Weavers of War

Chapter Twenty-four

The Moorlands, Eibithar

The morning dawned bright and clear, the eastern sky aglow with fiery shades of red and gold, the western sky gradually lightening from black, to indigo, and finally to azure. The air was utterly still and the moons still hung overhead, white and red, bone and blood, as if awaiting the coming battle.

Nitara was awake at first light, as were the Weaver’s other warriors. Jastanne returned to her side of the camp soon after the minister awoke, but she would not meet Nitara’s gaze. It was all the confirmation Nitara needed that the chancellor had spent the previous night in the Weaver’s arms.

She had expected to be enraged and aggrieved, to feel jealousy gnawing like wood ants at her mind. But on this day no such emotions could reach her. Today, she rode to war, a soldier in the Weaver’s army, a servant of his movement, an apostle of his vision. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would lament that he had chosen to love Jastanne rather than her. Or maybe their victory today would purge her of envy and resentment.

The vision of Kayiv that had darkened her sleep remained fresh in her mind, but even this memory could not distract Nitara from her purpose. Jastanne had chosen to make her a commander in the Weaver’s force, a decision to which Dusaan himself had assented. She intended to justify the faith they had shown in her. The Weaver’s army might yet be defeated-although she could not imagine how or by what force-but it would not be through any failure on her part.

In many respects hers was the most dangerous command of all. The other powers-fire, shaping, mists and winds-could all be wielded to good effect from afar. Language of beasts worked best at close distance. The other magics lent themselves naturally to the Weaver’s power; the greater the number being woven into a single force, the more devastating the magic. But language of beasts had to be wielded with precision and usually was most effective when used individually, one Qirsi whispering to one animal. That was why Nitara and the Qirsi under her command would be positioned close to the center, as far as possible from the Eandi archers. Bowmen would not be on horseback, and Nitara and her soldiers could do little to block the enemy’s arrows. They would be at the heart of this battle, facing down Eandi riders, doing all they could to evade the steel of Eibithar and Sanbira’s warriors.

It was a role she relished and as she called her soldiers to her, she saw the same eagerness on many of their faces. She saw fear as well, but this was to be expected.

“You know what the Weaver expects of us,” she said. Several of them nodded, but most of them merely stared at her, waiting.

“Ours is a unique mission in this war. We cannot depend upon the Weaver’s magic to bolster our own, nor can we watch this battle unfold from a safe distance. We may not wield the deepest magic in the Weaver’s army, but we will stand at the core of his force and keep the riders of the Eandi at bay.”

A murmur of agreement and more nods. A few of them smiled, the fierce, courageous smiles of warriors.

“It will be dangerous work,” she said, feeling more and more like a commander with every word she spoke. “Some of us may not live to see the end. No doubt that frightens many of you. I’d be scared as well, were it not for one simple truth: I’d rather die in the service of our Weaver, wielding my powers on his behalf, than live out the rest of my days in a world ruled by the Eandi.”

She expected more nods and mumbled assent. Instead, these last words were greeted by a deafening cheer that startled Nitara and made her horse whinny and rear.

The minister glanced about and saw that the other commanders were watching her. So was Jastanne, an amused grin on her pretty face.

“That’s all,” Nitara said, abruptly feeling self-conscious. “Go ready your mounts. We ride at my signal.”

The others turned away, their expressions grim but determined. Whatever fear she had seen in them before seemed to have vanished.

“What in Qirsar’s name did you say to them?”

Nitara turned. Jastanne was approaching, still grinning.

She shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I just told them that I’d rather die for the Weaver than grow old in a land ruled by the Eandi.”

The chancellor nodded. “I like that. Do you mind if I use it, too?”

“Not at all.”

Jastanne stopped in front of her, but then stared down at her feet, seemingly unsure of what she wanted to say. For the first time since the day they met, Nitara felt that she had the woman at a disadvantage, and though she had already resolved not to give in to her jealousy, she couldn’t help but be pleased. “Was there something you wanted, Chancellor?”

Jastanne nodded, meeting her gaze for a moment before looking off to the south. “Yes. I’ll be leading our half of the army into war, just as we planned, but once we reach the battle plain, I may have to leave you and the others for a time.”

“What?”

“The Weaver has asked me to see to a matter of some importance, and it may require that I relinquish command. Just for a short while. I want you to be ready to assume command in my place.”

Nitara gaped at her. “I’m … I’m not sure I can. Leading a part of this army is one thing, but leading all the Qirsi under your command is another entirely.”

“No, it’s not. There’s really very little difference.”

“Can’t the other chancellor-?”

“He has his own force to command, Nitara. Besides, as powerful as he is, he doesn’t possess both mists and language of beasts, as you do.” She smiled, though only for an instant. “For that matter, neither do I. No, you’re the logical choice.”

Nitara nodded, taking a breath. “All right.”

“Just follow the Weaver, as always. And allow your instincts to guide you.”

Another cheer went up from the far side of the camp. Both women turned toward the sound, and Nitara saw that several Qirsi were already on their mounts.

“You’ll be fine,” Jastanne said, facing her again.

“What is it the Weaver’s asked you to do?”

The chancellor hesitated. “He wants me to kill a woman who betrayed the movement. It shouldn’t take me long.”

“Very well,” Nitara said. “Qirsar guard you, Chancellor.”

“And you, Nitara.”

Jastanne started away.

“Did you and he-?” She stopped, ashamed of herself for blurting out anything at all.

The chancellor turned slowly, her brow knitted. “Nitara-”

“Forget that I said anything. Please. I’m happy for you. For both of you.”

“It was one night, Nitara. That’s all. Who knows what today is going to bring?” She turned again and walked away, leaving Nitara feeling alone and terribly young.

After a moment, the minister glanced about to see if any of the others were watching her, or had heard their exchange. No one appeared to be paying her any attention at all.

She strapped on her sword, saddled her mount, and swung herself onto the stallion’s back. Surveying the camp again, she saw the Weaver on his horse, sitting motionless, his hair gleaming in the early morning light, his eyes fixed on the southern sky. He said nothing, but all of them seemed to sense that he wanted them to gather around him. Within just a few moments a tight cluster of Qirsi had surrounded him, their gazes fixed on his regal face. Nitara wished that she could be next to him, but she made no effort to press forward. She merely waited for him to speak.

“This is the day we’ve been planning for,” he said at last, his voice even, but loud enough to be heard by all. “This is the day we fulfill our destiny. Nine centuries ago our people came to the Forelands as would-be conquerors. Like you, they were willing to die for their cause. Like you, they lent their power to a Weaver. They were the greatest army ever to ride on these moors, and they scattered Eandi armies before them in their march toward dominion. They nearly succeeded; they would have had it not been for the betrayal of one man.” He regarded them all. “Carthach,” he said, echoing the name that resounded in Nitara’s mind, no doubt in the minds of all who had assembled around him.

“I speak his name not to open old wounds, but to remind you of how close we once came to victory, and of how long we have waited for redemption. For nine hundred years we have suffered for his treachery. For nine hundred years we have waited to fulfill the promise of that first Qirsi army. Today our long wait finally ends. Today we cleanse our history, we wipe away the stain of Carthach’s treason. Today, we begin anew. From this day forward we will rule the Forelands, just as we should have so long ago. Together, you and I will remake the world.” He raised himself out of his saddle, standing in his stirrups. “We fight for the glory of Qirsar!” he shouted, drawing a mighty roar from his warriors.

“Our magic is yours, Weaver,” Jastanne said, after the din had subsided. “Weave us well.”

Dusaan nodded once. “Into your units,” he said. “It’s time to ride.”

The Qirsi quickly returned to their brigades, and were soon thundering southward across the Moorlands. Nitara and Yedeg, Jastanne’s other commander, rode just behind the chancellor; Rov and Gorlan followed Uestem. Two more Qirsi had joined them during the night. One, a tall, thin man with an angular face, Nitara understood to be the archminister of Aneira. The other was a lanky woman with a haunted look in her pale eyes. Both of them were shapers; they took positions in Gorlan’s force.

At the head of the army rode the Weaver, his white hair flowing in the wind like the great mane of a god. From all that Nitara had ever heard about war and armies, she knew that the morn of a battle was the most difficult time for a warrior. This was when thoughts of death entered a soldier’s mind, when fear took hold of the heart. But none of the men or women around her seemed frightened. With the Weaver leading them, they appeared confident, at ease. It was as if he was already using his magic to impart to them his courage. Nitara doubted that the Eandi soldiers awaiting them on the plain felt so certain of their fates.

After only a brief ride the Qirsi encountered a small force of Eandi soldiers, all of them wearing the white, gold, and red of Braedon. One of the men, a captain no doubt, rode forward from the others, most of whom were on foot. He had his hand raised in greeting, as if calling for a parley.

“The remnants of the emperor’s army!” the Weaver called, a grin on his face. “Shapers!” he said, turning toward Uestem’s force. The captain reined in his horse, a puzzled look on his face.

“High Chancellor?” he called to Dusaan.

The Weaver offered no reply, and an instant later, the Eandi fell, his body appearing to break like a child’s toy. The Qirsi rode on, bearing down on the other soldiers who now tried to flee. Many of them died without drawing their weapons. The Weaver and his warriors didn’t even bother to slow their charge.

A short time later, the Qirsi army topped a small rise, and Nitara saw before them the armies of the enemy. Confident as she was, the minister couldn’t help but be daunted by the size of the Eandi force. There were thousands of them, their helms and armor glittering in the sunlight. They were spread wide across the plain, in a vast crescent, so that they appeared ready to block a Qirsi advance in any direction. Already, the Weaver and his warriors had defeated armies far bigger than their own, but never had they faced anything like this.

After a moment, Dusaan raised a hand and his riders halted. He turned in his saddle, glancing back at Jastanne and Uestem, and beckoned them forward.

“Commanders,” Jastanne said quietly, as she spurred her mount forward.

Nitara and the others followed, stopping just behind Dusaan.

“What do you see, Chancellor?” the Weaver asked.

Jastanne eyed the Eandi armies for a moment before responding. “None of them are on horseback.”

“Meaning?”

“We’ll have to fold those with language of beasts into the other units.”

“Yes, those with other powers of use to us. Very good. What else?”

“They’ve spread the archers along the breadth of their lines,” Uestem said.

“Yes, they have. Why?”

“To keep us from using a single wind against them.”

“I expect so. Jastanne, we’ll have to keep the winds turning, give them no time to adjust.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

Dusaan looked back at Nitara. “Commander, I understand that you may find yourself leading the chancellor’s army for a time.”

“But my unit-”

“Your unit may be blended into the others, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a commander, and that you possess mists and winds, as well as language of beasts. You should be prepared to lead the others. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her throat suddenly dry. “Yes, Weaver.”

For a few frenzied moments Nitara and Jastanne divided those Qirsi who had been in the minister’s unit among the other brigades. A few, those who didn’t have mists, or shaping, or fire, were told to remain behind, but the others quickly took their places behind the other commanders. Nitara remained with Yedeg and Jastanne.

“The enemy has been clever,” the Weaver said, when they were ready. “No doubt the Qirsi among them-all of them traitors to our people-aided the Eandi with their preparations. But none of what they’ve done changes anything. Mounted or on foot, spread wide or clustered like a herd of drel, the Eandi can’t defeat us. These are the last desperate measures of a foe we’ve already defeated.” He pulled his sword free and raised it over his head. “We ride to war!”

With a full-throated cry, the other Qirsi kicked at their mounts and rode forward, following Dusaan and pulling their weapons free as well. Nitara had time to remark to herself how curious a gesture this was, considering that the only weapon the Qirsi hoped to use was their magic.

And then everything began to go horribly wrong.

They were quickly closing the distance between themselves and the Eandi lines. Nitara was eyeing the bowmen to her right-the closest of the Eandi archers-waiting for them to launch their first volley of arrows, when she felt a sudden pulse of heat. She looked to her left in time to see several of Rov’s riders fall to the ground flailing at flames that had engulfed their hair and clothing. In front of her, Dusaan halted, incredulous and enraged.

“What in Qirsar’s name is happening?” he demanded.

“We’re under attack!” came the reply, although Nitara never saw who it was who spoke.

An instant later, she heard a rapid succession of muffled cracks and then howls of pain. On the far side of the Weaver’s army, where Gorlan sat at the head of his brigade, at least a dozen more warriors fell, many of them writhing in pain, a few completely motionless.

It did seem that they were under attack. She was about to say so when her horse reared and at last she understood the nature of this assault, though she didn’t know how the enemy managed it. For as she toppled off her mount, landing hard on the ground and just barely missing a hulking boulder, Nitara realized that she had unhorsed herself. Or, to be more precise, someone had used her magic to make the beast throw her.

Someone other than her Weaver.

* * *

That it was such a simple question did nothing to diminish its brilliance. It had never even crossed Grinsa’s mind, though he had been thinking of nothing but the coming war for longer than he could say. But Tavis had a nimble mind and a unique way of looking at the world. And in this instance, he had given them cause for hope, slim though it was.

“Is it possible,” he had asked Grinsa the night before, “for a Weaver to use the magic of another Qirsi even if he doesn’t want you to?”

The answer, of course, was yes.

It wasn’t easy. A Qirsi who knew that the Weaver was about to try such a thing could close his or her mind and resist the intrusion. But a Weaver could usually overcome the defenses of a less powerful sorcerer, and on those occasions when the sorcerer wasn’t prepared there was little he or she could do to ward off a Weaver’s assault.

He and the young lord had gone to Kearney immediately, and Grinsa and the king had spent much of the night devising their strategy for this day’s fight. It was simple really-there remained little for them to do against so formidable an enemy. But with the archers spread as Grinsa had recommended earlier in the evening, it was possible that he could create enough confusion among the Weaver’s army to allow the bowmen to have some effect.

“You say this was Tavis’s idea?” the king asked him after they had spoken for some time.

“Yes, Your Majesty, it was.”

“He’s come far in the past year.”

“I think the promise was always there, but yes, he’s grown considerably since your offer of asylum.”

Kearney had smiled at that. “You put it most generously, gleaner, but you and I both know that I had nothing to do with his transformation. He’s spent this past year in your company and to the degree that anyone other than Tavis himself deserves such credit, it should go to you.”

“I suppose. In the end, I think I’ve learned as much from Tavis as he has from me.”

“Well, he’s given us an opportunity at least. Let’s make certain that we put it to good use.”

In the light of morning, watching how the Weaver’s advance slowed and then stalled, his lines crumbling in a tumult of flame and anguished screams, Grinsa found himself believing that they were on the verge of doing just that. Already he had killed or wounded nearly three dozen of the Weaver’s servants, and now he waved an Eibitharian banner over his head, signaling to Kearney that the king should begin his attack.

Immediately, the king shouted orders to his lead bowmen, one of whom unfurled a banner of his own. A moment later, a swarm of arrows leaped into the sky, soaring toward the Qirsi army from several directions at once.

Grinsa felt a wind begin to rise from the north, but he knew it wouldn’t gain strength fast enough to block the assault. And just to make certain of this, he now reached out with his power, sensing where the Weaver had positioned those among his horde who possessed mists and winds. Seizing the power of as many of them as he could tear away from the Weaver-about twenty in all-he robbed their gale of much of its strength.

Seconds later, the arrows struck, bringing new cries of pain from the Qirsi and panicked whinnying from their mounts. Many fell-Grinsa and the loyal Qirsi were still vastly outnumbered, but the Weaver’s advantage was shrinking by the moment.

Dusaan himself remained seated on his mount, which he steered from side to side, making the beast dance as he shouted commands to his foundering warriors. Another volley flew from the bows of the Eandi archers, but already the Weaver had coaxed a wind from his sorcerers, one that built rapidly and began to swirl, weakening the flight of the arrows. Grinsa tried once more to use his power on Dusaan’s Qirsi, but they were ready for him now. Not only did the sorcerers resist him, but he could feel Dusaan tightening his hold on their magic. Gazing across the battle plain, he saw that the Weaver was staring back at him. Their eyes met, and Dusaan shook his head, a feral grin springing to his lips.

Grinsa knew that he wouldn’t catch the Weaver unaware again.

Most of the second wave of arrows fell short of Dusaan’s army, and those that did reach the Qirsi did little damage. Kearney’s archers sent up another barrage, but the Weaver defeated this one with ease.

Grinsa reached again for Dusaan’s shapers and managed to wound several more of them. But he could hear the Weaver shouting at his warriors once more, and when the gleaner tried to use the enemies’ fire magic against them, he encountered too much resistance.

“Damn!” he muttered.

Tavis looked at him sharply. “What is it?”

“Dusaan has warned them against me. It’s going to be far harder now to turn their magic back on them.”

“You can still try.”

He faced the young lord, shaking his head. “It’s not worth the effort, and if I don’t start weaving the others now Dusaan will use the same tactic against us.”

Tavis frowned, staring across the plain once more.

Grinsa knew what he was thinking. In the first few moments of the battle they had managed to destroy nearly a third of the Weaver’s army, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

“We made a good start, Tavis, in large part thanks to you.”

“Yes, but now what?”

Before Grinsa could think of a response, Dusaan offered one of his own. The gleaner sensed the magic as it surged toward them, feeling it on his skin as one might a close lightning strike, tasting it as one might blood, and he reached desperately for the shapers along the Eandi lines-Fotir and Xivled, Evetta ja Rudek, who was Tremain’s first minister, and Dyre jal Frinval, who served in Kearney’s court with Keziah. With an effort that stole his breath and brought beads of sweat to his brow, he sent forth his own burst of power that he hoped would meet the Weaver’s. But Dusaan’s magic and that of his servants overwhelmed the meager power that Grinsa could muster. Had the gleaner done nothing nearly half of the Eandi soldiers might have been killed. As it was, he was able to save a good number of them.

Still, Dusaan’s onslaught crashed into the soldiers as an ocean wave would a wall of sand. Hundreds were lost, many of them screaming in agony, others silenced before they even knew what had happened to them.

“Gleaner!” he heard Kearney shout, but Grinsa had no time to answer.

Dusaan and his army were advancing on them once more, and already the gleaner could see the next attack building. A glimmering flame that rose from the land like a wraith and began to speed toward them. Drawing on the power of his fellow Qirsi-Evetta again, as well as Labruinn’s first minister, the old minister from Brugaosa, whose power had diminished to almost nothing, and a number of the healers who also possessed fire magic-Grinsa countered with a blaze of his own. He’d had more warning this time, and his fire met Dusaan’s a good distance from the Eandi lines. Still, he could only hope to diminish the potency of the Weaver’s assault. When Dusaan’s fire crashed into the Eandi army it killed scores, and wounded many more. But it didn’t obliterate Kearney’s force, and Grinsa could ask for little more.

“At this rate it won’t be long before our entire army is gone.”

Grinsa cast a withering glare at Tavis, but said nothing. The boy was right.

He couldn’t allow the Weaver to continue his offensive against the Eandi soldiers, and there seemed to be only one way to stop him. Reaching for his shapers once more, the gleaner directed an attack against Dusaan himself. The Weaver would be expecting this-Grinsa had little hope that he could actually hurt the man. But at least Dusaan would have to defend himself, making it impossible for him to launch attacks of his own.

As he expected, the Weaver turned his magic away with ease. Grinsa thought he actually heard the Weaver laughing, but he didn’t falter even for an instant. He reached for the fire magic again, sending a ball of flame at the man. Again Dusaan blocked the attack, but already Grinsa was drawing on Keziah’s magic, language of beasts. This, it seemed, Dusaan had not expected, for his mount suddenly reared, neighing loudly. For just a moment, Grinsa thought that he might succeed in unseating the Weaver. But Dusaan quickly calmed the beast. Again the gleaner drew upon his shaping magic.

By this time though, he was beginning to tire. Here was the flaw in this tactic. It was born of desperation and it demanded a great deal of effort on Grinsa’s part with little opportunity for rest. In time he would grow too weary to fight at all, and then all would be lost. In truth, he had known all along that he would have to resort to these attacks eventually. He just hadn’t known that his plight and that of his allies would grow so dire so quickly.

“What can I do?” Tavis asked.

Grinsa shook his head, having no answer at first. His teeth were clenched, his mind fully occupied by the weaving of magic and his mounting exhaustion. “Wave the flag,” he said at last, tossing the Eibitharian banner to the boy. “Maybe the archers can do some good.”

“There aren’t many of them left. Most died by the Weaver’s magic.”

“Those who are left then. Quickly, Tavis!”

The young lord raised the flag over his head and moments later arrows soared into the morning air. There were pitifully few of them, and the Weaver’s Qirsi managed to defend themselves with winds and shaping even though Dusaan couldn’t weave their powers together.

“Again!” the gleaner called.

He saw Tavis wave the flag, but he never knew for certain whether the archers fired. At that same moment Dusaan retaliated with an attack of his own. Shaping at first, then fire, then back to shaping once more. Grinsa held tightly to his magic, easily resisting the Weaver’s assault. Unlike Dusaan, the gleaner wasn’t on horseback, meaning that there were fewer powers for the Weaver to try to control. Except that in the next instant, Dusaan had taken hold of Grinsa’s power of mists and winds-Grinsa hadn’t even thought to guard that magic.

A gale started to rise, and the gleaner struggled to regain control of his magic.

“Grinsa?” Tavis’s voice seemed to come to him from a great distance. He didn’t reply.

In the span of a single heartbeat, Dusaan released the one power, trying once more for shaping and then fire. Grinsa fought to ward himself, attempting to anticipate the Weaver’s attacks. But he was weary, and with each moment that passed it grew harder for him to keep the Weaver from taking hold of his shaping power, the one Dusaan seemed to want most of all.

How had the Weaver turned the tide of their battle so quickly? Just a few moments before Grinsa had Dusaan reeling, clinging desperately to his mount and laboring to maintain control of his magics. Now Grinsa was the one scrambling simply to stay alive.

He heard Tavis say something else, but he couldn’t make out what it was. Abruptly though, his battle with the Weaver ceased. He stared at the boy, astonished.

“What happened?”

“The archers finally managed to aim a salvo at the Weaver,” the boy said. “He had to raise a wind to protect himself.”

Grinsa nodded. His respite wouldn’t last long, but he was grateful for any rest at all.

“How are we doing?” he asked.

“Our archers aren’t having much effect on them,” Tavis said, “and they won’t come close to our swordsmen. But as long as you keep the Weaver occupied, they don’t seem capable of doing much damage to our lines.”

Right.

“I’ll keep after him as long as I can,” he said. “But you have to understand, Tavis: I’m merely delaying the inevitable. I can’t keep this up forever.”

“Neither can he. Just make certain that his strength fails first.”

“You don’t understand. With so many Qirsi on his side, the damage he’s done thus far demanded far less of him than what I’ve had to do. I’m already weary-wearier than he. I can’t win a battle on these terms.”

Tavis merely stared back at him, the look in his eyes asking the obvious question. What choice did they have?

Grinsa looked across the battle plain once more. Dusaan called to his warriors, then glanced back at the gleaner. No time to waste.

He reached for the Weaver’s magic again. Language of beasts, fire, shaping. Dusaan brushed him away as if he were no more than an irksome child. Before Grinsa could try a second time, the Weaver began to draw upon the vast power of his army. Shaping. Grinsa could see the magic shimmering before him, making the grasses and boulders of the moor waver, as if from the heat of a planting sun. He reached for the others again, wondering how much longer they could contend with the might of so many Qirsi.

But his allies were there-Fotir, Xivled, and the rest-and the stream of magic they sent back at the Weaver seemed stronger than any he had woven that day. It almost seemed that Fotir and the others, sensing his fatigue, had given more of themselves, offering their strength where his was failing. By the time the Weaver’s magic reached the Eandi lines, it had dwindled to nearly nothing. A few soldiers were wounded, crumpling to the ground, but not nearly as many as Grinsa had feared.

“We were fortunate that time,” he said.

Tavis eyed him, seeming at last to understand just how bleak was their situation. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

After a moment, Grinsa faced Dusaan again and tried once more to take control of the Weaver’s power. He had little hope of succeeding. But he didn’t know what else to do.

* * *

She felt useless, as she always did during these battles. A part of her had hoped that this day might be different, that despite the lingering pain in her hands she might prove herself as a warrior. Her brother was leading them to war. At last she had her chance to strike back against the Weaver, to repay the man for all he had done to her, and to Cresenne, and to everyone else who had suffered at the hands of his conspiracy. Finally, she could avenge the murder of Paegar jal Berget, who had once been her friend, despite his ties to the Weaver’s movement.

But Keziah found that she could be of no help at all, even in a war of magic, a war between Weavers. Grinsa did draw upon her magic once, when he used language of beasts against Dusaan’s horse, but little came of that effort, and almost immediately both Weavers turned back to the more menacing powers: shaping and fire. Ironically, had she truly been a part of the Weaver’s army, she would have been called upon to raise a wind, but as of yet, Grinsa hadn’t tried to raise an opposing gale.

She could only watch and wait, and hope that eventually, before all was lost, she would have her opportunity to strike at the enemy.

As Dusaan’s warriors drew nearer to the Eandi lines, Keziah began to push her way forward, past astonished Eandi soldiers. She wasn’t fool enough to fancy herself a skilled swordswoman, but possessing language of beasts, she thought that she ought to be where her magic would do Kearney’s army the most good. She might not be able to strike a killing blow either with steel or Qirsi power, but she could make a horse rear at an opportune time, or coax a falcon out of the sky as she had done when Fotir saved her. No matter what she managed to do, it would be better than standing behind Kearney’s men wondering how she might make herself useful.

Before she reached the front lines, however, she spied something that made her stop. It was a Qirsi woman riding in a wide arc around the eastern flank of the Eandi lines. Had there been more than this lone rider Keziah would have raised the alarm immediately. But it was just the one woman, and something in her manner gave the archminister pause. Keziah was watching her from some distance, but the rider appeared to be scanning the Eandi armies, as if searching for something, or someone. She was beautiful and so young in appearance, with golden eyes so much like those of the Weaver, that Keziah wondered for just a moment if she might be Dusaan’s daughter. She knew it was impossible, but she was equally sure that the woman was powerful in her own right, no matter the nature of her ties to the Weaver. She moved confidently, as if she had complete faith in her abilities and her magic.

“Probably a shaper,” Keziah muttered to herself, marking the woman’s progress. Her hands throbbed at the mere suggestion. For as she stood watching the rider, Keziah sensed that the woman was searching for her. The Weaver had vowed to punish her and somehow she knew that he had chosen this woman to mete out whatever retribution he had chosen.

Her first thought was to flee. Perhaps she had time to find her horse and ride away from the plain. Abeni had hurt her so badly; she would rather die instantly by a warrior’s blade than face such agony again. As quickly as the notion came to her, however, she dismissed it. If the Weaver wanted her dead, he would find a way to kill her. Better to face her doom now. Besides, she sensed that this woman would cut a swath through the ranks of Kearney’s men to reach her if forced to do so. If Keziah was to die this day, she didn’t want to face Bian the Deceiver with any more deaths on her head.

She made her way back through the soldiers to the rear of the lines and then walked a short distance from the battle plain, all the while watching the rider. The woman continued to scan the Eandi lines until at last her eyes fell on Keziah. As soon as the rider spotted the archminister, she kicked her mount to a gallop and rode directly toward her, white hair dancing in the wind.

The archminister kept her eyes locked on her attacker, readying herself to use language of beasts on the woman’s mount. It seemed, though, that the Weaver had warned this woman against her. Long before she was close enough for Keziah’s magic to have much effect on the creature, the woman halted and dismounted, continuing her approach on foot. Two soldiers charged her, but both collapsed to the ground before they were within ten fourspans of her. Keziah thought she heard the muffled snapping of bone as they fell.

This time fear got the better of her. Keziah turned, intending to run, but before she could take even a step, her leg gave way. She fell to the grass, pain clouding her vision. Her stomach heaved and she clenched her teeth to keep from being ill.

“Not so fast, Archminister,” the woman called to her, killing another soldier without so much as a glance. “The Weaver wanted me to convey a message to you.”

Keziah braced herself, knowing what was coming. Why does it always have to be shapers? she had time to wonder. Then torment. Not the hands this time, nor even a limb. She heard the cracking of bone, and felt as though a fire were burning within her body. She gasped, her agony only worsening. One rib. Then another. This time she couldn’t keep herself from vomiting, though that too brought new anguish.

Several more Eandi soldiers converged on the woman, swords drawn, but before they reached her they were hammered to the ground, their bodies collapsing in grotesque positions as if they had been mauled by some terrible demon of the Underrealm. For just an instant the archminister thought that her attacker had done this herself, but when the woman looked back over her shoulder Keziah knew that it had been the Weaver, that he was watching them, waiting to see her die.

“He wanted you to suffer,” the woman said, facing her once more, smiling faintly. “But I’m afraid there’s no time for that now.”

At least it would be quick.

“Hold, Jastanne!” came a voice from beside Keziah. “You’ll not be killing anyone today.”

Keziah looked up and, to her amazement, saw Aindreas, the duke of Kentigern, towering over her, his sword held loosely in one hand, a shield in the other.

Her first impulse was to warn him away, to tell him that the woman was a shaper and that no Eandi warrior, no matter his size, could contend with her. Then the full import of what he had said finally reached her. Jastanne. He had called the woman by her name.

The Qirsi laughed.

“Yes, Archminister. He knows me. You find that odd, don’t you?”

A few others had gathered around them, though most on the battle plain remained oblivious of this second, lesser conflict. The handful of men who had followed the duke were soldiers wearing the colors of Eibithar: Kearney’s men, who had treated Keziah with suspicion and contempt for so many turns, who had been told of Kentigern’s defiance of the Crown, who had come to this plain to do battle with the empire’s soldiers only to find themselves at war with a Weaver and his army. Most of them probably didn’t know what to make of the scene unfolding before them. Keziah wasn’t even certain that she did.

“How do you know this woman?” she asked, through gritted teeth.

The woman was smiling still. “Yes, my Lord Duke, can you explain that?”

Aindreas tightened his hold on the sword, his knuckles whitening. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his gaze flicking from Jastanne’s face to the faces of the soldiers. “This woman is a shaper,” he said loudly. “She’s more dangerous than any of you know. She can’t be allowed to live.”

Again Jastanne laughed. “And she can’t be killed by the likes of you.”

There was a chiming sound, and the duke’s blade splintered like bone. An instant later Keziah heard the rending of wood, and Aindreas’s shield broke in two. Three soldiers raised their blades as if to charge her. There were three muffled cracks, and the men toppled to the grass, two of them howling and writhing in pain. One of them didn’t move at all. A sheen of sweat had appeared on Jastanne’s face, and she was breathing heavily, as if she had run a great distance, but she seemed to have her strength still.

“I’ve wanted to kill you for some time now, Kentigern,” she said, “but you’ve been too valuable to us. The Weaver wouldn’t allow it. Now, though…” She shrugged and grinned. “The duke is a traitor,” she said, pitching her voice to carry. “He pledged himself to the Qirsi cause, believing that your king was somehow responsible for the death of his daughter.”

“That’s a lie!” one of the men shouted back at her.

But Aindreas didn’t deny it. He just glowered at her, gripping the useless hilt of his weapon.

“Is it?” she said. “Notice the duke’s silence. Don’t you think he would protest if he could?”

The soldier blanched, looking from the woman to Aindreas. The other men stared at the duke as well.

Jastanne, however, eyed Keziah once more. She said nothing. She didn’t have to. Keziah knew that she was about to die.

Perhaps Aindreas sensed this as well. With a roar that would have made the bravest warrior quail, he charged the woman, his dagger drawn, his eyes wide and wild. And Jastanne didn’t even flinch. She made a small grunting sound, as if pushing hard with her magic, but otherwise she didn’t move. At least not at first.

Aindreas staggered before he reached her, his enraged bellow rising, changing to something more desperate, more awful. Keziah could hear the bones in his body breaking in rapid succession. The dagger fell from his hands. But he didn’t fall, nor did he stop. Perhaps it was just the force of his initial steps, or maybe the force of his will. He continued toward the woman, flailing now, his face red, his steps unsteady.

Jastanne took a step back, pulling her sword free, and as the duke stumbled into her she thrust the blade into his chest. Still he tumbled forward, but now the woman simply stepped to the side, allowing him to stagger past her before he fell to the ground, driving the blade deeper. The other soldiers vaulted toward her, thinking that at last they had her defeated. But their swords broke in quick succession, and their necks after that.

Keziah was alone.

Except that when she looked at Jastanne again, she saw that another had come, one the woman hadn’t noticed.

“How did you turn him?” Keziah asked, keeping the woman’s gaze on herself, needing just a bit more time.

Jastanne’s face had grown pale, and her hair, damp with sweat, clung to her brow. Keziah had no doubt, though, that she had strength enough to finish this.

“It was easy, if you must know. He came to us.”

“I don’t believe you,” the archminister said, only half listening.

“I don’t particularly care. It’s the truth. He hated your king that much.”

Keziah didn’t answer. Her thoughts were fixed entirely on Jastanne’s horse, which had wandered close, perhaps following the sound of the woman’s voice. In these few seconds, the archminister had managed to bring him even closer. Hearing his steps, seeing the direction of Keziah’s gaze, Jastanne spun. And at that very moment Keziah summoned an image of fire, thrusting it into the creature’s mind as if it were a blade. The beast reared, kicking out with its front hooves. One smote the woman on the head, and she collapsed, sprawling on the ground beside Keziah. She let out a low groan and stirred, but the archminister grabbed a nearby rock and silenced her with a second blow.

Keziah closed her eyes briefly, taking a long, deep breath. Then, in a haze of pain, she forced herself into motion and crawled to the duke.

Aindreas lay on his side, his chest a bloodstained mess, his breath coming in great wet gasps, flecks of blood at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were open, but he seemed not to see her, even when her face was just in front of his.

“My lord?” Keziah said.

“Is it over?” he rasped.

“Not yet, my lord.”

“Jastanne?”

“She’s wounded, but she lives still.”

“Kill her now, while you can. She’s…” His voice gave way, and his enormous frame was racked by terrible coughs.

“I’ll call for a healer, my lord.”

“I’m dead already.”

“No, my lor-”

“Yes.” For the first time, his grey eyes seemed to focus on her face. “Tell the king … tell him that I died well.”

“My lord-”

“It was a mistake. I know that now. The shame of it will stain my house for centuries. But perhaps dying this way … I’m sorry.”

She heard footsteps behind her, the jangling of swords and armor. Turning with an effort, Keziah saw soldiers running toward her.

“Archminister!” one of them called.

“Get healers! Quickly!”

One of the men started back toward the camp, but the others hurried to her side.

“Is he dead?” one of the men asked, his gaze fixed on the duke.

Keziah didn’t answer. Aindreas coughed again, weakly this time. His breathing had slowed, his skin was the color of high clouds on a warm harvest morning.

“Brienne,” he whispered. “Forgive … me.”

His mouth opened slightly, as if he intended to take another breath. But his chest was still, and what little life had remained in his eyes faded to nothing.

Keziah reached out and closed his eyes for him, wincing as she did. She couldn’t bring herself to shed tears for the man, not after all that he had done. But she grieved for his family and his house.

“Thank you,” she said softly, “for saving my life.”

“Archminister?”

“He died a hero,” she said. “He saved me from certain death.” She glanced up at the man. “Make certain that your comrades know that.”

“I will, Archminister.” He hesitated. “Are you hurt badly?”

“My leg is broken, and my ribs. But I’ll be all right once the healers arrive.”

He nodded, then looked at the other soldiers, some of whom yet lived. At last his gaze came to rest on Jastanne, whose chest rose and fell, despite the darkening bruises on her head.

“What about her?” the man asked.

“Bind her hands and feet,” Keziah said, ignoring Aindreas’s words and the warning that echoed in her own mind. “Use silk if you can find it. Otherwise cord will have to do. And have her watched by at least four men.”

“Four?”

“She’s a shaper. I only hope that four will be enough.”