Weavers of War

Chapter Eighteen

Grinsa had heard it said that a warrior who marched to war without passion-be it hatred of the enemy, or fear of death, or love of country-was doomed to walk among wraiths before the battles were ended. Clearly it was an Eandi saying, for his people, he still believed, were never meant to be warriors, and on this day he was proving that by relying on magic a man could survive a battle for which he had no enthusiasm at all.

The Weaver was close. Grinsa could feel the man’s approach the way a ship’s captain might sense a coming storm. This battle, born of stubbornness and pride and too many centuries of hatred, was weakening them just when they most needed to be strong. Kearney knew this. Despite his refusal to listen to reason at their parley earlier this very day, the Braedony captain who led the empire’s army might well have known it too. That they fought anyway reaffirmed for him once more Dusaan’s cunning; he knew the Eandis’ vulnerabilities all too well.

Grinsa had no desire to kill the men before him. He neither hated the empire nor so feared its warriors that he fought with the battle lust he saw all around him. He raised his blade only to keep from being killed himself and to keep the warriors around him from doing too much damage to each other and themselves. It was, he had quickly come to realize, a poor way to fight. His reactions were too slow. Each time he looked for some way to bring down one of the enemy without killing him, he left himself open to another attack. Several times already he had been forced to draw upon his shaping magic in order to shatter blades that would otherwise have bit into his flesh. And twice he had been left with no choice but to break the bones of men who persisted in attacking him even after he rendered their weapons useless.

Naturally, his efforts to save lives had no effect on those around him, who continued to slaughter and be slaughtered with terrible persistence. He should have given up and simply fought as he had been trained so long ago, but he couldn’t. That the battle was clearly going Eibithar’s way was of little consolation. Tavis was still alive, as was Xaver MarCullet, who fought beside him. But like the soldiers around them, they fought as men possessed, and though Grinsa was grateful for anything that kept the two boys alive, he couldn’t help but disapprove. Tavis, at least, knew what was at stake.

Grinsa’s fighting also wasn’t helped by all that Keziah had told him of the traitors among Sanbira’s Qirsi. He should have been prepared-the ministers on this battlefield were among the most powerful and influential in all the Forelands, just the sort sought out by Dusaan jal Kania for his movement. But for so many of them to have turned … Grinsa had seen the arrival of Sanbira’s queen as a source of hope, as a sign that the leaders of the Eandi courts were capable of reaching past old rivalries and antiquated practices in order to combat this new enemy. And while all of this might be true, it now seemed that the Weaver had been just as eager to have Olesya and her company reach the Moorlands. Grinsa didn’t care to dwell on what this might mean for their prospects in the coming war, nor did he have time to do so.

With so many dangerous Qirsi about, he had to be alert to the possibility of attack, readying himself to fend off enemy magic even as he parried Eandi assaults with his steel. As a Weaver he could sense not only what powers a Qirsi possessed, but also when they were used. At any moment he expected his sword to shatter, or, worse, one of his limbs or his neck. He had chosen to fight on the ground this day, rather than mounted, fearing that the horse would only offer his enemies another target.

So it was that he perceived the attack, knowing immediately that it hadn’t been intended for him. For a long time, he had sensed only healing magic-a good deal of it. When the other power intruded on his thoughts, as jarring in his mind as a sour note might be to an accomplished musician, he jumped away from his Eandi attacker, spinning around swiftly, locating the source of the magic almost immediately. Language of beasts. From the old healer standing near Kearney, just to the east of where Grinsa was fighting.

He reached for the man, trying to take hold of his magic before he could make the animal rear, or bolt, or whatever he had in mind. But the Eandi soldier was on Grinsa again, and the gleaner had to fight him off, parrying two blows before finally breaking the man’s blade. When the soldier came at him once more, this time brandishing a dagger, Grinsa shattered the bone in his leg, cursing the warrior’s stupidity. He whirled to look for the healer, turning just in time to see the king topple from his horse. Several Braedony soldiers shouted in triumph, surging toward the spot where Kearney had fallen. They were met, however, by an equal number of Eibithar’s men.

Torn between his concern for the king and his need to stop the healer from doing more damage, the gleaner hesitated, though only for an instant. The soldiers could protect their sovereign. He might well be the only person who knew that the healer was responsible. He strode toward the old man, who was still standing, staring at the king’s horse and the tumult around the beast, as if unable to fathom what he had just done. Reaching him, Grinsa spun the man around and grabbed him by his arms, forcing the healer to look him in the eye. He had a thin, angular face, with an overlarge nose and small, wide-set eyes. Grinsa didn’t recognize him.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I’m … I’m just a healer!”

“Liar! You used language of beasts on the king’s mount! Now tell me who you are!”

“How can you know that?”

“I’m a Weaver, you fool! Haven’t you heard your fellow traitors speaking of me? I’d imagine it’s all they can talk about.”

“I don’t know what-”

Grinsa slapped him hard across the face, leaving a bright red mark high on his cheek.

“Lie to me again and you’ll get far worse!”

The man started to say something, then stopped himself. For several moments he merely glared at Grinsa. Then he grinned maliciously, all pretense forsaken.

“What is it you think you can do to me? I’m a dead man no matter what I say, so the threat of killing me won’t help you.”

“There are other ways.”

The healer actually laughed. “You mean torture? I’m an old man. I’ll die before you learn anything of value.”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me a moment ago, healer. I’m a Weaver. I have mind-bending magic.”

The man’s face fell.

“You’ll tell me everything I want to know, simply because I ask it of you. One way or another, you’ll talk. The question is, how much do you want to suffer for each answer you give. I’m told that mind-bending power can hurt when used too roughly. Of course, I don’t know for certain. The last man I used it on died before I could ask him.” This time it was Grinsa’s turn to grin. “So I’ll give you one last chance. Who are you?”

The healer didn’t answer at first. He clamped his mouth shut, his eyes still fixed on Grinsa’s face, as if he were preparing himself to resist the gleaner’s mind-bending power. After some time, though, he looked away, and gave a small shake of his head.

“My name is Lenvyd jal Qosten,” he said at last.

The name seemed familiar somehow, though Grinsa couldn’t quite place it. “You came here as a healer?”

“Yes.”

“From where? I don’t recognize you. Are you one of the queen’s Qirsi, or do you come from one of Eibithar’s houses?”

He smiled thinly. “No. I came from the City of Kings. Just because you didn’t notice me doesn’t mean that I wasn’t there.”

The gleaner nearly struck him again. “You think that justifies it, don’t you? You aren’t noticed enough, you want to be praised, and instead you’re ignored, and that’s reason enough to betray your king and your realm.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Your eyes may be yellow, but your blood runs Eandi.”

Grinsa had once been married to an Eandi woman; he’d had the barb directed at him too many times for it to bother him anymore. “What else have you done for the conspiracy?”

“You’ll have to take that from me, gleaner. Use your mind-bending magic if you must. I’ll tell you no more willingly.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Gleaner?” he said.

The healer smiled again. “Oh, yes. I know who you are. I didn’t know that you were a Weaver, but I know you. You were a Revel performer once-that strikes me as even more pathetic now that I know how powerful you truly are. And then you were Tavis of Curgh’s toady. I take it you’re his squire now.”

“What else have you done for them?” Grinsa demanded, struggling to keep control of his temper.

“Actually, there is one thing that will interest you,” he said. “The woman in Audun’s Castle, the one who betrayed our movement-I killed her.”

It hit Grinsa like a fist to his stomach, knocking the air out of him. He knew she wasn’t dead-he’d entered her dreams too recently; the healer couldn’t possibly have killed her since then and still made it to the Moorlands so quickly. But he should have known the name as soon as he heard it. Lenvyd jal Qosten. He could hear Cresenne speaking of him, telling Grinsa of the poisoning that nearly took her life.

Abruptly the gleaner’s sword was in his hand, though Grinsa didn’t remember pulling it free. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of his steel, but Grinsa didn’t even give him a chance to speak. He grabbed Lenvyd by the shoulder with one hand, and drove the point of his blade into the healer’s heart with the other. Lenvyd opened his mouth, as if to scream, but he could only manage a wet gasping sound, as his eyes slid briefly toward Grinsa’s face, then rolled back in his head.

“You didn’t kill her,” the gleaner said, pushing the man off his blade. “You failed. You’re lucky I got to you first. Your Weaver would have been far more cruel in meting out his punishment.”

Perhaps he should have been ashamed. Against him, Lenvyd had been defenseless, an old healer, with barely enough magic to be a threat to anyone. As Grinsa himself had said, the man had only succeeded in making Cresenne ill. He was but a foot soldier in the Weaver’s army.

Yet in that one moment, he had been the embodiment of all that had been done to Cresenne in the Weaver’s name. There was no real vengeance to be found in the killing; only an outlet for rage and frustration and grief. Had Tavis done something similar, Grinsa would have railed at him. But in this case the gleaner couldn’t bring himself to care. It was a murder, nothing more, and certainly nothing less. Given the opportunity to do it again, he would have, without hesitation.

He stooped to wipe the man’s blood from his sword, glancing briefly at the healer’s body. Then he turned and strode toward the soldiers who were fighting for Kearney’s life.

* * *

They had chosen to fight near the king because they didn’t dare remain too close to their fathers, who were fighting at the head of the Curgh army, west of Kearney’s force. Had Hagan seen Xaver with a sword in his hand, blood trickling from a small cut above his eye, he would have flown into another rage. And since Tavis had fought and marched with both the king’s army and that of his father in recent days, none would think it strange to see the young lord and his liege man fighting under Kearney’s banner.

They remained on the fringe of the battle, both of them putting to use all that Xaver’s father had taught them in the wards of Curgh Castle as they tested their skills against the brawny swordsmen of the empire. Tavis had done his share of fighting in recent days and felt confident enough to wade farther into the melee. He sensed, however, that while Xaver was glad to be fighting, he remained unsure of himself. Tavis made no effort to take them closer to the center of the battle, and his friend gave no indication that this troubled him.

At least not until Kearney fell.

They were resting when the king’s horse first reared. Tavis had just succeeded in wounding his foe and had turned his blade on the young soldier Xaver was fighting. Faced with two adversaries, this man retreated, a gash on his thigh and another high on his sword arm. Xaver had done well.

“Thanks,” the liege man said, lifting a hand to the cut on his brow and wincing slightly. “I was getting tired.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

Xaver smirked. “Right.”

“No, I’m serious. You fought well.”

His friend regarded him for several moments, as if surprised by the compliment. “Thank you,” he finally said. “I’d say the same about you, but I was too scared to look away from the man I was fighting.”

Tavis laughed, but before he could say anything more, he saw Xaver’s eyes go wide and his face blanch. Following the line of his gaze, the young lord looked just in time to see the king tumble from his mount into a sea of warriors.

Xaver didn’t falter for even an instant. Tavis was still trying to decide what he ought to do when he saw his friend running to the king’s aid, his sword raised, a cry on his lips. There was nothing for the young lord to do but follow.

The two boys quickly found themselves surrounded by scores of Eibithar’s men, all of them pushing forward, trying to reach the king. And for once, their slight builds helped them. Squeezing past several of the other men, all the while keeping the king’s horse in view, as if the beast’s regal head were a beacon, they soon found the king. He was on his back still, kicking out with both feet, parrying chopping blows from the empire’s men with his sword. Several soldiers of Eibithar were with him already, some fighting off the enemy, others trying to help Kearney to his feet. But the press of Braedon’s men was relentless. The king and his guards had little room in which to maneuver.

Xaver leaped forward, joining those who were opposing the empire’s men. Tavis, with another of the realm’s soldiers, bent over the king, took Kearney by the arm, and hoisted him to his feet.

“My thanks to both of you,” the king said, looking a bit shaken.

They didn’t have time for more. Braedon’s warriors were everywhere. It seemed that when they saw Kearney fall, they concentrated their assault on the very center of Eibithar’s army. Within moments Tavis realized that he, Kearney, Xaver, and a small number of the king’s guards were surrounded, cut off from the rest of Eibithar’s army.

None of them spoke. They didn’t have to; all of them knew it. Wordlessly they formed a tight circle, their backs to one another, their weapons held ready, glinting in the sunlight. Two of the larger soldiers stood on either side of Kearney, as was appropriate. Tavis and Xaver stood together on the opposite side of their small ring. There was a soldier on Tavis’s other side, no doubt one of the many among the king’s men who still thought him a butcher who had murdered Brienne and earned every one of the scars given to him by Aindreas of Kentigern. Tavis wondered briefly if the man would see this as an opportunity to get the young lord killed.

“Don’t break formation,” the king said, his voice low and taut. “If the man next to you falls-no matter who he is-don’t stoop to help him. Close the gap as quickly as possible and keep fighting.”

Xaver and Tavis exchanged a brief, silent look. An instant later, they were battling to stay alive, outnumbered by the empire’s men and unable to give ground without endangering the lives of the others in the circle. Braedon’s warriors weren’t fools. Seeing the two boys standing shoulder to shoulder, thinking them the weakest swordsmen in the ring, they concentrated their attack on the young lord and his liege man.

Tavis found himself fending off several enemy soldiers at once, their blades hacking at him from all angles. Had he not been wearing a coat of mail, he would have died in those first few moments. As it was, he soon had gashes on his neck, face, and both hands, and welts covering much of the rest of his body. Yet he also realized early on that again his was the quickest sword-the men facing him were larger and stronger, but they fought sluggishly, without imagination. Once more, as he had so many times in this past year, he found himself silently thanking Xaver’s father for all the years of training. He might have cursed Hagan a thousand times for his exacting sword drills and the extravagant punishments he devised for laziness and lapses in technique, but the swordmaster had taught them well. After a time, Tavis found that his foes were tiring, their sword strokes becoming less precise and forceful, their defenses slackening. He was able to parry more and more of their blows, and on several occasions he even had opportunity to lash out with his own attacks, surprising the Braedony soldiers with his speed. He wasn’t able to kill any of them, or even drive them to the ground, but he did keep them at bay.

Even as his confidence grew, he didn’t dare look away for the merest instant. He sensed rather than saw that Xaver was still beside him, on his feet, his blade dancing. The soldier on his other side was also still standing, his shoulder nearly touching Tavis’s. Whatever the man thought of Tavis, he seemed to understand that if one of them fell, they all might die. In fact, as far as the young lord could tell, all in their circle were still alive, including the king and his guards. When at last Tavis’s father and Hagan MarCullet reached them, fighting through the horde of enemy soldiers and forcing into retreat those they left alive, every man in the ring greeted the Curgh warriors with a hoarse cry.

As the fighting around them subsided, Hagan and Javan approached the two boys, Hagan looking none too pleased, and the expression on the duke’s face making it clear to the young lord that he should expect no help from his father.

“I’ll take the blame,” Tavis whispered to his friend. “Just keep quiet and leave this to me.”

Xaver said nothing.

Tavis turned to look at him, and saw that the boy’s eyes were fixed elsewhere. Before he had the chance to ask Xaver what he was looking at, or even to turn and look himself, his friend bolted forward, shouting a warning.

Without thinking, Tavis ran after him, and so saw too late what his friend had spotted. One of the Braedony soldiers, a man whose right shoulder was a bloody mess, had crept back within striking distance of the king, his sword held low, but a dagger flashing in his good hand. Tavis heard Hagan behind him, calling to his son, but Xaver didn’t hesitate for even a moment.

Kearney seemed at last to have sensed his peril, but before he could raise his sword to defend himself, Xaver crashed into the Bradeony soldier, knocking the man to the ground and falling on top of him. They grappled for a moment, the soldier, despite his wound, quickly overpowering Xaver and raising his dirk to strike. By then, however, the king and several of his men had come to Xaver’s aid. They pulled the empire’s man off of him, the soldiers beating the invader with their fists until he crumpled to the ground.

The king offered a hand to Xaver, who stared up at him for a moment before taking it and allowing Kearney to pull him to his feet.

“I’m in your debt, Master MarCullet.”

“N-not at all, Your Majesty.”

The king smiled, glancing at Tavis and then Hagan, both of whom had stopped a short distance off.

“He’s quite a warrior, swordmaster. You should be very proud.”

Hagan bowed his head, his color rising. “You honor us, Your Majesty.”

“I thought you were fighting with your father’s army today, Lord Curgh.”

It was Tavis’s turn to feel his face redden. “Yes, Your Majesty. Xaver and I … we…”

“I asked them to convey a message to you, my liege,” Tavis’s father broke in. “The fighting must have started before they could return to the Curgh lines.”

“Indeed,” the king said, raising an eyebrow. “And what message was that?”

Javan allowed himself a small smile. “I’m afraid that in the excitement of the battle, I’ve forgotten.”

Kearney nodded. “I see. Well, it’s fortunate for me that they were here, no matter how that came to pass.”

“Fortunate for all of us, my liege.”

“Thank you, Javan. How goes the rest of the battle?”

The duke’s expression sobered instantly. “The enemy has been driven back, my liege. They lost a good many men. To be honest, I don’t see how they can continue this war.”

“And what of our losses?”

“Not nearly as bad as the empire’s, my liege, but still more than I would have hoped.”

“Damn.”

Before either man could say more, Grinsa joined them, looking grim.

“Your Majesty,” the gleaner said, dropping briefly to one knee. “I’m glad to see you’re unhurt. I feared the worst.”

“Thank you, gleaner.” Kearney narrowed his eyes, as if the full import of the gleaner’s presence there on the battlefield had finally reached him. “Was it magic that made my horse rear?”

“Yes, it was. I tried to stop him, but couldn’t act quickly enough.”

“Who was responsible?”

“One of your healers, Your Majesty. A man named Lenvyd jal Qosten.”

The king frowned, seeming to search his memory. “The name is vaguely familiar. An older man, isn’t he?”

“Yes. He was left behind when you marched from the City of Kings. He followed you here, later, though only after making an attempt on Cresenne’s life.”

“It seems the gods were with me today.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Where is this man now? I want to speak with him.”

Grinsa looked away. “He’s dead.”

“Dead? You killed him?”

The gleaner’s mouth twitched, and he didn’t meet the king’s gaze. “Yes, I did.”

Kearney started to say something, then he glanced at the others standing with them and appeared to think better of it. In the end, he merely said, “We’ll speak of this again, gleaner.”

Grinsa inclined his head slightly. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Kearney began to lead his men and the other nobles back toward the camp. Hagan put an arm around Xaver’s shoulder and steered him after the king, his anger seemingly overmastered by his relief, at least for the moment.

“You and I will speak a bit later, as well,” Javan told Tavis, sounding cross, and fixing him with an icy glare.

“Yes, Father.”

The duke turned and walked away, leaving Tavis alone with Grinsa.

“Sounds like we’re both in a bit of trouble,” the young lord said.

“I suppose.”

“Why did you kill that man, Grinsa?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He started away, but Tavis grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop and face him.

“That’s too bad. I want an answer.”

Grinsa shrugged off his hand, just as Tavis would have had their roles been reversed. “You want…” the gleaner repeated, shaking his head. “What business is this of yours?”

“I’m your friend, Grinsa. It’s as much my business as everything else that’s happened in the past year. And if that’s not enough, it’s my business because I’m depending on you to defeat the Weaver. So is everyone else on this plain. I need to know if you’re able to do that, or if your feelings for Cresenne are going to get in the way.”

“How dare you!” The gleaner spun away again.

“You killed him for vengeance, didn’t you?” Tavis called after him. “You once accused me of pursuing Cadel just to get revenge, but you just did the same thing. Isn’t that so?”

The gleaner halted, his hands balled into fists. After a moment, he turned, and stalked back to where Tavis still stood, looking so angry that for a moment the boy thought Grinsa was going to hit him.

“This wasn’t the same,” he said. “The man was Qirsi. He had language of beasts. He was still a threat to the king and everyone else with a mount.”

“Cadel was still an assassin. Wasn’t he a threat?”

“The Weaver could have contacted this man. He could have learned a great deal from him.”

“How much more does the Weaver need to know, Grinsa? He knows where we are, how many men we have.”

Grinsa looked off to the side, his lips pressed thin. It was, Tavis realized, the first time he had ever seen the gleaner truly ashamed of something he had done.

“I don’t blame you for doing it,” the young lord said, as gently as he could. “I would have done the same thing.”

Grinsa’s eyes flicked in his direction for just a second.

“Of course, that might only make you feel worse.”

The gleaner smiled, shaking his head again. After a moment he began to laugh quietly. “Well, it doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Tavis laughed in turn.

“The truth is, I’m not sure why I killed him,” Grinsa admitted, turning serious once more. “I did it without thinking. He told me that he had poisoned her, and I killed him. It wasn’t out of vengeance. It was just rage.”

The young lord nodded. “I understand. But it’s one thing to act on your rage with a healer. It’s quite another to do it with the Weaver.”

“I don’t need you telling me that. Truly, Tavis, I don’t.”

Tavis shrugged. “Then I won’t speak of it again.”

They returned to the camp, where they found the king speaking with Sanbira’s queen and the rest of the nobles. A few of the Qirsi were there as well, but not many.

“Gleaner,” Kearney called as they approached. “Have you seen the archminister?”

Grinsa faltered in midstride. “Demons and fire! Keziah!”

“What is it?” Tavis asked.

“I’ve no time to explain. We have to find them!”

“Them?”

“The archministers.”

* * *

Her hand still throbbed, but Keziah’s tears had stopped. She refused to grieve any more. Either Kearney had died, or he hadn’t. Either Grinsa would find a way to overcome the betrayals of the Qirsi around her, or he wouldn’t. She couldn’t help her beloved king, nor could she fight her brother’s battles for him. All she could do was fight for herself, and she had every intention of doing that.

Abeni was still with her, as was the first minister of Macharzo, whose name, it seemed, was Craeffe. A third traitor, a man who served as first minister of Norinde, was nearby, apparently watching for any sign that others were headed this way, though Keziah couldn’t see him. They were in a tight circle of hulking boulders, sheltered from the wind and the failing sunlight, and hidden from view.

“They’re going to be missing her,” Craeffe was saying now, her thin face looking grey in the shadows. “We should kill her and be done with it.”

Abeni looked bored. “We gain nothing by killing her. If she turns up dead, suspicion will fall on us and we’ll have gained nothing. Alive, she’s a valuable tool, and a way of controlling Grinsa.”

“She betrayed the Weaver. Don’t you think he’d want her dead?”

“Actually, I expect he’d want to kill her himself.” She looked at Keziah. “Don’t you agree, Archminister?”

“Craeffe is right,” Keziah said, through clenched teeth. “You should kill me and be done with it. I’ll never help you, and-”

The rest of the thought was lost in a paroxysm of agony as yet another bone in her hand shattered. That made four now. Only her thumb remained whole. And, of course, the other hand. Better just to die than endure this.

“Don’t be so certain that you won’t help us,” Abeni said. “Torture does strange things to people.”

“We can’t keep her hidden forever.”

“We don’t have to, Craeffe. It will be nightfall soon, and the Weaver should be near. Once it’s dark, we’ll strike out westward until we’re clear of the camps. Then we’ll turn toward the north and find the Weaver’s army.”

“They’ll be looking for us, for her. We’ll be killed before we ever get near the Weaver.”

“What was it the Weaver told you to do?” Abeni asked her again, bringing her face close to Keziah’s.

She closed her eyes and looked away, bracing herself for what she knew would come. Even so, when the bone in her thumb broke, she collapsed to the ground, crying out in pain and cradling her hand.

“It’s a simple question, Keziah,” the archminister said, standing over her. “Surely it can’t be worth all this. Besides, I think I know. He wanted you to kill the king, didn’t he? That was why that other man was doing it, and you were watching, looking so horrified it was almost amusing.” Abeni kicked Keziah’s hand. The bones within her discolored flesh felt as if they were aflame. “Am I right?”

Keziah merely whimpered, unable to say more.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere. Just kill her already. We can claim that she was a traitor to her realm, that we saw her flee after the king fell.”

“Her brother won’t believe that. Besides, we really have no choice but to keep her alive. If I’m not mistaken, she’s already told Grinsa that we’re with the movement. Haven’t you, Keziah?”

At that, Keziah opened her eyes, glaring up at the woman. “Yes, I did. He knows about all three of you, and he’ll never give you the opportunity to get away. You’re going to die on this plain, Abeni. You might as well kill me, too. That’s the best you can hope for.”

Abeni’s brow creased, and she crouched down beside her. “Why are you so anxious for me to kill you? Is it fear of the Weaver? Is it that you know what he’ll do to you when next you sleep?”

She looked away again.

“Yes,” Abeni said, standing once more. “I thought so. You’re right to be afraid. The pain in your hand will be nothing next to his punishment.” She turned back to Craeffe. “The gleaner knows that we’re with the movement. Keziah here is our only hope of getting away alive. If we kill her, Grinsa won’t hesitate to kill us. But so long as she lives, he’ll try to find some way to save her. Won’t he, Keziah?”

Before she could think of a response, the other Qirsi stepped into their small shelter.

“What is it, Filtem?”

“Someone’s coming. A Qirsi. I couldn’t make out his face.”

“Did he see you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. Be silent, both of you.” An instant later Abeni was beside her again, hurriedly binding her hands and tying a gag over her mouth. “Not a sound,” she whispered, her mouth almost touching Keziah’s ear. She pulled her dagger free and held the hilt of it just over Keziah’s hand, as if ready to strike her. “You’ll suffer mightily for any noise you make, and whoever he is will die if he comes near us.”

Keziah eyed the woman, wishing she could kill her, cursing Qirsar for giving her magics that could not avail her in such times. But in the end she just nodded, drawing a dark smile from the archminister.

She strained to hear, desperate for any sign that someone had come to rescue her, but she heard nothing, save the breathing of the three traitors. At one point, she thought she heard a light footfall just beyond the stones that surrounded them, and she knew a moment of hope that almost made her forget her anguish. But no one entered the circle, and after hearing nothing more, she felt her despair return, and with it the brutal pulsing in her hand.

Abeni made a small motion, catching Filtem’s eye. She pointed at him, then gestured toward the narrow entrance to the circle and pulled her dagger free.

Filtem appeared to understand. Drawing his own blade, he crept to the entrance and slipped out, as silent and graceful as a cat.

This time she definitely heard something, or someone. It sounded like a brief struggle, just beyond the stones, and then a quick, sharp intake of breath. A moment later, a thick mist began to seep into the circle. It built quickly, until Keziah could see nothing of her captors or the boulders surrounding them. She heard footsteps within the circle, though they seemed unsteady. One of the women shouted something and there was a dry cracking sound followed by the thud of a body falling to the ground.

A sudden wind swept through the stones, clearing away the mist. And there, in the center of the circle, lay Filtem, a dagger jutting from his chest, his eyes open but sightless, his legs bent at improbable angles.

“Filtem!” Craeffe shrieked, flying to his side and cradling his head in her lap.

“Damn,” Abeni muttered.

Craeffe glowered at the archminister, her face streaked with tears. “You fool! Look what you’ve gotten us into!”

“Shut up and let me think.”

“What’s there to think about? The gleaner’s out there! We’re dead!”

“Don’t be an idiot. If it was Grinsa, he wouldn’t be playing these games. He’d simply take hold of our magic and destroy us.” Abeni shook her head. “No, it’s someone else.” After a moment’s consideration she roughly pulled Keziah to her feet and held her dagger to the woman’s throat.

“Show yourself,” she called out, “or the archminister dies!”

There was no response.

With her free hand, Abeni pulled off Keziah’s gag. “Tell him,” she commanded.

“She’s a shaper!” Keziah shouted immediately. “And she has mists-” Agony. A terrible pain in her ear and hot blood running down the side of her head and neck.

Abeni pressed the bloodied blade against her throat again. “Damn you! I should kill you now!”

“You can’t, and you know it.”

White-hot pain exploded in her other hand.

“Get up, Craeffe. I need your help.”

The other woman gazed down at Filtem for another moment, crying still.

“He’s dead, Craeffe. There’s nothing more you can do for him. But we can still save ourselves.”

“How?”

“We’ve still got the advantage. That’s but one man out there. If there were two they’d have attacked by now.”

Craeffe climbed to her feet, wiping the tears from her face. “What do you suggest?”

“We need to remain together. I should never have sent Filtem out there alone-that was my mistake. But as long as we stay together and keep the archminister with us, there’s nothing he can do. We’re both shapers, after all.”

As Abeni spoke, she relaxed her grip on Keziah slightly. Not much-the woman probably didn’t even notice that she had done so. But Keziah did, and now she did the only thing she could. Moving as quickly as she ever had, she stamped her foot on Abeni’s and at the same time threw back her elbow, catching the woman full in the breast.

Abeni gasped, then cursed, but Keziah had already flung herself away from the woman, falling to the ground and rolling until she reached the edge of the ring.

The pain in her hands was nearly more than she could bear, but she managed to shout out, “I’m free!”

Immediately, mist began to fill the circle again, driven by a strong wind. There were footsteps, the sudden rustling of cloth, and then that awful, familiar sound of snapping bone. A moment later a second body fell to the earth.

Keziah felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach.

Yet another wind whipped through the circle, and when the mist had cleared, Keziah nearly cried out with joy.

Craeffe was lying on the grass, utterly motionless. And standing over her was Fotir jal Salene, his brilliant yellow eyes fixed on Abeni.

“It seems you and I wield the same powers, Archminister,” he said to her. He glanced at Keziah for just an instant. “Are you all right?”

“Well enough.”

He nodded, facing the traitor again.

“Take even a single step toward me, and I’ll break her neck,” Abeni said. “If you’re a shaper, you know that I can.”

“And you know that I can do the same to you.”

“Then it seems neither of us has the advantage.”

How many times had Keziah found herself in such a circumstance: helpless to defend herself, depending on another-Grinsa, or Kearney, or Gershon Trasker, or Fotir-to guard her life? She was tired of feeling helpless, of living in fear of the Weaver and his servants, of accepting the suspicions of others as the price of her decision to join the conspiracy. She ached to strike out at any one of her many enemies. And here was Abeni.

Fotir and Sanbira’s archminister were too intent on each other to take notice of her, or to see what she did as she looked up at the two of them.

High over the ring of stones, black as night against the deepening blue of the twilight sky, a lone falcon was gliding in slow circles. It was a long way, and Keziah was weary with grief and pain. But still she cast her thoughts upward, reaching for the bird’s mind, and touching it with her magic. Language of beasts. Many times she had used this power to calm an anxious horse, and once, years before, she had escaped uninjured from an encounter with a wild dog in the Glyndwr Highlands. But never before had she attempted to communicate anything to a wild bird, much less one as fierce as this hawk.

At first she feared that the creature would refuse to heed her request. But she maintained her hold on the falcon’s mind, conveying to it all that Abeni had done to her, and after several moments she sensed the bird’s acquiescence. She saw it pull in its wings and begin a steep dive toward the circle of stones.

Glancing at Fotir and Abeni again, Keziah saw that they were still staring at one another. Fotir was saying something, but Keziah could not hear him, so absorbed was she in the strange thoughts of the falcon-dizzying images of hunting on the wing, of tearing into the warm, bloody flesh of a ptarmigan, of the bird’s sickening descent toward the Qirsi woman standing over her. Keziah shook her head, trying to break free of the creature’s mind.

In the next instant, she heard Abeni scream in shock and pain as the bird raked the back of her head with its outstretched talons. The falcon called out as well, a sharp, repetitive cry that echoed among the boulders as the bird climbed into the sky again.

Releasing her hold on the falcon, Keziah found her sight momentarily clouded, her thoughts muddled. By the time she could see and think clearly again, Abeni lay prone on the grasses beside Craeffe, their heads jutting from their bodies at similar angles.

“You killed her,” Keziah said, knowing that she sounded simple.

“You didn’t want me to?”

“No, I did. I just…” Abruptly she was sobbing, her body shaking so violently that she wondered if she would ever be able to stand. “Thank you,” she managed.

Fotir crossed to where she lay and reached to untie her hands. When she gasped at his first touch, he stopped, wincing as if he too were in pain.

“I’m sorry. Should I leave the bonds?”

She shook her head, taking a long breath. “Please, untie them. I’ll bear it as best I can.”

Keziah had to grit her teeth and bite back more than one cry as he struggled with Abeni’s knot, but in a few moments her maimed hands were free.

“Thank you,” she whispered again.

“Of course. Let’s get you to a healer.”

“Take me to my brother.”

Fotir frowned. “Your brother?”

With all the secrets she had kept and revealed in recent turns, not only to this man, but to so many others, she found it hard to remember what remained hidden and what didn’t.

“Grinsa,” she said. “Grinsa is my brother.”

He stared at her a moment, shaking his head. “Your brother,” he whispered. “Yes, of course. I’ll take you to him.”

He lifted her into his arms as if she were but a child and carried her out of the ring of boulders.

“Is Kearney all right?” she asked suddenly, remembering all that happened before Abeni began to hurt her.

“I don’t know,” Fotir said. “The gleaner asked me to keep watch on you. I left the battle before it ended.”

“He asked you to watch me?”

Fotir smiled, his eyes so golden they appeared almost orange in the evening light. “Does that surprise you?”