Weavers of War

Chapter Ten

The Weaver had told Nitara that they would be there, much the way a parent might tell a child that she was to have a younger sibling.

Two of my chancellors await us in the city, to join our assault on the castle and add their number to my army.

They had been at Galdasten’s pier waiting to greet the ship. When Dusaan stepped off the vessel, they knelt before him, compelling the rest in the army, those who had already ridden with him and killed with him, to do the same. A man and a woman. The man was a merchant, with an air of success and wealth about him. He was lean of face, but his body was thick and his belly round. He had lived well.

The woman was said to be a merchant as well, but Nitara found that difficult to believe. She was as young as Nitara, perhaps younger, with thick white hair that she wore loose to her shoulders, and brilliant yellow eyes that were almost a match for Dusaan’s. She was as lean as the other merchant was broad, as beautiful as he was plain. It took Nitara but a moment to understand that they weren’t a couple, that this woman had her sights set higher. One need only see how she looked at Dusaan to know just how high. Nitara hated her before they left the pier. By the time they reached the walls of Galdasten Castle, she was ready to plunge her blade into the woman’s back.

Jastanne ja Triln. The man’s name she already had forgotten, but the woman’s name stuck in her mind like a child’s rhyme, repeating itself again and again. Both merchants had shaping power and mists and winds-it was small wonder they had become chancellors in the Weaver’s movement, or that Dusaan welcomed them into his army with such enthusiasm.

Perhaps he didn’t notice how this woman eyed him, how her cheeks reddened every time their eyes met. Surely he would have been as discomfited by her affections as he had been by Nitara’s. This was no time for such thoughts. They were at war, fighting for the freedom of all Qirsi in the Forelands, fulfilling the dream that had brought them all to the Weaver’s cause in the first place. That was what the Weaver had told her, and that was what he would have told this woman, this Jastanne ja Triln, had he only noticed.

Except that as the Weaver strode toward the great fortress, flanked by his two chancellors, and followed by the rest, including Nitara, Dusaan did appear to notice. When had she ever known him to miss anything? In Jastanne’s case, it seemed he simply didn’t mind.

The ease with which they took the castle should have been cause for rejoicing. Even the unfortunate but necessary execution of Galdasten’s three young lords the following morning would not have been enough to dampen such a victory. But Nitara could think only of how the Weaver had trusted Jastanne and the other chancellor with tasks that would have fallen to her just a day before. He sent Jastanne into the city to find other Qirsi to join their cause; he had the man lead a group of several shapers to imprison Galdasten’s soldiers. In the span of a single day, she had become merely another servant of the Weaver, but a single soldier in a growing army.

The morning after their victory, with the grievous cries of the duchess still echoing through the castle and many of the newly recruited Qirsi guarding the fortress walls, they took nearly every horse in the city and castle, and started southward in pursuit of Galdasten’s army. Again, the chancellors rode with the Weaver; the rest trailed behind. Dusaan had barely said a word to Nitara since they docked in Galdasten; she had little choice but to ride with B’Serre, Rov, and the others from the court of Curtell. If the other ministers had noted her fall from the Weaver’s favor, they had the good sense not to mention it. They made room for her, so that she could ride beside them, and they continued their conversation. Nitara said nothing-she couldn’t take her eyes off the woman riding with her Weaver-but at least she didn’t have to ride alone, looking foolish and pitiable.

Late in the day, as they rested along the banks of a small rill, Jastanne approached them, leading her mount on foot, the wind making her hair dance, the setting sun gleaming like gold in her eyes. In spite of herself, Nitara could see what the Weaver might find attractive in this woman.

“Hello,” she called to them as she approached, a hand raised in greeting.

B’Serre and the others nodded, and Rov called out a tentative “Hello” in return.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all, Chancellor.”

She smiled, though it never reached her eyes. “Good. The Weaver asked me to speak with you. He intends to divide the army into smaller forces, and he’s placed Uestem and me in charge of doing so.”

“Has he really,” Nitara said, her voice flat.

Gorlan shot her a look, and gave a small shake of his head, but Nitara ignored him.

“You’ve been with us for less than a day, and already we’re to take orders from you?”

The smile lingered on Jastanne’s face as she eyed Nitara. Then she turned to the rest of them. “Shapers are to go with Uestem, as are those with fire magic. If you have mists and winds or language of beasts, you’re to stay with me. And if your powers place you with both of us, follow the deeper magic-if you have mists but also fire, stay with me, language of beasts and shaping, go with Uestem.”

“Yes, Chancellor,” Gorlan said. “Thank you.”

“We’ll ride a bit further today. We’ll divide into units tonight when we stop. Uestem will be on the west end of camp, and I’ll be to the east.”

The others nodded, and the woman’s smile broadened.

“I don’t know how all this will separate out, but I look forward to working with as many of you as possible.” She started to walk away, then halted, glancing back over her shoulder at Nitara. “Minister, would you walk with me for a moment?”

Nitara almost refused. She would have given anything for the courage to tell this woman exactly how much she hated her. But Jastanne was the Weaver’s chancellor, and Nitara knew that he would be furious with her. Besides, having both mists and winds and language of beasts, Nitara would be under the woman’s command. What could she do but follow? She knew the others were watching her, wondering if she had already pushed the chancellor too far, but Nitara didn’t look back at them.

“The Weaver has told me a good deal about you,” Jastanne said, when they were alone.

“Has he?”

“Yes. He tells me that you’ve served him quite well since joining the movement. He said you even killed an old lover who betrayed us.”

Quite unexpectedly, she found herself angry with the Weaver. She had never thought she could feel such a thing, but it was not his place to tell this woman what had happened with Kayiv. “What of it?” she demanded.

Jastanne stopped and stared at her, that smile on her lips once more. “You don’t care much for me, do you?”

Nitara looked away. “I hardly know you.”

“I could make the same point.”

“Was there something you wanted, Chancellor? A reason why you pulled me away from my friends?”

“I sense your hostility, Minister. I did before as well. And I want to know if I need to speak with the Weaver about this, if it compromises your ability to serve his movement.”

Nitara felt the color drain from her cheeks. “No, Chancellor.”

The woman regarded her for several moments. “What is it about me, Minister? Why do you hate me so?”

She shook her head. “It’s not … I don’t hate you.”

“Now you’re lying.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t I? Or are you afraid that I would, all too well?” The smile again, kinder this time. “You love him very much, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“There are others, you know. There are women in every realm who serve this movement. Do you really believe that you’re the only one who feels this way about him?”

“No,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“Look at him,” the woman went on. “Do you really think that a man like that-a Qirsi king-will take but one wife? How many women did your emperor have?”

Nitara shrugged. “I don’t know. Several.”

“Yes. And so will the Weaver. You may well be one of them. And I might as well. We’re going to have to get along, you and I, not only during this war, but after it. So I’d suggest you put your hatred aside. The Weaver feels that you could be of value as a noble once we control the Forelands. You’d be a fool to do anything to change his mind.”

“I understand, Chancellor.”

“I have others to inform of our plans. We should be riding again shortly.”

Before Nitara could even nod to her, Jastanne turned and walked away, lithe and confident. Nitara watched her go, then started toward her mount, having no desire to face her companions again. Before she reached her horse, however, she heard Gorlan calling to her. She stopped, closing her eyes for just a moment.

“What?” she said, looking at the other Qirsi.

“Are you mad?” Gorlan asked, stopping just in front of her. “You can’t afford to anger that woman, no matter what you might think of her.”

“I know that, Gorlan,” she said crossly. “Thank you.”

“What did she say to you?”

“Basically the same thing you just did.”

“Well, you’d better listen. I don’t even understand why you’re so angry with her. What could she have possibly done to you?”

“Nothing, Gorlan. Nothing at all. Just leave me alone.”

He frowned, shaking his head. After a moment he left her, as did several of the others. Only B’Serre remained with Nitara.

“I think I understand,” the minister said softly. “And I don’t really blame you.”

Nitara raked a hand through her hair. “I’m a fool. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Sure you do. It seems pretty normal to me. Clearly the Weaver thinks highly of you. You were the one riding beside him before the chancellors arrived.” She gave a conspiratorial smile. “If I were you, I’d hate her, too.”

Nitara had to grin. “Watch what you say. You’ll get yourself in trouble.”

They stood in silence for some time, the smiles lingering on their faces. Nitara stared at the ground, uncertain of what to say next. She had few friends to speak of. Kayiv had been a friend once, before he began to share her bed. Before she killed him. She would never have been so bold as to call the Weaver a friend, but other than Dusaan, she had spoken to few people in the past several turns. She wasn’t quite certain how to behave around this woman who had gone out of her way to declare her friendship. She knew only that she didn’t want to do anything to drive B’Serre away.

“Gorlan’s probably right, you know,” the minister said at length, drawing Nitara’s gaze. “You shouldn’t anger her again. I don’t think you want her as an enemy.”

Nitara gave a small laugh. “It might be too late for that.” When B’Serre didn’t respond, she grew serious again. “I know. I’ll be careful.”

A short time later, the chancellors called for the army to ride on, and soon they were thundering across the moor again, their shadows stretching eastward in the dying light of the sun. When they stopped for the night, Nitara followed Jastanne to the eastern side of the camp. Most of the others who had ridden with her from Curtell, including B’Serre, Gorlan, and Rov, went to the other side, further darkening her mood.

Once the army had been divided, the chancellors began to divide it a second time between those who possessed the two magics each would command. A few on Jastanne’s side had both language of beasts and mists and winds. As before, she instructed them to follow the deeper magic. When Nitara started toward the group with mists, however, the chancellor stopped her.

“You have both?” she asked.

“Yes, Chancellor.”

Jastanne considered this. “Stay with those who have language of beasts.”

Nitara felt her face color. She knew that this was Jastanne’s revenge, that the chancellor was looking for some way to humiliate her for what Nitara had done earlier. But the minister refused to let herself grow angry. She merely bowed and murmured, “Yes, Chancellor.”

“You think I’m punishing you.”

“If you are, I’m sure you feel you have reason.”

Jastanne grinned-it seemed she responded to everything with a smile. “You’re controlling your temper, I’ll give you that much. But you have much to learn about me. I want you to remain with the other group because I need to choose a commander from among those with language of beasts. And I choose you.”

Nitara opened her mouth. Closed it again. “Why?”

“Because I trust you. I know that you’ll give your life for the Weaver’s cause. And I sense that you’re clever enough to lead them.”

“But I’ve never-”

“None of us has, Minister. You’ll be fine.”

“Thank you, Chancellor.” She had no idea what else to say.

“Your task, and that of your unit, will be to get as close to the mounted soldiers and nobles as possible. It promises to be dangerous work. The Weaver has also told me that he’s least likely to weave those with language of beasts. In most cases, it’ll be easier to unnerve their mounts one by one.”

“Of course.”

“That said, if you face a larger force on horseback, the Weaver may have to weave your powers with his own. You’ll need to be prepared for that.”

“I’ll make certain that we are, Chancellor.”

“I don’t doubt that you will.”

Nitara had never before thought of herself as a commander, and after the chancellor walked away, she knew a moment of panic. What if the others wouldn’t follow her? What if she made some terrible blunder and all of them were killed? She nearly ran after Jastanne to ask her what to do next, but she immediately thought better of it. The chancellor had given her a gift, in spite of how Nitara had treated her earlier in the day. No doubt it wouldn’t take much to make the woman reconsider her decision.

Taking a breath, Nitara turned to face the Qirsi standing near her. They were already watching her. A few she recognized, but most were strangers.

“My name is Nitara ja Plin,” she said. “I was a minister in the court of the emperor of Braedon until the Weaver revealed himself.” She hesitated. Their expressions hadn’t changed, and she wondered if she were going about this the wrong way. “The chancellor has asked me to command this unit of the army.” Still no response. She repeated for them what Jastanne had just told her, about how they would need to get close to the mounted Eandi, and how the Weaver would likely leave them to use their powers individually.

“Do you have questions?” she asked after another silence.

Nothing.

“Perhaps I’ll take some time to speak to each of you, learn your names and where you’re from.”

Were they simple? Had they understood any of what she told them? Or did they merely resent taking orders from a young minister?

“In the meantime, make camp. Start finding wood for fires and preparing your suppers.”

That set them in motion. Given something to do, they seemed to rouse themselves from a stupor. Perhaps there was a lesson there-to succeed as a commander, one first had to give commands.

Once the fires were burning, the smell of roasting fowl and boar hanging in the still air, Nitara began to make her way through the camp. Her conversations with the Qirsi in her unit quickly convinced her that they did not in fact resent her authority. None of them had ever been warriors before, and none aspired to command. Many of them had long sympathized with the Weaver’s cause, but didn’t know how to go about joining the movement until Dusaan captured their cities. Others had joined when they did because they feared what might happen to them if they didn’t. All of them, it seemed, merely wanted someone to tell them what to do.

By the time she had spoken with all the soldiers under her command and returned to where her horse stood, chewing noisily on the moorland grasses, Nitara was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to eat something and sleep. Before she could even take a bite of the cold fowl left for her by one of the soldiers, however, she heard someone calling for her. It wasn’t until she turned and realized the man approaching her was a stranger that it occurred to her that he had been addressing her as “Commander.”

“Yes,” she said, with as much brightness in her voice as she could muster.

“The chancellors wish a word with us.”

Of course they did. She nodded. “Lead the way.”

She fell in step beside him, eyeing him briefly.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I don’t recognize you.”

“There’s no reason you should. I was an underminister in the court of Ayvencalde and was never fortunate enough to travel to the imperial city. The chancellor chose me to lead those with mists and winds. I’m Yedeg jal Senkava.”

“Nitara ja Plin.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, surprising her.

“You do?”

“You’re obviously quite important to the Weaver. He trusted you with a great deal in Ayvencalde.”

“Yes,” she said, facing forward again, her jealousy returning in a rush. “He did there.”

“I also heard that you challenged one of the chancellors today.”

She felt her face grow hot. “People are speaking of that?”

“Oh, yes. It seems you were fortunate to end up on Jastanne’s side of the army.”

“Actually,” she said, somewhat sheepishly, “it was Jastanne I challenged.”

His eyebrows went up. “Really? Can I ask what your … dispute was about?”

She closed her eyes briefly. What a fool she had been. “I’d rather not say.”

“Of course. Forgive me.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, soon coming to a small fire on the southern edge of the Qirsi camp. Jastanne and Uestem were already there, along with Uestem’s two commanders, who turned out to be Gorlan and Rov. Both of the ministers nodded to Nitara as they made room for her and Yedeg around the fire, but neither of them spoke.

“This won’t take long,” Uestem said, regarding each of them in turn. “It’s been a long day and all of us need to rest. But the Weaver wanted us to speak with you briefly, to make certain that all went smoothly with your units.”

Nitara’s eyes flicked toward Jastanne. The chancellor was already watching her, wearing that same inscrutable smile on her lips.

“Well?” Uestem asked, after a lengthy silence.

“Commander,” Jastanne said, still watching Nitara. “Why don’t you begin? Tell us about your first night of command.”

“It was fine,” she said, meeting the chancellor’s gaze. “I was a bit hesitant at first. I’ve never commanded warriors before, and I wasn’t certain that I was going about it in the right way.”

“What do you think is the right way?”

She shrugged. “I’m still not sure. Maybe there is no right way. When I finally gave them an order, they couldn’t carry it out fast enough. I think they were just waiting for someone to tell them what to do.”

“Very good,” Jastanne said, nodding. “What about the rest of you?”

Gorlan cleared his throat. “Actually, my experience was much the same as Nitara’s.”

The others turned toward him, including Jastanne, and Nitara exhaled, relieved just to have the chancellor looking elsewhere. She gathered from what the others said that they all had been somewhat unsure of themselves at first, a point that was not lost on the chancellors.

“Let this be a lesson to all of you,” Uestem said, when Yedeg, the last of them, had finished speaking. “Command is, above all else, a matter of confidence, of believing in your ability to lead others. If you trust in yourself, those you command will trust you as well.”

“Surely there’s more to it than that,” Nitara said without thinking. In the next moment she winced. How often did she think she could contradict the chancellors before they turned on her?

But Uestem just grinned. “Yes, there is. But it’s a good place to begin.”

The others laughed.

“Get some sleep,” the chancellor said. “We ride at dawn. The Weaver wants to strike at Galdasten’s army before they can join with the rest of the Eandi forces. They’re two days ahead of us, perhaps more, although they are on foot. Still, we’ll probably have to ride through much of the night tomorrow, and perhaps the next as well. Whatever it takes, we’ll ride them down before they reach the others. We have enough horses to keep the animals fresh, and we’ve ample provisions from Galdasten. Make certain your units are prepared to push themselves and their mounts.”

“Yes, Chancellor,” the four of them said as one.

The others started away, but Jastanne called to Nitara, stopping her. Though the minister had been expecting this she felt herself growing tense once more. She still didn’t quite trust the woman.

“You did well,” Jastanne said.

“Thank you, Chancellor.”

“You don’t hesitate to speak your mind. I like that about you. It speaks well of your courage.”

“Some would say it casts doubt on my judgment.”

“There are times when you’d do best to keep your thoughts to yourself. But I’d rather a commander who thinks and questions, than one who just blindly follows my orders.”

Nitara narrowed her eyes. “Why are you being so nice to me? After our first conversation, I expected you to do everything you could to make my life miserable.”

The chancellor grinned. “Maybe I should have. But I see much of myself in you-the good and the bad. Given the chance, I think we could be friends.” She turned to walk away. “Sleep, Commander. This war begins in earnest tomorrow.”

* * *

The army of Galdasten was up and moving before dawn, their swords and shields and shirts of mail catching the silver-grey light of early morning so that the entire column of soldiers seemed to gleam faintly, like stars partially obscured by a high haze. Renald had hoped that three days of marching would have taken them farther than it had, but his swordmaster assured him that they were making good progress. Still, he found their pace maddeningly slow, and he longed to kick at the flanks of his mount and thunder southward across the Moorlands until he found the king.

We’re coming! he would say. Keep the empire at bay for another few days and the men of Galdasten will join your battle!

And Kearney, in his desperate gratitude for this last spar of hope where none had been expected, would praise the duke as a hero and his house as the greatest in all the realm.

Instead, Renald rode at the head of his company, flanked by Ewan Traylee and Pillad jal Krenaar, his first minister, forced to discuss the weather and fighting to keep thoughts of his wife from darkening his mood. Their minds are no more nimble than yours, she had once said of his swordmaster and minister. And once more, having suffered their companionship for these last several days, he could only marvel at her acumen.

With every hour that Galdasten’s army squandered on this toilsome march, with every battle the king waged in Renald’s absence, the duke knew that Kearney and his allies would grow more convinced that Renald wasn’t coming and that his house was in rebellion. If they were defeated by Braedon’s army, Galdasten, no doubt along with Aindreas’s house, would bear much of the blame. History would remember Renald as the leader of a house of traitors. Nearly as troubling was the thought that Kearney might succeed in defeating the invaders without Galdasten’s help. Renald would still be labeled a traitor, but as one whose betrayal had little significance.

Clearly they had need of haste. Yet his swordmaster did nothing to increase their pace, and the first minister seemed content to stroll along beside them, chatting amiably about anything other than the war.

“It’s a cooler day by far than I would have expected so late in Adriel’s waxing,” he was saying now. “We’ve been fortunate.”

“Yes, and what of it?” the duke demanded irritably. “Perhaps you care to comment on the health of the farmers’ crops as we amble past the fields.”

Pillad and Ewan exchanged a look.

“My lord, I believe the first minister’s point was that, because of the cooler weather, we can probably keep the men marching without a rest clear through to sundown, allowing us to cover more distance today.”

Renald looked at the Qirsi, who nodded. “That would be … helpful,” he said, trying not to sound too contrite.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you have any idea how far we are from the battle plain?”

“No, my lord,” Ewan answered. “But it can’t be too far now. The king marched from Audun’s Castle some time ago. I expect his army met the enemy well north of Domnall, in which case it should only be another day or two.”

“Two days,” the duke said, exhaling. “I begrudge the time, swordmaster.”

Ewan lowered his gaze. “Yes, my lord.”

Renald knew what the man was thinking. If he was in such a hurry to fight, why had he waited so long before leaving Galdasten? Why had he suffered the presence of the empire’s soldiers in his city for so many days? In truth, the duke had no answer for him other than the obvious. It had been a grave mistake, born of his ambition, and Elspeth’s uncanny ability to gauge his darkest desires. He should have been able to admit this to them. Whatever their limitations, both Ewan and Pillad had ridden with him to war, risking their lives. They deserved far more from him than he seemed capable of offering, and so too did his men.

“Tomorrow is the Night of Two Moons, my lord,” the first minister said. “There’ll be ample light to march even past dusk. We can rest at twilight before continuing on for a few more hours.”

Ewan frowned. “Certainly we can take advantage of the moons’ light to march the men another league or so. But I don’t want to push them too hard. They need some rest along the way, or they won’t be fit to fight.”

Renald almost told the swordmaster that he coddled the men too much. But it occurred to him that he couldn’t remember the last time he had marched any distance at all. Since he was a boy accompanying his father on hunts or visits to another of Eibithar’s great houses, he had ridden while common soldiers remained on foot. Perhaps in this instance Ewan knew better than he did what was best for Galdasten’s army.

“I agree,” he said. “We’ll rest at sundown, continue southward for another league, then stop for the night.”

Ewan nodded. “Very good, my lord. I’ll inform the captains.”

Before Renald could object, the swordmaster was riding back along the edge of the column leaving the duke with Pillad.

He had tried to spend as little time as possible alone with the Qirsi. In spite of his decision to let the minister ride with him to this war, he still had doubts about the man’s loyalty. And even before he began to suspect that Pillad was a traitor, even before he had heard of the conspiracy, Renald had never felt entirely comfortable around white-hairs. He found them strange in both appearance and manner. Pillad was no exception to this.

“Shall I leave you, my lord?”

Whatever his faults, Pillad was observant.

“Perhaps so, First Minister. We’ll speak again later.”

The Qirsi smiled thinly. “Of course.”

He slowed his mount, allowing the duke to pull ahead of him a short distance. They rode this way for several moments, and though Renald was relieved to be rid of the man, he could feel the minister watching him from behind, as if Pillad’s eyes could cast heat upon his back. If the Qirsi did wish him ill, wasn’t it safer to ride alongside the man, instead of in front of him, vulnerable and unguarded? After considering this briefly, he slowed his mount in turn, so that the minister pulled abreast of him.

“My lord?” Pillad asked mildly.

Faced now with having to make conversation with the man, Renald wasn’t certain what to say. If only he’d just remained in front of him.

“I was wondering, First Minister, if you feel the swordmaster is too easy on the men.”

It was the first thing that came to mind, and immediately he regretted saying it.

Pillad’s brow creased, and he tipped his head to the side, as if pondering the question. “I’m not certain I know what you mean, my lord.”

“Well, no matter.”

“If you refer to his concerns about tiring them, I suppose I do think it odd. He certainly trains them hard enough. Yet he seems reluctant to put that training to the test when it comes time for war.” His yellow eyes were so wide that he looked like some great pale owl. “Please don’t misunderstand, my lord. I have great respect for the swordmaster. But other armies have had to march longer distances over shorter spans of time, and they’ve fought effectively.”

Despite himself, Renald was swayed by this. “I’ve thought much the same thing,” he said, feeling that by admitting even this much, he was betraying Ewan’s trust. “I would like to cover more ground before we stop for the night.”

“Of course, my lord. I know how eager you are to join the king. Still, it’s probably best to be prudent under these circumstances.”

“Perhaps so.”

Pillad looked back over his shoulder, no doubt to see if Ewan was returning. “It might also behoove you to give some consideration to the swordmaster’s command, my lord.”

“His command?”

“Yes. If he’s told the men that they’ll only cover a certain distance in a given day, then any deviation from that plan could undermine his authority. It may even convince the men that you’ve lost faith in him.”

“So now you believe that we should keep to the swordmaster’s pace?” Renald shook his head. “I’m afraid you have me a bit confused, First Minister. One moment you seem to agree with me that Ewan is being too easy on the men, and the next you tell me that we’d be best off doing as he counsels. It almost seems that you’re trying to confuse me.”

The duke said this without giving it much thought, but almost as soon as the words crossed his lips, he found himself wondering if this was precisely what the first minister had meant to do. Mightn’t a traitor to the court have reason to do so?

Pillad replied with an easy laugh, though Renald thought he saw something else flash in those ghostly eyes. “Forgive me, my lord,” he said. “That wasn’t my intent. The fact is, I know little of military tactics and even less about leading an army. Sir Traylee is the expert on such matters, not I.”

“Well, thank you, First Minister,” the duke said, eager now just to be away from the man. “I’ll give some thought to what you’ve said.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Before Pillad had finished saying this, Renald was already kicking at his horse’s flanks, putting as much distance as he dared between the Qirsi and himself. Yes, the man was behind him again, but Renald no longer cared. Just as long as he didn’t have to speak with him, or see the minister’s strange features. Or so he told himself. For some time after he pulled ahead of Pillad he found himself anticipating a sword thrust between the shoulder blades, flinching at every unexpected noise, and turning his head ever so slightly to try to see where the Qirsi was and what he was doing.

When Ewan finally rejoined him, the duke nearly wept with relief.

“I’ve spoken with the captains, my lord. They’re in agreement that we can try to march two more leagues after dusk. I knew that you would prefer this, so I told them that we would. I hope that was all right.”

This was how a man serving in a noble court should speak to his duke, with the clarity and purpose of a soldier. White-hairs seemed always to be weaving mists with their words.

“Yes, swordmaster. I’m pleased to hear that. Well done.”

“Thank you, my lord. Shall I leave you?”

“No!” Renald said, a bit too quickly. “I’d be grateful if you rode with me for a time.”

“You honor me, my lord.”

Over the next several hours, riding side by side, the two men said little. But Renald felt far safer with Ewan nearby. Let the minister make an attempt on his life. He’d die before he could raise a weapon or draw upon one of his powers. Thinking this, the duke tried to recall what magics Pillad possessed, but he could only remember healing and gleaning. There was a third, he knew. What was it?

They stopped just as the sun disappeared below the western horizon, the sky above it aflame with orange and red. Most of the men sat beside a narrow stream that wound past the grasses and stones of the northern Moorlands on its way to Binthar’s Wash. The duke and swordmaster left their horses grazing on the moist grass, and walked among the men, offering words of encouragement. It had been Ewan’s idea-a way to raise the men’s spirits, he said-and it did seem to do his warriors some good.

At one point, Renald looked up to see Pillad, still atop his mount, gazing northward, as if he could see the towers of Galdasten Castle from this distance. A moment later one of the soldiers said something to him, drawing his attention once more. And when he finally had the opportunity to look for Pillad again, he spotted the minister standing near the soldiers, watching the duke. When their eyes met, the Qirsi nodded and smiled, as if nothing were amiss. But once more Renald had the sense that the man was deceiving him.

“I want you to send out scouts,” Renald told Ewan, as they returned to their horses.

“We already have scouts ahead of us, my lord, watching for imperial soldiers or any sign of the King’s Guard.”

“Fine. But I also want you to send men back to the north. I want to make certain that we’re not followed.”

The swordmaster looked puzzled. “We left few of Braedon’s men alive in Galdasten, my lord, and fewer still alive and at large. Surely there weren’t enough of them to muster a force of any consequence.”

“It’s not the empire I fear.”

“My lord?”

“Humor me, swordmaster. Send back two men. Tell them to watch the northern horizon.”

“We have only a few spare mounts left, my lord.”

“I don’t care.”

Ewan shrugged, then nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

They set out again a short time later, the column of men stretching behind Renald in the gathering gloom, so that the duke could barely see the last of his men. Panya, the white moon, appeared in the east soon after nightfall, huge and pale and just a night shy of full. Even low in the sky, her glow was enough to cast long faint shadows across the moors. As she rose, her light strengthened until the grasses and stones themselves seemed luminous. Some time later, red Ilias rose below her, adding his radiance to hers: the lovers, one night before the Night of Two Moons in the turn of Adriel, Goddess of Love. Once more Renald’s thoughts returned to Galdasten and Elspeth. Tomorrow would mark seventeen years since their joining, and tomorrow night seventeen years since the consummation of the their love. According to lore, lying together for the first time on Lovers’ Night ensured a lifetime of love and passion. So much for the moon legends.

“My lord, listen!” Ewan said, abruptly reining his mount to a halt.

Renald did the same, and heard it as well. Two faint voices calling, “My lord! My lord!”

“What could it be?” the duke asked.

“Scouts,” Ewan said, and kicked his horse to a gallop back toward the end of the column.

Renald followed, cold panic sweeping over him like an ocean wave in the snows.

The two men Ewan had sent to scout the north rode into view as the duke and his swordmaster neared the rear of Galdasten’s army. Both men looked terribly young, their faces ashen in the moonlight.

“Report,” Ewan commanded.

“We watched th’ northern horizon as ye ordered, swordmaster. An’ at first we saw nothin’. But a few times we heard horses, or thought we did. And so we slows down and waits a bit. And then we sees ’em. A large army of riders followin’ behind us.”

“Riders?”

“Not just riders,” the other one said. “White-hairs. Must be two hundred of ’em.”

“Qirsi?” Ewan said, breathless, fear in his eyes.

“Where’s Pillad?” the duke asked, looking around for the man.

The swordmaster stared at him. “I don’t remember seeing him when we stopped.”

Renald closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face, fearing that he might vomit. “He wasn’t there,” he said, as certain of this as he was of his own name. “He’s already gone to join them.”

“You said there’s two hundred of them?” Ewan asked, turning to the men once more.

“Yes, swordmaster.”

“We’ve five times that many, my lord. Magic or no, we should be able to defeat them. We’ll marshal the men, make our stand right here. Archers on the flanks, swordsmen in the center.”

Renald nodded, but said nothing. Let the swordmaster and his men believe this. He knew better. These Qirsi had gotten past the force he left in Galdasten, and perhaps the Braedony fleet, as well. It would be a slaughter.

“Do you know what powers Pillad possesses?” he asked at last, gazing northward, waiting for a glimpse of the Qirsi army.

“Not all of them, my lord. I know he can heal, and I once saw him start a fire in his hearth with only a thought.”

Fire, yes. That was it. They’d all be killed by Qirsi fire.

* * *

Slipping away from Renald’s army was laughably easy, though it soured his mood for a time. That none of them should notice or care struck him as insulting, one final indignity among too many to count. Still, had a soldier spotted him, forcing him to fight or flee, it would have made matters considerably more difficult. It might have cost him his life. Better to be ignored than pursued.

Once he was clear of the Eandi army and the two scouts sent back by the swordmaster, he rode northward at a full gallop. And when at last he spotted the Qirsi army, he raised a hand, summoned a flame and his healing magic, and bore a bright beacon on his palm, announcing himself to his fellow warriors. Abruptly his heart was pounding, not with remorse at what he had done, nor with fear of the battle to come, but rather with anticipation. At long last, he was to meet the Weaver, to bow before the man who would lead the Forelands and guide his people to their rightful destiny. He wondered briefly if he’d recognize this man who he had only encountered previously in dreams.

He needn’t have worried.

The Weaver rode at the head of the army, his mane of white hair flying behind him like a battle pennon, his face chiseled as from alabaster. Uestem jal Safhir, the merchant who first recruited Pillad into the movement, rode on one side of him. On the other rode a slight, pretty woman who looked to be no more than a year or two past Fating age. And behind the three of them came an army of his people, mounted as he was, armed as well. The force was a mere fraction of the size of Renald’s, yet they had the look of conquerors from some tale of old.

Seeing Pillad, the Weaver raised a hand and his army came to a halt. The minister slowed his mount, but didn’t stop until he was only a few paces from the Weaver. Then he dismounted and dropped to one knee.

“Weaver. I am Pillad jal Krenaar, first minister of Galdasten. I offer myself to your service.”

“Rise, Pillad.”

He straightened.

“Your duke’s army is near?”

“Yes, Weaver. Perhaps half a league ahead. No more.”

“Good. You’ve done well. You’ll ride with Uestem, who commands those with shaping and fire.”

The minister bowed again. “Yes, Weaver. Thank you.” He started to remount, but then hesitated. “My pardon, Weaver. I know that it’s not my place, but I’d ask that you use fire magic against my duke.”

“Why?”

“It’s the one magic I wield that can be used as a weapon. I want Renald to know that I was part of the army that destroyed him.”

The Weaver regarded him briefly, then nodded. “So be it.”

Pillad climbed onto his horse and fell in behind Uestem. The merchant nodded to him as he rode past, but kept silent. Once the minister would have been desperate for any word of greeting from the man, having harbored affection for him. But he cared now only for war and flame. There would be time for other considerations after their victory. For now, Pillad was just as glad to have the merchant treat him as merely another warrior.

They started southward and soon encountered the scouts. The woman riding beside the Weaver said something, but he shook his head.

“Let them go. They’re nothing.”

Not long after, they saw the army of Galdasten arrayed before them on the Moorlands in a great crescent.

“There will be archers on the flanks, Weaver!” Pillad cried out.

The Weaver looked back at him, and for a moment the minister worried that he had angered the man. But the Weaver simply nodded. “I know.” He swept the others with his gaze. “Mists and winds!” he called.

Immediately a wind started to blow, building swiftly to a gale that howled in the stones and flattened the moorland grasses. Pillad grinned. Let Renald’s archers contend with that!

The Weaver turned to Uestem and his warriors. “Fire!”

An instant later, Pillad felt something tugging at his mind. It took him only a moment to understand that it was the Weaver reaching for his magic and that of the others. He made no attempt to resist and abruptly felt power flowing through his body like sunlight through glass.

At the same time, a flame appeared just in front of the Qirsi army, brilliant blue at its center, bright yellow above that, and orange at its top. For a single heartbeat it remained where it was, seemingly suspended in midair. Then it began to move toward the Eandi soldiers, slowly at first, but building speed quickly. As it rushed forward, it grew larger as well, until it towered over the battle plain like a huge fiery cloud. It lit the faces of Galdasten’s warriors, so that all the Qirsi could see their fear and despair.

Pillad saw his duke then. The man’s mouth was open as if he were wailing, the killing blaze shining in his eyes. The minister almost hoped that Renald would look at him, so that he might know that Pillad had killed him, that he had contributed his magic to this spiraling storm of flame. But the duke seemed incapable of looking away from the fire. He was still staring up at it when the full force of the magic crashed down upon his army, swallowing him and the soldiers around him, blackening the ground, lighting the Moorlands as if a piece of Morna’s sun had fallen to the earth. Renald hadn’t even drawn his sword.

Pillad wanted to laugh aloud. Never before had he felt so strong, so alive. Never before had he been so free.