Chapter Thirty-four

Curtell, Braedon, Eilidh’s Moon waxing

It promised to be a long, difficult night. He needed to speak with several of the Qirsi who served him, and with one whom he hoped would pledge herself to him before dawn. Fortunately, Dusaan had slept well the previous night. He might have been a Weaver, but he could not escape the limitations placed upon Qirsi magic by the moon legends. Qirsar’s Pitch Night affected him as it did all his people, and so, unable to reach for the dreams of others, he allowed himself a night of rest. He felt better for having done so.

The emperor had long since dismissed Dusaan for the night, taking to his bedchambers with one of his wives. Aside from the palace guards, the Weaver assumed that no others were awake. Still he waited, poring over the treasury accounting until he was certain that those he wished to contact were sleeping. Finally, as the midnight bells tolled in Curtell City, he put aside the treasury volume, added some wood to the fire in his hearth, and sat beside the blaze.

Closing his eyes, he sent his mind eastward, first seeking out one of his chancellors, a merchant who had last been in Kentigern. This promised to be the quickest of his discussions and so the easiest.

Usually he made his servants walk to him, requiring them to climb the rise on Ayvencalde Moor before they could speak with him. On this night, however, he hadn’t time for such games. Dusaan allowed himself a smile. Well, perhaps there was time enough to make just the next one climb. But not the others, not tonight.

He found Jastanne’s ship at the top of the Scabbard, just a few days’ journey north of Kentigern. Touching the woman’s mind, he summoned the vision of the plain, with its great white sun. He saw her appear before him, naked, as she always was when she slept, and seeing her there, he stepped forward so that she would see him, black as night and framed against the brilliance of his white sun. If she felt abashed speaking to him unclothed, she had never shown any sign of it. Nor did she have reason to, he had to admit. The woman was lovely.

“Yes, Weaver,” she said, her voice strong. “How may I serve?”

“Did you hear anything more from Kentigern before you set sail?”

“No, Weaver. But neither did I expect to.”

“You believe he intends to honor our agreement?”

“I believe, Weaver, that before speaking with me, the duke of Kentigern failed to grasp the power and scope of your movement. He thought to use it as a weapon against his king, whom he hates as we do the Eandi. I made him understand that we are no mere sword in his armory, that in fact we’re more formidable than any Eandi court. He’ll need some time to accept this, to alter his ambitions to match the reality of what we are. But his needs haven’t changed, his hatred for Kearney is no less than it was. He’ll serve you, Weaver. I’m certain of it.”

“Very good,” Dusaan said.

“Is there anything else, Weaver?”

He merely gazed at her, her fine white hair and golden eyes; her skin, as white and flawless as the stars. Without raising a hand, he caressed her cheek and the side of her neck. He had longed to make Cresenne his queen-if not for her lingering affections for the gleaner, whose child she carried, he might have already. But this woman who stood naked on the moor-eyes closed now, a small smile on her full lips-was, in her own way, even more perfect for him than the other. One needed only listen as she spoke of taming Lord Kentigern to know that.

He allowed his touch to travel down her shoulder and then to circle her breasts. Her lips parted and her nipples grew hard, but she did not flinch away as some women might. Yes, she would make a fine queen.

“You serve me well,” he said, his voice rough.

He made himself stop touching her. It was to be a long night.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, her smile deepening. “Yes, Weaver.”

“We’ll speak again soon.”

An instant later he withdrew from her dream, opening his eyes to the orange glow of the fire in his chambers. He sat for several moments, savoring the memory of her smooth, cool skin, before shutting his eyes once more and reaching toward Mertesse, where he expected to find Shurik jal

Marcine. This conversation would be a brief one as well, not only because he had but a few questions for the man, but also because he didn’t care to be in Shurik’s company any longer than was necessary. When he couldn’t find Shurik in Castle Mertesse, he sent his mind southward to Solkara and then Dantrielle. Failing to find the man in either of those cities, Dusaan began to feel a familiar quickening of his pulse.

Less than a turn before, he had tried to reach for Enid ja Kovar in Thorald Castle, only to find that he couldn’t perceive her consciousness there or anywhere else in Eibithar. A few days later, he received word of what he already suspected. The woman had died, her betrayal revealed to her duke. She kept faith with the movement to the end, taking her own life rather than submitting to her duke’s torture, but her death disturbed the Weaver nevertheless. True, she had outlived her usefulness to him, but after having killed Paegar and lost the first minister of Bistari in the Solkara poisoning, Dusaan could scarcely afford to replace another minister.

Now it seemed something had happened to Shurik as well. It almost seemed that the gods were against him, though he refused to believe that. At least this time, he might not have to wait for word of Shurik’s fate. Turning his mind back to Mertesse, he sought out the man’s lover, Yaella ja Banvel.

As soon as he saw the woman, he knew. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face discolored. Judging from how she looked, Dusaan deemed himself lucky to have found her sleeping at all.

Finding herself in the dream, the woman turned to face him, but she kept her eyes trained on the ground in front of her.

“Tell me what happened,” he said, as gently as he could. He hadn’t liked Shurik, but he valued this woman, and if the traitor was indeed dead, he needed her more than ever.

She swallowed, her gaze still lowered. “I found him dead in his chamber this morning. There was another man there, dead as well. The guards say he was a musician, but I suspect he earned most of his gold as an assassin.”

Dusaan felt his stomach knotting. On several occasions, the movement had employed an assassin who posed as a singer. Could this have been the same man?

“What did this second man look like?”

As soon as Yaella began her description, the Weaver knew it couldn’t be the same man. Still, the very notion that someone would send an assassin for Shurik alarmed him. Under different circumstances he might have blamed his murder on the duke of Kentigern, whom Shurik betrayed. But in light of the duke’s recent overtures to Dusaan’s movement, this didn’t seem likely.

“You’re certain it was an assassin? Could there be any other explanation?”

She faltered. “We did find a flask of wine in the room.”

“Shunk’s?”

“No It belonged to the other man.”

Dusaan suppressed a smile, his relief palpable. “So, he might have been drunk.”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

He had no desire to be cruel to the woman, but neither could he have her imagining threats where they didn’t exist. “You’ll forgive me for saying so,” he began, softening his tone once more, “but if Shunk managed to kill this man on Pitch Night, it seems far more likely that he was a drunkard than a hired blade.”

She looked up at that, anger in her deep yellow eyes. But then she clamped her mouth shut, as if afraid to speak her mind

“It’s all right,” he said “Say what you will.”

“I disagree with you, Weaver. I think it very likely that this was an assassin ”

“What makes you so certain?”

“Shunk went in search of Gnnsa, as you commanded He found him in Solkara and only barely managed to escape him. After their encounter, Shunk became convinced that the man is a Weaver and he feared for his life, not only because Gnnsa would want to keep secret the extent of his powers, but also because he knew he had failed you by running from him.”