kingdom itself.”
“I know that, my lord. But we have to begin somewhere.”
“And where would that be?” Caius demanded, sounding far more belligerent than had the duke of Tremain. “What is it you’re asking of us?”
“You might begin, my lord, by not treating every Qirsi you meet with such disdain.”
“I don’t believe I do, Minister.”
Xivled started to respond, but Keziah silenced him with a sharp glance.
“I believe what the minister means, my lord, is that while we treat our lords with deference, we in turn are often treated with somewhat less respect.”
“Demons and fire, woman! We’re nobles! Do you expect us to bow to you?”
“We don’t have to bow to them to show them courtesy, Lord Labruinn,” Tavis said. “But in the past, nobles in the Eibitharian courts have spoken of collecting Qirsi ministers as one might horses or fine swords.” He glanced at the duchess of Curlinte. “Nor was that practice unique to our realm. It’s time we began to see the Qirsi as something more than chattel.”
“That seems a small step,” Lathrop said. “From what I understand, the Weaver was speaking of creating a new nobility of Qirsi lords and dukes. If that’s what the Qirsi in Eibithar truly want, we’re doomed.”
“That’s not what we want,” Xivled said.
Marston eyed him briefly, then looked down at his hands. “Perhaps you don’t, but some might.”
“There!” the minister said, pointing at his thane. “That’s what I object to. The suspicion. You assume the worst about us, though you have no cause.”
“No cause? Xiv, consider what’s just happened throughout the Forelands! How can you say that I have no cause?”
Tavis cast a quick look at Grinsa, only to find that the gleaner was already watching him. After a moment, Tavis gave a small shake of his head. This was going poorly.
“Ambition and treachery can be found in any heart, my lord,” Xivled said. “Eandi or Qirsi.”
Marston looked like he wanted to say more, but he wisely chose to remain silent.
“You’re awfully quiet, gleaner,” Gershon Trasker said after a time. “You had much to say in the days before the war. What say you now?”
Grinsa shrugged, the deformity of his shoulder making the movement appear awkward and strange. “There’s little I can say, swordmaster. You’re all speaking of trusting one another, of taking the first tentative steps down a long, difficult path. I’m a Weaver. There’s no place for me in your society, at least not for now. In a sense, this discussion has nothing to do with me.”
Fotir turned to face him, his brow furrowed. “Surely you can offer us some counsel. How are we to overcome these divisions?”
“Truly, I don’t know. The only advice I can give you is to be patient. As Lord Tremain has said, this question is old as the seven realms. It won’t be answered in a day, or a year, or even ten years. And in the meantime, you must guard against falling back into old conflicts, into fear and mistrust. Patience, and tolerance-they will see you through.”
“It seems you had counsel for us after all, gleaner,” the king said, smiling. “You have our thanks, once again, as well as my promise that we’ll heed your words.” He reached for a flask of pale wine and filled his goblet. “Come friends. Let us eat, and enjoy one last day of Lord Curgh’s hospitality. It’s important that we speak of these matters, but there comes a time when we must simply live and do the best we can.”
Slowly, the others filled their cups. When they had, Kearney raised his goblet. “To Eibithar,” he said. “Long may she know peace.”
“To Eibithar,” the others answered.
Their small feast lasted much of the morning. Soon after the ringing of the midday bells, the nobles and their ministers began to say their farewells and leave the hall. Most, it seemed, intended to leave Curgh the following morning. Marston and Lady Curlinte were among the last to leave, and though Tavis hadn’t known what Xivled would do, in the end the minister followed his lord from the great chamber. Soon, all had left the hall save for Tavis, Grinsa, and Kearney. They sat together in silence for some time, until at last the king cleared his throat. “I think it’s time I was returning to the City of Kings,” he said. “I’m grateful to you for your courtesy, Tavis, but I have a family as well, and I’m eager to see them.”
“Yes, of course, Your Majesty.”
“If you’d like, I can leave a small contingent of soldiers, at least until you’ve had some time to rebuild your army.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty, but I don’t think that’s necessary. Curgh has protected her own walls for centuries, and she can do so now.”
The king nodded. “Very well. Then I’ll be riding in the morning.”
Grinsa, who had been staring at his wine, looked up at the king. “If I may, Your Majesty, I’d like permission to ride with you.”
“You’re leaving, too?” Tavis said, though of course, he shouldn’t have been surprised.
“It’s been too long since I saw my daughter, Tavis. You didn’t really think I’d remain here forever, did you?”
“No, but…” He shook his head. “No.”
“You’re welcome to ride with me, gleaner. But what will you do once you reach the City of Kings?”
“That depends in large part on you, Your Majesty. Cresenne remains a prisoner in Audun’s Castle. And it’s now common knowledge that I’m a Weaver.”
Tavis had wanted to say something during their discussion, but the time hadn’t been right. Now, though, he didn’t hesitate. “After all that Grinsa’s done, it shouldn’t matter that he’s a Weaver!”
“But you know it does, Tavis,” the king said. “Even before we left the Moorlands, nobles were speaking to me of having him imprisoned or even put to death. Throughout Eibithar, people are more frightened of Weavers than they’ve been in centuries. I can’t simply ignore the laws of the realm.”
“Even if those laws are unjust?”
“We’ll try to change the laws, and perhaps over time we will. But as Grinsa himself has said, we’re just starting a long and difficult process. The people aren’t ready to have Weavers living among them, not so soon after this war.” Kearney looked at Grinsa. “As I’ve told you before, I have no desire to see you executed, nor do I wish Cresenne ill. But I’m at a loss as to what to do.”
“I have an idea,” Grinsa said. “But it will demand some pliancy on your part, Your Majesty.”
Kearney regarded him a moment, then nodded. “I’m listening.”
Since arriving in Curgh, Keziah had managed to avoid them both. She walked in the city marketplace or wandered the castle wards and gardens. She attended the feasts, of course, as well as Tavis’s investiture and this day’s discussion. But she always kept to herself and she excused herself from the celebrations and feasts as quickly as she could. Anything to avoid being alone with Kearney or Fotir. Soon she would be leaving for Audun’s Castle, and none of this would matter anymore, but until then, she had no desire to speak with either of them.
Or so she wanted to believe.
Her wounds had healed. The bones in her ribs and leg no longer ached as she walked, and her hands, shattered by Sanbira’s archminister, hadn’t hurt for several days now. She had slept better over the past several nights than she had in more than a year. What a joy it was to lay down at night without dreading her dreams. A part of her, she realized now, had never truly believed that the Weaver could be defeated, or that she would ever be free of him. Their victory on the Moorlands had come at a great price, but it seemed to her miraculous nevertheless.
So why did she remain so unhappy?
Late on this day, the ninth of the waxing, she found herself in the gardens once more, strolling past brilliant, fragrant blooms of rose and sweet violet. The sun angled sharply across the courtyard, casting long, dark shadows that cooled the air. Her thoughts had turned again to Fotir, as they often did these days. They had hardly spoken to one another since reaching Curgh. The first minister was occupied with Curgh’s young duke and its grieving duchess. They needed him far more than did Keziah, and it was only right that he should be more concerned with them than with anything, or anyone, else. She couldn’t help but remember, however, how their conversation ended
