Shapers of Darkness

Chapter Sixteen

The Moorlands, north of the City of Kings, Eibithar

After their misadventure in the Glyndwr Highlands, they had no more time to waste. Grinsa knew that. No doubt the empire’s fleet had begun its assault on the Galdasten shores, and last he and Tavis had heard, the Aneirans were poised to strike at Kentigern. The gleaner felt certain that all of this was the Weaver’s doing, that this war was merely a prelude to a far more critical and perilous conflict. He had confided to the Curgh boy several turns ago that he was the only one capable of defeating the leader of the Qirsi conspiracy, and he still believed this to be true. What he had neglected to say to Tavis, what he was loath to admit to himself, was that he didn’t know for certain whether he could prevail in a contest of magic against this other Weaver. He knew only that his time was approaching. One way or another, he would learn soon enough. He needed to reach Galdasten as quickly as possible, to keep this burgeoning war from destroying the Forelands, and to convince the leaders of the Eandi armies that their true enemy had yet to show himself.

The wound to his head had healed. He and Tavis had spent only a few nights back in Glyndwr Castle, recovering from their harrowing encounter with the brigands, before riding forth again, intent on reaching the Moorlands. But even that had been too much time. They could no longer afford to stop in the City of Kings, as they had once intended. Still, it had taken nearly all Grinsa’s strength of will to ride so near to Audun’s Castle without stopping to see Cresenne and his daughter. It would have added only a few leagues to their journey-merely half a day’s ride if they pushed their mounts. But he knew that once he reached the castle, once he kissed Cresenne and held Bryntelle in his arms, he would never find it within himself to leave them again. Bryntelle was four turns old now; from what Cresenne had told him it seemed that she was growing quickly, becoming more aware of her surroundings with each passing day. He hadn’t spent much time around babies as a Revel gleaner and so knew far less about them than he should have. But he had no doubt that she had changed enormously in just the two turns since he had left her. She was his child, and every day she awoke to a world that didn’t include her father. He begrudged every moment he spent away from her.

Tavis had been watching him throughout the day, as if gauging his mood. Grinsa sensed that the boy wanted to say something, but that he feared the gleaner’s response. The two of them had been journeying together for nearly a year now, and in that time Grinsa had come to care deeply about the boy. In the beginning, when Tavis still acted the spoiled noble, Grinsa had glimpsed the promise of wisdom and strength that dwelled within the young lord, and had agreed to act as his protector as the two of them attempted to establish Tavis’s innocence and learn what they could about the conspiracy. More recently, he had come to view Tavis as a friend.

But he knew that for the boy, their relationship remained more complicated, and in many ways more difficult. Tavis had been exiled from his home, reviled as a butcher throughout the land. Where once he had looked to his father and Hagan MarCullet for guidance, and to Hagan’s son, Xaver, for friendship, he now looked to Grinsa for all. To Tavis, the gleaner had become not only his guardian, but also his mentor and his closest friend. And while he was usually willing to speak his mind to Grinsa, it sometimes took him some time to gather the courage to do so.

Grinsa sensed that Tavis was now doing just that, and he didn’t push the boy. They rode in silence, as the sun burned a slow arc across a hazy blue sky, and a warm breeze made the tall grasses of the Moorlands bow and dance. Heat rose from Elined’s earth, liquid and sinuous, distorting the horizon, creating the illusion of lakes and rivers where none existed. A hawk circled high overhead, crying plaintively, and wild dogs shadowed the two riders at a safe distance.

“We can still go back,” Tavis said at last, his voice so low that the words were nearly lost amid the wind and the thudding of their mounts’ hooves. He glanced back over his shoulder. “I can still see the castle walls from here. It wouldn’t cost us more than a day.”

“We can’t spare a day,” the gleaner said, hearing the weariness in his own voice.

“We’ll ride at night, Grinsa. We’ll make up the time.”

He smiled, though his chest ached “Thank you, Tavis. I’m grateful for the offer. But I can’t.” The boy started to say more, but Grinsa shook his head. “I can’t leave them again. Best to be done with all this so that when I return to them, it’s for good.”

Tavis nodded. “All right.”

It almost seemed that he understood. Perhaps he did.

After a time, the boy said, “I still think we should ride into the night. Kearney and the others have at least eight days on us. I’d like to close the gap a bit.”

“Kearney’s men are on foot. We draw nearer to them every day that we ride.”

“I know. Still. . ” He shrugged.

Tavis had seemed eager for this war since Helke and his confrontation with the assassin. He had told Grinsa some of what happened that stormy day, enough for the gleaner to understand that Cadel had been unarmed when Tavis killed him, and that the young lord felt that he had acquitted himself poorly, even in victory. Though Tavis had denied it, Grinsa believed that he hoped to find some measure of redemption in the coming war, as if heroism on this new battlefield would erase the stain of all that had happened to him since Kentigern. He couldn’t say that he shared the boy’s eagerness for war, but neither could he deny that he wished to waste as little time as possible on their journey northward.

“Very well,” Grinsa said. “We’ll continue on past sundown.”

Tavis nodded his approval, and they rode on, both of them silent, the young noble seemingly absorbed in his thoughts, Grinsa trying desperately to think of anything other than Cresenne and Bryntelle.

Late in the day, they came to a small village nestled in a gentle crescent of Binthar’s Wash. The village didn’t amount to very much-a smithy, a wheelwright’s shop, and a meager marketplace that, even on its busiest days, could not have accommodated the carts of more than a dozen peddlers. Within sight of the hamlet, there were several farms situated on either side of the wash, and the two riders decided that they would stop to see if they might purchase some food. The stores they had been given by the duke of Glyndwr several days before were running low, and Grinsa didn’t want to slow their travels later in the journey in order to search for provisions. Most of the sellers, it seemed, had already packed up their wares for the day, but one man, a white-haired farmer who walked from one end of his cart to the other with a pronounced limp, sold them enough cheese, salted meat, and black bread to last them several days. His prices were somewhat high-Grinsa had the distinct impression that the man had marked Tavis as a noble and had realized that his was the only stall still open-but the time they would save later by buying now was worth the extra gold.

As Tavis and the gleaner rode out of the village, they came across two young boys wrestling in the dirt beside the road. At first Grinsa assumed that the two were playing, but as he and the noble drew nearer to the lads, he realized that their fight was in earnest. They were pummeling one another with their fists, clawing at each other with filthy hands. Grinsa started to yell something at them, but before he could, Tavis was off his mount, lifting one of the boys off of the other and holding them apart.

One of the boys had blood seeping from his nose, though he clearly had gotten the better of the fight. The other had a cracked lip and a nasty scrape on his cheek that was caked with blood and road dust. This second child fought to keep from crying, and the other boy knew it, judging from the smirk he wore.

“What’s this all about?” Tavis demanded, sounding very much like an angry parent.

Neither boy answered. The one with the bloodied lip swiped at a tear with the back of his hand.

“You,” Tavis said to the other child. “What’s your name?”

“Colum,” the boy said, insolent and sullen. “Colum Gulstef.”

“Why are you fighting, Colum?”

The boy shrugged.

“Do you know who I am?”

“No.”

“Have you ever heard of Tavis of Curgh?”

The boy looked up, suddenly fearful. Then he shook his head. “You’re just saying that. Tavis of Curgh is in prison, or dead, or something. He’s not here.”

Tavis ran a finger over his face, tracing his scars. “You see these? I got them in the dungeons of Kentigern, from the duke himself.”

Colum’s eyes widened. The other boy was staring at Tavis as if the young lord were a wraith or a demon, anything but what he was: a young man, falsely accused, who had fought with all his wits and strength to regain his reputation. Grinsa wasn’t certain what Tavis hoped to accomplish by scaring the lads, but he waited and watched.

In the next moment, Colum looked at the gleaner. “Is he telling the truth?”

“Yes. This is Tavis of Curgh. As you can see he’s neither dead nor a prisoner.”

“Whatever else you might think I am,” Tavis said, drawing the boy’s gaze once more, “I’m also a noble of the House of Curgh. And when a noble asks you a question, he expects an answer. Now, one last time, why were you fighting?”

Colum didn’t appear entirely convinced, but he did seem to sense that there was more risk in evading the question than in answering it.

“Innis called me a coward,” the boy said.

Tavis turned to the other boy. “You’re Innis?”

The child swallowed, then nodded.

“Why did you call Colum a coward?”

Innis looked away. “Because he called me a traitor.”

“And why did he call you that?”

The second boy said nothing, his gaze still averted.

“Because his father refuses to fight for the king,” Colum said. “My father followed King Kearney to war, but Innis’s father won’t go. He says Kearney isn’t the true king and so he refuses to fight. Doesn’t that make him a traitor?”

“Does not!” Innis launched himself at Colum, fists and feet flailing.

Tavis pushed him back so forcefully that Innis stumbled and fell, landing on his rear.

Colum gave a small laugh, but Grinsa was watching Tavis, whose face seemed to have turned to stone.

“Go home, Colum,” the young lord said, his voice flat.

“But I didn’t-”

“Go. You and Innis were friends this morning; you’ll be friends tomorrow. Go home and clean yourself up. If your father’s gone to war, then your mother has that much more need of you.”

The boy lingered a moment longer, eyeing Innis, who still sat in the road. Then he started away. After only a few steps, however, he turned to look at Tavis again. “Are you really Tavis of Curgh?”

“Yes, I am. In another few days I hope to be fighting beside your father in the king’s army. It will be my honor to call him a comrade.”

Colum just stared, as if he didn’t know how to reply. At last he turned and ran, no doubt to tell his mother of his encounter with the strange, scarred man.

Tavis turned to the other boy. “Get up.”

He took a step toward the boy and Innis scrabbled away on his hands and feet, never taking his eyes off Tavis’s face.

“I said, get up.” Tavis drew his blade.

Grinsa started to say something, then stopped himself. A year ago he would have truly feared for the lad’s safety, but not anymore. Whatever Tavis had in mind, the gleaner was certain that he wouldn’t actually harm Innis.

“My father’s not a traitor! And neither am I! I don’t care what you and Colum say!”

“All I said was, get up.”

The boy stood slowly. His whole body seemed to be trembling.

“Do you know why men like your father question the king’s authority?”

Innis shook his head. Watching him, Grinsa wasn’t even sure that the boy understood the question.

“Because when I was imprisoned for the murder of Lady Brienne, Kearney believed me innocent. Few others did, but that didn’t stop him from-” He stopped himself, smiled briefly. “From helping me. That’s all. That’s what all this is about. I didn’t kill her, and I’ve just come from Wethyrn, where I killed the man who did.” He held up his sword. “With this blade. That’s the truth. I swear it to you on Brienne’s memory.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you understand?”

Innis hesitated, then shook his head.

“Do you believe that I’m telling you the truth?”

“I think so.”

“Well, perhaps that’s a start. You should go home, too, Innis. Don’t call your friend a coward anymore. And make certain that you clean up that scrape on your face. You don’t want to end up with scars like these.”

He grinned. Innis didn’t.

“Tell your father what I told you, as much of it as you can remember. Maybe that will do some good.” He glanced at Grinsa, who offered a sympathetic smile. “Go on,” he said, facing the boy again and sheathing his steel.

Innis cast a quick look at the gleaner before he, too, ran off.

“I guess I didn’t handle that so well.”

“Actually, I thought you did fine.”

“They both probably think I’m mad.”

“Colum doesn’t. He believes you, and from now on, when he thinks of his father, he’ll picture the two of you fighting together. There’s no harm in that.”

Tavis swung himself back onto his mount. “How many men like Innis’s father do you think there are in Eibithar?”

“Probably quite a few.” They began to ride. “The Rules of Ascension are often revered in Eibithar as a great source of harmony for the realm. Because power is shared, and because the rules provide for almost every contingency when it comes to choosing a new sovereign, most assume that they’ve prevented civil wars.”

“You don’t think they have?”

“I don’t know-no one does really. But I do believe that they’ve engendered a great deal of resentment among the major houses. In Aneira, at least until recently, House Solkara has held power, and no one has doubted for even a moment that when one king dies, another will rise from the royal house to replace him. The same can be said of House Yserne and the queens of Sanbira, or of House Enharfe in Caerisse. Here, it’s not nearly so simple. There’s the expectation that the major houses will share power, and when it doesn’t turn out that way, those houses that fail to place a king on the Oaken Throne grow bitter and envious.”

“But Glyndwr hasn’t claimed a king since the Grand Venture. Surely the other majors can’t begrudge the House of Wolves one king in four hundred years.”

“They can if it keeps one of their own from wearing the crown. Renald doesn’t care that it’s Kearney of Glyndwr living in Audun’s Castle rather than a Thorald or a Curgh. He knows only that Galdasten has been passed over, and that under the rules his house will have no claim to the throne for another four generations.”

“These are Sussyn lands, Grinsa. Or perhaps Domnall’s, this far north. It hardly matters-both are minor houses. They have no part in this quarrel. Why should Innis’s father hate the king so?”

“I can’t say for certain. It may be that he blames you, that he still believes that you killed Brienne and so feels justified in hating this king who protected you. Perhaps he wants no part of this war, and is using Kearney as an excuse not to fight. Or maybe he bears a grudge toward Kearney himself for some reason. But the odd thing is, if your father had ascended to the throne a year ago, as he was supposed to, it’s quite likely that Innis’s father would be following his commands without question.”

“The conspiracy,” Tavis said, a pained look on his face.

“Yes. As I’ve told you before, they knew the realm’s weaknesses better than we did ourselves.” Grinsa glanced up at the sun, marking its progress toward the western horizon. Storm clouds loomed in the distance, and the gleaner doubted that the fine weather they had enjoyed since leaving Glyndwr would last the night. “Don’t be too angry with Innis and his father. They’re victims of the Weaver as well, though they don’t know it.”

The young lord frowned. “I suppose. But I can’t help feeling that all of us have made it far too easy for renegades to succeed.”

They continued northward, riding well past sundown, eating a light meal in the saddle, and stopping only long enough for their mounts to drink from the wash and eat some of the sweet grasses growing on the Moorlands. As darkness fell, they saw torches burning in distant fields. Tavis pointed them out with some alarm, and for a moment Grinsa wondered if this was some new mischief of the Weaver or his servants.

Then he remembered that Elined’s waning had begun, and he guessed that the torches belonged to farmers out walking among their crops. According to the moon legends, if crop seedlings didn’t break through the goddess’s earth by Pitch Night, the last night of the turn, the harvest was doomed. Judging from the soft green they had seen in field after field as they rode the past few days, Grinsa guessed that the farmers had nothing to fear from omens this year. But it had become tradition in the farming villages of the Forelands for families to walk in the fields during the nights of the goddess’s waning.

When their mounts grew too weary to go on, Grinsa and Tavis finally stopped for the night. Lightning flickered in the distance and the low growl of thunder rode a warm wind. They ate a bit more, then slept amid the grasses, only to be awakened just before dawn by a loud thunderclap and a sudden hard downpour. The storm lasted only a short while, but with its passing the air grew colder, bringing a dawn too dreary and raw for so late in the planting. A stiff wind blew from the north, and a fine, chilling mist fell on the Moorlands. Tavis and the gleaner rode throughout the day, hunched in their riding cloaks, damp and miserable. They would have preferred to ride on into the night once more, but with no light from the moons, they had little choice but to make camp with the last grey light of day. They spoke little, ate quickly, and were soon huddled on their sleeping rolls.

Grinsa couldn’t be certain how long he had been sleeping when the dream began. His first thought was that he was on the plain near Eardley where he spoke with Keziah on those nights when he entered her dreams. Except that the sky here was black and starless, the only light a brilliant white sun to the east. Recognition crashed over him like a wave just as he felt the Weaver reaching for his magic. For a moment the two of them grappled for control of the gleaner’s power, the Weaver trying to use Grinsa’s own shaping power to shatter the gleaner’s bones, Grinsa fighting desperately to hold him off. He felt panic rising in his chest, consuming his mind, robbing him of his strength. This is how he prevails. The voice was his own, calm, even, the way he might have spoken to Cresenne or Keziah as he explained to them how they could keep the Weaver from harming them. He uses fear and surprise as weapons, turning your emotions against you. His power can’t reach you here. Only yours, which he seeks to wield as he would his own. He only has as much strength as you cede him. Refuse to fear, refuse to give up control, and you defeat him.

“You can’t hurt me,” Grinsa said aloud, feeling his initial confusion sluice away, and with it the dread that had touched his heart for one fleeting moment.

“Can’t I? I’m in your mind, gleaner. It’s but a small matter to take hold of your magic.” Brave words, but Grinsa heard frustration in the man’s voice.

They continued to struggle, though on that plain of Grinsa’s dream, both of them stood utterly still, the Weaver shrouded in shadow against the blinding light, his fists clenched. Again and again he tried to turn Grinsa’s magic against him; shaping, fire, healing, even delusion, as if he hoped to fool the gleaner into thinking him a friend. But Grinsa held him at bay, guarding his powers as a king might his gold. After several moments of this, he had an idea. Reaching for his fire magic, he tried to raise a flame that would counter the gleaming white light of the Weaver and allow him to see the man’s face. He had done this once before, when he saved Cresenne from the Weaver’s assault in Audun’s Castle, and had caught a glimpse of his enemy. Golden eyes, a square regal face.

If Grinsa could hold him here longer, he might manage to see the Weaver’s face again, and, more important, he might see enough of the plain to recognize it.

The Weaver sensed his danger instantly. Immediately, he stopped struggling for control of Grinsa’s other magics and fought with all his might to keep the fire from the gleaner’s hand.

“What is it you’re hiding, Weaver?” Grinsa asked, a grin springing to his lips. “The plains near Muelry perhaps? Or Ayvencalde Moor?”

Only a turn before, while Tavis was fighting the assassin on the Wethy Crown, Grinsa had been locked in a battle of his own against a Qirsi merchant sent by the Weaver to kill him. The man had died before Grinsa could learn from him all that he wished to know. But the merchant had said something about paying the conspiracy’s couriers on behalf of the Weaver, and of the Weaver’s fears that any direct payments might be traced back to him. Grinsa had surmised from this that the Weaver was in Braedon, where merchants and lords alike used different currency from that used in the other six realms. Imperial qinde, it was called. What other reason could the Weaver have for channeling his payments through the merchant?

But if the Weaver was shaken by hearing him guess at the plain’s location, he gave no outward sign of it.

Instead he laughed, harsh and cruel. “It’s too late for that, gleaner. You’re still trying to figure out who I am, and where you can find me. In the meantime, I’ve already won. As we speak, the armies of the Eandi are preparing to fight their foolish wars-some have already begun. Soon they’ll have rendered themselves helpless against my offensive. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“You haven’t won yet. If you had, you wouldn’t be bothering with me, and you wouldn’t still be hiding your face.”

“I didn’t come here because I fear you, or because I have to defeat you before I can win. I came to avenge a friend. That’s all.”

“The merchant.”

At that, for the first time, Grinsa sensed some hesitation on the Weaver’s part. “What do you know about him?”

“About Tihod? Quite a bit. He told me much before he died.”

“I don’t believe you. He wouldn’t have told you anything.”

“I never gave him the choice. I have mind-bending magic just as you do, remember?”

Again the Weaver tried to seize his magic, the onslaught coming so suddenly that Grinsa nearly failed to ward himself in time.

Immediately on the heels of the man’s assault, Grinsa tried to summon a flame, but the Weaver stopped him. After a moment their silent struggle ceased. They were like two armies facing one another across a battle plain, evenly matched, neither of them able to advance against the other. The gleaner knew that the wisest course would be to force himself awake, to end this encounter before the Weaver managed to harm him. Of the two of them, only he was truly in danger. The Weaver had entered his dreams; Grinsa couldn’t harm him. The most for which he could hope was an opportunity to learn the Weaver’s identity, and valuable though that information might have been, it was hardly worth risking his life. The time was fast approaching when the Weaver would reveal himself for all the Forelands to see. Yet, even knowing all this, Grinsa couldn’t bring himself to awake from this dream.

For his part, the Weaver seemed just as intent on prolonging their confrontation, though clearly he still felt he had reason to keep Grinsa from seeing his face or the plain on which they stood. If he had truly come merely to avenge Tihod, he was risking a good deal in the name of vengeance.

It almost seemed that their fascination with each other outweighed any sense of peril they might have felt. For his part, Grinsa had never met another Weaver. All his life, he had been unique, harboring a secret that he could share with but a handful of people. As a Qirsi living among the Eandi he had been a curiosity, eliciting awe and contempt in equal measure from those he met. Children coming to his gleaning tent had feared him as much as they did the judgment of the Qiran. This he shared with other Qirsi. But his powers had set him apart from even his own people. None of those whom he counted among his friends and loved ones had ever known what it was to live as he did. Not Keziah, his sister, who knew him as well as anyone; not Pheba, his wife, who might have understood eventually, had she lived long enough; not Tavis, who had journeyed the Forelands with him for much of the past year; not Cresenne, who loved him and who had felt the wrath of this other Weaver. No one truly knew him. Such was the life of a Weaver.

But he couldn’t help but wonder if the same was true of this man standing before him, his face in shadows, his magic like a blade aimed at Grinsa’s heart. Didn’t it make sense that they should be more alike than not? Wasn’t it possible that the leader of the Qirsi conspiracy understood him better than did Keziah or Tavis or Cresenne? In a way, Grinsa and the Weaver had more in common than any two men in the Forelands.

The Weaver seemed to read his thoughts-and why shouldn’t he, walking in Grinsa’s dreams?

“Yes,” he said, his voice low. Grinsa could tell that he was smiling. “We’re not all that different, you and I.”

“You wish to rule the Forelands. I don’t. You send assassins for innocent girls and well-meaning lords; you use your powers to torture and kill; you would gladly plunge all the realms into war in order to feed your ambition. We’re nothing alike.”

“Of course we are. We’re Weavers. We possess powers the likes of which no Eandi can imagine. Indeed, no ordinary Qirsi can fathom what we are. That’s what you were thinking a moment ago, isn’t it? You sense a bond between us. I sense it as well. It’s real, Grinsa. You may hate what I am, but you can’t deny that you see yourself in me, just as I see myself in you.”

“Even if that’s true, what difference does it make?”

“Perhaps none. Perhaps a great deal. Together you and I could destroy the Eandi armies in a matter of hours. These men have never fought against one Weaver, let alone two. We could divide the Forelands between us, create a glorious new world for our people. Tell me, gleaner, do you ever wish for a better life? Do you ever wish that you could reveal the true extent of your powers without fearing execution at the hands of small-minded Eandi nobles?”

Grinsa laughed, but tightened his hold on his magic, expecting another attack at any moment.

“You think my question amusing. But how will you feel if your daughter grows up to be a Weaver, like her father? Will it still seem funny then?”

“If she has to live her life as I have, so be it. I haven’t suffered so greatly for being a Weaver. And if you really cared a whit for my daughter, you wouldn’t have tried to kill her mother.”

“Cresenne betrayed me and she’ll be punished for that.”

“I find it interesting that in trying to turn me to your cause, you speak only of improving the lives of Weavers. I thought you were doing this for all Qirsi.”

“I am!”

“No. You just threatened Cresenne. It seems to me that you care only for those Qirsi who support you and your cause.”

“The rest are traitors! All Qirsi who would devote themselves to serving the Eandi deserve death!”

“Is that the kind of ruler you intend to be, Weaver? Will you execute all who question your vision of the world? Do you intend to kill every Eandi in the Forelands, and all the Qirsi who count the Eandi among their friends?”

“If that’s what it takes to change the world, then yes, I do.”

“And just how are you different from the worst Eandi tyrants of Aneira and Braedon? You’re no better than a Solkaran or a Curtell. Your eyes may be yellow, but your blood runs Eandi.”

He had known the assault would come if he pushed the Weaver far enough, and so was able to defend himself with ease, despite the man’s fury. As the Weaver hammered at his mind, struggling once more to gain control of Grinsa’s shaping power, the gleaner raised his hand and called forth a bright golden flame.

The Weaver’s eyes snapped wide and a low growl escaped his throat. Grinsa felt him try to snuff out the flame, but the gleaner held fast to his magic. Beyond the Weaver, across the rocky moorland on which they stood, Grinsa saw the gentle curve of a coastline and the pale glitter of water. And beyond that, more land. He saw an island to the north-Wantrae Island. The body of water had to be the Strait of Wantrae. Which made this plain. .

“Ayvencalde Moor,” he said aloud. “I’ve never been here, but I know this place.”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter.”

“I beg to differ. You must be the High Chancellor of Braedon. Dusaan jal Kania.” He had first heard the name a few turns before, in the City of Kings. After the Weaver tried to kill Cresenne, she told Grinsa of having been a chancellor in the Weaver’s movement. Since the emperor of Braedon was the only noble in the Forelands who referred to his Qirsi advisors as chancellors, the gleaner had begun to wonder if the Weaver served in the emperor’s court. After his fight with Tihod, his suspicions deepened. Now, seeing the way this man’s face shaded to crimson, he was certain. “You say it doesn’t matter, Dusaan. Your expression tells me otherwise.”

“So you know who I am. How will you explain this to your Eandi allies? Only a Weaver could have learned such a thing. Are you ready to admit to them what you are? Are you ready to die at the hands of your so-called friends?”

“You think them fools. They’re not. When they understand that I can defeat you, that I’m their only hope, they’ll accept who and what I am.”

“You’d let them use you that way? You disgust me.”

Grinsa sensed that the Weaver was about to leave him. “I can find you now, Dusaan. The next time we meet, it will be in your dreams. You’d best be ready.”

“You can’t hurt me, gleaner. And it may be that I can’t hurt you. But I can still reach Cresenne, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

It was only for an instant, a lapse brought on by fear for his love and for his daughter, by his fatigue, and by his belief, wrong though it was, that the Weaver intended to end their conversation. And like a wolf waiting for his prey to show any sign of weakness, Dusaan pounced. Grinsa felt a lancing pain in his temple and then an unbearable pressure on his skull. Fear seized his heart, as if the Weaver himself had reached into his chest and was squeezing his life away. It seemed that his head was being crushed beneath boulders.

Wake up, he heard someone say. Whose voice was that?

Wake up, gleaner. Wake up.

Tavis. Grinsa opened his eyes and felt his world heave and spin. He rolled onto his stomach, pushed himself off the ground and vomited until his gut was empty and his throat was raw.

“You’re bleeding,” Tavis said, as the gleaner sat back on his knees.

Grinsa raised a hand to his temple. His fingers came away damp and sticky.

“You were dreaming of the Weaver.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“For a long time?”

“A shade too long, it would seem.” He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, as if to will away his dizziness. “Do you have any idea of the time?”

“If I had to guess I’d say it was almost dawn.”

Grinsa nodded. He felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. Now he knew why Keziah complained of their conversations disrupting her sleep.

“Can you heal yourself?” the boy asked. “Or do you want me to dress that for you?”

“I’ll take care of it. Thanks.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“I know who he is.”

Tavis sat up. “What?”

“His name is Dusaan jal Kania. He’s the high chancellor of Braedon.”

“You’re certain?”

He nodded.

“That’s just what we’ve been hoping for!”

“I suppose it could be helpful.”

He could barely see the young lord, but he knew that Tavis was frowning. “We’ve been trying to find out something-anything-about this man since early in the snows. And now you know his name and his title. Why aren’t you pleased?”

“You mean aside from the fact that he nearly succeeded in killing me just now?” He winced at what he heard in his own voice. “I’m sorry, Tavis. I’m just not sure that it matters anymore. I don’t think he wanted me to see his face again or to learn his name. But once I had, he didn’t act overly concerned. He thinks he’s won already, and after tonight, I fear that he may be right.”

“As long as you’re still fighting him, he hasn’t won.”

“He beat me just now. I held my own for a time, but in the end he beat me. And he threatened Cresenne’s life again. I’m powerless to protect her. Do you know what that’s like?”

“No. I suppose I don’t. I mean, I’m powerless to do lots of things, but it must be strange for a Weaver to feel that way.”

In spite of everything, Grinsa gave a small laugh. “Yes, it is.”

“I don’t know what to say, Grinsa. We can still go back to the City of Kings. It’s a longer ride now, but we can do it. That way you can protect them both.”

The gleaner gazed southward, though he could see nothing for the darkness and the low clouds. He was sorely tempted to ready the horses immediately and ride back to Audun’s castle. “I can make the journey alone.” He faced Tavis again. “I know how anxious you are to join your father and Hagan and Xaver in the north.”

“All right,” the boy said. There could be no mistaking the hurt in his voice. “But think about it, gleaner. The Weaver may have threatened Cresenne hoping that you would do just this. You’ve said yourself that it won’t be long until he shows himself. He’s just waiting for the court armies to weaken themselves enough that he’ll have nothing to fear from them. What if this is part of his plan as well? What if he doesn’t want you there? He can defeat the armies, but he doesn’t want to face you as well. And what better way to ensure that he won’t have to than to threaten the woman you love.”

“I don’t think he fears me that much, not after this night.”

“You didn’t hurt him at all?”

“I couldn’t. He entered my dream. I couldn’t attack him; I could only hope to keep him from harming me. And I failed at that.”

“But you’re saying that he had nothing to fear from you.”

“Only that I might raise a fire and see his face.”

“And you did that.”

“Yes.”

Tavis opened his arms wide. “Then tonight proves nothing. It would be as if I had entered a battle tournament unarmed and then assumed because I lost that I was a poor swordsman.”

Again, Grinsa had to smile. It was crude analogy, but the boy raised a valid point.

“I can’t tell you what to do about Cresenne,” Tavis went on. “And if you feel that you have to be with her and Bryntelle, I’ll understand. But if the Weaver wasn’t afraid of you, he wouldn’t have entered your dreams, and he wouldn’t have said anything about Cresenne. If he merely wanted her dead, he’d kill her and gloat about it afterward. He’s trying to confuse you, to give you pause before you reach Galdasten. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense.”

He knew Tavis was right. The Weaver’s strength lay in his ability to sense the weakness in his opponent and turn it to his own advantage. He had done this time and again in his efforts to bring down the courts, and he had done it just now to Grinsa. The pain in his head, the gash on his temple-these were nothing. The true wound had been inflicted on Grinsa’s mind. Dusaan had struck at the gleaner’s courage, at his resolve, at the love he shared with Cresenne and their daughter. These were the flaws in his armor, the places where the Weaver could draw blood. A paradox, for they were also the sources of Grinsa’s strength.

He closed his eyes and again raised a hand to his temple, drawing upon his magic. After a moment, he felt the skin beginning to heal.

When the pain had subsided, he opened his eyes once more. The sky to the east was starting to brighten. One of the horses nickered and an owl called in the distance.

“I’m ready to ride when you are,” Grinsa said.

Tavis merely nodded, and together they broke camp.