Grinsa made himself smile. “I’ll eat soon. First I want to speak with Cresenne.”
“Of course.”
The soldier helped Keziah to her feet and led her away, leaving Grinsa alone on the cool grass. He could have slept for hours, and he wasn’t certain how long he could keep himself in Cresenne’s dreams. But it was growing late; she would be waking soon to another lonely night, and he didn’t want to wait even one more day to tell her that Dusaan was dead.
Closing his eyes, he sent his mind southward to Audun’s Castle. He found her quickly and entered her mind. Immediately he felt the dull pain in her chest. Had she been attacked yet again?
“Cresenne!” he said as soon as he saw her.
She gazed toward him, then took a tentative step forward. It occurred to him that in her dream he would be sitting, just as he was in the waking world.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s me.”
“Grinsa?”
“Yes. I was hurt, but I’m fine now.”
She ran to him, dropped to her knees beside him. Despite the scars that he still saw on her face, he thought that she had never looked more beautiful. She kissed him lightly on the lips, then sat back meeting his gaze, fear and hope mingled in her eyes.
He reached out a hand and cupped her cheek. “He’s dead. It’s over.”
For a moment she merely stared back at him. Then tears flooded her eyes and she began to sob. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. He can’t hurt you anymore.” He found that he was crying as well, though he was also smiling.
“A woman attacked me today. I nearly died again, and she nearly took Bryntelle. I went to sleep thinking that this would never end, that I’d be fighting off his servants and living in fear of his dreams until he finally managed to kill me.”
“I don’t know how many more of his servants are out there,” Grinsa told her. “But Dusaan will never walk in your dreams again.”
She put her arms around him, still weeping, and for a long time they held each other.
“How bad was it?” she finally asked. She pulled back quickly. “Is Keziah all right?”
“She’s fine.”
“And Tavis?”
“He’s … it’s complicated. He survived the fighting, but his father was killed and his closest friend.”
“I’m sorry for him. Truly.”
“You said that Bryntelle was nearly taken from you. Is she-”
“She’s right here beside me. Trin saved her. He saved us both.”
Grinsa gaped at her. “Trin?”
She nodded.
“Trin,” he said again. After a moment he laughed. “What a day.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Not now,” he said, shaking his head. “I need to rest. But soon. I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”
“All right.” She kissed him again, deeply this time. Then she smiled, the dazzling smile he remembered from so long ago. He hadn’t seen her smile like that in more turns than he could count. “I love you.”
Grinsa brushed a strand of hair from her face. “And I love you.”
He opened his eyes to the late-day sun, blinking against the brightness. He sat there a moment, then forced himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. His legs felt well enough, though-the healers had worked their craft well-and he turned gingerly to face the battle plain.
Dusaan’s body still lay amid the grasses. Other bodies, Eandi and Qirsi alike, had been moved. But no one had bothered with the Weaver. Or maybe none had dared go near him.
Grinsa reached out with his magic and tried to touch the Weaver’s mind, much as a soldier might prod a fallen enemy with the toe of his boot. Nothing. Dusaan was dead; his war was done. Over the next several turns, perhaps stretching to years, all the realms of the Forelands would continue to pay a price for what the man and his movement had done. Even now, Grinsa could hear Gershon Trasker in the distance, barking commands to the archers who would soon execute Jastanne and Pronjed. In the days to come, parents would weep for children lost in battle, sons and daughters would learn their first painful lessons about war and death, lovers would grieve at the realization of their worst fears.
But too, the land would begin to heal itself. At least Grinsa could hope as much. Throughout the Forelands, suspicions ran deep and in all directions, like fissures in dried earth. It would take time, he knew, for trust to take root again. Already though, he saw signs that the process was under way. Kearney had lied to preserve Kentigern’s honor. Soldiers in the king’s army were treating both Keziah and Tavis with the courtesy and respect that were their due.
These were trifles, to be sure. But they were a start. And on this day, when so much blood had been spilled and the Weaver had come so very close to defeating them all, Grinsa could hardly ask for more.
Chapter Twenty-seven
They remained on the Moorlands for several days, collecting the dead, building pyres from the scant brush found among the grasses, and sending dark black clouds of smoke into the clear planting sky. At the insistence of Kearney and Sanbira’s queen, even the renegades were given the honor of a single vast pyre that for hours poured foul smoke into the air. Only the Weaver’s body was left to rot under the sun, its putrid remains picked at for days by crows and vultures.
Tavis’s father and Xaver MarCullet were given over to flame and vapor the first night after the battle, as stars burned brightly over the moor and slivers of moonlight shone weakly in the east. Tavis stood with Hagan MarCullet, his hand resting on the swordmaster’s stooped shoulder, his vision blurred with tears. He hadn’t cried so much in a single day since he was a child, and his throat and chest ached. Later that night, Aindreas of Kentigern was laid out on his own pyre, and Tavis watched that one burn as well, his emotions as roiled as a river in flood.
The following morning, the last of Adriel’s turn, he penned a message to his mother, informing her that he would be returning to Curgh early in the new turn, accompanied by the king and a number of nobles. He had planned to tell her of the duke’s death upon reaching the castle, but she needed to know that Kearney was coming, and she would not have wanted to have the king there when she learned that her husband was dead. As it was, he needed only write of their plans to tell her all she needed to know. Had Javan been alive, he, and not Tavis, would have sent such a message.
At first, Tavis had been reluctant to have the king accompany him back to Curgh. He liked Kearney a great deal, but even without accepting the king’s offer of asylum and a home in Glyndwr, he had lived under the protection of the Crown for too long. Kearney had argued, though, that now more than ever, Tavis needed his help.
“You lead your house now, Lord Curgh. We must make it clear, to friend and foe alike, that I trust completely in your innocence and your ability to govern a major house.”
His innocence. Tavis knew that some in the realm would die of old age still believing that he had killed Brienne, and he no longer cared to try to convince them otherwise. But he was wise enough to recognize the generosity of Kearney’s offer, and to know that he would have been a fool to refuse him.
And had he not, Fotir, ever the first minister, would have prevailed upon him to accept anyway.
“He puts himself at risk for you, my lord,” the Qirsi told him quietly. “There are many, including ministers in his own court, who would tell him that you’re not worth the cost of such a gesture.”
“I know. I have no intention of refusing him. I just wish for a bit of peace.”
Fotir had smiled at that. “I don’t doubt it, my lord. You’ll have it soon enough.”
When at last they set out for Curgh, Tavis was accompanied by a host of soldiers, nobles, and ministers. Not only did Kearney ride with him, but so did Lathrop of Tremain, Caius of Labruinn, Marston of Shanstead, and their
