Weavers of War

Chapter Seventeen

They were walking around the camp-it seemed to Keziah that she had spent much of this day circling the Eandi soldiers, first with Sanbira’s archminister and now with her brother. Usually Grinsa was quite skilled at concealing his emotions. He had spent his life hiding not only the true extent of his powers, but also his fear of being discovered, and his concern for Keziah’s safety. But at this moment, turning over in his mind what she had told him, he had the look of a man confronting his own doom. Passing a hand over his haggard face, he shook his head.

“You’re certain of this?” he finally asked.

As if she could be wrong about such a thing.

“Yes. She left little doubt about any of it.”

“Three of them.”

“She told me who they are, Grinsa. The first ministers of Macharzo and Norinde, and of course Abeni herself.”

“Knowing who they are isn’t enough.”

“But surely you can defeat three Qirsi.”

“Yes, but that’s not the point either. I knew that one of them was a traitor, maybe even two. But three? That leaves me with an army of thirteen.” He shook his head again. “Even if the imperial army was with us, that wouldn’t be enough.”

She sensed his fear, his desperation. But someone had to say it. “That’s all you’ve got. It has to be enough.”

He cast a look her way, but he didn’t grow angry. He merely nodded.

“Abeni wanted to make an attempt on your life immediately, but I convinced her to wait, saying it would be better to make you think that you commanded a loyal army. I hope that was the right thing to do.”

“Actually, I’m not certain it was. I’d rather face the Weaver with a small army than have to fight traitors and his force at the same time.”

Keziah had thought of this as well, though only after her conversation with the archminister ended. “I’m sorry. She spoke of killing you and I panicked.”

“It’s all right.”

“Do you want me to go back to her and convince her to strike at you sooner?”

He shook his head. “You risk raising her doubts.”

“Then maybe we should go to the nobles and tell them that we’ve learned of traitors in their courts.”

“That’s also too dangerous. Abeni will know that the information came from you.”

“Couldn’t you say that you sensed their treachery?”

But even before he answered, Keziah knew that this wouldn’t work either. If Abeni and her fellow renegades were executed as traitors, leaving Keziah as the only survivor among those who claimed to support the movement, the Weaver would know that she had betrayed them.

“There’s nothing to be done about it now, Kezi. She’ll make her plans, and you’ll have no choice but to follow along.”

“What will you do?”

He smiled, looking so weary that it made her chest ache. “Whatever I have to.”

“We should turn back,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of Kearney.

“You need to be careful, Keziah.”

She faced him again, putting on her bravest smile in turn. “I always am.”

“I’m serious. Norinde’s first minister isn’t much of a threat, but both women are shapers. Either of them can kill you with a single thought, and I won’t be able to do anything about it.”

“Why would they kill me? Abeni is ready to declare herself my closest friend, and I get the sense that she keeps a tight rein on the others.”

He looked away, the muscles in his jaw bunching as they often did when he wanted to say something but feared her reaction.

“Hasn’t this gone on long enough?” he finally asked. “You’ve learned the names of the other traitors in this army, you’ve learned that the Weaver intends to have Kearney killed on the battlefield. We know as much about Dusaan’s plans as we need to, in large part thanks to you. But this war-the real war-will begin in the next day or two.” He winced, as if suddenly in pain. “Actually, I suppose it’s already begun. Dusaan is done making plans. It seems to me that the time has come to end this deceit, before you get yourself killed.”

“How do I end it, Grinsa? Do you see a way out of this? Because I certainly don’t. Until the Weaver is killed, I won’t be safe, no matter how much you try to protect me. You saw what he did to Cresenne when she betrayed him. He’ll be no less brutal with me.”

“So what are you going to do? Kill Kearney? Fight me? Do all the things Dusaan and his servants expect of you?”

“Of course not!”

“Then what choice do you have, Kezi? You’re fast reaching a point where you can’t risk staying with them anymore.”

“That may be so, but I’m not there yet!”

Keziah started to walk away, not quite understanding why she was so angry with him. She knew that he was right. She had barely slept the past several nights, fearing that the Weaver would come to her demanding to know why Kearney still lived, and she was still shaken from her conversation with Sanbira’s archminister. How much longer could she continue to deceive Abeni and the others? How many more times could she allow the Weaver to enter her mind without revealing her true feelings for Kearney or her love for her brother?

But even knowing all this, she couldn’t bring herself to admit that it was time now to end the lies. She tried to tell herself that there was still more that she could learn, that her access to the conspiracy could still help Grinsa and the king. But in truth she wasn’t even certain that this was true anymore. A part of her wondered if this were a matter of pride. When she succeeded in joining the conspiracy she assumed a unique role in this war. Never before had she felt so important, and it occurred to her that she might have been allowing vanity to cloud her judgment. But after considering this possibility for but a moment she dismissed it. In the end it came down to fright. Keziah was just scared. She had survived for this long through cunning and lies; she could survive that way a bit longer. But if she revealed to the Weaver that she had deceived him …

Keziah shuddered. Yes, that was the reason.

“Keziah,” Grinsa called, after she had taken only a step or two.

She halted, but didn’t turn.

“I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. You know that.”

Probably she should have said something. She could have thanked him in some way, or at least told him that she wasn’t really angry with him. Instead, she just nodded and left him there.

She walked northward toward the battle front, her pace quickening as she went. Abruptly she needed to be near Kearney. Grinsa’s warnings had taken her thoughts in a new direction. War with the Qirsi army was almost upon them, and the Weaver had made it clear to her that he wanted the king dead before that final conflict began. Clearly she couldn’t kill him, but it seemed to her equally clear that in a matter of such importance, the Weaver would not depend solely on her.

When at last she found the king, he was checking the blade of the broadsword he usually carried in the silver, red, and black baldric of his forebears. Another sword hung on his belt, and his horse stood nearby, saddled and bearing battle armor.

“What’s happened?” she asked, her apprehension mounting.

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers for just an instant. Then he sheathed his blade and nodded toward the north. “Braedon’s men are on the move. I expect them to attack any time now. You shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.” He stepped to his mount and began to tighten the saddle.

Keziah gazed at the enemy lines. There did appear to be a good deal of activity there, though she couldn’t make any sense of it.

“I’ll ride with you,” she said.

He stopped what he was doing and stared at her. “What?”

“I can wield a blade. And I have language of beasts and mists and winds. I can help you.”

“You could be killed.”

She raked a hand through her hair. Why were the men in her life constantly reminding her of that?

“He wants you dead!” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve told you that. I know that you have to fight, but someone has to be near you, to protect you.”

“The Weaver isn’t even here yet.”

“No, but he’s near, and he wanted me to do this before he arrived. If there are others who have been told to kill you, they’ll make the attempt today.”

She had no proof of this, of course, but as she spoke the words she knew in her heart that it was true.

“We’re at war, Kez. Anyone who isn’t an ally will be trying to kill me. Do you really think that one more Qirsi assassin will make that much difference?”

“I can make a difference.”

“And who will keep you alive?”

Keziah started to answer, then closed her mouth, unsure of what she had intended to say.

Kearney smiled with such tenderness that it was all she could do to keep from crying. “You see? You’re asking me to exchange my life for yours, and that’s not a trade I’m willing to make.”

Men called out from both ends of the Eibitharian camp, and Kearney’s eyes snapped back to the front.

“They must be bringing their archers forward.” He looked at her again. “I have to go.”

She said nothing.

The king swung himself onto his horse, gazed at her once more.

“They’ll try for your mount first,” she said. “The Weaver wants you dead, but he wants it to appear to be the empire’s fault, so the attempt will be subtle. They’ll try to make him rear suddenly, or they’ll break his leg.”

Kearney nodded. “I’ll do my best to be ready.”

Their eyes remained locked for another moment before he wheeled his mount away and started toward the front.

She could hear singing coming from the soldiers of Braedon, and though Grinsa had counseled peace time and again, trying to make all who would listen understand that they would need every soldier on both sides of the battle plain to defeat the Weaver, she couldn’t help hating them.

* * *

Soldiers ran in all directions, archers taking position on the flanks, preparing to answer the Braedony volleys that were already pelting down on the Eibitharian army, and swordsmen taking positions in the center, where they would meet the inevitable charge from the army of the empire. As always, Hagan MarCullet was beside the duke of Curgh, giving voice to Javan’s commands, and offering advice when the duke asked for it. And as always, Xaver stood a few paces from his father, waiting to learn if he would be allowed to fight. He had fought in the previous battle, but only because Hagan had been distracted as the fighting began and hadn’t noticed his son charging forward with the other soldiers. Afterward, when Hagan was certain that Xaver was all right, he gave the boy a tongue-lashing that Xaver would not soon forget.

Tavis was nearby, his face pale, so that his dark scars stood out even more starkly than usual. Though Xaver and the young lord were the same age, Tavis was strapping on a sword, preparing for combat, while Xaver, his liege man, could only watch.

The injustice of it made Xaver want to scream out loud.

He didn’t blame his friend. With all that he had endured the past year, Tavis had earned the right to fight for his realm. But hadn’t Xaver as well? Hadn’t he fought bravely, albeit clumsily, during the siege of Kentigern a year before? Hadn’t he borne the hardships of the march from Curgh along with the other men in Javan’s army? Hadn’t he acquitted himself well in the recent battle? Didn’t he wield a blade as skillfully as any soldier on that battle plain?

Of course he did. For he was Hagan MarCullet’s son, trained to fight by the Sword himself. And there lay the problem. As long as his father remained in command of Curgh’s army, Xaver might never be allowed to fight again. In a way, Xaver understood. Ever since the death of Xaver’s mother, Daria, Hagan had done all he could to protect his son. Matters had only gotten worse since Kentigern, when Xaver accompanied the duke and Tavis to the tor only to find himself imprisoned and then caught in the midst of a siege. The recent deaths of the duke of Heneagh and his son had made Hagan even more cautious. Still, understanding was one thing; tolerating this treatment was quite another. Xaver was a year past his Fating now. Younger men had marched to the Moorlands with Javan’s army. Yes, some of them had died, but others had fought bravely, even gallantly. Xaver could well be one of those young heroes, if his father would only give him the opportunity. He could almost see himself ten years from now, a father in his own right, still standing behind Hagan as others marched to battle. It would be funny, if it didn’t gall him so.

He had asked Tavis to speak with the duke on his behalf, but he knew that there was little his friend could do for him. The young lord might have been his liege, but he had no real authority on this battle plain. Javan was duke, Hagan his swordmaster. On matters pertaining to the army, a duke almost always deferred to his swordmaster’s judgment.

Tavis glanced at him now, even as he checked his weapon one last time, and there was an apology in his dark blue eyes. “It won’t be much of a battle,” he said. “We have twice as many men as they do.”

“All the more reason for my father to let me fight.”

Tavis shrugged, seeming to concede the point. Then he started toward his horse.

“Tavis, wait!”

His friend turned.

Xaver looked toward his father, who was intent on his conversation with the duke and the battle unfolding before them.

“I’m coming with you.”

Tavis shook his head. “Stinger-”

“Don’t call me that.”

Even the old nickname rankled. A stinger was what soldiers called a child’s training weapon, and since Hagan had long been called the Sword, it had always seemed fitting that they call him Stinger. But didn’t it imply that he was still but a boy, not yet as tempered as his father’s steel, not yet ready to fight alongside men?

“I’m sorry,” Tavis said, frowning. “But I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I’m your liege man. If you tell me to stay behind, I have no choice but to obey. But you know that I don’t deserve to be left here. I’m as good with a sword as any of these men.”

His friend looked truly pained, and Xaver knew that he was being unfair to him, placing him in an impossible position. “The last thing I want to do is get between you and Hagan,” Tavis had said the last time they discussed this. Yet that was precisely where Xaver had just put him.

“I’ll tell my father that it was my idea,” he said. “And your father, too. I’ll take all the blame.”

“I’m not worried about getting in trouble, Xaver.”

He felt his face growing hot. “You think I’m going to get myself killed. You don’t think I can fight either.”

“That’s not true. But this is a war. Anything can happen. Any of us can be killed. I don’t know that I’ll survive.”

“But you choose to fight anyway.” Seeing Tavis hesitate, Xaver pressed his advantage. “Shouldn’t I be allowed to make that same choice?”

Tavis stood there chewing his lip, looking for just that moment like the boy Xaver used to play with in the gardens of Curgh Castle. At last he exhaled through his teeth, shaking his head. “Your father is going to thrash us,” he said. “And if he doesn’t, mine will.”

Xaver grinned. “They’ll never know,” he said, and ran to get his mount.

* * *

Lenvyd jal Qosten had ridden north, just as the Weaver commanded, leaving Audun’s Castle and the City of Kings even before he knew whether the poison he gave to the woman there had killed her. The Weaver had long told him that his time would come, that someday his service to the movement would prove invaluable. Now, it seemed that the time was at hand. First he had been called upon to kill the traitor, Cresenne ja Terba, to punish her for turning against the Weaver and his great cause. Today he would strike a second blow, using his other magic, the one nobody knew he possessed. Nobody, that is, except the Weaver.

The Eandi thought him harmless, an old healer whose talents were limited to mending insignificant wounds and mixing tonics for the foolish ladies of the king’s court. But he had always been clever-how else could he have concealed his fealty to the Weaver’s cause for so long? The Weaver had recognized this, of course. He had rewarded Lenvyd handsomely for his role in the killing of old King Aylyn, and had promised to do the same if he managed to kill Cresenne.

“But even that payment will be nothing next to what I’ll give you if you succeed in this last endeavor,” the Weaver had told him one night just before Lenvyd left the castle. “You’ll have riches beyond your wildest imaginings, and you’ll spend your last days serving in my court.”

He was only too happy to comply.

None of the Eandi knew which of the castle healers Minqar, the master healer, had ordered to the Moorlands and which had been instructed to remain behind. Even the king did not trouble himself with such matters. Some of the Qirsi knew-Minqar would have had to speak of this with the archminister, and of course the other healers would know who among their brethren had gone north. But if necessary Lenvyd could always claim that the master healer had sent him to join the others, fearing that the king didn’t have enough healers with him. No one would question him. And even if Minqar thought to send a messenger north to warn Kearney of Lenvyd’s betrayal, Lenvyd would reach the army first. By the time the missive arrived, it would be too late.

He expected, though, that lies wouldn’t be necessary, and that no message would come. He was right.

Lenvyd had come within sight of the Eibitharian camp several days before. He sent his horse away, waited until nightfall, then covered the remaining distance on foot, slipping into the camp unnoticed and lying down to sleep near the other healers. When morning broke and they woke to find him there, no one said a word. One or two looked at him strangely, as if wondering how he had gotten there, but most seemed to take for granted that he had been with them all along. Old Lenvyd, whom no one ever noticed.

For a few days he tended to the wounded, saying little, trying only not to be noticed. But finally last night, the Weaver entered his dreams again.

“You’re with Kearney’s army,” the man said to him, as Lenvyd shielded his eyes from the brilliant light that shone behind him.

“Yes, Weaver.”

“And the king still lives?”

“He does, Weaver.”

For several moments the Weaver didn’t speak. Lenvyd sensed his fury and lowered his gaze, afraid that he might be punished, though he knew he’d done nothing wrong.

“I would have preferred that another see to this task, but she has failed me, so it falls to you. You know what it is I want?”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“Good. My army and I are but a day’s ride away from your battle plain. I want this done tomorrow, so that when we arrive the soldiers of Eibithar will be grieving for their king and blaming the empire for his death.”

“Kearney doesn’t allow his healers to venture so close to the fighting. It will be difficult for me to do this in the midst of a battle. Were I a younger man, my magic still strong and new, I could do it from some distance. But now…” He shrugged, again fearing the Weaver’s wrath.

But the man merely said, “I understand. Still, there is no one else. You must not fail me. Get as close to him as you dare, but not so close that you arouse the suspicions of those around you. I want this to seem an accident or an act of the Eandi warriors. There are times when we must become more than we are, perhaps more than we ever were. For you, that time has come.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“If you do this, you will never again want for anything. Your last days on Elined’s earth will be glorious, and when you die, Bian will offer you a special place in his realm.”

“Thank you, Weaver.”

Lenvyd had awakened to a starry sky, exhausted and awed. He had never thought to see a day when a Weaver walked the Forelands. Certainly he had never dared hope to draw the attention of one so powerful. Truly he had been blessed to live in such times.

As the day progressed however, Lenvyd began to wonder if there would even be a battle. When he heard that Kearney had ridden forward to sue for peace, his hands began to tremble so badly that he had to leave the other healers for a time in order to compose himself. But at last, late in the day, after the king’s attempt to forge a truce failed, the armies finally began to ready themselves for combat.

The sun had already started its slow descent toward the western horizon when the first arrows flew. Screams went up from both sides, the Braedony swordsmen commenced their charge and were met by Kearney’s warriors before they had covered half the distance between the two armies. In moments, the battle plain was in tumult and Eibithar’s healers were called upon to mend shattered bone and repair mangled flesh. As always, their work took them dangerously close to the front, and just this once Lenvyd didn’t mind at all.

He could see the king from where he tended to the first of the fallen, but the distance was still too great. Others were struck down closer to the fighting, and Lenvyd hurried toward them, continually marking the king’s position, doing all he could to narrow the gap between them.

“Lenvyd!” one of the other healers called to him. “You’re too close! It’s not safe there!”

“What choice do I have?” he called back. “This is where the injured are!” He turned his back on the man.

“You’ll get yourself killed!”

He ignored the healer, kneeling down beside a wounded soldier and placing his hands over a deep, bloody gash high on the man’s chest.

“Thank ye, healer,” the soldier whispered.

Lenvyd nodded, but he was watching Kearney, who steered his mount skillfully, first to one side, then to the other, his blade rising and falling with terrible grace, the steel stained crimson.

He was almost close enough.

Another man dropped to the ground several fourspans ahead. Lenvyd glanced down at the soldier he was healing. The wound had nearly closed.

“That should hold for a time,” he said quickly. “Make your way back to the other healers. They’ll do the rest.”

“Yes, healer. Again, my thanks.”

Lenvyd was already scurrying forward, his head held low. Yes, this one would get him close enough. His heart pounded in his chest, fear and elation warring within him. Old Lenvyd. He’d be so much more than that after this day.

He had hoped that this next soldier would already be dead, but he wasn’t. The soldier bled from a cut on his temple, and his leg was broken, but he was alive, and, worse, awake.

“Ean be praised!” the warrior said, as Lenvyd knelt beside him. “I though’ I was goin’ t’ die here.”

Lenvyd didn’t answer. He was watching the king, waiting for the right moment, gathering his power. Not healing, of course, but his other magic. Language of beasts.

* * *

Keziah strained to keep Kearney in view. As long as she could see him, she told herself, he was alive. So she watched, her fists clenched so tightly that they ached, her throat dry, her stomach feeling hollow and sour. Yet even now, struggling with her fear, she couldn’t help but take pride in what she saw.

She had never been a woman to be impressed with a man’s brawn or prowess with a blade. She had been drawn to Kearney by his wit and his intelligence; she had fallen in love with his tenderness and compassion. But seeing him now, his sword a gleaming blur in the golden sunlight, his mount whirling under his command like the Sanbiri horses that danced in Bohdan’s Revel, Keziah felt as though she were watching Binthar himself. This was the stuff of myth and song. She knew that she and the king would never again be together, but she knew as well that she would always love him, that his death would kill her as well.

A moment later she saw the healers making their way toward the front, and she wondered where her brother was, and who had fallen. Where were Tavis and his father, Fotir and Evetta and the other ministers? Where was Sanbira’s queen? With the Weaver and his army bearing down on them, they could ill afford to lose anyone.

Once again, she had to fight her desire to mount her horse and ride to Kearney’s side. He’d get himself killed trying to protect you, a voice in her mind told her. You serve him best by remaining here. Realizing this did nothing to reassure her or lessen her frustration, but it did keep her from doing anything foolish.

Look at him, the voice said, as her gaze returned to Kearney. Do you honestly believe that he needs your protection?

Confusion and violence swirled all around the king. Everywhere Keziah looked she saw men dying. Battle-axes and pikes and swords glinted in the sunlight, steel and flesh alike bore the stain of blood, and a thin haze of dust hung low over the plain. A thousand voices seemed to be screaming out at once, cries of fear and pain, battle lust and death mingling into an incomprehensible din.

Which is why, when Keziah first heard the name called out-“Lenvyd”-she knew she must be imagining it. How could she possibly pick out a single voice in the midst of this clamor? Unless it was the name. For she knew a man named Lenvyd. He was a healer who they had left back in Audun’s Castle, an older man whom the master healer had deemed too aged to make the journey northward. More than that, it seemed that the name had been shouted by another of the healers, a man who would also have known the old Qirsi. Looking at him now, she saw a second Qirsi beyond him, tall and thin, his back bent with age. And seeing this second man’s face as he turned for just an instant, a name-the full name-immediately leaped to mind. Lenvyd jal Qosten.

“He shouldn’t be here,” she murmured, her eyes following him.

Yet there he was, and hadn’t he been with them since they marched from the City of Kings? She had taken little notice of the healers during their journey. Certainly it was possible that the master healer had changed his mind about Lenvyd. Minqar would have known that there would be no shortage of wounded men; he might have decided that the addition to their company of even one skilled healer might well turn the tide in this war. Keziah had never seen Lenvyd minister to a patient, so she had no idea how fine a healer he was, but there could be no denying his courage. Even now, he was venturing closer to the battle line, braving the carnage to reach yet another fallen soldier. Indeed, it seemed this was why the other healer had called to him in the first place.

Only when Keziah had convinced herself that the old healer had been with them from the outset and had turned her attention back to Kearney, did she notice how close Lenvyd was to the king. It occurred to her then that every time the man had hurried to the side of another soldier he had also closed the distance between Kearney and himself.

This too, she was ready to dismiss as mere coincidence. But then Lenvyd stood. His back was to her, but she knew that he was staring at the king.

Terror seized her heart. She opened her mouth to scream a warning, fearing that already she was too late. But before she could make a sound, she sensed someone behind her, far too close.

“Archminister,” a voice said.

She spun, found herself face-to-face with Abeni ja Krenta.

“Archminister!” she said in return.

Unable to help herself, she glanced back over her shoulder in time to see Kearney’s mount rear. He clung to the beast, but almost immediately it reared again.

“You look like you’ve seen a wraith,” the woman said, forcing Keziah to look at her before she could see whether Kearney was able to withstand Lenvyd’s second attempt to unseat him.

“What? No. I … I’m just watching the … the battle.” She laughed, short and abrupt. She sounded mad to her own ears. “I’m afraid I’m not very well suited to war.”

Abeni raised an eyebrow. “No? What are you suited to?”

A cheer went up behind her, and whirling around once more, Keziah searched frantically for any sign of Kearney. After a moment she spotted his mount, but the saddle was empty.

“It seems the king has fallen,” Abeni said. “Surely you had hoped for that.”

Keziah faced her again, feeling dizzy and weak. Just because Kearney had been thrown from his mount didn’t mean that he was dead. He was a fearsome warrior, and there were as many of Eibithar’s men around him as there were soldiers of the empire. She needed to concentrate. The woman standing before her was dangerous; not only was she a chancellor in the Weaver’s movement, she was also a shaper. And just now, when she spoke, there had been something strange in her tone.

“What do you mean by that?” Keziah demanded, winning herself just a bit more time to clear her mind.

Kearney!

The archminister smiled, a predatory look in her yellow eyes. “I must ask you again, as I did earlier today, what is it the Weaver has asked you to do?”

“As I told you, I don’t think-”

“Yes, I know: the Weaver wouldn’t want you to say. That strikes me as being a very convenient excuse.”

She could barely stand for the trembling of her legs. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t believe you.” Abeni eyed her briefly, her eyes narrowing, as if she were looking for a flaw in a newly forged blade. “Do you know that the gleaner has a sister?”

Keziah opened her mouth and closed it again. The sky above her seemed to be spinning, the world falling away beneath her feet.

Abeni stepped closer to her so that when next she spoke Keziah could feel the woman’s breath against her cheek, warm and soft as the whisperings of a lover.

“I’m a shaper,” she said, so softly that Keziah had to strain to hear her. “If you call for help or cry out, I’ll break your neck.”

“But I-”

Pain lanced through her hand, making her gasp.

Abeni held a finger to her lips. “Shhhh,” she said, smiling again. “That was just the bone in your little finger. I can do far worse, but I’m hoping I won’t have to.”

“What do you want?” Keziah asked, sobbing, her eyes closed.

“Walk with me.”

“No. You’ll kill me as soon as you have the chance.”

This time she heard the bone break-same hand, the ring finger. She clutched the mangled hand to her breast, tears streaming down her face. Had there been food in her stomach she would have been ill.

“I won’t kill you unless you make me. You’re more valuable to us alive, Keziah. Surely you see that. Grinsa jal Arriet’s sister. The Weaver will be so pleased.” The smile vanished from her face. “Now walk, or you’ll die. And any you call to your aid will perish as well.”

Her hand throbbing, her sight clouded with agony and despair, Keziah made herself walk. It wasn’t surrender, she told herself. Hope remained so long as she still drew breath. She had only to find some way to escape the chancellor.

But she was addled with grief. Walking through the camp, past soldiers still recovering from yesterday’s wounds and the cold, blackened remains of the previous night’s fires, she could think only of Kearney and her brother, and how she had failed them both.