He closed the shutters again, lay down on his bed, and, closing his eyes, fell almost instantly into a deep, dreamless slumber.

The chancellor awakened to the sound of bells ringing in the city. The gate close, no doubt. He hadn’t been asleep very long, but he felt refreshed and ready to speak with those who served him. He had taught himself long ago to sleep when he could and to arise when he needed. It didn’t matter what thoughts filled his head; over the years he had disciplined his mind to shunt them aside, and to ward off dreams that might keep him from getting the rest he needed. He had mastered sleep, his own as well as that of others. As a Weaver who walked in the dreams of other Qirsi, he could hardly have done less.

He was most eager to speak with Pronjed jal Drenthe in Solkara, but it was early yet to find him sleeping, and it had been some time since he last visited with the woman in Kett.

Dusaan closed his eyes, drawing upon the vast ocean that was his power and reaching eastward with his mind. For a time he felt as a hawk must when it soars on a warm wind, unassailable and without equal, secure in the knowledge that even then, his consciousness gliding high above the Forelands, he had barely tested the extent of his magic. Soon he sensed the Caerissan Steppe looming before him and he reached downward toward Braedor’s Plain and the city of Kett.

He found her quickly, and, touching her mind with his own, called forth the image of the moor that he used whenever he entered the dreams of a Qirsi. It was Ayvencalde Moor that he used, a desolate expanse of rocks and grasses that lay but a few leagues from the emperor’s palace. But knowing as he did that those with whom he spoke always hoped to recognize the plain, and thus learn who he was, he darkened the landscape, making it impossible for them to see beyond the reach of his light. He had no intention of allowing his servants to divine his secret.

He liked to make them work to find him, situating himself atop a rise and making the climb arduous for those who had angered him. Later that night, Pronjed would face a daunting and wearying ascent. But for the woman, he made an exception. She was with child and had served him well as one of his chancellors. If Dusaan had his way-and he usually did-she would be his queen when he finally ruled the Forelands. When she opened her eyes to this dream, finding herself on the moor, Dusaan was already there standing before her, lit from behind by the great white sun he had conjured for these visions.

She looked even more beautiful than she had the last time they spoke. Her belly had grown larger, her breasts fuller with milk for her child. She stood before him in a simple shift, her fine white hair falling over her brow and down around her shoulders, her pale eyes bleary with sleep. Yet, for all Dusaan could tell, she might have been wearing glittering jewels and a banquet gown.

“You’re well?” he asked at last, unable to say more.

She stared at the ground. “I am, Weaver. Thank you.”

She feared him, of course. They all did. And though he hoped that someday she would love him, for now her fear suited his purposes quite well.

“You’ve been eating?”

A small smile sprung to her lips. “Yes, Weaver.”

“You think me foolish for asking.”

Her eyes snapped up, a frightened look on her face. “No, Weaver. You’re very kind to show such interest in my baby and me.”

“I may be a bit foolish,” he admitted. “But as I’ve told you before, I foresee a glorious future for this child. And for you, as well.”

The woman nodded. “Yes, Weaver. Thank you.”

“I trust you’ve heard no news of the child’s father?”

“No, none. All the talk here is of the king and who will take his place on the throne.”

“I’m sure it is,” he said, his voice tightening.

“The men who run the Festival are talking of going to Solkara, not for the funeral of course, but when the new king is invested. Do you wish that I remain here, or may I accompany them?”

“If you feel that you can make the journey, you’re free to go. Assuming the man we seek is still in Aneira, he may be there also.”

“I’d thought of that, as well,” she said.

Dusaan narrowed his eyes, staring at her now. There was something in her voice and manner…

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Yes, Weaver. Everything is fine.”

“And you’re certain you’ve heard nothing?”

“Quite certain.”

“You told me some time ago that you spoke to an assassin of this man, that the white-hair had killed this assassin’s partner.”

“Yes, Weaver. I remember.”

“Is it possible that this assassin has already found him and killed him?”

And there it was, in her eyes, in the terror he sensed abruptly flooding her mind, like the surge of a storm tide. She still loved this man. She had seduced him for the movement, acting on Dusaan’s instructions, and she had sent assassins for him twice now. Yet she still loved him. It shouldn’t have surprised him so. Seduction was a difficult matter, and she was terribly young. Add the fact that she was carrying his child, and it would have been stranger if she had never loved him. But she served the Weaver and his movement. She was to be Dusaan’s queen. That she should still carry such passion for this gleaner, that she could conceal this from Dusaan, made suspect all that she had done on the Weaver’s behalf, and all that she had told him the past several turns. He could hardly contain the rage and jealousy that flared in his chest like Qirsi fire. He wanted to hurt her. Had it not been for the child, he might have. Then again, had it not been for the child, he might not have cared. Most of all, he wanted to kill this man, this Gnnsa jal Arriet. Not through assassins and the dispensing of gold, but with his own blade, guided by his own hand. He wanted to feel the man’s blood on his fingers. He wanted to watch as the spark died in his yellow eyes, leaving them empty and sightless.

“It is possible, Weaver,” the woman said, though it seemed to Dusaan that her words came from a great distance. He could barely remember what he had asked her.

He just stared at her. She couldn’t see his face for the light. She wouldn’t know how his wrath twisted his features, how his eyes burned with his thirst for blood. Only his voice could give him away, and that he could control.

“Perhaps, it would be best if you didn’t go to Solkara,” he said, sounding bored, as if already tiring of their conversation.

“Weaver?”

He sensed her eagerness to go. This would be her punishment, though she might never recognize it as such. “The last time we spoke you seemed reluctant to travel to the steppe. It may be that you’re best off remaining where you are.” The child might still amount to something, even if he could never trust the woman again. Certainly he couldn’t allow her to find the gleaner. “Yes,” he went on, as if convincing himself. “Stay in Kett. I’ll have others look for him in Solkara.”

“But-”

Dusan reached out with his mind, placing an invisible hand over her mouth. He took care not to hurt her, but he saw from the widening of her pale eyes that he had frightened her. Never forget what I can do to you if I choose.

“My mind is set. You will remain in Kett. Do you understand?”

He removed the unseen hand.

“Yes, Weaver,” she whispered.

“Very good.”

His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, hungry for her despite the fire searing his heart. Then he released her mind, his consciousness hurtling back over Aneira and the Scabbard so swiftly that Dusaan felt as though he were falling. When he opened his eyes, he started violently, as one does awakening suddenly from a disturbing dream.

“Damn her!” he whispered to the darkness, gritting his teeth against a wave of nausea. “And the man as well.”

He walked to the hearth and sat in the nearest chair, fighting desperately to ease his pulse and purge his mind of the visions abruptly clamoring for his attention. Images of Cresenne, her legs entwined with those of another man, and of his own fingers closing around her throat.