Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [154]
“And did you connive at the deaths of my grandson’s wife and children?” the Lady asked. Her voice was soft and sweet but held such menace as Kieri had never heard in it before.
“Never,” the king said. “They were killed by orcs, I heard, and we have nothing to do with orcs. Nor was I glad to know them dead, for I knew it would make the Fox angry, and he would find a way to blame us for it, as he finally has.”
“And yet,” she said, still sweetly, “you paid the man Venneristimon, who was his steward. What did you pay him for?”
“Venner?” The king looked startled. “For information on Phelan’s movements, his plans for his army, that is all. I did not wish to find that army a day’s ride into my kingdom; I needed a spy, and he was willing.”
“It was Venner—” Kieri began, in a choked voice. She held up her hand. He stopped.
“It was that man,” she told the king, “who planned the deaths of my grandson’s wife and children. We know that. And you say you did not know?”
“I did not,” the king said. His eyes were wide; he looked more like a man shocked at truths previously unknown than someone having the truth pulled from him unwillingly. “I bade him spy—so I would know if Phelan massed against me. Who—who told him to do that?”
“The same Weaver you worship,” the Lady said. “Achrya the plotter, the secret weaver of tangled and poisoned webs, lover of plots … she told him.”
Kieri glanced aside from the look on the king’s face to the shelf where the glass stood, the last few grains to fall suspended, motionless, in his grandmother’s trance of time.
“It … it cannot be,” the king whispered; his eyes had filled with tears. “She said kill children? She—she has been good to us—”
“For her own purposes, possibly,” the Lady said. “But she has wrapped you round in lies the way a spider wraps her prey, blinded you with that unyielding silk. You cannot see what is clear to see: not your daughter’s true nature, not the ambitions of those at your court, not the character of my grandson. You are tangled in her web, nothing more than a morsel for her to devour at leisure, for she enjoys most fooling those who trust her.” She waited a moment; he said nothing. “I would pity you,” the Lady said, “if I could, for you have lost a child and a realm by choosing Achrya and evil. But it is not in my nature to pity those who harm my family, and you have done grievous hurt, though without knowing it.”
“I’m … sorry,” the king said. His tears had spilled over, wetting his cheeks.
“Grandson, what do you really want here? His death? Vengeance? Or peace?”
“I wanted peace,” Kieri said. Slowly, slowly, that cold lump of anger shrank inside him. “I want peace now. But how can we have peace if he—if his people—do not? You can withdraw to elvenhome kingdoms where humans cannot come. We must stay in this world, and abide what evil comes—fight it or no, we have no safe havens.”
“Your family—?” the Lady prompted.
“Died years ago. And I believe—” He did not want to believe, but the king’s tears had convinced him. “—he did not really intend their deaths. Was he stupid to be fooled? Yes, but after all, I did not recognize that Venneristimon was one of her pawns until Paks exposed him.” He looked at the king, who was staring at him as if he had sprouted feathers. “I was angry,” Kieri said. “I am still angry that they died as they did. But we have killed enough of each other’s people over the years; I will not kill you because of that.”
“I am not so easily moved to forgiveness,” the Lady said, her voice as cold as his heart had been. “But you are our king, and I must defer to your judgment.” It was the first time she had ever said that or anything like it; Kieri wanted to ask why—but he could not, not then. She looked straight at the king of Pargun. “But you, mortal: whatever grievance you have against my grandson, give it up. Or it will