Shapers of Darkness

Chapter Four

Glyndwr Highlands, Eibithar

Tavis of Curgh and Grinsa jal Arriet were less than a day’s ride from Glyndwr Castle when the storm hit. They had awakened that morning to a freshening wind and dark, angry skies. In the time it took them to eat a small breakfast and break camp, the rain began, accompanied by distant echoes of thunder, and gusts of wind that flattened the grasses and made their riding cloaks snap. Still, they climbed onto their mounts and resumed their journey northward, hoping to reach the rim of the steppe before dusk, perhaps with time enough to begin their descent.

Even as they rode, though, Grinsa repeatedly cast anxious glances to the west, marking the progress of the storm. The thunder quickly grew louder and the sky flashed continuously. Soon it was raining so hard, Tavis could hardly see. Lightning arced overhead, sinuous and brilliant, making the young lord flinch. He could feel his horse straining against the reins, the beast’s dark eyes wide and wild.

“It’s no good!” the gleaner shouted to him, his voice barely carrying over the gale.

He reined his mount to a halt and Tavis did the same.

“We have to stop!”

“Do you want to turn back?” Tavis asked. They were closer to Glyndwr Castle than they were to the end of the steppe, and the young lord felt certain that Kearney the Younger, the king’s son, who was now duke in the House of Wolves, would welcome them and offer shelter and food until the weather cleared.

But Grinsa shook his head, blinking the rain from his pale yellow eyes. “We can’t ride in this!” he said.

Tavis nodded. No doubt the gleaner was no more eager than he to return to Glyndwr. Grinsa, the young noble knew, wanted only to reach the City of Kings, where he could see Cresenne, hold his child, and protect them both from the Weaver. Already they had been away from Audun’s Castle for far longer than they had intended, and with each day that passed the danger to Cresenne increased.

For his part, Tavis was eager to ride north, beyond Audun’s Castle, to the Moorlands, where the war with Braedon would be waged. He hungered to defend the realm and fight alongside his father and his pledged liege man, Xaver MarCullet. For too long, the young lord had been an exile, wrongly accused of murdering Lady Brienne of Kentigern and obsessed with his desire to find and kill the assassin who sent his queen to Bian’s realm. He had his revenge now-Cadel was dead by his hand. And though the man’s death hadn’t brought him peace, it had at least ended his pursuit, giving him the freedom to return to Eibithar and claim his place as a noble of the realm.

“So what do you suggest?” Tavis asked. Wind lashed at them, driving the rain so that it stung his face. The air wasn’t cold, but already his clothes were soaked through. He would have given all the gold he carried to be back in Glyndwr, sitting beside a fire and sipping tea.

“There was a cluster of stones back a ways. We could take shelter there.”

It didn’t seem as inviting as the castle, but it would be an improvement over the open plain. He nodded. “Lead the way.”

Tavis had little sense of where these stones were, but he followed the gleaner, trusting him to find them again, despite the rain. Lightning twisted across the sky, illuminating the highlands as might the sun. An instant later, a clap of thunder made the ground quake.

“There!” Grinsa called to him, pointing.

Squinting and shielding his eyes with an open hand, Tavis could barely make out the hulking outlines of several boulders, huddled together as if seeking comfort from one another.

“I see it!”

There were stones strewn all about the grasses here, and the two riders steered their mounts among them, eager now for any shelter against the tempest.

Before they could reach the stones, lightning struck again, so close to where he was riding this time that Tavis could hear it sizzle, like fat cooking on an open fire. The air around him seemed to explode, the noise of the blast crashing down on him like a giant fist. Abruptly he was sprawled on the ground, rain filling his mouth and nostrils. He sat up, sputtering. His mount was a short distance off, just slowing to a trot. It had been years since he was last thrown from a horse, and in spite of the storm and the rain and the dull ache in his back, the young lord began to laugh.

“It’s a good thing for me that the grasses grow thick in this part of the highlands,” he said. “Wouldn’t you say?”

No reply.

“Grinsa?”

Tavis scrambled to his feet and spun around, looking for the gleaner.

“Grinsa?” he called again, louder this time.

He spotted the Qirsi’s horse near his own, but saw no sign of his companion. Feeling panic rise in his chest, the boy fought to keep his composure. Grinsa had been ahead of him. Had he been thrown, too? He scanned the ground, and quickly spotted the gleaner’s body, the man’s white hair standing out starkly against the dark grasses.

Tavis ran to where the gleaner lay and knelt beside him. “Grinsa!”

The Qirsi was lying on his side, his head leaning against one of the grey stones. Tavis knew little of healing; the man’s limbs rested as they might if he were sleeping and the boy didn’t think any of his bones were broken. But even with the rain still pouring down on them, Tavis could see a trickle of blood flowing from a wound on the back of Grinsa’s head. Probing the injury gently with his fingers, he felt a large welt forming.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Grinsa? Can you hear me?”

The gleaner didn’t stir.

A gust of wind made him shiver, and he peered ahead through the storm toward the cluster of boulders they had been trying to reach. Bending close to the gleaner’s face, Tavis felt the man’s breath against his cheek. At least he was alive.

The young lord slung the gleaner’s arm over his shoulder and struggled to his feet, wrapping his other arm around Grinsa’s body and lifting the gleaner with him. Grinsa was a large man, both taller and broader than Tavis, and the boy could barely support him.

Lightning struck again nearby, and earsplitting thunder followed an instant later. Tavis forced himself into motion, half dragging the gleaner, half carrying him. The thick grasses, which had cushioned his own fall just a short time before, now became his adversary, slowing his progress and making him stumble repeatedly. He was quickly winded, his shoulder and back aching, but he kept his eyes fixed on the boulders before him, refusing to stop. Wind and rain lashed at his face, noticeably colder now.

“There’s worse weather moving in,” he said, as if Grinsa could hear him. “And I’ve no way to build us a fire.”

When at last he reached the boulders, he found that there were several narrow passages into the sheltered space they created, but none so wide that he could simply walk the gleaner through. Instead, he had to turn sideways and pull him past the stones, taking care that he didn’t further injure the man. The sky flashed brightly again, and the ground trembled as if some great beast of Bian’s realm were struggling to sunder the very earth on which they stood. Tavis wondered briefly where the horses might be by this time, but he knew that this was the least of his concerns.

With one last heave, he pulled Grinsa into the circle of stones and crumpled to the ground, the gleaner collapsing on top of him. Tavis rolled Grinsa off of him as carefully as he could and pushed him nearer to one of the hulking boulders that now surrounded them. It still rained on them-the stones couldn’t shelter them from that-but without the wind, the air felt somewhat warmer and the rain didn’t sting his eyes and face.

The young lord stood and looked around, and as he did, his heart sank. There was a small ring of stones in the middle of the space, and within it much ash and several pieces of blackened wood. A small pile of unburned wood had been stacked on the far side of the sheltered area, along with a small rusted hatchet and what looked like the pieces of a crude wooden cooking spit.

“Brigands.” Tavis looked at Grinsa, unsure of how he could possibly move the gleaner again, or where else they might go. Highland thieves might have several hiding spots of this sort between here and Glyndwr. No doubt they’d be returning to one of them before long-weather like this made even the hardiest of men seek shelter-but there was no guarantee that they would choose this one. He’d seen no sign of the men yet, but with the torrent nearly blinding him, that probably didn’t mean much.

He crossed to Grinsa again and squatted down to examine the gleaner’s wound. The swelling was getting worse, and Grinsa hadn’t moved or made a sound. The hair on the back of the Qirsi’s head was stained crimson. The gleaner, Tavis had once noticed, carried a small pouch of comfrey leaves with him, but all their possessions were with the mounts. Including their food and their skins of water.

Tavis let out a deep sigh. “I’ll be back,” he whispered.

Stepping out from the shelter of the stones, he was assaulted once more by the chilling wind and rain. If anything, the storm had grown fiercer, the gale more biting. Fortunately, the horses were not far off. They stood together amid the grasses and stones, looking miserable, their heads held low.

As Tavis drew near them, Fean, his mount, let out a low nicker and stomped a hoof restlessly.

“It’s all right, boy,” the young lord said, keeping his voice as low as he could in the storm, and slowing his approach. “It’s all right.” Reaching the animals, he took Fean’s reins in hand and began to lead him back toward the boulders, hoping Grinsa’s horse would follow. He did.

Another flicker of lightning made both animals start, but the thunder didn’t follow immediately, nor did it make the ground shudder so. Tavis wanted to believe that the storm was passing, though the rain and wind hadn’t slackened. When they came to the circle of boulders, both horses balked at squeezing through the narrow passages into the sheltered area. Tavis tried for several moments to coax them through, but decided in the end that all of them would probably be better off with the animals just outside.

He carried the food and sleeping rolls into the ring of boulders, then checked on Grinsa again. From what he could tell, the gleaner hadn’t moved. On the other hand, his injury didn’t look any worse. Using the sleeping rolls as blankets, Tavis covered his friend. He found the comfrey, crushed a few leaves between his fingers, and placed them on the Qirsi’s wound, tying them in place with a strip of cloth that he tore from the bottom of his riding cape.

“You owe me a new cloak, gleaner.”

He stared at the man for a moment, searching for any sign at all that Grinsa could hear him. Seeing none, he turned his attention to the small pile of wood and the fire ring. Tavis hadn’t realized until now just how much he had come to depend upon Grinsa’s magic. As a noble, he had never needed to bandage a wound, his own or anyone else’s. He couldn’t remember the last time he had built a fire by himself. He carried a flint in his travel sack, but with the wood soaked and the rain still falling he had little hope that it would do him any good.

Nevertheless, he retrieved it and started trying to build a fire. The air continued to grow colder, and the young lord had no doubt that by nightfall they would have need of warmth. He piled the wood in the fire ring and even found a small tuft of dried grass in a crevice in one of the boulders. But though he managed to light the grass aflame, the wood would not burn. And once that small bit of dry grass was gone, he had little else to use as kindling. At last he gave up, returning to Grinsa’s side and huddling against a stone to escape the rain.

The Qirsi looked even paler than he did usually, and his skin felt cold against the back of Tavis’s hand.

“What should I do for you, Grinsa? I don’t know how to heal your wound, and I don’t dare try to get you back to Glyndwr in this weather.”

As if to confirm this, lightning flared overhead, and was answered almost instantly by a tremendous clap of thunder. This, it turned out, was the last lightning to strike near the cluster of boulders. The sky flickered constantly for much of the rest of the day, but soon the rumbles of thunder grew muffled and distant. After a time, Tavis stood and ventured out of the small sheltered area. The horses were just where he had left them. The rain had eased to a gentle drizzle, but the wind continued to howl, and the young lord could see a dense fog spreading over the highlands from the west, bearing down on them like a great ocean wave. The wind was frigid now, as if it were carrying the snows back to Glyndwr. And they were without a warming blaze.

Tavis returned to the shelter of the boulders, and as he did, the gleaner stirred.

“Gods be praised!” he whispered, rushing to the Qirsi’s side. “Grinsa? Can you hear me?”

The gleaner’s head lolled to the side and he let out a low moan.

“Grinsa. You have to wake up. We need a fire, and you need to heal yourself. I can’t do it for you.”

The gleaner whispered something Tavis couldn’t hear.

“What? Say that again.” He leaned close, putting his ear to the man’s mouth.

“Cresenne,” the gleaner said, the name coming out as a sigh.

“No, Cresenne’s not here.”

He stared intently at the gleaner, waiting for him to say more, or move, or do something.

“Grinsa?” he said after a time, gripping the gleaner’s shoulder and shaking him gently.

Nothing.

“Damn!”

He slumped against the nearest boulder, shivering with the cold and wrapping himself more tightly in his damp riding cloak. After a few moments, for want of something better to do, he returned to the wood and his flint. Searching through the pile of logs once more, Tavis found a few scraps of bark and thin branches that seemed relatively dry. He cleared the wood out of the fire ring and piled the bark and twigs. Then he set to work with his dagger and flint once more, desperate now to start any sort of fire.

Before long his hands were cramping. Still, he kept at it. Occasionally he would draw a small wisp of smoke from the scraps of wood, but as soon as he began to blow on the wood, the smoke would vanish and he would be forced to begin again. He should have given up. Several times he threw the flint to the ground, cursing loudly. But always he retrieved it, starting anew. It wasn’t merely his fear for Grinsa that drove him, or the bone-numbing cold, or even his certainty that they would die before the next dawn if they didn’t find a way to warm themselves and dry their clothes and bedrolls. In the end, when fright and desperation failed him, it was pride that made him fight his failure. Curgh pride. For centuries, the nobles of his house had been known for it, ridiculed for it. But pride had kept him alive in Kentigern’s dungeon, allowing him to endure Aindreas’s torches and blades. And pride saved him now.

Somewhere, perhaps in that dungeon, or else in the corridor of an Aneiran inn, wrestling with the assassin Cadel, or perhaps on the Wethy shore, where the singer nearly killed him, Tavis had lost his fear of death. Even knowing that his life would not lead him to the Eibitharian throne, or any other future he had envisioned as a child, he still looked forward to meeting whatever fate the gods had chosen for him. And if they had marked him for an early death-if they had ordained that he should suffer a fatal wound on the battlefield, or succumb to the killing magic of the conspiracy’s Weaver-so be it. But he refused to die here in the highlands, a victim of his own inability to light a fire. He had endured too much in the last year to suffer such an ignominious fate.

He struck at the flint again and again, caring not a whit if he notched the blade of his dagger, ignoring the aching of his hands. The sky grew darker, though from the fog, or new storm clouds, or the approach of night, he didn’t know. Eventually it began to snow, scattered small flakes that landed softly on the grasses and stones and quickly melted. And as these flakes fell, a spark finally flew from his flint and ignited the bark at the center of the fire ring. The flame danced for a moment in the gloom, then died. But Tavis dropped low and began to blow on the small glowing corner of the wood, steadily, gently, adding a second piece of bark as he did.

The bark crackled, and smoke began to rise from the small pile. He added twigs, tiny ones at first, then, gradually, larger pieces, until he had a blaze going. Once the first flames appeared it really didn’t take very long at all.

He straightened, still on his knees, and actually laughed. The boulders around him glowed orange, and his shadow lurked on the stone behind him like some great beast. Already he could feel the fire’s warmth on his face and hands, as welcome as a Qirsi’s healing touch.

He stood slowly, his knees stiff, and walked to Grinsa.

“There’s a fire,” he said, lifting the gleaner and walking him over to the blaze. He laid him down gently once more, and placed the sleeping rolls as close to the fire as he dared, hoping that they would begin to dry. Then he untied the cloth he had wrapped around Grinsa’s head and examined his injury. It looked much as it had the last time he checked. Tavis crushed a few more comfrey leaves and covered the wound again.

As he did, the gleaner made a small whimpering noise, and his eyes fluttered open, then closed again.

“Grinsa? Can you hear me now?”

He mumbled something in response, and Tavis bent closer.

“. . She’s not a traitor. She’s doing this for you, for your kingdom.”

“Grinsa, it’s me, Tavis. We’re in the highlands. You’ve been hurt. You need to wake up and eat something. You need to heal yourself.”

“The Weaver will kill her. He’ll kill all of them.”

“Wake up, Grinsa,” he said again, though he knew it would do no good. “Please.”

The gleaner said something else that Tavis couldn’t understand.

The young lord sat back, shaking his head. “Maybe the fire will help.”

He retrieved the sacks of food they carried and pulled out some dried meat and fruits. After eating and drinking some water, he stepped out of the circle of boulders to make certain the horses were all right. It was definitely growing dark now. The fog had cleared somewhat, though a light snow still fell. Far to the west, near the horizon, Tavis thought he could see an end to the cloud cover and a thin bright line of sky. If they made it through the night, they might be able to return to Glyndwr Castle come morning.

On that thought, he returned to Grinsa and his fire. The blaze burned brightly now, and while he knew that he was being foolish, he couldn’t help but be pleased with himself. He turned the sleeping rolls so that they would dry evenly, placed more wood in the flames, then lay down beside the fire ring, bundling himself in his riding cloak.

He awakened sometime later to a black sky and the soft glow of dying embers. He climbed to his feet and threw more wood on the coals, smiling when they quickly caught fire. Then he went to Grinsa once more and laid the back of his hand on the gleaner’s cheek. His skin still felt cool. After a moment, he stirred, but his eyes remained closed and he said nothing.

The sleeping rolls were nearly dry by now, and Tavis draped one of them over the gleaner and took the other for himself, lying down once more.

When next Tavis woke, it was to the sound of distant voices and the nickering of his mount. The sky above their small shelter had begun to brighten and for a moment the young lord thought that perhaps someone had come to help them. An instant later, though, as he shook himself awake, it all came back to him in a rush. By the time the first of the brigands stepped through the narrow passages into the circle of boulders, Tavis was on his feet, standing over Grinsa, his sword drawn.

Two of the men came through the same entrance Tavis had been using, daggers in hand. They were both of medium build, with dark hair and eyes, and sharp, narrow faces. They must have been brothers; they might even have been twins. Two more men entered through another passageway opposite this first one, both of them armed as well. Tavis was forced to take a step back toward the nearest boulder and open his stance, his eyes darting from one pair to the other.

These other men were as dissimilar as the first two had been alike. One was tall and lean, with a long face and cold, pale eyes. For just a moment, he reminded Tavis of Cadel. His companion was far shorter and powerfully built, his chest and shoulders broad and round. He was bald and he wore a rough, yellow beard.

“Thar’s two of ’em,” this last man called loudly. “Though from th’ looks o’ things, only one is worth worryin’ ’bout.”

A moment later a fifth man entered the circle, using the same entrance used by the twins. And seeing this man, Tavis knew immediately that he was the leader of their gang. He was no larger than any of the others, but he had the body and swagger of a swordsman. He had a handsome face and long, wheat-colored hair that he wore loose to his shoulders. His beard was full, but trim, as if, in spite of the life he led, he took some care in maintaining his appearance.

He stepped to the center of the space, eyeing Tavis with interest, a thin smile on his lips. He held a short sword loosely at his side and a longer blade in a baldric on his back.

“Yer trespassin’, noble.”

If they could get out of this with their lives and their mounts, Tavis would count it a victory, a miraculous one at that. He wasn’t about to anger the man.

“We are,” he said. “And I apologize for that. We were caught in the storm and my friend was hurt. We had no choice but to take shelter here.”

The man’s gaze fell to the fire ring, then slid toward the depleted pile of wood, before returning to Tavis. “Ye stole our wood. It’s no’ easy t’ find out here on th’ highlands.”

“We can pay you for the wood.”

A smile broke over his face. “I’ve no doubt ye can.” He glanced down at Grinsa, then prodded him with his foot. “He looks dead to me, noble.”

“He’s not.”

The brigand’s eyes danced. Clearly, he hadn’t really thought Grinsa was dead. “Wha’ I can’ figure out is why an Eandi noble would be journeyin’ with a white-hair in th’ firs’ place.”

“Maybe th’ Qirsi’s ’is minister,” one of the twins said, and started to laugh.

The others joined in, but the leader raised a hand, silencing them.

“Maybe ’e is. But I don’ think th’ lad’s a duke quite yet. Are ye, lad?”

Tavis felt himself starting to tremble. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? Where’d ye get those scars?”

“A brigand gave them to me. Then I killed him.”

The man laughed. “Ye have some pluck, lad. But I suppose I should ’spect as much from a Curgh.”

The young lord felt cold spreading outward from his chest, as if his blood had turned as icy as Amon’s Ocean. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, not knowing what to say.

The brigand laughed again. “Look, boys. I’ve silenced a noble. An’ no’ jus’ any noble either.” He glanced at the others. “Our frien’ here may be th’ mos’ famous lord in all th’ Forelands.”

“Wha’ ye talkin’ ’bout, Kr-”

The leader’s sword snapped up, so that it was level with the eyes of the stout man, who instantly fell silent.

“No names, ye fool. We haven’ ’cided yet if our frien’ here is goin’ to live out th’ day.”

The bald man just nodded.

“ ’Nough o’ yer games,” the tall one said. “Who is ’e?”

“This, boys, is Lord Tavis o’ Curgh.”

“I thought ’e was dead.”

“No, ye fool.” The leader regarded Tavis again, shaking his head. “No. ’E’s alive, all right. Aren’ ye, lad?”

“You’re mistaken,” Tavis said, his voice unsteady.

“Got those scars from Aindreas, himself, didn’ ye? Word was ye refused t’ go t’ Glyndwr. Wen’t’ Aneira instead. Bu’ here ye’ are, walkin’ th’ highlands with yer Qirsi frien’.”

The tall man stepped closer to the leader. “If ’e’s really th’ Curgh boy,” he said in a low voice, “we shoul’ kill ’im now an’ take ’is gold. Kill th’ Qirsi, too, ’fore ’e wakes up.”

“I don’ think so. ’Is gold’s already ours, isn’t it, lad? An’ I wager ’is father th’ duke will pay a good deal more t’ get ’im back alive.” He looked at Grinsa again. “Qirsi’s another matter. Ye can kill ’im.”

A dark grin spread across the tall man’s face.

Tavis edged closer to the gleaner, his sword still raised. “No,” he said. “You can’t kill him.”

The leader looked amused. “An’ why is tha’?”

Because he’s a Weaver. Because without him all the Forelands will fall to the Qirsi renegades. “You’re right about me. I am Tavis of Curgh, son of Javan, heir to the dukedom. And this is Fotir jal Salene, my father’s first minister. The duke sent him to Glyndwr to bring me north, so that I can fight beside the men of my house in the war against the empire.”

One of the twins shook his head. “’E’s lyin’. Thar ain’ no war.”

“Not yet, perhaps. But the Braedon fleet is poised off Galdasten’s shores, waiting for the emperor’s orders. They’ll attack soon, and when they do the entire realm will march to war.”

“I tell ye, ’e’s lyin’.”

The leader was watching Tavis, his eyes narrowed. Now he gave a slight shake of his head. “I don’ think ’e is.” He looked at the twins. “ ’Member th’ las’ time we was near th’ castle, th’ way th’ gate soldiers was turnin’ peddlers away? Lad’s right. War’s comin’.”

“Well, even so,” the tall one said, “wha’s tha’ got t’ do wi’ th’ white-hair?”

“A duke riding to war wants his ministers with him, particularly his first minister.” Tavis met the leader’s gaze, sensing that he had the man’s interest. “My father will pay handsomely for his life as well as for mine.”

“Keepin’ th’ white-hair alive is dangerous,” the tall one said. “Le’ me kill ’im now.”

“Mos’ times I would,” the leader said, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “Bu’ look at ’im. ’E might no’ be dead, but ’e’s close.”

“Even half dead, ’e’s still a sorcerer. We should-”

“No,” the leader said, glaring at the man. “We keep them both alive.” He faced Tavis again. “Provided ye drop yer blade.”

The young lord eyed the man briefly, then glanced at the others. He might be able to kill one or two of the men, but he would never fight his way past all of them. Better to surrender now and win some time for Grinsa to recover. Exhaling, he tossed his sword to the ground.

The stout man quickly stooped to retrieve it.

The leader nodded. “Thar’s a good lad. Bind their han’s an’ feet,” he said to the twins. “An’ make sure ye take their daggers.”

“Wait!” Tavis said. “Can I check his injury first? I’ve got comfrey leaf on it, but I haven’t looked at it since last night.”

The leader’s face hardened, and the young lord thought he would refuse. After a moment, however, he gave a curt nod. “Watch ’im,” he commanded.

One of the twins took the dagger from his belt, and from the gleaner’s as well, while the other examined the pouch of comfrey before handing it to Tavis.

Grinsa’s wound seemed to be healing; certainly the swelling had gone down overnight. Tavis would have been happier had the gleaner shown some sign of awakening, but at least his injury didn’t appear to be diseased. He crushed a few fresh leaves and retied the cloth.

“Tha’s enough, noble,” one of the men said, as Tavis adjusted the bandage. “Leave ’im.”

They yanked the young lord away from Grinsa and tied his hands at the wrists, then sat him up with his back against a boulder as they bound his ankles together. When they had tied Grinsa, they stretched him out beside Tavis and walked away to speak among themselves. After a few moments, the twins left the shelter, returning a short time later with the few items Tavis had left with the horses.

“What did you do with our mounts?” he demanded.

“I think ye mean our mounts,” the leader said with a smirk. “An’ wha’ we did with ’em is none o’ yer concern.”

Tavis held the man’s gaze for several moments, but looked away at last, knowing that he was powerless to keep the men from doing whatever they wished, not only with the horses, but also with Tavis and the gleaner.

“Wake up, Grinsa,” he whispered. “For pity’s sake, wake up.”

Wretched and helpless, Tavis just watched as the brigands counted out the gold he and Grinsa had been carrying, feasted on their food, and toyed with their weapons.

The morning passed slowly. Tavis struggled to free his hands, but the brigands had tied them all too well. All he succeeded in doing was chafing his wrists until they were raw and bloody. He glanced at Grinsa repeatedly, hoping the gleaner would awaken and wondering if Qirsi shaping power worked against rope.

“How’d ye do it, noble?”

Tavis looked up to find the leader watching him, his mouth full of dried meat from the kitchens of Glyndwr Castle.

“Do what?”

“Escape Kentigern, o’ course. There’s men tha’ said i’ couldn’ be done. I, myself, know o’ four men tha’ died there. None o’ them fools mind ye, and all o’ them bigger an’ stronger than ye. An’ here ye are, no’ much more ’an a boy, an’ ye got out. So I’m askin’, how’d ye do it?”

Grinsa did it, he wanted to say. He shattered the walls of Kentigern Castle just as he’ll shatter your skull when the time comes. But he knew that if he gave even the barest hint of the gleaner’s abilities these men would kill the Qirsi before he ever regained consciousness. “I had help,” he replied at last, looking away. “I couldn’t have done it alone.”

The brigand laughed. “Well, I know tha’. But wha’ kind o’ help?”

“Why should I tell you?”

Tavis heard the whisper of steel. Looking at the man again, he saw him holding Grinsa’s dagger, testing the blade with his thumb, a small smile on his lips.

“ ’Cause if ye don’, I’ll kill yer frien’.”

The young lord turned away again, closing his eyes for just a moment and cursing his weakness. “There was a merchant in the city, a Qirsi. He had shaping magic. The first minister here knew of him and enlisted his help.”

“A shaper, eh? Now tha’ I believe.”

Tavis said nothing.

“Actually, we’re no’ tha’ different, are we?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I never killed a girl before, but I’ve been in my share o’ prisons, an’ I’ve been a fugitive even longer ’an ye.”

He glared at the man, not caring that his hands were bound, or that the brigand held a blade. “I didn’t kill her!”

“O’ course ye didn’.” He heard disbelief in the man’s voice. The brigand was mocking him.

Tavis knew that he shouldn’t care. These men were nothing. Many of the people he needed to convince-Kearney and the other nobles, his parents, Hagan and Xaver-already believed him, and the rest would with time. That was what mattered.

But he had struggled too long to prove his innocence, and had suffered too much for being accused of Brienne’s murder. He couldn’t bring himself to suffer the man’s ridicule.

“It’s true,” he said, meeting the brigand’s gaze. “She was killed by an assassin, a man hired by the Qirsi renegades. They thought to start a civil war by pitting my house against Kentigern.”

“An’ where’s this assassin now?”

“He’s dead. I killed him on the Wethy Crown less than half a turn ago.”

The man laughed aloud. “Ye did. All b’ yerself.”

“Yes.”

He kept his eyes fixed on those of the brigand, and gradually the man’s laughter faded. “Did th’ Qirsi help ye wi’ tha’, too?”

“No.” Tavis hesitated. It was one thing to tell the man he had killed Cadel; it was quite another to claim that he had done it without any help. But how did he explain his strange confrontation with Brienne’s killer? How did he justify killing Cadel after the assassin had lowered his blade? “I’m not sure how it happened really. The assassin. .” He shook his head, deciding in the end that this brigand didn’t deserve any more of an explanation. “I was just lucky.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Yer a strange ’un, lad. No’ like most nobles I’ve known.” He sheathed the blade and turned away. “Give ’em some food an’ water,” he said to the nearest of the twins.

“ ’E looks well fed t’ me. ’E can go withou’ fer a time.”

The leader lunged for him, grabbing a handful of the man’s hair and pulling his face close to his own. “I said give ’im some.” He shoved the twin away, making him stumble. The man glared at him for a moment, hatred in his eyes. Then he tossed two pieces of dried meat onto the grass just in front of Tavis.

“How am I supposed to eat with my hands bound?”

The twin leered at him. “Ye can eat it like a dog, noble.”

The others laughed, including the leader. Tavis just turned his face away. No doubt there would come a time later in the day when his hunger got the better of his pride, but for now he left the meat where it was.

“Sounds like we’re having a rough time of it.”

Tavis’s eyes flew to Grinsa’s face. “Gods be praised!” he said, his voice a breathless whisper.

“Shhh.” The gleaner’s eyes were still closed, and he kept his voice so low that Tavis had to lean closer just to hear him. “What’s happened?”

“What do you remember?”

“The storm. Riding back to the cluster of boulders.”

“That’s where we are now.”

“There was a lightning strike. My mount reared. I recall nothing after that.”

“You fell, hit your head on a stone. You’ve been unconscious ever since. It seems the cluster of boulders is used as a shelter by these brigands.”

“Not one of my better ideas, eh? When was that?”

“Just yesterday. How do you feel?”

“Ay! Who’s ’e talkin’ to?” the tall brigand called before Grinsa could answer.

The nearest of the twins strode toward them. “Th’ whitehair’s awake!”

“You’re Fotir!” Tavis whispered quickly.

“What?”

The lord had no time to explain. The twin grabbed Grinsa by the collar and hoisted him into a sitting position. The gleaner let out a groan, making Tavis wonder if he was trying to fool the brigands into thinking that he was worse off than he really was. A moment later, though, Grinsa vomited down the front of his cloak. The twin took a step back.

The leader approached slowly, his blade drawn, and his eyes fixed on the gleaner.

“Ye don’ look well, Minister,” the man said. “Th’ lad will tell ye tha’ if ye stay still, an’ don’ do nothin’ foolish, ye won’ get hurt. Otherwise, I’ll kill ye. Understan’?”

Grinsa gave a small nod, then gingerly leaned his head back against the stone.

“With any luck, yer lord will pay a ransom fer both o’ ye, and we’ll be done. If no’. .” He shrugged.

“Water?” the gleaner asked weakly.

The brigand eyed him, frowning slightly. At last he nodded and walked away. “Give ’im some water,” he said over his shoulder. “An’ watch ’im.”

The same twin who had given Tavis the food carried over one of the water skins. He looked like he might just throw it down as he had the meat, but he appeared to realize that wouldn’t work in this case. He glanced at the leader, opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut again. In the end, he squatted down in front of the gleaner, a sour look on his face, and held the skin as Grinsa drank.

After he had moved off a short distance, Tavis asked again, “How do you feel?”

“Terrible.”

“Can you heal yourself?”

“I don’t dare try.”

“Why not?”

“Qirsi magic is controlled with the mind. My head’s been injured. Trying to heal myself would be like a surgeon operating on himself with a dulled blade. Given time, I should recover. But I’d prefer to find a healer, one of my own kind.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

“You’ve kept us alive so far. I trust you’ll think of something.”

“Grinsa-”

“I may be able to shatter a blade or two, Tavis, but beyond that I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

The young lord glanced at the brigands, who were largely ignoring them. “You shouldn’t apologize. I’ve just. . I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. .” He shook his head. “Never mind. When the time comes, shatter their limbs, not their blades. They’re carrying our weapons.”

Grinsa smiled weakly, his eyes closed again.

“Can you do anything to the ropes?”

“No. Shaping magic works best on something harder-stone, steel, rock. I can burn the ropes, but they’ll notice that.”

Tavis simply nodded, and the two of them fell into a lengthy silence. After a time, the gleaner’s breathing slowed, and Tavis guessed that he had fallen asleep. With nothing better to do, he closed his eyes as well.

He awoke with a start when someone kicked his foot. His arms and back were aching and his stomach felt sour and hollow.

“Wake up, noble.” The leader’s voice.

“I’m awake,” he said blinking his eyes against the light. The sun was just overhead, warming the boulders and grasses within the shelter.

The brigand nodded toward Grinsa. “Is ’e well ’nough t’ move?”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“I’m askin’ th’ questions, noble. Can ’e move?”

Tavis faltered, addled with sleep, and unsure of whether he and Grinsa would have a better chance of escaping if they remained where they were.

“I can move,” Grinsa said, his voice sounding stronger than it had earlier.

Tavis glanced at him, their eyes meeting. “Are you certain?”

A smile flitted across his face. “No. But I’ll try.”

Clearly the gleaner thought they’d have a better chance in open country. Tavis was in no position to argue.

“I should check his bandage before we go anywhere,” the young lord said. Perhaps if they untied him now. .

“No.” The brigand was eyeing them both with obvious distrust. “ ’Is bandage is fine. We’ll b’ goin’ soon.” He glanced at the strips of dried meat still lying on the ground in front of Tavis. “Ye better eat now. There’ll be nothin’ else ’til nightfall.” With that he walked away.

“Where do you think we’re going?” Tavis asked in a whisper, as the leader began to speak with the others in his band.

“They’re brigands. They probably have hiding places like this one all over the highlands, and I doubt they remain at any one of them for more than a night or two.”

“But they just arrived here this morning.”

“Yes, and they found us. They probably expect the Glyndwr army to turn up any time now.”

Tavis shrugged, conceding the point. “You’re better?”

“A bit, yes. Though I still don’t know how much magic I can chance.”

“Quiet! Both o’ ye!”

“Shaping will be still be hard,” Grinsa said, his voice dropping even further. “But maybe-”

“I told ye t’ be quiet!” the leader said, drawing Tavis’s sword and striding toward them. “I wan’ ye both alive, but tha’ don’ mean I can’ add t’ yer scars, noble, or take out th’ minister’s eyes. Now shut yer mouths!” He turned to look at the others. “I wan’ ’em kept apart, an’ I don’ wan’ ’em untied. We’ll put ’em across th’ horses’ backs.”

Tavis hadn’t taken his eyes off the gleaner. At the mention of the mounts, Grinsa’s eyebrows went up and he gave a slight nod. The brigands didn’t appear to notice.

A few turns ago, the young lord wouldn’t have understood, having known so little about Qirsi magic. Now, though,

Grinsa’s meaning was as clear to him as the brilliant azure sky above the highlands. Language of beasts.

Within moments, Tavis had been lifted roughly, slung over the shoulder of the tall brigand, and carried out of the circle of stones. The twins followed, bearing Grinsa together. The tall man untied the young lord’s hands, then retied them so that they were in front of Tavis rather than behind him. Then he lifted the boy to lay him over the back of one of the mounts-Tavis’s own, as it turned out-loosely securing the young lord’s hands to one stirrup and his feet to the other.

It wasn’t as uncomfortable as Tavis had thought it would be. Or so he thought. As soon as they started moving, he realized that he wouldn’t be able to bear much of this at all. Every step of the mount bounced him, making his head spin and his stomach heave. He closed his eyes, but that didn’t help. He could only imagine how Grinsa was suffering.

The brigands had horses of their own, and they set what seemed to Tavis a punishing pace.

“Gleaner!” he called.

“I know,” came Grinsa’s reply.

“Keep quiet!” the brigand growled.

“Ready?”

“Yes! Just get on with it!”

“Damn ye both! I said-”

Before the leader could finish, one of the horses neighed loudly and someone shouted a curse. An instant later, Tavis’s horse bolted, jostling him mercilessly. He gritted his teeth, his eyes shut once more. He could hear another mount running beside him and he hoped with all his heart that it was Grinsa’s. They seemed to gallop over the grasses for an eternity, until at last his horse slowed, then halted altogether.

“Gods,” Tavis managed to say. “That was-”

“No time, Tavis. They’re coming. Hold out your hands and pull them as far apart as the ropes will allow.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

Tavis did as he was told. An instant later, the small expanse of rope between his wrists burst into flames, singeing his skin. “Demons and fire!” He jerked his hands apart and the rope snapped. Immediately he began beating on first one wrist, then the other, trying to put out the flames. “You could have warned me!”

“Never mind that! I’ll do the same for your feet. When they’re free, ride northward, as fast as you can!”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

Tavis nodded. He could hear other mounts approaching quickly. Soon his feet were free. He jumped down to the ground and made certain that the burning scraps of rope were off of his boots and his mount. Then he swung himself back into his saddle and kicked at the flanks of his horse. “Ride, Fean!” he called to the mount. “Ride hard!”

He glanced back. True to his word, the gleaner was with him. He could see the brigands behind Grinsa. They were bearing down on them, their weapons drawn. The twins led the way, followed by the tall man and his stout friend. The leader trailed the others by some distance. It seemed that his was the mount to which Grinsa had whispered.

An instant later, the two lead riders abruptly halted, one of them screaming and flailing at his head. It took Tavis a moment to realize that his hair was ablaze.

“That should stop them,” Grinsa said. He smiled, but he looked deathly pale, as if the use of so much magic had drained him.

Tavis nodded, gazing back at the men. “They have our weapons, our food, our gold!”

“I know. But we can replace all those things in Glyndwr. We can’t fight them, Tavis.”

He was right, of course. He and the gleaner were alive: they had their mounts. He should have been pleased. But he couldn’t help feeling that they had failed, or rather, that he had failed them both. They were about to ride to war. They intended to do battle with a Weaver and his army of sorcerers. And somehow they had allowed five brigands to take nearly all their most valued possessions.

“It’s all right,” the gleaner said, seeming to read his thoughts, as he did so often. “Sometimes a warrior proves himself best by knowing when to retreat.”

A warrior. He nearly laughed aloud. Whatever he was, he certainly didn’t feel like a warrior.