Weavers of War

Chapter Twenty-one

The Moorlands, Eibithar

Keziah awoke as soon as the Weaver left her dream, opening her eyes to find Grinsa still sitting beside her, concern etched on his face.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded. As encounters with the Weaver went, this one had been relatively easy for her. “Are you?”

He shrugged, glowering at the fire that burned a short distance away. “I had him. Twice, really. And both times he managed to fight me off.”

“You hurt him, Grinsa. And maybe more important than that, you frightened him. He won’t be so confident tomorrow, and that has to be to our advantage.”

“Maybe. I fear he was right though. Any victory I might have won just now will be meaningless in the end. In order to defeat him I needed to kill him, and I couldn’t.” He swung his gaze back to her. “You’ll have to be especially watchful tomorrow, Kezi. He’s vengeful-we know that-and now he has ample reason to want to punish you.”

She sat up, her head spinning, though not as it had after previous dreams of the Weaver. Could it be that she was getting used to this?

“I’ll be careful,” she said, “although I imagine he’ll be most intent on killing you. Every time he thinks he’s added a woman to his movement, you seem to take her away. I can’t imagine that he likes that.”

Her brother grinned. “No, probably not.”

“We should tell Kearney what’s happened. He’ll want to know.”

Grinsa nodded, standing and helping Keziah to her feet. They crossed the camp and found the king sitting outside his tent with Gershon Trasker.

Keziah and Gershon had hardly spoken since the swordmaster’s arrival on the battle plain. Once they had been fierce rivals for the king’s ear and had disliked and distrusted each other. Later, when Keziah began trying to join the conspiracy, she was forced to rely on Gershon as a confidant, and they came to an understanding of sorts. More than once during the march north from the City of Kings, Keziah had been surprised to find that she missed his company. She thought about seeking him out upon his arrival, but at the time she was still posing as a traitor, and she couldn’t risk being seen with him.

Both Gershon and the king stood as Keziah and Grinsa approached.

“Are you all right?” Kearney asked, looking the archminister up and down as if he expected to see wounds on her.

“I’m fine. Both of us are.”

“Did it work?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Grinsa said. “I’m sorry.”

“Damn. What happened?”

“Grinsa tried!” Keziah said.

Kearney cast a dark look her way. “I don’t doubt that he did, Archminister. I’m merely asking that he tell me what happened.”

Grinsa laid a hand on her shoulder, as he briefly described for Kearney their encounter with the Weaver.

“I’m certain that you did all you could, gleaner,” the king said when he had finished. “I’m grateful to you for making the effort. And I’m grateful to you, Archminister. I have some idea of how much you risked.”

“You honor me, Your Majesty,” she said, her gaze lowered.

Gershon looked at Kearney and then at Grinsa. “So what do we do now?”

“We ready ourselves for war. Isn’t that so, gleaner?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I suppose it is.”

“You’ll lead the Qirsi, of course.”

“The few I have left.”

“How do you suggest we array the armies?”

Grinsa rubbed a hand over his face. “To be honest, I’m not very knowledgeable when it comes to military tactics. The swordmaster probably knows better than I.”

“I doubt that,” Gershon said. “I’ve never fought a Qirsi army.”

“I’m not interested in hearing which of you knows less about fighting this kind of war! I simply want your recommendations.”

“Let me ask you this, gleaner,” Gershon said. “If you were leading an army of Qirsi against us, what could I do that would confound you the most?”

Grinsa appeared to consider this for several moments. “It all comes down to the archers,” he said at last. “Swordsmen will never get close enough to do any damage, but the archers may be able to reach them.”

“How?”

“Spread them. Have arrows flying at the Qirsi from as many different positions as possible. Force them to summon winds from several directions at once. Either the Weaver will have to relinquish his hold on some of those who have mists and winds, which will make the gales they raise less effective, or he’ll have to keep his full attention on sustaining all the winds. One way or another it helps us.”

“Good,” Kearney said. “What else?”

Grinsa fell silent once more, staring at the fire, slowly shaking his head. “The queen’s army should remain on foot,” he said after some time. “All of us should.”

“But won’t the Qirsi be mounted?”

“Yes. But the Weaver will have many warriors with language of beasts.”

Neither Kearney nor Gershon appeared convinced.

“You can’t think of them as you would an Eandi enemy, Your Majesty,” the gleaner went on. “As simple fighters, they won’t be the equal of your soldiers. It’s their magic that makes them dangerous, and so we must do everything we can to eliminate that advantage. They will be mounted, which means that I can use magic against their horses. We’ll be better off if they can’t do the same.”

The king nodded, though he still looked unhappy. “Very well, gleaner. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of, Your Majesty. But if more comes to me, I’ll let you know.”

“Of course. You’re probably weary. Get some sleep, gleaner. And again, you have my thanks for all you’ve done.”

Grinsa bowed. Then he turned to Keziah. “You’ll be all right?”

“Yes.”

“If you find that you’re having trouble remaining awake, find me, and wake me. I’ll watch over you.”

“That’s kind of you, but it’s more important that you get some rest.”

Gershon frowned. “Why can’t she sleep?”

“The Weaver threatened me at the end of our encounter tonight,” she answered. “I’m not certain that he’d really make an attempt on my life on the eve of battle, but it’s probably best that I don’t give him the opportunity.”

“Until the morning then,” Grinsa said, kissing her cheek. He nodded to Gershon, then walked toward the Curgh camp.

For several moments the three of them stood silent watching her brother walk away.

Finally, Gershon cleared his throat, and said, “Well, I should probably sleep, too.” He remained where he was, however, eyeing Keziah. “It seems you survived your deception of the Weaver. Whatever happens tomorrow, you don’t have to pretend anymore.”

“No, I don’t. Thank you, swordmaster.”

He glanced at the king, his cheeks shading to crimson. “For what?”

“For keeping my secret. For protecting me.”

“I didn’t do much, Archminister.”

She smiled. “You did more than you know. And like it or not, you gained a Qirsi friend.” She stepped forward, raised herself onto her tiptoes, and kissed him.

Gershon scowled at her. “What was that for?”

“It seemed the best way to aggravate you. I’ve missed doing that.”

Kearney laughed.

“You always did excel at it,” the swordmaster said, sounding cross, though it seemed to take an effort. After a moment, he offered a smile of his own. “You’ve done us all a great service, Archminister. And I promise you that every man under my command will know of it. I’m aware of how they’ve treated you these past several turns and I intend to put a stop to it.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I believe it is.”

She had no desire to argue with the man. “All right then. Again, you have my thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Gershon bowed to the king. “Your Majesty.”

“Good night, Gershon.”

In recent days, Keziah had tried to avoid being alone with the king, but that was where she now found herself. Kearney stared into the fire, but occasionally his eyes would flick toward her.

“Twice today I’ve feared that I might lose you,” he said, breaking a lengthy silence. “I can’t tell you how the thought of that frightened me.”

“I’m grateful to you, Your Majesty.”

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. “I didn’t say that as your king.”

Keziah shivered. How long had she waited to hear him say such a thing to her? And yet now that he had at last spoken the words, she wondered if she still wanted him. Her ambivalence surprised her. It even frightened her a bit. She could hardly remember a time when she hadn’t loved this man.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. But you are my king, and all that you say to me, you say as a king to his archminister.”

“We’ve been so much more than that to each other, Kez. Can’t we be again? I’ve missed you. With everything that’s happened today I’ve realized again how much I still need you.”

She smiled, despite the tears in her eyes. “I’ll always love you, and not only as my king. But it’s been so long…” She faltered. “Maybe too long. I don’t know if I can go back.”

“So we can never be together again? Not even tonight, on the eve of a war that could end all that we’ve known and fought together to preserve?” He smiled playfully. “You have to stay awake anyway.”

Keziah laughed, though her heart was aching. He had always been able to find humor in even the most difficult of circumstances. It was one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him.

She walked to where he stood and put her arms around him, resting her head against his chest. “Not even tonight,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

They stood that way for a long time, until at last she turned her face up to his and kissed him one last time. Then she pulled back and left him, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

A year ago, on the night he agreed to assume the throne, on the plain just beyond the walls of Kentigern Castle, she had refused him in much the same way, though it had nearly killed her to do so. Tonight was different. She was different. And as she walked away from the man she had once loved more than she ever thought possible, Keziah ja Dafydd surprised herself again, this time with the direction in which her steps carried her.

* * *

He watched from a distance, waiting until the king was alone before approaching him. He was surprised to see Kearney and the archminister embrace, even more so when they kissed. Like others, he had heard rumors of Kearney’s affair with the woman, but he hadn’t known whether or not to believe them. Not long ago, Aindreas would have thought to use what he had seen as a weapon against the king, another way, perhaps, to challenge the legitimacy of his rule. But not anymore.

“You’re doing the right thing, Father.”

The duke turned at the sound of Brienne’s voice. She was beside him, her golden hair stirring in the light wind, her grey eyes luminous with the light of torches and stars. He didn’t say the obvious, that he was doing the only thing he could, and coming to it late, very nearly too late. Instead, he merely smiled at her, wishing that he could cup her cheek in his hand, or kiss her smooth brow, knowing that she existed only in his mind and was beyond his reach.

“It’s not going to get any easier, Father.”

Right. Facing Kearney again, he stepped forward into the light of the king’s fire, his hands trembling, beads of sweat running down his temples.

“My pardon, Your Majesty. May I have a word?”

The king spun around at the sound of Aindreas’s voice, his hand straying to the hilt of his sword. Seeing the duke, Kearney frowned but he didn’t relax his stance.

“This isn’t a good time, Lord Kentigern. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“No, I’m afraid it can’t. Tomorrow might be too late.”

Kearney narrowed his eyes. “What is it you want?”

Aindreas stared at him, noting that his hand was still on his weapon. “You think I’ve come to kill you.”

“Have you?”

“Of course not!”

“You say that as if I should know it without asking. But considering the matter from my point of view, do you really think the notion that far-fetched?”

This was why he hated the man, why he hated Javan as well. The arrogance, the self-righteousness. He should have known better than to approach this imperious king.

“You’ve thought the worst of me from the day you took the throne,” Aindreas said, sneering at him. “You’ve sided with Javan from the beginning, allowing him to poison your mind against me! You give no thought at all to how we’ve suffered this past year!”

“This isn’t my fault, Aindreas! You’ve defied me at every turn, fomented rebellion throughout the land, and weakened our realm when it’s most vulnerable! I’ve given you ample opportunity to put your house in good standing once more, and you’ve refused.”

“I’m here. I marched with your swordmaster and joined him in defeating the Solkarans. I’ve fought against the empire. What more do you want?”

“Allowing you to fight with us was Gershon’s decision, and I won’t question his judgment. But neither am I ready to forgive all simply because you’ve finally upheld your duty to the throne and the realm.”

“You have no right to judge me or my house!”

“I have every right! I’m your king! And it’s about time you treated me as such!”

Aindreas nearly left then. How could he be expected to make peace with such a man? How could he possibly confess to Kearney all that he had done when the king already regarded him as a traitor? He actually turned to go, but Brienne was there, standing in his path, a hard look in her eyes.

The duke halted, closing his eyes briefly and taking a long breath. “You’re right,” he said. He turned back to Kearney. “Your Majesty.”

The king regarded him doubtfully. “Suddenly, I’m right?”

“Not suddenly. You’ve been right for some time now, about many things.”

“What about all that you just said to me, about how Javan had poisoned my mind, and I had never given any consideration to your house?”

Aindreas rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m a fool, Your Majesty. Surely you’ve reasoned that out for yourself by now.”

A wry smile touched the king’s lips. “I’ve had some inkling, yes. But I never thought I’d hear you admit it.”

“Yes, well, there’s a good deal I need to admit.”

“I don’t understand.”

Abruptly the duke’s eyes were stinging, and for a moment he feared that he might begin to weep. How had he allowed matters to progress so far? Yes, the Qirsi had deceived him, preying on his grief and his desperate need to avenge Brienne’s murder. But he had once thought of himself as a strong man, a deeply intelligent man. It seemed an eternity since he had behaved as either. He gazed past the king and saw Brienne staring back at him. She didn’t look angry anymore, or even ashamed. She just looked sad.

“Aindreas?”

“I’ve betrayed the realm,” he said. “And I’ve shamed my house.” Just saying the words, the duke felt something loosen in his chest, though he also began to sob.

Kearney regarded him with pity, a pained expression on his face. “It’s not too late for you to reclaim Kentigern’s place among Eibithar’s great houses.”

“No. You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Perhaps you should tell me then.”

Aindreas opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. He had to bite back the bile rising in his throat.

“Does this have something to do with the men I sent to the tor some time ago?”

The captain Kearney had sent to Kentigern, the one the Qirsi woman attacked. Aindreas could still see the man lying on the floor of his presence chamber, blood pouring from the gaping wound at his throat. Jastanne had wielded the dagger, but Aindreas knew that he had killed the man, just as surely as if he had dragged the blade across the captain’s neck himself.

“No, and yes.”

“You’re speaking in riddles, Aindreas. I haven’t time for this.”

“I’ve allied myself with the Qirsi.”

Kearney gaped at him. “What?”

“I even signed a document pledging my support to their movement.”

One might have thought that Aindreas had confessed to killing his own daughter, such was the expression on the king’s face. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“I was grieving. I was certain that Tavis was guilty and that you and Javan had contrived together to destroy my house.”

“But to join with the traitors…”

“It seemed the only way to strike at you. Alone, I was weak. And even with the other houses supporting me, I could do no more than defy you and wait for you to crush me.”

“When?” Kearney asked, as if in a stupor. “When did you do this?”

“Long ago. During the snows.”

“What have you done on their behalf?”

“You know most of it. I’ve defied you, I’ve sought to turn the other houses against you, and at first I allowed the Solkarans to march past Kentigern on their way here. I also stood by and did nothing as one of them killed your captain in my castle.”

“And what have they done for you in return?”

“Nothing yet. Our agreement was that I would help them defeat the Eandi courts and when the time came, they would spare Kentigern. I don’t know if they intended to honor their end of our bargain, but I was interested only in seeing you destroyed.”

“You hated me that much.”

Aindreas nodded. “I hated everything that much. You and Javan most of all.”

Kearney exhaled through his teeth, shaking his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. “Well, you’ve certainly made a mess of things, Aindreas. I’ll grant you that.” He glanced at the duke, looking disgusted. “I can’t believe you actually pledged yourself to their movement in writing.”

“It was the only way to get them to agree,” he said, as if that excused it.

If the king was thinking the same thing, he had the grace to keep it to himself. “What made you change your mind?” he asked instead.

“I don’t want Ennis to inherit a disgraced house.”

“It may be too late for that.”

“I know. When the Qirsi see me fighting beside you tomorrow, they’ll know that I betrayed them and they’ll reveal to all what I’ve done.”

“You could leave tonight. We’d need for your men to remain, of course, but they can fight under the banner of another house. It would raise some questions, but it might save you the humiliation of being exposed as a traitor.”

“You’d let me go?”

“I’ve no desire to see your son disgraced, Aindreas. You seem to forget at times that I’m a father, too.”

“I appreciate that, Your Majesty,” the duke said, and meant it. But he knew that he couldn’t leave. That path led to a different sort of shame. “But I don’t wish to leave. I came north with Gershon so that I could fight for the realm, as the duke of a great house should. I won’t run away now.”

“I’m not certain that I can help you then.”

“I don’t expect you to, Your Majesty. I wanted to confess this to you because it was the right thing to do. It’s been a long time since I did anything for that reason alone.”

The king appeared to consider this, nodding at last. “I believe I understand. I also think that the judgments of history are based on all that we do, rather than one large thing, be it good or evil. If we prevail tomorrow, and you play a role in that victory, your deeds will reflect on your house and your son.”

It was a greater kindness than Aindreas had any right to expect, and proof once more of how greatly he had erred in opposing this king. “Again, Your Majesty, I’m grateful to you.”

Kearney offered a thin smile by way of response, but said nothing. Aindreas sensed that the king wanted him to go.

“I’ll leave you, Your Majesty. I hope you know that my sword and my men are yours to use as you will. Perhaps together we can defeat this enemy.”

“Perhaps. Good night, Aindreas.”

The duke turned and made his way back to where his soldiers were sleeping. Glancing to the side, he saw that Brienne was with him, looking more at peace than he had seen her look in so long.

“I’m proud of you, Father,” she said. “Farewell.” And with that, she vanished.

* * *

He had just fallen asleep, or so it seemed. One moment he was closing his eyes, allowing himself at last to give in to his weariness, and the next he was dimly aware of someone standing over him, then kneeling beside him. Fotir forced himself awake, and found himself gazing up into the eyes of the archminister.

His first thought was that he had been wrong all this time. Since the day he met Keziah, he had thought her eyes the color of sand, but seeing them now in the torchlight, he realized that they were more like flames, bright and entrancing. His second thought was that he must have looked a mess.

He sat up quickly, running a hand through his hair. “Is there something you need, Archminister?”

“No, I-”

“Have you already had your encounter with the Weaver?” he asked, abruptly remembering all that had happened earlier that night. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m fine. But Grinsa wasn’t able to defeat him.”

“But he came through it unhurt?”

Keziah nodded.

“Well, good. I’m sorry that he wasn’t able to do more, but the important thing is that both of you are safe.”

“Yes,” she said, grinning mischievously. “I could see how concerned you were for us. You almost managed to stay awake.”

“No, it’s not … I was…”

She was laughing at him, her eyes dancing. “It’s all right, First Minister. You should have been resting. I would have, had I been in your position.”

“You mean prone?”

Her mouth fell open. “Was that a joke? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say something humorous.”

Fotir looked away. “That’s not fair. I’m not as serious as all that.”

“Aren’t you? You remind me of Grinsa sometimes. You seem to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“These are dark times. Is it any wonder?”

“Even in the darkest of days, we have to be able to laugh. If we can’t, we’ve lost already.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Is this why you woke me? To coax more humor from me?”

She shrugged, smiling. “I can’t sleep.”

“After the day you’ve had, I’m not surprised.”

“No,” she said, with a small laugh. “I mean that I can’t risk trying to sleep. The Weaver threatened to kill me if I dared sleep again tonight. I was hoping you might be willing to keep me company while I await the dawn.”

He was as flattered as he was surprised. Mostly, though, he was at a loss as to what he should say. “I’m honored that you’d ask me,” he said at last, inwardly cringing at how formal he sounded. “Of course I will.”

For several moments neither of them spoke. The archminister was staring at her hands.

At last she faced him once more. “I want to tell you how much I appreciate your words of support earlier tonight. If you hadn’t said what you did, the king might not have given us permission to make the attempt.”

“You’re welcome. Though it seems that it didn’t do much good.”

She frowned. “Do you think now that it was a mistake?”

“Not at all. I thought it quite a fine idea. I just…” He shook his head, wishing that he had kept his mouth shut. “Never mind.”

They lapsed into another silence. Fotir had to keep himself from staring at her as he cast about for something-anything-to say.

“Are you certain I’m not disturbing you?” she finally asked. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have woken you.”

“You’re not disturbing me. I’m just not very good at this.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Good at what?”

Fotir felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Why was it that he always found himself so flustered when he was with this woman? “Making conversation,” he said.

“You’re first minister to a major house. Surely you’re accustomed to speaking with nobles and ministers.”

“Somehow this is different.” You’re different.

She gave a kind smile. “Would you like to walk?”

Even if he had wanted to refuse her, he hadn’t the power to do so. “Of course,” he said, standing.

She offered him a hand and he pulled her gently to her feet, their eyes meeting for just an instant.

“Is something the matter?”

His cheeks still burning, Fotir looked away and shook his head. “Not at all.”

They started away from the camp, southward, picking their way among the grasses and boulders. Panya, the white moon, shone low in the eastern sky, thin and curved, her edges as sharp as an Uulranni blade. As they walked, Keziah took Fotir’s hand, her skin cool and soft.

“What about the king?” he asked, the first words that came to mind.

As quickly as she had claimed his hand, she let it drop.

“What do you mean?”

He squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, cursing his stupidity. “Forgive me, Archminister. It’s really none of my concern.”

For some time Keziah said nothing, and though they continued to walk, Fotir suddenly sensed a great distance between them.

“It’s not really something I can discuss,” she told him at length, her voice so low he had to lean closer just to hear her.

“You don’t have to. I shouldn’t have-”

“No, you had every right. I just thought…” She stared straight ahead, looking as if she might cry. “I should have known better.” They walked a bit more, and then she stopped, facing him with a smile that was clearly forced. “Perhaps we should return,” she said.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t. You asked a question that I’m not ready to answer. And I shouldn’t have come to you until I am.”

She started away, but Fotir merely stood there. After a moment Keziah stopped, facing him again.

“I don’t want to go back,” he said.

She looked so sad, so beautiful. “Neither do I. But I think it’s best that we do.”

Keziah started walking once more, and Fotir could do nothing but follow, railing at himself for speaking so carelessly. She led him toward the king’s camp, but stopped a good distance from Kearney’s tent, the same difficult smile on her lips.

“Thank you,” she said.

Fotir frowned. “For what?”

She started to answer, then faltered and shook her head. “It’s hard to explain. But I’m grateful to you.” And stepping forward, she kissed him lightly on the lips. Then she left him, hurrying away without a backward glance.

* * *

Grinsa spread out his sleeping roll near where Tavis slept, trying his best to make no noise. He was more weary than he could ever remember being. The day’s battle, the search for Kezi, his confrontation with Dusaan-it had all left him utterly spent, as if he had just done a hundred gleanings at one sitting. He needed desperately to sleep, yet he knew that even a full night’s rest wouldn’t do him much good. Far more than merely being exhausted, he found that he was without hope. As much as he had feared for his sister, he had also known with the certainty of a man facing his own death that tonight’s attempt on the Weaver’s life was their last best hope of defeating Dusaan and winning this war. Their failure struck at his heart like a blade.

He wasn’t certain any longer that the Weaver was more powerful than he was. He had thought so for many turns, but after this night he felt a bit more confident in his own abilities. Not that it mattered. He could have been far stronger than Dusaan, and still his own power would not make up for the sheer number of Qirsi under the Weaver’s command. Dusaan commanded an army of over two hundred. Grinsa had a force-if it could be called that-of thirteen. Perhaps a few more of the healers would join them in the end, but while they might number twenty before all was said and done, that still was not enough. Not nearly.

Yes, they had the Eandi warriors, and Grinsa spoke of them to the others as if they might actually balance the coming battle. But he knew they could not. He was a Weaver and so he knew what a wind summoned by so many sorcerers could do to the arrows of even the finest archers. He had healed wounds and burns and mangled limbs, and so he knew what Qirsi fire and shaping power could do to mortal flesh and bone. This war-and again, he wondered if the word was appropriate in this instance-would be quick and brutal. It would be a slaughter.

He should have told Kearney and Sanbira’s queen and their soldiers to flee while they still could. Better to make Dusaan hunt them down. Perhaps a series of wars, scattered across the Forelands, would offer them some hope. Perhaps over time, they could whittle away some of the Weaver’s army. Then there might be a chance.

But Eandi warriors didn’t think this way. They heard Grinsa speak of an army of two hundred Qirsi, and they tried their best to understand what that meant, how much power such a force might wield. But in their hearts, they scoffed at his warnings. They envisioned a puny army being overwhelmed by steel and muscle and courage, failing to realize that they would never get close enough to Dusaan and his servants to pull their blades free, much less fight. Keziah and Fotir and the other Qirsi understood, but though they might have spoken in support of retreat had Grinsa suggested it, their nobles would not have listened. Not now, after all that the Weaver’s movement had wrought.

No, the war would be fought on the morrow. And by nightfall every person in these camps would probably be dead.

Grinsa lay down, but he didn’t even try to sleep, staring up at the stars and the moons instead.

“You’re alive,” Tavis said sleepily.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s all right. How’s the archminister?”

“She wasn’t hurt. The Weaver’s still alive.”

“I assumed that. You would have woken me had you managed to kill him.”

“Probably, yes.”

“What’s troubling you?”

Everything. We’re all going to be killed. “I’m just tired.”

“It’s more than that.” The young lord sat up. “Was he too powerful for you again?”

“No,” Grinsa said, his voice flat. “Actually, I got the better of him this time. I couldn’t kill him, but I did hurt him.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

The gleaner shook his head. “Please, Tavis. Let it be.”

He closed his eyes, hoping that the boy would lie down and go back to sleep, knowing that he wouldn’t.

“You’re thinking about tomorrow, aren’t you? About the battle?”

The gleaner sighed. “If you must know, yes, I am.”

“I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

Something in the way he said this made Grinsa sit up as well, and eye the boy with interest. A year ago he wouldn’t have given much consideration to anything Tavis had to say on such a matter. But he had come to appreciate the young lord’s insights on all things, even Qirsi magic.

“What have you been thinking?” he asked.

“That it all comes down to numbers. The Weaver isn’t any smarter than you are, and despite your doubts, I’ve never thought that he was any more powerful. But he has far more Qirsi with him.”

“Obviously.”

“And that led me to a question. It might be foolish, but if it’s not, it could be of some help to you.”

“What is it?”

Tavis told him, and long after he had spoken the words, Grinsa merely continued to sit there, staring at the boy as if he had suddenly conjured golden flames or made his dark scars disappear.

“Grinsa?” the young lord finally said.

“It’s far from a foolish question, Tavis. It’s brilliant.” He stood. “We have to find the others.”

“The others?”

“Kearney, the queen, the other Qirsi. We have to tell them.” He smiled, daring to hope for the first time in so long. “You may have just saved us all,” he said.

Tavis beamed.