhaps the soldier finally realized that there were Qirsi in the Forelands who were worse by far than she. Whatever the reason, this was as much courtesy as any Eandi warrior had ever shown her.
“I need a healer,” she said. Then she nodded toward Trin. “So does my friend there. And my child.”
The man nodded and left them at a run.