Free Seeds of Betrayal by David B. Coe Page A

night he barely made her walk at all, appearing as a great black form against the same blinding light that stabbed into her eyes every time. She was heavy with child by now-she could hardly believe that she would have to wait two more turns before giving birth-and the Weaver said nothing for some time after she stopped before him. It seemed to Cresenne that he gazed at her, admiring her belly, though she could see nothing of his face.
    “I have never seen any woman look so radiant as you do now,” he said at last. She thought for a moment that he might reach out and touch her face, and a shudder went through her body. She would have preferred his wrath to this.
    It took her a moment to realize that he was waiting for a reply. “Thank you, Weaver,” she said, dropping her gaze. “I don’t deserve such kind words.”
    “Of course you do, child. Tell me, what was your supper tonight?”
    “Stew and bread, Weaver, with a plate of steamed greens.” Actually she had barely touched the greens. For several turns she had been sickened by their smell. But the Weaver didn’t need to know that.
    “Splendid,” he said, much as she imagined her own father would, had he been alive. “Have you gleaned anything about the child? Do you know if it will be a boy or girl?”
    “No, Weaver. I’ve seen nothing.” True, but she had a feeling. She hadn’t shared this with anyone, however, and she certainly wasn’t going to share it with this man.
    “There’s still time, child. Perhaps you will before long, if Qirsar destines that it should be so.”
    She nodded.
    “You’re in Kett. Still with the Festival?”
    He was like a wolf, circling his prey, each pass bringing him just a bit closer to the kill. She knew where this was headed. The question. It was only a matter of time before he asked her.
    “Yes, Weaver.”
    “You’ve been gleaning?”
    “Yes.”
    “Anything interesting?”
    “Not so far.”
    A pause, and then it would come. It always did.
    “Have you found him yet?”
    Just once she wanted to ask innocently,
Who, Weaver
? But the kindness he had shown her had its limits, unlike his ability to hurt her, which had none.
    “No, Weaver. Not yet. I’ve asked throughout the city, as I did in Bistan, Noltierre, and Solkara. No one has seen him.”
    “It may be time you moved on to Caensse.”
    “I still believe he’s in Aneira.”
    “So you’ve told me before,” the Weaver said, his voice hardening. “Yet you’ve nothing to show for the four turns you’ve spent there. Thus far, your instincts on this matter have served you poorly. You’re searching for a Qirsi man and an Eibithanan noble whose face is covered with scars. They shouldn’t be this hard to find. If they were in Aneira, you’d have heard something by now.”
    Not necessarily
, she wanted to say.
He’s smarter than you thinly He may be smarter than you
. But all she could manage was “He may be avoiding the larger cities. I’ve yet to search the countryside.”
    “He wouldn’t go to the smaller towns. You told me yourself that he’s probably searching for you, which means he’ll go where the festivals go.”
    Again Cresenne nodded, though she felt her heart clenching itself into a fist. For the first several turns she had assumed that Grinsa would come after her. He didn’t know that she carried his child, but he had loved her, and that should have been enough. She knew there was a new king in Eibithar and she had no doubt that Grinsa had gone to the City of Kings to see him invested. The Revel had been there too, of course, so Grinsa would have learned from one of the other gleaners, probably Trin, that she had left the Revel. At the time she told Trin that she intended to return to Wethyrn, but Grinsa was too clever to believe that. He’d head south.
    Or so she thought. Because recently it had become clear to her that he hadn’t followed her at all. He should have found her by now. She had done everything she could to lead him to her.