What disturbed him most was the possibility that the Weaver would come to him before he had a chance to turn her. He had little doubt that the Weaver would approve of his plans, but as soon as the man learned of them, he would hurry Paegar along. As powerful as he was, and as discreet as he must have been to hide his identity from those around him as well as from those whose dreams he haunted, the Weaver lacked patience. Paegar still recalled how he pushed for the murder of Aylyn the Second during the growing turns, heedless of the difficulties faced by those who had to do his bidding.
Paegar could see Keziah’s conversion to the Weaver’s cause taking many turns, perhaps as much as a year, not only because he saw in the process the opportunity to be with her, but also because it was bound to work better if she came to it on her own, with only gentle prodding. The Weaver, however, would expect him to take the quickest path to the same end.
Why take six turns
, he would wonder,
when it can be done in two
? And Paegar would have no answer to offer, except the one the Weaver was least likely to understand.
Because, when all is said and done. I want her to love me. Because if she senses that I befriended her on behalf of the movement, I’ll lose even the small piece of her that I have now
.
The more the minister considered this, the more agitated he grew, until at last he felt that he needed to flee the castle entirely or give himself away by his pacing and his muttered curses. Striding swiftly to the nearest gate, Paegar left the castle and descended the sloped lanes to the city. Once there, he simply wandered, passing shops and taverns, peddler’s carts and flocks of sheep driven toward the markets by shepherds. He walked the city’s outer streets, passing all four of the sanctuaries. He briefly considered leaving the city altogether, and meandering for a time in the grasses and farmlands that lay beyond the city walls.
But as the day wore on, marked by changes in the rate of the snowfall, and the occasional tolling of the gate bells, Paegar grew increasingly uneasy. At first he merely thought it the lingering effect of his talk with Keziah. As the feeling continued to mount, however, he realized it was more than that. He might not have been the most powerful Qirsi in the castle, but he was a gleaner, and he knew this sense of foreboding had to be more than the product of a pained heart.
Stopping just at the gates of Elined’s Sanctuary, he turned and started back toward the castle, walking as fast as he dared. By the time he had climbed the lane back to the castle’s north gate, he was breathing hard, sweat dampening his brow in spite of the cold and snow. He hurried through the outer ward, into the castle’s inner courtyards, and finally into the shelter of the corridors. Of course Keziah was the first person he saw.
“I was just coming to look for you,” she said. “I was hoping we might have supper together.”
He didn’t even alter his stride. “Tomorrow perhaps. I’ve other matters to which to attend this evening.”
“You don’t look well, Paegar,” she called to him as he walked on. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Archminister. I promise. I’ve been out walking and I’m eager to warm myself by my hearth.”
He turned a corner before she could answer, ran up the nearest stairway, and continued on to his chamber without meeting up with anyone else. His heart was pounding as he reached for the door handle, as much with fear as with the effort of returning to the castle. He hesitated a moment, then pushed open the door and stepped inside slowly.
He saw it immediately, though someone else might have missed it. A part of him had known all along what awaited him here. His thoughts had been carrying him on this path the entire day.
There on his bed, barely visible against the dark brown of his blankets, lay a small leather pouch. He wanted to leave, to turn away from the bed and hurry back out of the castle as if he had never seen the pouch, as if he had no idea what it contained or what it meant.
Instead he closed the door and sat on the bed beside it, staring at it for several moments as if he expected it to move. At last he lifted the bag into his hand, hearing the muffled ring of the coins within. It felt heavy. It must have held fifty qinde, at least. He could judge such things now. He had no idea where the movement got its gold, or how they managed to leave it in his chamber without anyone noticing. But he could gauge the contents of a leather pouch simply by its weight.
He untied the drawstrings and poured the coins onto the bed. Eighty qinde. The Weaver would be coming to him tonight, no doubt to give him some new task. Maybe he knew of Keziah already and wanted her to join the movement. Perhaps he had decided that Kearney had to die. Paegar would know soon enough.
Staring at the gold pieces lying on his bed, glimmering in the murky light of his room, Paegar didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He had no need for more gold. As high minister, his food and bed were provided by the king and he received a handsome wage as well. On occasion he liked to spend a few qinde on a good meal and ale in the city, but he avoided extravagance for fear of drawing attention to himself and his wealth. He still had more than one hundred qinde hidden away in a small wooden box in his wardrobe, gold he had yet to spend from the Weaver’s previous payments. The minister served the Weaver not to gather riches, but to stay alive. The Weaver had sought him out and in so doing had tied Paegar’s very survival to the success or failure of the Qirsi movement. The gold he received had become little more than a harbinger of his conversations with the Weaver.
His stomach felt empty and sour. It occurred to him that he had eaten nothing since his breakfast with the archminister.
A knock on his door made him jump. It had to be Keziah. No one else ever came to his room.
He returned the coins to the pouch as quietly and quickly as he could, and hid the bag under his pillow-
no chance of her finding it there
, he thought ruefully. He stood and took a step toward the door. Then, as an afterthought, he placed a log on the embers of his fire.
Opening his door at last, he found the archminister in the corridor, looking pale, her lips held in a tight line.
“Keziah.” It was all he could think of to say.
“You’re angry with me.”
“No, I’m not.”
She shook her head. “Don’t lie to me, Paegar. You’re angry about what happened this morning. I could tell by the way you rushed by me just now.
He had to smile. Just as he had expected, this was going to make it easier for him to conceal his betrayal. “I’m not angry, Keziah. I’m disappointed, and perhaps a bit embarrassed-”
“You shouldn’t be,” she said, her eyes growing wide. “There’s no shame in this, Paegar. I just can’t love you. I can’t love anyone right now.
“I understand, Keziah. Honestly I do. And I’m not angry with you. I’m just not ready tonight to dine with you again. Perhaps tomorrow.”
She nodded, looking sad. “Of course. I probably shouldn’t have come. I just… I need you, Paegar. I need your friendship.”
“You still have it. I assure you.”
Again she nodded, turning away as she did. “Thank you, Paegar. Good night.”
“Good night, Keziah.”
Paegar watched her walk back toward her chamber. He had hours yet until the Weaver would come to him, and belatedly he wished that he hadn’t sent the archmimster away. Not that he was at all hungry, but he longed for her company.
“Keziah, wait,” he called to her, just as she reached her door. “I’m being foolish. I would like to dine with you. Why don’t we go back to the tavern? I’ll even pay for your dinner.”
She eyed him doubtfully. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.” He had decided earlier in the day that his pride was to be the first casualty of his effort to win her trust. Perhaps it would take a toll on his heart as well. But that was a small price to pay for being with her. He retrieved the pouch, pulled out two gold pieces, and placed the rest in his wardrobe beside the wooden box.
He and Keziah left the castle and walked through the city streets to the Silver Maple, the Qirsi tavern in which they had eaten the previous night. The barman nodded to them as they entered and a serving girl with the white and black hair of a half-blood and bright yellow eyes led them to a small room at the back of the building. A few moments later, she returned with two tankards of ale and two steaming plates of the same spicy stew they had enjoyed the night before.
For a long time they ate in silence, looking up at each other once or twice and smiling awkwardly. Knowing that he would be speaking with the Weaver in just a short while, Paegar searched his mind for ways he might begin to broach the subject of the movement. None came to him. In the end, though, Keziah did it for him.
“Do you enjoy serving the king, Paegar?”
He looked up, surprised by the question. “Do I enjoy it?”
“Yes. You seem so solemn much of the time. I wonder if you’re happy in the castle.”
The minister made a show of considering the matter for several moments. “I suppose I do,” he said at last. “I’ve never been a favorite of the kings I serve. Aylyn relied mostly on Natan and Wenda, and Kearney turns mostly to you and to Gershon. But I’m paid well, and I lead a comfortable life.” He frowned. “I imagine that sounds terribly ungrateful. There are Qirsi throughout the Forelands who would gladly trade their lives for mine.”
“Do you doubt that Kearney appreciates your counsel?”
“Not at all. But he’s known you far longer than he has the rest of us. Like most Eandi nobles, he probably sees his other Qirsi as faceless sorcerers who aren’t to be trusted.”
“Kearney’s not like that!” she said, her voice rising. She looked to the side, her lips pressed thin. “I’m sorry,” she said a few seconds later, her voice calm once more. “But I know the king, and he’s not like other Eandi. He may not know the rest of you very well yet, but he trusts you and he listens to what you tell him.”
Paegar made himself smile, struggling with an unexpected bout of jealousy. “I’ll take your word for it. As I’ve already said, you know him better than I. But I’ve served several Eandi nobles in my life, and in my experience, they have little regard for their Qirsi.” He took a sip of ale, gazing off toward the fire burning on the far side of the room. “Just once, I’d enjoy the chance to serve in a Qirsi court.” He glanced at her. “Wouldn’t you?”
“I’ve never considered it,” she said coldly.
“Oh, come now, Keziah. All of us have at one time or another.”
“I’m telling you, I haven’t.”
“Not even when you were a child?”
She hesitated. “Well-”
“You see? I knew it!”
Keziah shook her head. “That’s different.”
“Why? Because you were too young to know any better? Nonsense. In many ways the dreams of our childhood are more honest, because as children we haven’t been taught yet which dreams are permissible and which aren’t.”
She eyed him warily. “It seems you’ve given this a good deal of thought, Paegar.”
He smiled broadly, ignoring the slight flutter in his chest. “Not so much, really. When I was younger I thought often of going to the Southlands, to see what the Qirsi homeland is like. But that’s a long way from here, and at this point I’m a bit old to try crossing the Border Range.”
“That’s not what I meant, and I think you know it. We’ve all heard the rumors, Paegar. There are those here among us who would like to remake the Forelands in the image of the Southlands. And you should make no mistake, if I learn that you’re one of them, I’ll destroy you.”
He laughed. “You believe I’m with the conspiracy?”
Her gaze didn’t waver for an instant. “I didn’t say that. But I want you to understand that I don’t take lightly talk of Qirsi courts and serving Qirsi lords. We live in the Forelands. The kingdoms belong to the Eandi. Given the history of our people in the seven realms we’re fortunate to serve them as we do.”
“I’ll remember that, Archmimster.”
She didn’t correct him. And for a long time, she kept her gaze fixed on her food.
“I’m feeling tired,” she finally said. “I think I’d like to return to the castle now.”
Paegar nodded. His stomach had balled itself into a fist, and his head was pounding. Clearly he had miscalculated badly, and in a short time he would have to face the Weaver, far less certain of the prize he intended to offer the man than he had been just a short time before.
They made their way back to Audun’s Castle without a word passing between them. He walked her to her door, where they stopped and faced each other.
“This has been a difficult day,” she said, her voice so low he could barely hear her.
It’s not over. Not nearly
. “I’m sorry for that.”
Keziah shook her head. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. Sleep well, Paegar. Tomorrow can only be better.”
“Goodnight, Keziah.”
He left her there and returned to the darkness of his chamber, locking his door behind him. The fire had burned down again, though the embers still glowed an angry red. He put wood on the coals and then lay on his bed, not bothering to undress. His mind raced, and a part of him wondered if he could stay awake through the night, postponing at least for one day his encounter with the Weaver. As he lay in the shadows cast by his fire, though, feeling the chamber gradually grow warmer, Paegar’s fear of the Weaver began to give way to weariness. A difficult day, she had called it. Indeed it had been.
He didn’t realize he was asleep until the dream began, and he found himself stumbling over boulders on the grassy plain. Soon he reached the slope and started to climb. The ascent was not long this time, although he was winded when he reached the summit and saw the Weaver approaching, his body a living shadow against the brilliant light. The same dream every time, yet filled with so much uncertainty that Paegar trembled.
“You were paid?” the Weaver demanded, stopping before him.