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Vasic pushed himself up from his chair. Even that small effort was a struggle. His limbs were leaden, and the pain in his side deepened as he moved – the pain the healer swore was nothing more than trapped wind. And then there was the dream. Every night now, for how long?

That was the worst of it. Every night, over and over, he was forced to relive Tresilian’s death in his sleep. If it had been the collapse of the tower, the warmth of Garrad’s blood as it spurted against his face, or the horror on Alwenna’s face as she and the servant girl were swallowed by the rubble… That he could have understood. Events like that could – should – haunt a man, unless he were less than human. But Tresilian’s death?

That had never haunted him. It had been a simple matter of expedience – the only common-sense action for a usurper to take. Of course, only she had dared call him that. Alwenna. His half-cousin. The driving force behind everything he’d done for as long as he could remember.

He took up his ornate walking cane – he would never use the thing in front of witnesses – and made his way over to the window. Once it had looked along the curtain wall to the main tower. Now it perched above the massive cleft torn through the curtain wall. At the bottom ran a desultory trickle of water from the spring for which Highkell had been named.

Below, masons and labourers were erecting a wooden framework from which to begin repairing the broken wall. The engineers had pronounced the remaining structure sound. According to them the old watergate had been too narrow to allow floodwater to escape and the heavy rain had proved the final straw. Their explanation was sweet reason.

Everyone knew the power of water. The engineers proposed to build a larger watergate, supplemented by others at intervals through the curtain wall so the water would never be so disastrously dammed back. The expense would be ruinous, but he would save money by not rebuilding the fallen tower. And they could salvage stone from the wreckage, once they’d repaired the road through the gorge. That had to be his first priority: without the tolls from passing trade, Highkell was nothing. If the road remained washed out for too long the merchants would find other ways to move their goods around the Peninsula. And all his machinations would have been for naught.

He leaned on the window sill, watching the workers move over the broken curtain wall. And for the first time he doubted he would live to see the wall restored to its former strength. Did grief affect a man that way? He could abandon Highkell. Leave it now, return to his fortress in the south. Yet his need to control Highkell had driven him so long he couldn’t imagine life without it. Just as he couldn’t imagine life without the Lady Alwenna. But they’d pulled no one alive from the rubble. And after the second collapse of the curtain wall had taken a whole contingent of archers with it, they’d abandoned any hopes of reaching anyone buried on the lower slopes.

He turned away from the sunlight, which only seemed to taunt him, and shuffled back to his chair, leaning heavily on his cane. The healer insisted his illness was spiritual, not physical. But the healer hadn’t been there to sense the raw power unleashed when Alwenna invoked the Goddess. Only after that had the floor begun to shake.

It was nonsensical, of course. And it was Garrad whom Alwenna had cursed. She’d told Vasic he had nothing to fear, yet his strength had fallen away day by day ever since. Should he return to the south? Better, perhaps, than staying here among the ruins of all his hopes. He could leave a steward to oversee the repairs. But he doubted he had the energy to undertake the journey, certainly not by horseback, having wrenched his back, scrambling clear as the floor collapsed. And his carriages were trapped in the stable yard at Highkell until the road was reopened. The indecision was worse than anything else. He lowered himself into his chair, distributing his weight carefully on the cushions. There had to be some cause for this accursed weakness. And if the healer insisted it wasn’t physical he would investigate other possibilities.

He summoned a servant. “The high seer from Lynesreach is waiting in the guest lodgings. Bring him to me now.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

Alwenna’s eyes stung from the grit and dust that billowed over the Blighted Sea. Her face burned, scoured by the thin wind despite wrapping a scarf about her head as the freemerchants did. She ached from a long day spent in the saddle. Her damaged ankle throbbed even though she’d slipped it out of the stirrup early on in the journey so she could keep the joint moving. Even Erin, riding at her side, was slumped in her saddle, head bowed as she tried to keep her face out of the wind.

Ahead of them Weaver twisted round to say something. His words were snatched away by the wind. In the direction he pointed Alwenna could see through the dust a shape too big and too regular to be yet another boulder. To the windward side of it was a clump of trees. Proper, tall trees with trunks, not the scrubby bushes that were scattered over the plain. The inn. It had to be.

The inn was a long, low-eaved building, built around three sides of a courtyard. The fourth side was enclosed by a ramshackle set of stables. At some point in the past the walls had been rendered with clay and painted with lime-wash, but it was now so weather-beaten the overall impression was one of sun-bleached terracotta. Shabby or not, the relief the courtyard offered from the scouring wind was sublime. Alwenna slid down from her saddle, careless of her injured ankle until she landed half her weight on it, and yelped.

“My lady, you should have waited.” Erin handed her the walking stick.

“I didn’t think.” She tested her weight on her ankle again, gingerly. “But I’m sure it’s getting better. I couldn’t have done that yesterday.”

Nearby, Weaver stood where he’d just dismounted from his own horse, watching Alwenna. When she caught his eye he turned away, unwinding the scarf from his head, and stopping to shake the dust out of it once he was clear of the horses at the edge of the yard.

“You likely won’t be able to put any weight on it at all tomorrow.” Erin began disentangling her long hair and dusty scarf. They made their way over to where Weaver waited, and Alwenna tugged her own scarf loose.

The inn had two main rooms – the tap room where a bar held barrels of ale, and a room lined with tables for serving food. This was currently empty, although the tables were well-worn. Alwenna assumed the recent spate of windy weather had deterred most travellers from venturing over the Blighted Sea. Certainly, the landlord hurried over to serve them eagerly enough.

Weaver ordered a plain stew and requested it be well salted. “I’m to meet the freemerchant, Marten. He told me you’d be able to give me directions to find him.”

“Well now.” The landlord straightened up, rubbing his ear thoughtfully. “There are plenty people would like to find Marten, but there’s nothing to say he wants to be found by all of them. You’re a stranger to me, and I’ve never seen you here with him, so you’ll have to give me your name first.”

“My name’s Weaver.” He drummed his fingertips on the smooth-scrubbed table. He didn’t appear at all easy about this business with the freemerchant. Unless the strange incident with Drew’s dagger had left him in such a foul mood. Perhaps with some good ale inside him, he might be a little sweeter – and more forthcoming besides. Alwenna couldn’t shake the conviction he was being less than frank with her.

“That’s a common enough name in these parts.”

“Ranald Weaver.” Weaver’s fingertips stilled. “Marten himself told me to ask for directions here. I doubt he’ll be pleased to learn you’re playing games with his people.”

His people? What did he mean by that? Alwenna turned her full attention to the exchange.

The landlord frowned. “I never play games, not where business is concerned. And not where my important customers are concerned, neither.”

Weaver stared back at him and they froze thus for a moment before the landlord nodded, glancing at Alwenna as he spoke. “He’s left a message for you – I’ll bring it.”

“Very well. I must trust Marten’s in no great hurry to see us.”

The landlord vanished through a door behind the bar. He reappeared almost immediately, bearing a sealed letter which he handed to Weaver without ceremony. “He’s paid up front for a room for the lady, and one for yourself. The rest can take space in the attics.”

Weaver nodded again, waiting for the landlord to leave before cracking open the wax seal. Alwenna, seated opposite, couldn’t see the text. Weaver read it then folded the paper, stowing it away without comment. He looked up to find her watching him.

“We’re to join the freemerchant at the summer palace – your old family home, my lady. He pulls longer strings than I once imagined.”

“My family home? I haven’t seen the place in over twelve years.” She’d had a sunny room with views over a tumbling mountain stream. There had been a huge dining table, polished to such a sheen she could see her own reflection in it. Her father had sat at one end, her mother at the other. Only rarely had she joined them. And then she had disgraced herself, pulling faces at her reflection while her father spoke. Had that been at the summer palace, or the city residence in Brigholm? None of it seemed terribly familiar now. She certainly had no recollection of crossing the Blighted Sea before.

Weaver was watching her as if he expected some kind of reaction.

“I remember very little about it.” Right now she was more concerned about that letter. It had been addressed to him, of course, she’d seen that much as he read the single sheet. So really it was none of her business, yet… She was sure Weaver was hiding something from her.

The rooms the landlord allocated to them were along the landing at the far end of the building from the stairs, above the dining room.

Erin checked the bedding suspiciously once the landlord had left them. “Well, I’ve seen worse.”

They’d not been there long before servants arrived with hot water and a tub which they filled before the fire, setting up a discreet folding screen.

Alwenna eased herself into the water with relief, glad of the first real opportunity to ease her aches and pains. The bruising was coming out on her ankle now, and it was a grotesque purple, but the swelling was reducing. She lay back, sinking as low as she could in the water. The tub wasn’t as luxurious as the one she’d been used to at Highkell, but it was adequate. And the water was the perfect temperature. She closed her eyes.

And she was there at Highkell again, pacing back and forth across one of the lesser guest chambers. Her arm was in a sling and it pained her if she moved too quickly. Everything had gone wrong. She didn’t know how she knew, she just did. She explored her feelings with a strange air of detachment: so much frustration, so much pent-up anger, and behind it all a deep-rooted fear. And it was all Alwenna’s fault. She coughed, and had to stop pacing back and forth as pain seared through her ribs. She pressed a hand to the spot where it hurt. And then she was in a dungeon, Vasic leaning close, smiling, wine-laced breath warming her face. “Would it be a kindness to you?”

“You haven’t the mettle.” Every word took a supreme effort, every inch of her body ached. For a moment the scene dissolved and the dull pain eased. Was this death? Had she been wrong to fear it all this time? Then Vasic’s face swam back into focus. His words were distorted, indistinct. But somehow they amused her. “Such irony.” She began to laugh, but a pain tore into her ribs. A pain so stark she cried out and then it stole the air from her lungs so she couldn’t even–

“My lady? What happened?” Erin bent over her, alarmed. “Are you hurt?”

Alwenna gaped at Erin. Dazzling spots swam before her eyes and her chest was tight with the need to draw in air. Somehow she opened her mouth and sucked in a harsh lungful, and another, and her sight began to clear. She sat up abruptly, shaking as her body clamoured for her to fight, to flee, to save herself.

“My lady, what is it?”

It was all Alwenna could do to breathe. She folded forward, wrapping her arms about her knees, and gradually the pressure on her lungs eased.

There was a clatter at the door and Weaver crashed into the room. “What’s going on? Is–”

He halted, staring at Alwenna. Bare-chested, one half of his face was clean-shaven, the other lathered, a spot of blood mingling with the lather on his jawline where the blade had slipped.

And she couldn’t help but laugh, shakily at first. Wide-eyed, Erin snatched up a towel and held it in front of Alwenna to spare her blushes.

Weaver’s face coloured with embarrassment. “I thought you were being murdered.”

Alwenna tried to get her breathing back under control, gulping for air between bursts of laughter. “No,” was all she managed.

“Then by the Goddess’s name what happened?”

Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she splashed her face with water. That helped her regain control. “I dozed off. It was a nightmare, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” His mouth twisted with distaste, the way it did every time she mentioned the sight. It was enough to sober her up.

“That’s all. Truly.” She could almost breathe normally again, and the sensation of pain in her ribs was nothing but a bad memory. She shivered. “It was an unpleasant one, but I do apologise, for I’ve made you cut yourself.”

He raised a hand to his jaw. “It’s nothing. You’re unhurt?”

“I’m unhurt.” In that shadowy place she didn’t know a woman was murmuring soothing words to a man who’d woken from a nightmare. Her nightmare. Yet how could that be? She shook her head to clear it of the whispers.

Frowning, Weaver studied her face, clearly unconvinced. “Are you sure, my lady?”

“Why ever would I say I was unhurt if I wasn’t? If you don’t mind, I would very much like to get out of this bath, but there’s a terrible draught from that doorway.” She gathered her knees, ready to stand.

“I beg your pardon, my lady.” Weaver turned away and she caught a glimpse of a raw wound on his ribs before he shut the door abruptly behind himself.

“The towel, Erin, if you please.” Alwenna stood and the girl hastily offered up the towel, attempting to assume the mask-like composure she’d worn throughout her time at Highkell.