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.
“Wha’ should we do with ’er?” the other guard asked, still holding the woman, one hand pinning her arm to her body, the other gripping her hair.
Cresenne looked at him and then at the woman. After a moment she started walking to where her attacker stood. She nearly fell, but then managed to steady herself against the wall and make it the rest of the way.
“Who are you?” Cresenne asked, stopping just in front of her.
The woman just stared at her for several moments, looking like a waif beside the guard.
At last she dropped her gaze. “I was once first minister of Mertesse.”
“Mertesse?” the guard repeated, glowering at her, hatred in his eyes. An Aneiran as well as a Qirsi traitor. It was a wonder the man didn’t kill her where she stood.
“What’s your name?”
“Yaella. Yaella ja Banvel.”
The other guard returned, and with him came Nurle jal Danteffe, the healer who had saved Cresenne’s life after she was poisoned by yet another servant of the Weaver.
“Are you all right?” Nurle asked, frowning with concern.
“I’m well enough,” she said. “Help Trin.”
He nodded once and went to the gleaner.
“She deserves t’ die,” said the soldier who held Cresenne’s attacker. “With wha’ she’s done t’ ye and th’ child. Say th’ word an’ we’ll take care o’ her. No one need be th’ wiser.”
“Let them do it, Cresenne,” Trin called to her. “He’s right: she’s earned this death.”
Nurle cast a look her way, but said nothing.
Cresenne shook her head. “There were those who would have done the same with me when I first came here,” she said. “And it may be that the queen will put her to death before long. But I don’t want any more blood on my hands.”
The woman laughed. “You think yourself noble, compassionate. Let them kill me. That would be an act of mercy.”
“Certainly it would be an easy end for you.”
“Easy? You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m old. Nothing is easy anymore. A year or two ago, this brute holding me would be afire already, this corridor filled with a concealing mist as I made my escape. But I’ve nothing left. No magic, no strength. Nothing.”
“You had a dagger, and that was nearly enough,” Cresenne said, and started to turn away.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I tried to kill you?”
“I don’t have to ask. You’re here because the Weaver wanted me dead.”
“So did I. Your Grinsa jal Arriet was responsible for the death of the man I loved. I came here to avenge him.”
“What man? What was his name?”
“Shurik jal Marcine.”
Cresenne nodded. “I know that name. Kentigern’s first minister.”
“Another traitor,” the guard muttered.
The woman scowled at him. “Betrayal wears many faces, Eandi. He devoted himself to a great cause, just as I have.” She faced Cresenne again. “He’s the reason I came. I failed him today even more than I did the Weaver.”
Cresenne regarded her a moment, then laughed, short and sharp. “You’re a fool. You belong to the Weaver’s movement; nothing else matters. He wanted you to kill me and so you made the attempt. You’re deceiving yourself if you believe anything different. He controls those who serve him as a master controls a slave. It’s been half a year since I renounced him and still he governs my life, forcing me to live like some wretched creature of the night.” She gestured at the bloodstains on her clothes and the scars on her face. “Look at me. I’ve never truly met him, and yet he’s left scars all over my body.” She shook her head. “No, your thirst for vengeance had nothing to do with what happened today. All of this was the Weaver’s doing.”
The woman glared at her, her color high. “He hates you, you know. He’ll never stop trying to kill you. You might have survived today, but you’ll be dead soon enough.”
“That remains to be seen,” Cresenne said. “I’ve made it this far. And he hasn’t won yet.”
With that, she turned her back on the woman, listening as the guards led her away. There were tears on her face again, but she brushed them off with her sleeve and smiled down at Bryntelle, who had finally stopped crying.
“You need healing,” Nurle said.
Cresenne nodded. “Yes. And then we need to sleep. Already the day’s nearly half gone.”
