Weavers of War

Chapter Fourteen

Grinsa could see now that this was in fact two armies-the Aneirans had another force following on their heels-and even without seeing the banners of this second army, the gleaner had an idea of who they were.

“They’re trapped now,” Keziah said over the roar of their gale, reasoning it out for herself. Fotir gave a puzzled look and she added, “That’s Gershon behind them.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’d know the swordmaster from any distance. They must have followed the Solkarans from Kentigern.”

“Then we’ve hope after all.”

Grinsa nodded, his eyes fixed on the Aneiran captains riding at the head of the column. “There’s hope for the king and his men, yes, but our situation hasn’t improved much at all.” He glanced about quickly before staring at the captains again. The three of them had ridden a fair distance from Kearney’s lines to meet the Aneiran threat, thinking to protect the king from an attack on the rear of his lines. They were quite alone on this side of the Solkaran army.

Keziah frowned. “Of course it has. They’ll have to fight off Gershon’s assault as well as ours. How can that not help us?”

“We’re still three against hundreds.”

“When we first rode to meet them we thought we were three against thousands. Or had you forgotten that?”

“That was when I thought we had no choice!”

She glared at him. “So now you’ve changed your mind?”

“Can you do this?” Fotir asked. “Or are they too many?”

“We can do it.”

Keziah was still eyeing him, the wind howling all around them, though her hair remained still. “Then why does it sound like you’ve lost your nerve?”

He rounded on her. “Have you ever used your powers to kill a thousand men, Keziah? Or a hundred? Or even one?” She appeared to waver. “I thought not! Until you have, do not presume to judge me or my nerve!” Grinsa had never spoken to her so and he could see the hurt in her eyes, but at that moment he couldn’t have cared less. “If we choose to fight now, it will be my weaving that kills, and Fotir’s shaping! Even now, down to the three of us, you won’t bear the cost of this battle! So I’ll thank you to keep silent and do as I say!”

A tear rolled down her smooth cheek and she looked away, back toward the army of Solkara.

“Grinsa, she didn’t mean-”

“It’s all right, First Minister,” she said, her voice steady. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.” She swiped at the tear and faced the gleaner again. “Should we retreat then?”

Before he could answer, a swarm of arrows rose from the Aneiran army, arcing toward them. The wind they had summoned ensured that the darts would fall well short of them, but Grinsa sensed that Solkara’s bowmen were merely testing the gale.

“We need to decide now, Grinsa!”

She was right, of course. Not only about needing to make his choice immediately, but also about the rest of it. They had ridden forth to oppose an army of thousands, and though the Aneirans presented less of a threat than they first thought, he and the others still needed to protect the king’s army from any assault. More to the point, it was time to stop this killing, to make the Eandi see that they were wasting lives and strength warring with each other while the true enemy bided his time, waiting until they were too weak to resist his magic.

“We’ll stay.”

The Solkarans loosed their arrows again and instantly Grinsa could tell that this second volley would reach them. Still drawing on Fotir and Keziah’s power, he shifted the wind a quarter turn, so that it blew the arrows to the side.

Before the archers could fire a third time, cries rose from the far side of the Aneiran force. Gershon’s men had attacked.

“Damn!” If he could have shattered every weapon held by the two armies, he would have, but even a Weaver’s power was not so precise. A burst of magic that strong would splinter bone as well.

“No, it’s all right,” his sister said. “The king’s men can defeat them, even without our help.”

“Don’t you understand, Keziah? That’s not what I want! We have to stop thinking like Eibitharians! These men aren’t the enemy! Neither are the Braedony soldiers fighting your king to the north! We have to find a way to end the fighting, before Gershon’s force kills them all.”

“How?” Fotir asked.

Grinsa shook his head, his desperation growing with every scream that came from the warring armies. “I don’t know.”

A large contingent of Eibitharian soldiers had moved up from the rear of Gershon’s company and flanked the Aneirans to the east. They fought under a green and white banner and appeared to be led by Lathrop of Tremain. No doubt the swordmaster had sent Labruinn’s men to the west-few understood military tactics better than did Gershon Trasker. It would be a slaughter.

Keziah gazed toward the fighting with a crease in her brow. “What about a mist? Perhaps if they can’t see, they’ll break off their assault.”

“I don’t want the Aneirans fleeing so that they can join with the empire’s men and attack again. A mist might allow them to escape. I just want to stop them from killing each other.”

“A wind then,” she said, turning to face him. “Like at the Heneagh.”

A year before, when they had sought to keep the armies of Curgh and Kentigern from destroying one another on a battle plain near the Heneagh River, the two of them had summoned a powerful wind. It hadn’t been so strong as to keep the men from fighting, but it had gotten their attention long enough for Kearney to place himself between the two armies. Perhaps it would work again. First though, Grinsa had to be close enough to make himself seen and heard.

“Follow me,” he called, kicking his mount to a gallop and steering the beast around those fighting on the west and then toward the center of the battle.

Keziah and Fotir rode after him, and together the three Qirsi plunged into the fighting, Grinsa drawing on their magic once more to summon a staggering wind. He made it build swiftly, so that to the soldiers it would seem that it had risen without warning. As he and Kezi had hoped, it did force many of the men to break off their combat, including Gershon Trasker, who sat on his horse, his sword still poised to strike, his hot glare directed at Grinsa and the others. Already many warriors had fallen, most of them Solkaran. Only a few hundred Aneirans remained alive, and the gleaner guessed that they would not survive long if the fighting resumed.

“Break off your attack, swordmaster!” Grinsa called as he drew nearer.

“I will not! These men are invaders. Their lives were forfeit as soon as they crossed the Tarbin.”

The soldiers around them were eyeing each other warily, their weapons ready. The merest twitch by one of them would launch all into combat once more, no matter the wind that raged about them.

“We’ve a more dangerous foe, swordmaster,” Keziah said, drawing the man’s eye. “You know that as well as anyone. We’ll need these men before all is done.”

Gershon said nothing, the expression on his blunt features and in his hard blue eyes offering little promise that he would relent.

“Men of Aneira!” Grinsa called. “Lower your weapons! Surrender now, or all of you will die!”

“Never!” came a reply. Others echoed the sentiment, and Eibithar’s men began shouting for their deaths. They were a heartbeat away from bedlam.

“Fotir, their swords. Quickly.”

The minister nodded. A moment later an Aneiran blade shattered, and then another. Grinsa broke several as well.

“We’ll break them all if we have to! Now put them down, and perhaps you’ll survive this day!”

Reluctantly, the nearest of the Aneiran captains dropped his blade to the ground. Slowly, other men began to follow his example.

After several moments, Gershon nodded to his captains, who began ordering their men to lower their weapons.

“I do this against my better judgment, Archminister.”

From what Keziah had told him, Grinsa gathered that she and the swordmaster had feigned many conflicts recently in order to maintain the illusion that her fealty to the king had wavered. Now, however, he sensed no trickery in the man’s tone. He was deadly serious.

“I understand,” Keziah said. “I had to be convinced as well.”

Gershon’s eyes flicked toward the gleaner, then back to her.

“You spoke a moment ago of another foe, Archminister. Of whom do you speak?”

Grinsa turned toward the voice. A stout man with yellow hair and a trim beard was leaning forward in his saddle, regarding the gleaner with obvious distrust. It took Grinsa a moment to recognize him as the duke of Labruinn. But his eye was drawn beyond this young duke to the towering figure who sat just behind him on the largest stallion Grinsa had ever seen. Aindreas of Kentigern, his ruddy face flushed to crimson, and his jaw clenched tight.

“You need to ask, my lord?” Fotir answered.

“The conspiracy.”

“Yes, my lord. Many of us believe that this war-”

“Yes, I know. You think the Qirsi have, through treachery and deception, led us to this conflict so that we’ll weaken ourselves.” Labruinn looked at Grinsa again. “I just wonder if keeping the Aneirans alive is intended to strengthen us, or weaken us.”

“Why would I want to weaken us, my lord?”

“He’s not questioning your motives, First Minister,” Grinsa said. “He’s questioning mine.”

“I don’t know you, sir,” the duke said. “I have no reason to question the first minister’s loyalty, but in these times all strange Qirsi are suspect. And for many turns I’ve been hearing of odd behavior on the part of the archminister.”

Gershon started to say something, but a glance from Keziah silenced him.

“I know this man,” Aindreas said, murder in his voice. “I know all three of them.”

“This is Grinsa jal Arriet, Lord Labruinn,” Fotir said, with the merest of glances toward Aindreas. “And I assure you, he’s no stranger to me. If it wasn’t for Grinsa, Lord Tavis might still be a prisoner in Kentigern’s dungeon. He has as much reason to hate the conspiracy as any man in the Forelands. For that matter, so does the archminister, and I have every reason to believe that she serves our king loyally and always has.”

“I’d like to believe you,” Caius said. “But I’m afraid even your word on the matter isn’t enough.”

“Nor should it be,” Aindreas said. “The Qirsi can’t be trusted.”

Grinsa met the duke’s glare, their eyes locking. “Last I heard, my lord, you were saying much the same thing about all men of Curgh and Glyndwr. Yet here you are fighting in the service of the king. Isn’t it possible that you’re as wrong about me as you were about them?”

Aindreas pulled his sword free. “You white-hair bastard!”

“That’s enough from both of you,” Gershon said, eyeing one of them and then the other. “It doesn’t matter now. The Aneirans have surrendered.” He faced his captain again. “Collect their weapons, see to their wounds, and prepare them for review by the king. I don’t want them mistreated, but neither will I tolerate any resistance on their part.” He cast a look at Keziah as he said this last, but she offered no response. As the king’s men began to herd the Solkarans into a tight cluster, Gershon regarded Caius and Lathrop. “Take your armies forward to the king,” he said. “I don’t know how his soldiers are faring, but I’m certain he’ll welcome your aid.”

“There’s no need,” Fotir said. “The empire’s men have broken off their attack. At least for the moment.”

They all turned to look northward. Indeed, it did seem that Braedon’s warriors were in retreat.

“Then perhaps we should find His Majesty, and ask him how he wants us to proceed.”

The others agreed and after leaving their captains with instructions to make camp and watch over the prisoners, Gershon, the dukes, and the three Qirsi rode to the front lines. They found Kearney with Javan of Curgh, Marston of Shanstead, and Rab Avkar, Heneagh’s swordmaster. The queen of Sanbira was there as well, with four of her nobles, including a dark-haired young woman who the night before had eyed Grinsa and the other Qirsi with manifest distrust.

Reaching the king, Gershon dismounted and dropped to one knee, as did all the others, including Aindreas.

Kearney, limping slightly, strode to his swordsmaster, ordered Gershon to rise, and gathered him in a fierce embrace. “Well met, Gershon! Well met!” he said. “All this time I’ve felt like I’ve been fighting with one hand.” He released the man and looked him up and down. “I take it you’re well.”

Trasker was grinning. “I am, Your Majesty. Thank you. And you?”

“Well enough.” He looked past Gershon to the dukes. “Lord Tremain, Lord Labruinn, I’m deeply grateful to both of you. I’ve no doubt that your counsel and your men were of tremendous value to the swordmaster. I believe it’s time the people of this realm stopped referring to the ‘minor houses.’ As far as I can tell, there’s no such thing.”

Lathrop and Caius bowed.

“Thank you, my liege,” Tremain said. “We did only what any man of the realm would have done for his king.” As soon as he spoke the words, Lathrop paled, casting a furtive look at Aindreas.

“What do you think of that, Lord Kentigern?” Kearney asked.

Aindreas glowered at the king, but after a moment he nodded, as if compelled to do so by some unseen hand. “I’m sure my lord duke is correct, my liege.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

Neither man had moved, though it seemed that both had weapons drawn.

“I’m here to defend Eibithar, and to strike back at the men who attacked Kentigern.”

“No other reason?”

“None that I can think of, my liege.”

“I see.” The king held Aindreas’s gaze for another moment, then turned to Keziah, as if dismissing the duke. “How did you end up with Gershon and the others, Archminister? I thought you were behind our lines. When you weren’t there, I…” His face colored briefly. “I grew concerned.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. Grinsa suggested that the three of us ride back to stop the Aneirans’ advance. We didn’t know at the time that the swordmaster was pursuing them.”

“What?” Javan asked. He had been watching Aindreas all this time, as a seaman might watch an approaching storm. But now he stared at Keziah, a slight frown on his lean face. “The three of you thought you could stand against a thousand Solkaran soldiers? Are you truly that powerful, or just that foolish?”

“All three of us have mists and winds, my lord,” she said, giving no indication that his question discomfited her. “We were afraid that Aneira’s archers would attack the king’s army from behind. We merely wished to protect His Majesty.”

“Every time I turn around you seem to grow more powerful,” Javan said, looking directly at Grinsa. “I find myself wondering if your magic knows any bounds at all.”

Aindreas was staring at Grinsa as well. “I thought you were just a gleaner.”

“Grinsa’s a bit more than he seems, my lord,” Fotir said. “But there can be no question of his loyalty to the realm.”

“More than you seem, eh?” Aindreas asked, his eyes narrowing. “Is that how you got the boy out?”

“What boy?” Javan demanded, though clearly he knew.

“Yours, of course. This man put a hole in the wall of my castle that I could have walked through.”

Grinsa opened his mouth to deny it, but before he could Fotir said, “No, Lord Kentigern, that was me.”

“But you said that you couldn’t have done such a thing. Shurik told me much the same.”

“Normally I couldn’t have. But that night called for extraordinary measures, and somehow Qirsar gave me the power to win Lord Tavis’s freedom.”

In strictest terms it wasn’t a lie. Fotir had used his power on the wall, though without Grinsa weaving the minister’s magic with his own, augmenting and controlling it, he never would have succeeded. As for Grinsa’s presence there being an act of the god, the gleaner couldn’t say that he believed this, but neither could he say with complete certainty that it wasn’t so. In any case, Fotir’s confession appeared to satisfy the duke and lay the matter to rest. Or so he thought.

“It seems that our Qirsi friends are full of surprises,” said Marston of Shanstead, whose distrust of all Qirsi had nearly led the king to banish Cresenne and Keziah from Audun’s Castle.

Grinsa saw the dark-haired duchess nod slightly, her eyes fixed on Marston.

“You wish to say something more, Lord Shanstead?” Kearney asked, his voice hardening.

“Nothing I haven’t said to you before, my liege.”

“Fine then. I’ve heard it once, I needn’t hear it again.”

The thane lowered his eyes. “Yes, my liege.”

The queen of Sanbira cleared her throat. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, we should continue this conversation later. Braedon’s men have retreated for now, but I daresay they could renew their assault at any moment.”

Kearney nodded. “You’re right, of course, Your Highness.” He looked at Gershon. “I want the soldiers who’ve just arrived added to our lines as quickly as possible. Swordmaster, you’re to assume command of the King’s Guard-take the men who have been under your authority and combine them with those I took north from the City of Kings.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Lord Tremain, I’d like your men to join with the Curgh army. Lord Curgh, with Gershon’s men joining my own, the King’s Guard will take the center. I want you and Lathrop on the eastern flank.”

“Of course, my liege.”

“Lord Labruinn, I want your force in the west, along with Thorald’s army and what’s left of the army from Heneagh.” He paused, looking at Aindreas. “Lord Kentigern, you and your men will go with Caius. For now you’ll be under his command.”

“Very well.”

“You and I have a good deal more to discuss. But I’m afraid that’ll have to wait.”

Aindreas’s face reddened, but he merely nodded. “As you wish, my liege.”

“Your Highness, I would ask you to keep your army where it’s been today, unless of course you have another idea.”

“We are here at your request, Your Majesty,” Olesya said. “Use us as you will.”

The king smiled and bowed. “My thanks. That’s all,” he said, looking at the others. “I hope the empire’s men will think twice before attacking again. They’ve seen how easily their Aneiran allies were defeated, and they know that we’ve added several thousand men to our defenses. Still, I agree with the queen that we must remain watchful. I want your armies positioned quickly. They’ve surprised us before and may well do so again.”

Eibithar’s dukes and their ministers bowed to the king and began to move off, Grinsa following Fotir so that he might thank the first minister for helping him keep his secret a bit longer. Before he had gone far, however, Kearney called to him.

“A word please, gleaner.”

Keziah was beside the king, her face colorless, her lips pressed together in a taut line. Grinsa returned to where they stood.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

Kearney hesitated. “Walk with me.”

They started away from the armies, skirting the portion of the moors where the battle with the Solkarans had been fought, and where bodies were now being piled. Glancing back, Grinsa noticed that Marston and the dark-haired duchess were watching them. They were too far away for the gleaner to see their expressions, but he could guess.

“The first minister didn’t make that hole in Aindreas’s castle, did he?” the king asked, drawing Grinsa’s gaze.

“Not alone, no. He couldn’t have without my help.”

“So he’s the other.”

“Your Majesty?”

“The day you told me you were a Weaver, you listed those who knew-Keziah, Tavis, Cresenne, and another you wouldn’t name. It was Fotir, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And how much longer can our circle remain so small?”

Grinsa shook his head. “Not much, I fear.”

“Aindreas will call for your head. So will Shanstead. I don’t know about the others, but I can’t imagine they’ll be willing to embrace you as an ally.”

“They have to!” Keziah said. “Who else among us can fight the Weaver?”

“I don’t disagree with you, Kez. I’m just telling you what I know to be true.”

“The question is, Your Majesty, what will you do? If you support me, the others may follow. Perhaps not Kentigern, nor even Shanstead, but the rest. Certainly Javan will. He knows what I’ve done for Tavis, and the boy will speak to him on my behalf. I sense that the queen might support me as well, though some of her nobles might speak against it. Ultimately, though, this is up to you.”

Kearney looked back across the battle plain, then stared up at the crows and vultures circling overhead. “My father used to say that we don’t choose our allies so much as find them. The hardest part, he said, was recognizing them in time.” He met Grinsa’s gaze. “I’ll support you, gleaner. I haven’t much choice in the matter, and even if I did, you’ve proved your good faith time and again. I’d be a fool not to stand with you.”

Grinsa bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Shall we speak to them now?”

“Not yet. There’s something I want to do first. With your permission, I’d wait until morning.”

“All right. May I ask what it is you intend to do?”

“I’m going to try to enter the Weaver’s dreams.”

“What?” Keziah whispered.

“We need to know where he is, and, if possible, what he’s planning. This is the only way I can think of to learn both.”

“Is there any danger to you?” the king asked.

“No. I’ll be in his mind. The worst he can do is drive me out. But it may be that I can hurt him.”

“Very well.” The king halted, as did Keziah and Grinsa. “I’ll be eager to hear how you fare.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I should return to the armies.”

“May I have a moment with Grinsa, Your Majesty?”

“Of course.” He nodded to the gleaner, who bowed once more in return. Then he turned and started back toward the soldiers.

“You think I’m wrong to try,” Grinsa said.

“I think the risks are greater than you made them sound just now.”

“He can’t hurt me, Kezi.”

“Maybe not. But he can sense your thoughts, your fears. I know, because I’ve sensed his. Not enough to learn much, but I’m not a Weaver. You may give away as much as you learn. You could even reveal that I’m your sister.”

“I won’t.”

“But you could.”

“At the first sign of danger, I’ll break contact with him. You have my word.”

She looked like she might say more, but in the end she merely nodded and walked away, leaving Grinsa alone amid the grasses and stones.

The truth was, Grinsa didn’t have to enter the Weaver’s dreams at all. He had only to reach for him. He could search the land for the man without actually entering his mind. That would tell him where Dusaan jal Kania and his army could be found. But Grinsa wanted this confrontation. Twice before they had met, once when he pulled Cresenne out of her dream of the man, thus saving her life, and again when the Weaver came to him, and nearly managed to turn Grinsa’s own magic against him. Eventually they would face each other in battle, probably on this very moor. It seemed as inevitable as the new day. They were tied to one another, their strange bond forged of hatred and the powers they shared; of the Weaver’s ambition and Grinsa’s need to avenge all that Dusaan had done to Cresenne and Keziah. But during their previous encounter, when Braedon’s high chancellor entered his dreams, Grinsa had found himself overmatched. Before their final battle, he needed to prove to himself that he could defeat this man, that his powers ran as deep as those of the renegade Weaver.

After some time, as the sun finally began to dip toward the western horizon, Grinsa returned to the Curgh camp to look for Tavis. Before he reached the boy, though, he was accosted by Marston of Shanstead. The thane had two soldiers with him, as if he feared approaching a Qirsi unguarded. His grey eyes were watchful, scanning from side to side as he walked, and he rested a hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

“I know what you have in mind to do,” Shanstead said without preamble, his voice low and tense. “And I’d advise you against it.”

For just an instant, Grinsa wondered if the man really did know, if he had discovered Grinsa’s secret and learned of his intention to speak with the Weaver. In the next moment, he dismissed the idea. This man hated all Qirsi, save his own minister. No doubt he meant to accuse Grinsa of some foul crime against the king.

“What is it you think you know, my lord?”

“I know that the archminister is a traitor, and I see the two of you plotting together. I know as well that you’ve lied about your powers in the past. Aindreas and Javan, who can barely agree on the time of day, concur on that much.” He took a step closer, tightening his grip on his weapon. “I’m watching you, gleaner. And your friend as well. If one of you should so much as look askance at the king, I’ll crush you both. Do you understand?”

Shanstead, he realized in that moment, was precisely the sort of Eandi that drove Qirsi to the Weaver and his movement. This type of blind distrust and blustering animosity had done more to weaken the Forelands than had any white-haired traitor. Grinsa would have liked to shatter the man’s blade, or set his hair ablaze. Instead, he offered a thin smile. “I assure you, Lord Shanstead, the king has nothing to fear from his archminister or from me. What’s more, he knows this. It’s a pity you’re too much a fool to see it for yourself.”

“How dare you speak to me so!”

“I could say much the same thing, my lord.” And stepping around the man, Grinsa continued on toward the Curgh lines. He half expected Shanstead to follow, and a part of him wished the man would, so that he’d have an excuse to use his magic. But the thane merely stared after him as Grinsa wove his way through a maze of soldiers and past the wounded. When he found Tavis, his hands were still trembling with rage.

“There you are,” the young lord said as Grinsa approached him. “I’ve been hearing all sorts of stories about you.” He had been smiling, but seeing the gleaner’s expression he grew serious. “What’s happened?”

Grinsa shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me. I know you too well, Grinsa.”

“Nothing of importance. Really.” Knowing the boy wouldn’t be satisfied by this, he gestured vaguely at the battle plain. “Shanstead just accused Keziah and me of plotting against the king.”

“Shanstead’s an idiot.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you.”

“Do you want me to speak with the king?”

The gleaner had to smile. Tavis had grown a good deal in the past year. “No, thank you,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Shanstead’s suspicions will prove useful as long as Keziah is still maintaining her deception.”

“I suppose.”

“Tell me about these stories you’re hearing.”

“Actually most of them are coming from my father. He’s saying that along with Fotir and the archminister, you held off the entire Aneiran army.”

Grinsa laughed. “That’s not quite true.”

“Still, that’s what he’s saying. He also told me that Aindreas accused you of putting a hole in his castle so that I could escape. Now, he said as well that Fotir claimed to have shaped the hole himself, but my father doesn’t believe that for a moment.” He paused, eyeing the gleaner. “You do see where I’m going with all this.”

“I do,” the gleaner said, rubbing a hand over his face. It wasn’t as funny anymore.

“He wasn’t just telling stories, Grinsa. He took me aside and started asking questions about you, about your powers, about what I’ve seen you do during our journeys together. My father’s no fool. He may not know as much about Qirsi magic as I do at this point, but he’s going to figure this out. He might have already.”

“What will he do when he does?”

“I don’t know.”

“I need his support, Tavis. With Shanstead telling everyone who’ll listen that I’m a traitor, and Aindreas still bitter over your escape, I’ll need all the friends-”

“You’re going to tell them?”

“I haven’t much choice. Even now, the king is preparing for a final battle with the empire. I can’t allow that to happen. If these armies destroy one another, we’ve no hope of defeating the Weaver. As it is, we might have lost too many men already. I intend to reveal to the nobles that I’m a Weaver, to try to make them see what it is we face. I’m hoping that I can convince them to sue for peace with the Braedony army.”

“They won’t do it.”

“They have to.”

Tavis shrugged. “They won’t. You’ve taught me a good deal about your people and your magic during this past year. Now, let me tell you something about the Eandi courts of Eibithar. They don’t tolerate invasions. It amazes me that you convinced them to spare the lives of those Solkarans. You might get them to do the same with what’s left of the empire’s force, but you’ll never convince them to sue for peace, much less fight beside them. I do know what’s at stake, and I’ve half a mind to destroy their army anyway.”

“I understand what you’re telling me. But still, I have to try.”

“I know you do,” Tavis said, sighing. “I’ll do all I can to convince my father. He can be stubborn, although no more so than I.” A smile touched his lips and was gone. “After all you’ve done for me, he won’t be one of those calling for your execution. I can promise you that.”

“Thank you, Tavis.”

“Have you told Keziah what you intend to do?”

“Yes.” Grinsa faltered, but only briefly. Tavis should know all of it. He had earned that much. “You should also know that I intend to enter the Weaver’s dreams tonight.”

He expected the young lord to express amazement, or perhaps to tell him that he was a fool. Instead Tavis just nodded, and said, “Be careful.”

“I will.”

They stood in awkward silence for several moments. It seemed to Grinsa that they had reached some sort of ending, as if all that they had shared since Tavis’s escape from Kentigern was drawing to a close. And strangely, the gleaner found himself saddened by this.

“I suppose everything is going to be different once others know,” the boy said. The smile sprang to his lips again, looking forced and bitter among the scars Aindreas had left on his face. Once Grinsa had thought that the scars fit the boy, giving him a hardened look that was a match for his difficult manner. That was when they first began to journey together. Over the course of the past year, however, as they searched for Brienne’s assassin and prepared for this war, their relationship changed. Tavis changed. Where once he had been a selfish, undisciplined child, he now stood before Grinsa a man, still with his faults to be sure, but more mature than the gleaner would have thought possible. With time, perhaps, as Tavis’s face aged, adding other lines, and softening the effect of the old wounds, he’d look wise and strong. That struck Grinsa as more apt now.

“I won’t be the notorious one anymore,” Tavis said after a moment. “They’ll all be looking at you.”

“I’d think that you’d welcome that.”

“I guess I should.”

“But?”

Tavis shrugged, then shook his head. “But nothing.” The smile lingered, grew warmer. “What a pair we make.”

Before Grinsa could answer, Tavis stepped forward and gathered him in a rough embrace.

“Thank you, Grinsa,” he whispered. Then he pulled back, turned away, and hurried off.

The gleaner wandered off in a different direction, eventually taking a seat on a large grey stone and watching the sun set. As darkness gathered around the armies, the soldiers lit fires and the faint smell of roasting fowl reached him. He hadn’t eaten since morning, but he wasn’t hungry. He remained where he was, watching as stars began to spread across the night sky. Fragments of conversations reached him, occasionally he heard a burst of laughter, or the sound of rough voices singing some Eibitharian or Sanbiri folk song. After some time, Keziah came to him and sat as well. He thought that she would resume her argument against what he was planning, but she said nothing, just rested her head on his shoulder, and stared up at the stars. Eventually she began to nod off, jerking herself awake more than once. At last she stood, yawning deeply. Gazing at him in the darkness, she smiled sadly. Then she kissed his cheek, gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and moved off, leaving him alone with the soft wind and the distant, mournful cry of an owl.

Still he waited, watching for the moons. Only when both were up, did he finally close his eyes and stretch his mind forth, searching for the Weaver. He had known to look northward, expecting that Dusaan would be on the waters beyond Galdasten. Instead, he found the Weaver in the company of nearly two hundred Qirsi on the moors south of the castle, only a few days’ ride from the battle plain. Fear gripped him and he nearly opened his eyes once more and went immediately to Kearney. But such a warning could wait a short while-Dusaan and his army weren’t on the move just now. And the truth was, Grinsa wanted to face this man again. He wanted to prove to himself, and to the Weaver, that he could stand against the high chancellor’s power. He wasn’t proud of this-it was something he would have expected of Tavis, not himself-but there could be no denying the strength of the impulse. It was more than he could resist.

Taking one long, final breath, he entered Dusaan’s mind.

He had chosen the moors near Eardley for their encounter-the same place he usually spoke to Keziah when he entered her dreams. It was where he felt most comfortable; he wanted to keep all his attention on the Weaver and what he said, without having to give a thought to their surroundings. Still, he made certain that the sun was high overhead. Dusaan liked to hide his face during such encounters. Grinsa wouldn’t allow him that luxury.

An instant later, Dusaan stood before him, dressed in warrior’s garb, an amused grin on his square face.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said.

Without bothering to respond, Grinsa reached for the man’s power-shaping first, then fire, then healing. Dusaan blocked his efforts with ease.

“You disappoint me, gleaner. You didn’t really think that you’d best me with such a predictable attack.”

“It was worth trying.”

Dusaan shrugged indifferently. “I suppose, though it seems to me that you do our relationship a disservice.”

“We have no relationship.”

“No? I walk in your dreams, you walk in mine.” He smiled. “People will talk.”

Again Grinsa tried to take hold of the Weaver’s healing power, but Dusaan had an iron grip on all his magic. The gleaner sensed no fear in the man. Only confidence, an unshakable faith in his own strength and the inevitability of his victory.

“Be honest with me, Grinsa. You’ve never known another Weaver, have you?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Nor have I. We share something unique. Before this moment, no one had ever entered my dreams as you’ve done. Just as I was the first to walk in your dreams. You can protest all you like, but we share a kinship, even if it is based solely on our desire to kill one another.”

“We’re both Weavers, but beyond that we have nothing at all in common. I’ve seen the things you do-you’re cruel, arbitrary, ambitious beyond reason.”

The Weaver shook his head, making a clicking noise with his tongue. “All this because I hurt your love? You judge me too harshly.”

Grinsa didn’t answer immediately. He needed to be more careful. As Keziah had told him, the Weaver could sense his emotions, and the last thing Grinsa wanted was to betray his sister’s secret.

“I know what I’ve seen,” he said at last.

“Cresenne betrayed me. Can you honestly say that an Eandi lord wouldn’t do the same to a traitor?”

“That’s a strange defense of your actions. You speak of a new future for the Qirsi people, and yet you look to the Eandi courts to justify torture.”

“Don’t try to goad me, Grinsa. It won’t work, nor is it necessary. No doubt you wish to know my plans, to divine the ploys I intend to use against your Eandi friends. The truth is, there are no ploys. I plan to lead my army onto the Moorlands and defeat the armies of the Forelands in battle. You found me, so you know where we are and how many I command. I don’t care. I’m sure you count it a victory that you can see my face, but at this point that doesn’t concern me, either. I’ve nothing to fear from Kearney and his allies, or from you for that matter. I defeated the emperor’s army with but a handful of Qirsi. I took Ayvencalde with less than half the number of Qirsi I have now. My army is the most powerful force to travel the Forelands in nine hundred years. There isn’t an army you could assemble that would stand against us.”

“That army of nine centuries ago was defeated, and yours will be as well.”

A bright angry grin lit the Weaver’s face. “No, Grinsa. You’re wrong. The Qirsi army of old was betrayed. But I know these Qirsi-my Qirsi. There’s no Carthach here.”

“How can you be so certain?”

Dusaan’s grin deepened. “Because you’re the only Carthach in the Forelands. You’ve already betrayed your people, and we’re going to prevail in spite of you.”

Now who was doing the goading? Grinsa shouldn’t have been bothered, but this talk of Carthach-why had he even mentioned the ancient traitor in the first place? — hewed too closely to his own deepest fears to be ignored. He knew that this man before him was not fit to lead his people, much less all the realms of the Forelands. But he knew as well that his people deserved to be treated better than they were by Eandi nobility, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he would be remembered as the Weaver who betrayed his people by fighting to save their oppressors.

“I’ve silenced you,” the Weaver said. “How glorious.”

There was nothing for him to say. All that was left, in his desperation and his fear, was to make one last attempt at killing the man. He grappled for the Weaver’s power once more, lunging for it with his mind, battering at Dusaan’s defenses. Fire, shaping, healing-any magic that might allow him to exact revenge for what the Weaver had done to Cresenne, what his schemes had done to Tavis, what the need to defeat him had done to Keziah. And again, he failed. Dusaan actually laughed at him, as if Grinsa were a child leaping to catch hold of wonders that hung beyond his reach.

Then, without warning, the Weaver did something Grinsa hadn’t anticipated, hadn’t even thought possible. With one quick stride forward, he stretched out a hand, taking hold of the gleaner’s throat. Abruptly Grinsa couldn’t breathe. It shouldn’t have been possible. There was nothing in Grinsa’s knowledge of Qirsi magic to explain it. Yet there could be no denying the pressure on his neck, the sudden burning of his lungs.

“You thought to enter my dreams?” the Weaver demanded, his hot breath on Grinsa’s face. “You believed yourself powerful enough to use my magic against me? You’re nothing, gleaner.” He said the word with contempt, as if he were calling Grinsa a whoreson. Or a traitor.

He struggled to free himself, then stopped, realizing that this was just what the Weaver wanted him to do, just what he had warned Cresenne and Keziah not to do. Instead, he took hold of his own magic again, breaking free of Dusaan’s control. An instant later, he drew breath again. Dusaan still stood just before him, his hand at Grinsa’s throat. But the gleaner no longer felt the man’s touch.

Dusaan gave a wry smile. “Very good, gleaner. You did that quite well. Of course a man of your power shouldn’t have allowed me access to your magic in the first place, but I’m sure that when you tell your king of this encounter, you’ll leave out that small detail.”

An instant later, everything went dark. Grinsa warded himself, grasping at his magic as if it were a battle shield. Only after a few moments did he understand that the Weaver had ended their conversation, waking himself with ease. The gleaner couldn’t help but remember how he had struggled to thrust the Weaver from his mind when Dusaan invaded his dreams.

He opened his eyes, bracing himself with his hand to keep from toppling over. The stars above him seemed to pitch and spin, as if he were a feather blown about by a harvest wind. He squeezed his eyes closed, opened them again. After some time, the stars began to slow.

When he could walk again, he made his way to Kearney’s tent. Most in the camp were asleep, but a candle still burned within the king’s shelter and after a word with Kearney, a guard allowed Grinsa to enter.

The king sat at a small table, a modest, half-eaten meal before him. He looked weary. Even in the candlelight, Grinsa could see the dark lines under his pale eyes. “Yes, gleaner. What is it?”

“I went to the Weaver, Your Majesty, as I told you I would.”

Kearney stood, nearly upsetting the table. “I had forgotten. Did you…? Were you able to hurt him?”

“No, Your Majesty. But I did learn something of his plans. He’s closer than we thought-no more than two or three days’ ride from here. He leads an army of some two hundred Qirsi.”

“Two hundred?” the king repeated, frowning.

“It’s more than it sounds, Your Majesty. With two hundred Qirsi he can destroy all of the armies on this plain.”

“But you’re a Weaver as well, with Qirsi on your side. Surely you can help us defeat him.”

“I’ll do my best, Your Majesty. He’s … he’s very powerful.”

“As are you.”

“Yes, but he has more Qirsi with him than I do. And he’s been using his power as a weapon far longer than I have.”

“Still, your presence here must mean something.”

“I hope it will, Your Majesty, but I’m not strong enough to do this on my own. You need to end this war with Braedon.”

“I intend to try. I’ve been trying.”

“No, Your Majesty, you don’t understand. I don’t mean defeat them. I’m asking you to sue for peace and end this conflict before others die.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“It’s the only way. We can’t afford to lose any more men.”

“The empire invaded this land! Harel seeks the conquest of Eibithar! And you want me to make peace with him?”

“Harel no longer rules Braedon, Your Majesty! Dusaan has defeated the part of his army that remained in Curtell. For all we know, the emperor is dead. The conspiracy is your enemy, just as it’s the enemy of every sovereign in the Forelands. Even if you defeat Braedon’s men, this war you’re fighting now will destroy you. I beg of you: end it while you can, and prepare for the true battle.”

Kearney sat again, looking confused and more than a bit frightened. “He defeated Harel? You’re certain?”

“Yes. He also took Ayvencalde, and though he didn’t say so, his presence on the Moorlands tells me that he defeated Galdasten as well.”

The king stared at the candle flame. “Demons and fire.”

“Please, Your Majesty. Make peace with the empire’s men. It may be our only hope.”

“I’ll think on it.” He looked up, meeting the gleaner’s gaze. “Truly, I will.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Grinsa bowed, then left the tent, wondering if even an alliance between Eibithar and her enemies would be enough to withstand the Weaver’s onslaught. The king, he realized, was depending upon him to win this war. So were Keziah and Fotir and Tavis. The others might revile him when first he revealed himself as a Weaver, but with time they would see him much the same way. He was their hope, and yet he had no hope himself. This, as much as anything, explained why Dusaan had been right, why Grinsa hadn’t mentioned to Kearney the ease with which the Weaver took hold of his magic.