Weavers of War

Chapter Twenty-six

Pronjed could hardly believe how quickly their fortunes had turned. Moments before the Weaver and his army had been on the verge of a great victory. Now the Weaver was dead, his army scattering over the battle plain, some fighting, others in flight. In the days leading up to this war, Pronjed had considered many possible outcomes, most of them turning on the simple fact that Dusaan jal Kania hadn’t liked him very much and might well have killed him once the war was over. But the archminister didn’t believe that he would see the Weaver defeated. He never imagined that he would watch the man die.

He had little interest in continuing this fight. Whatever his feelings toward the Eandi, he knew better than to think that he could stand against an army of them. His powers were considerable-having both delusion and shaping power, he could talk or fight his way past a good number of warriors. And if those didn’t work, he also had mists and winds. Nevertheless, he preferred to slip away, unnoticed and preferably alone.

But where to go? There was no future for him in Aneira, where by now he had been branded a traitor and sentenced to death. Nor could he remain in Eibithar, where his accent marked him as an enemy. He had no desire to live in Braedon or Wethyrn. The nobles of the empire would never again trust a Qirsi, and Wethyrn, for all its charm, was simply too small and weak to hold his interest. Which left him with Caerisse or Sanbira, and both lay to the south and west.

He made this choice in a matter of seconds and promptly turned his mount westward, intending to ride off at a full gallop.

“Hold, Qirsi.”

A woman’s voice, young but not without some mettle. A noble of some sort, probably a duchess. From Sanbira judging from the accent.

Pronjed turned slowly to face her. She looked even younger than she sounded and was every bit as beautiful as one would expect a noble of the southern realm to be. Her hair and eyes were black; with her long limbs and lanky frame she looked more like a festival dancer than a warrior. But she held a blade ready, and Pronjed felt certain that she knew how to use it. Four men stood with her, all of them holding bows.

Looking at the soldiers, the minister had the sense that they were swordsmen rather than archers; none looked comfortable with his bow. But all had arrows nocked and the bowstrings drawn. Whatever their skill, one of them would probably manage to aim true. Pronjed thought that he could snap all four bows before one of the men managed to loose his arrow, but he wasn’t certain.

“My lady,” he said, needing time, needing to take the measure of this bold duchess.

“Throw down your weapons and dismount.”

He laughed. She might have been brave, but she was too young and foolish to represent any true danger. “My weapon?” He pulled his sword free and tossed it on the ground at her feet. “There. Do you truly believe that you’ve nothing to fear from me now?”

“Of course not, Minister. But my father always taught me that in disarming a foe, one should begin with the most obvious dangers.”

Pronjed eyed her curiously. Minister. “Have we met, my lady?”

“I don’t believe so. But you knew me for a duchess, and I know you for a minister. Is that so strange?”

Perhaps there was more to this woman than he had thought. “Who are you?”

“Off your horse, Qirsi. We’ll have ample time later for such questions.”

“Tell me,” he said, and this time he touched her mind lightly with his delusion magic.

“My name is Diani. I’m the duchess of Curlinte.”

Of course. He’d heard of this one, and of the attempt on her life. “Well, Lady Curlinte, I think I’d be better off remaining on my horse. I don’t imagine your queen or Eibithar’s king will be dealing lightly with men like me. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

The soldiers were glancing at one another, frowns on their faces. “My lady,” one of them said.

The duchess shook her head, then looked up at Pronjed with a mix of horror and indignation. “What did you do to me?”

“As you see, my lady. That sword was the least of my weapons.”

Before she could order the soldiers to kill him, Pronjed struck at them with his shaping magic, splintering the four bows. As an afterthought, he broke her sword as well, leaving the duchess and her warriors looking bewildered and afraid.

“I think I’ll be leaving now,” the minister said. He grinned. “Unless you intend to pull me from my mount with your bare hands.”

But the duchess wasn’t ready to surrender. Pulling her dagger free, she stepped in front of him. “Get off that horse.” After a moment’s hesitation, the four soldiers joined her.

“Don’t be a fool. I’ll ride you down. That is, if I don’t snap your neck first.”

“Then do it. But I won’t just stand by as you ride to freedom.”

Normally, this woman and her soldiers wouldn’t have been of any concern to him. But it had already been a long morning, and he had used a good deal of power on the Weaver’s behalf. He could kill the five of them, but how much magic would he have left if others confronted him before he escaped?

“Move!” he said, pushing again with his delusion magic.

The duchess took a step to the side, then stumbled, as if resisting his power. She lifted her hands to her head, grimacing in pain.

“Don’t let him get away!” she said, her teeth clenched.

The soldiers, who by now also had their daggers drawn, stood shoulder to shoulder in front of him. He read doubt in their faces, but he saw nothing to indicate that they were about to flee. Reluctantly, Pronjed reached for his shaping magic.

At the first touch on his mind, the minister thought that the Weaver had joined his fight, that he wasn’t dead after all. But rather than feeling his power bolstered by this new presence in his mind, he felt it bound. The other Weaver. Somehow the man had sensed his power and taken hold of it. Abruptly, shaping was lost to him. He reached for delusion, but he could no more use that magic than the other. Mists and winds. Nothing.

“No!” he cried, without thinking.

The sound of his voice seemed to propel the duchess and soldiers into motion. Powerful hands grabbed hold of his leg and arm, and yanked him off of his horse. He landed hard on the ground, but still Pronjed fought to break free, even as he continued to battle the intruder in his mind. In all ways, however, he was helpless. A moment later, he felt the point of a dagger at his throat and he stiffened, ceasing his struggles.

The duchess seized a handful of his hair, forcing him to meet her gaze. “If you so much as blink, I’ll kill you.”

How he longed to shatter that blade, or better yet, to force the woman to turn it on herself, as he had done to Carden so long ago. But the other Weaver held him fast.

“Get rope,” the duchess said. “Irons are no good against a shaper.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Or better yet…”

He knew what was coming before she pulled the dagger away. He would have done the same had he been in her position.

“Damn,” he had time to mutter.

Then he felt an explosion of pain at the back of his skull, and the minister knew no more.

The healers did what they could for her, mending the shattered bones in her leg and body, and easing her pain somewhat. Keziah had been through this before, however, and far too recently. She knew that it would be days before she could move without discomfort.

She also knew that she was fortunate to be alive at all, that had it not been for Aindreas of Kentigern, she too would have been counted among the victims of the Weaver and his war.

“Where can we take you, Archminister?” one of the healers asked, when they had finished ministering to her leg.

Keziah could hear soldiers cheering to the north. It seemed that the Weaver had been defeated. Somehow, incredibly, Grinsa had prevailed. Keziah felt that she was living some marvelous dream; for just an instant she feared waking to find that none of it was true, that the war had yet to be fought, that her survival and Grinsa’s remained uncertain.

“I want to see my-” She felt her face color. “The gleaner. I want to see Grinsa.” She tried to stand. “But I can go to him myself.”

The healer laid a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder. “No,” he said. “You can’t. You’ll be walking on your own soon enough. Tomorrow perhaps, or the day after. But for now, I’ll carry you.”

She started to object, then stopped herself. It hurt just to breathe, much less move. “Very well.”

He lifted her effortlessly, and began walking toward the center of the Eandi lines. Resting in the healer’s arms, Keziah suddenly found herself thinking of Fotir and Kearney and even Tavis of Curgh, wondering if they were alive, hoping desperately that they had survived the battle.

So it was that she was already looking for Curgh’s first minister when he spotted her and called out her name. Fotir ran to her, grinning like a young boy on Bohdan’s Night.

“You’re alive!” he said. “Earlier, when we couldn’t find you, Grinsa and I feared the worst.” He looked at the healer. “Thank you. I can take her.”

The healer glanced at Keziah, grinning slightly, an eyebrow raised.

She smiled in turn. “It’s all right. He’ll see to it that I don’t walk.”

The healer laughed. “Very well.”

Fotir took her from the man.

“Thank you,” Keziah said, as the healer began to turn away.

“Of course, Archminister. Stay off that leg.”

“I will.”

“What happened?” Fotir asked her, when they were alone.

She met his gaze briefly, then looked away, abruptly remembering the awkwardness of the night before. “The Weaver sent a shaper to kill me.”

“What is it with you and shapers?”

“Careful, First Minister. As I remember it, you’re a shaper.”

This time it was Fotir who looked away. “True. Well, in any case, I’m glad you managed to defeat him.”

“Actually, it was a woman, and I was saved by the duke of Kentigern.”

Fotir stared at her, his bright yellow eyes wide. “Kentigern?”

“Yes. He died rescuing me.” She almost said more, but thought better of it. “He wanted nothing more than to redeem his house.”

“Perhaps by saving you he did.”

She feared that redemption wouldn’t come so easily for the people of Kentigern, but she merely nodded and said, “Yes, perhaps.” A moment later, their eyes met again. “Where’s Grinsa?”

“I’ll take you to him.” Fotir began to walk, carrying her past clusters of soldiers, some wounded, others simply smiling, sharing tales of the recent battle. “He was hurt,” the first minister said. “The Weaver broke both of his legs and his shoulder.”

Fear seized her heart. “But he’s alive.”

Fotir smiled reassuringly. “Yes. And he’ll be very happy to see you.”

They reached her brother a few moments later and Fotir lowered her to the ground beside him. Three healers knelt beside him, their hands on his legs and shoulder. Grinsa’s eyes were closed and his face was damp with sweat.

“Grinsa,” she said, shocked to see him looking so.

His eyes flew open. “Kezi!” He gripped her hand so tightly that it hurt. “I thought I’d lost you. Are you all right?”

“Not too bad. Better than you, it would seem.”

He gave a small frown. “I’m fine. I was just helping the healers.”

“Please talk to him, Archminister,” said one of the healers, an older woman. “He’s supposed to be resting.”

“The sooner they’re done with me, the sooner they can help someone else.”

The healer continued to look at her, pleading with her pale eyes.

“I think it’s best that I stay out of this.” She glanced up at Fotir. “Don’t you agree?”

But the minister was staring northward, his expression grim. “Excuse me,” he said after a moment, and walked off without waiting for her reply.

Keziah looked at her brother, who merely shrugged.

“Tell me what happened,” she said after a brief silence.

Grinsa began to describe for her his battle with the Weaver, and for a long time she forgot about Fotir and Aindreas and the woman who had nearly killed her, so rapt was she held by Grinsa’s tale.

“Do you know who she is?” she asked when at last he had finished. “This woman who saved us?”

He shook his head. “No. But the Weaver spoke to her, so others may know what she did. I fear for her.”

Keziah nodded.

“What about you?”

She told her story in turn, once again saying nothing about all that had passed between Aindreas and the Qirsi woman. Grinsa, however, seemed to sense that she had left something out.

“How fortunate for you that the duke happened upon you when he did.”

Her gaze flicked toward the healers. “Yes.”

Grinsa was watching her, and he nodded, seeming to understand her reticence.

“Do you know what happened to Tavis?” Keziah asked.

His brow furrowed. “No. I saw him charge the Qirsi lines, but I lost track of him in all that happened after.”

“I’m sure he’s all right,” Keziah said, knowing how empty the words would sound, but feeling that she should say something. “It seems you were right about him. He did have a role to play in all this.”

Before Grinsa could answer, the healers sat back on their heels, all of them looking worn.

“That’s all we can do for you now, gleaner,” the woman told him. “The rest will take some time. The bones in your leg have knitted well-you should be able to walk normally in just a few days.” She hesitated. “Your shoulder … It had been broken before…”

Grinsa sat up slowly and smiled, though Keziah could see that it was forced. Her chest ached for him.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “How bad is it?”

“You’ll be able to move the arm, but not as you once did. And it will never look quite right.”

He nodded, smiled again. “It could have been much worse. Thank you-all of you-for what you did.”

They bowed to him, then moved off.

“I’m so sorry, Grinsa.”

“It’s nothing,” he said. He looked at her, his eyes meeting hers. “Truly, Kezi. With all that could have happened, this is a trifle.”

“Of course,” she said. But there were tears on her face.

“We should find someone who can help us up, and then search out the king and Tavis.”

“Yes, all right.”

Grinsa laughed. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we. Unable to walk, barely able to sit up. It’s a wonder we survived at all.”

But Keziah knew better; surely her brother did as well. She was alive because Aindreas had given his life to protect her. Grinsa had prevailed because one woman in the Qirsi army had dared to oppose the Weaver, though she might well have died for the choice she made. There was nothing miraculous about their survival. It had been purchased with far too much blood.

Tavis stood alone in the middle of the battle plain, his sword held ready. He turned a slow circle, looking for someone to kill, or for someone who might kill him. He didn’t care which just then. He wanted only to lash out with his steel, to feel his blade bite into flesh or armor or the edge of another sword. Already, he had killed two Qirsi in the time since the Weaver died. But it wasn’t enough, not nearly.

“Come on!” he shouted, watching Eandi soldiers chase down the few renegades who remained on the plain, searching for just one white-hair of his own. “Cowards!”

“Tavis!”

He ignored the voice, though for just a moment it sounded like his father’s.

“Tavis, lower your sword!”

Maybe it was Xaver calling to him. Perhaps he was surrounded by wraiths, the shades of all his dead.

“Tavis,” came the voice again, softer this time, and much closer.

He spun, prepared to strike at the white-hair he saw standing before him.

“I can break your blade if I have to.”

Tavis blinked, realized it was Fotir.

“Please, my lord.”

He lowered his sword, abruptly finding that he was too weary to hold it high anymore. “First Minister,” he muttered.

“I’m so sorry, my lord. To have lost one of them would have been bad enough. But to lose both…” He shook his head, looking like he might weep. “There’s been no darker day in the long history of our house.”

Tavis should have known what to say, but his battle rage had sluiced away, leaving him utterly spent. Even had he wanted to cry, he couldn’t have. He could only nod dully, his eyes fixed on the ground at his feet.

“Let me take you back to the camp, my lord. Grinsa is eager to see you.”

“He survived,” Tavis said.

“Yes, my lord. He was injured, but the healers have treated him. He’ll be fine.”

“Good.” He nodded again. “That’s good.”

Fotir put an arm around Tavis’s shoulders and began to guide him back toward the Eandi lines. After only a few steps, however, Tavis stopped, turning his gaze to where his father had fallen.

“I should … He shouldn’t just be left there.”

“He’s already been borne back to the Curgh camp, my lord. So has Master MarCullet.”

They began to walk again. Tavis realized that he still held his blade in his hand, and he sheathed it.

“Should we send a messenger to my mother?” he asked.

“Truly, my lord, I don’t know. It might be easier for her to hear these tidings from you.”

Tavis looked up at that, meeting the minister’s gaze. He nearly told the man to send a messenger, for he had no stomach for that conversation. But something stopped him.

For too long he had considered himself a coward, seeing in his failures as a warrior and the craven manner in which he had killed the assassin in Wethyrn, all the evidence of this that he needed. And though ashamed of his weakness, he had chosen to accept it as part of who he was. Today, he had acquitted himself well in combat, only to realize now how poor a measure of bravery was one’s performance on a battlefield.

More to the point, on this day, he had become duke of Curgh. It was not a title he wanted, not so soon. But it was his nevertheless. The facile acceptance of his own limitations was a luxury he could no longer afford.

“You’re right,” he said. “I should be the one to tell her of Father’s death.” He straightened, even managed a small smile. “Thank you, Fotir. I know how much you cared for my father, and how much he valued your service to our house. I’m a poor substitute for him, but still I hope that you’ll continue to serve as Curgh’s first minister.”

“If you wish it, my lord, I’d be honored.”

“Thank you, Fotir.”

“Lord Curgh!”

They halted and turned. Kearney strode toward them, followed by Gershon Trasker and the thane of Shanstead.

Tavis knelt, as did the minister. “Your Majesty.”

“Please rise.”

They both stood again.

“I’m pleased to see that you’re all right, Tavis.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I was deeply saddened to hear that your father was lost. He was as fine and noble a man as I’ve ever known. The Underrealm will shine like Morna’s sky with his light. I can say the same of Master MarCullet. The House of Curgh has paid a dear price for the freedom of the Forelands. All in the land shall hear of the valor of her sons.”

Tavis looked away, his eyes stinging. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I take it you were on your way to see the gleaner.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I’d like to join you if I may. He’s earned our thanks and more.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

They began once more to walk, Tavis dabbing at his eyes, hoping Kearney wouldn’t notice. A few moments before, he couldn’t bring himself to shed even a single tear. Now he couldn’t stop his tears from flowing.

They found Grinsa sitting on the grass beside his sister. His face was the color of ash and his clothes were soaked dark with sweat. But he smiled when he spotted Tavis and even raised a hand in greeting.

Kearney hurried forward to the archminister, hesitated briefly, then stooped and kissed her quickly on the cheek.

“I feared for you,” he said, a bright smile on his lips.

Keziah’s cheeks colored. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“What happened?”

“The Weaver sent an assassin for me. I would have died had it not been for Lord Kentigern.”

“Aindreas?” the king said, clearly surprised. “Where is he now?”

“He’s dead, Your Majesty.”

The king’s smile vanished. “Damn. We lost too many today.”

“Tavis?” Grinsa was eyeing him grimly, as if readying himself for dark tidings. “Tell me.”

“My father,” Tavis said, his voice breaking. “And Xaver.”

The gleaner closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Tavis.”

They were all watching him, pity in their eyes, and though he knew that they meant well, Tavis couldn’t bear their stares or their sympathy. He turned abruptly and started away. “My pardon, Your Majesty,” he called over his shoulder.

Tavis knew just where he was going, or rather, who he was looking for: the one man on the Moorlands who understood what he was feeling, who fully shared his grief.

It took him some time to find Hagan MarCullet, but he spotted the swordmaster at last, sitting on the grass some distance to the south of the Eandi camps. He had his back to the armies, and as Tavis approached he suddenly found himself hesitating, wondering if he should leave the man to his solitude and his anguish. At last he halted, intending to turn back.

But at that moment, Hagan turned to look at him. There were tears on the swordmaster’s ruddy cheeks, and his eyes were swollen and red.

“I’m sorry, Hagan. I … I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

The man beckoned to him with an open hand. “It’s all right, lad. Come on, then. He’d want us to be together. Both of them would.”

Tavis nodded, walked to the swordmaster, and sat down beside him. Hagan held a sword across his lap. Xaver’s sword.

“All that I taught him,” Hagan said, his voice even despite the tears streaming down his face. “I thought that it would prepare him for any enemy, that it could save him from … from this.” He shook his head, sobbing. “It was all for nothing.”

“That’s not so, Hagan,” Tavis said, tearful once more. “There was nothing you could have done to prepare us for this war. But I wouldn’t have traded those days in the castle wards for anything, and neither would Xaver. The lessons themselves were what mattered most. Don’t you know how proud he was to be your son, to train with you, to hear the castle guards speak of you with such awe? Even as a boy, he loved being called Stinger, because it marked him as Hagan MarCullet’s son. You taught him well, swordmaster, just as you did me.”

Hagan nodded, though his sobbing continued. Tavis laid a hand on his broad shoulder and said nothing more. But the two of them sat there for some time, their backs to the armies, their faces warmed by the sun and brushed by a gentle wind, their tears somehow less bitter for being shed together.

“He’s suffered too much for a boy so young,” the king said, watching as Tavis hurried off.

Grinsa’s heart ached for the young lord, but he thought it important that the others begin to see Tavis as he did, especially now, with the dukedom thrust upon him. “He’s not as young as you think he is.”

Kearney looked at him, frowning. “He’s but a year past his Fating, gleaner. He may have matured, but he’s still a boy.”

“Yes, he is. But he’s strong, and wise beyond his years. And he has more mettle than even he knows.” Grinsa stared past the king, following Tavis’s progress as the young noble made his way through the camp. “I wouldn’t have said this when I met him, but I think he’ll make a fine duke.”

“I agree with you,” Kearney said. “Still, I lament that he’ll have to prove himself in the court at so tender an age.”

Keziah touched Grinsa’s arm, as if telling him to let the matter drop. She was right, of course.

For several moments, none of them spoke. Grinsa could hear warriors laughing and singing throughout the camp, which was as it should be. They had won a great victory today. But in this small circle, the king, his nobles, and their ministers were subdued. Too many soldiers had died, too many nobles had been lost. And though the Weaver was dead, the rift between Qirsi and Eandi remained, wider than it had been in centuries.

A man from the King’s Guard approached them, his uniform of purple and gold torn and bloodstained.

“My pardon, Yer Majesty,” he said, bowing to the king. “But th’ archminister wanted me t’ tell ’er when th’ woman was awake.”

“What woman?”

“The one who attacked me,” Keziah said, drawing Kearney’s gaze. “She’s a shaper, which means that she’s a danger to all of us.”

“You can control her, can’t you, gleaner?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I can.”

Keziah shook her head. “You’ve been hurt. It’s too soon for this.”

“It’s all right, Kezi. As you said, she’s a danger to everyone in this camp. We can hardly afford to wait.”

Kearney eyed him. “You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” the king said. “Bring her here. I want her escorted by four swordsmen and an equal number of archers.”

“Aye, Yer Majesty,” the man said. He bowed and hurried off.

“This is going to be a problem for some time to come,” Marston of Shanstead said to no one in particular. “Plenty of renegades survived this day and we have no idea what powers they possess. Shaping, fire, maybe worse. It’s going to take years to hunt down all of them.”

Grinsa and Fotir shared a look, but neither of them offered any response.

“The gleaner knows,” said Caius of Labruinn. “Don’t you? A Weaver can just look at other Qirsi and know what powers they possess. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, it is.”

Again, they lapsed into silence. Grinsa was troubled by what he had heard from Shanstead and Labruinn, but he kept his misgivings to himself, at least for the time being.

It wasn’t long before the guard returned leading a cluster of soldiers, all of them looking nervous. At their center, looking like a mere child beside them, walked an attractive Qirsi woman with shoulder-length hair that she wore loose, and bright, golden eyes. She wore a slight smirk on her full lips, but her gaze was watchful, her lean frame tense, as if at any moment she might attempt to escape. There was a dark, ugly bruise on her brow, and another one, flecked with blood, on the side of her head. When she was close enough, Grinsa reached into her mind and took hold of her magic. Immediately, her gaze snapped to his face.

“So you’re the other Weaver,” the woman said, as she and the soldiers drew near. She looked him over as if he were a blade for sale in a city marketplace. “I expected more.”

“Who are you?” Kearney demanded.

The woman glanced at him, then faced Grinsa once more. “Why would you choose these fools over your own people? Is the blood in your veins so weak that you truly consider yourself one of them?”

“I can make you answer the king’s questions,” Grinsa said placidly. “You know that.”

She paled, but the smirk lingered. “They have you on a short leash, don’t they?”

“Her name is Jastanne,” Keziah said.

“Yes, it is,” she said. “Why don’t you tell them how you know that, Archminister.”

Keziah glared at her, perhaps wishing that she had kept silent.

“No? Then I will. The duke of Kentigern knew it. He saved her life, but only because he knew enough to look for me. You see, he was a traitor. He hated you so much, Your Majesty, that he forged an alliance with our movement in an attempt to save his house and destroy your kingdom. You think he died a hero, but in fact he was a traitor.”

Caius pulled his sword free. “You lie, white-hair!” But there was doubt in his eyes and desperation in his voice. Marston of Shanstead looked appalled, as did the soldiers standing beside the woman. For his part, Grinsa believed her. Not only did he think Aindreas capable of such a thing-he had seen what the duke did to Tavis in the dungeons of Kentigern-but he sensed the truth in her words. The Weaver had succeeded all too well in dividing them.

“I can prove that I’m telling you the truth.”

“You mean the paper he signed?” Kearney asked.

The woman stared at him, her smirk gone, disbelief in her eyes. “How do you know about that?”

“Do you really believe that the duke of a major house would cast his lot with your conspiracy?”

“He did!”

“Yes, with my blessing.”

“That’s … No! You’re lying!”

Moving so quickly that his hand and steel were but a blur, Gershon Trasker pulled his sword free and laid its point at the base of her neck, just above her heart. “Tread lightly, white-hair,” he growled. “That’s the king of Eibithar you’re talking to.”

But she was right. Kearney was lying. Grinsa sensed that as well. For whatever reason, he had chosen to shield Aindreas and his house from this disgrace. It was an act of surpassing generosity, one of which few would ever know.

“He allied himself with our movement! He betrayed all of you!”

“No,” the king said, and now he was the one smirking. “He deceived all of you. And today he proved both his loyalty and his valor. Now I’ll ask you again: who are you?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again, clenching her jaw.

“Gleaner?”

Grinsa touched her mind with his delusion magic. “Answer him.”

“My name is Jastanne ja Triln. I’m a merchant and sea captain.”

“What else?”

“I’m a chancellor in the Weaver’s movement.”

“What powers does she possess?” the king asked.

“In addition to shaping, she has mists and gleaning.”

Before the king could ask anything else, a voice called to him from a distance. A woman’s voice. A moment later, the duchess of Curlinte stepped into their circle, accompanied by several soldiers and a tall Qirsi man who was walking unsteadily and bleeding from a wound on the back of his head. This Qirsi also had shaping, as well as delusion magic, gleaning, and mists. No doubt he, too, was one of Dusaan’s chancellors.

Grinsa took hold of his magic.

“You!” the man said in a whisper, staring at him wide-eyed. “You’re the one who stopped me from killing them.”

“Yes.”

“He’s a minister, Your Majesty,” Diani said. “From Aneira, if his accent is any indication.”

“Actually,” Grinsa said, remembering descriptions of the man that he and Tavis had heard while journeying through the southern kingdom, “he’s more than that. If I’m not mistaken, this is Aneira’s archminister.”

“Is this true?” Kearney asked. “You’re Pronjed jal Drenthe?”

Grinsa expected the man to deny it, or at least to refuse to answer. But he merely nodded, hatred in his eyes as he looked sidelong at the gleaner.

Diani still had her dagger drawn. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the man. “He has shaping power,” she said. “And he used another magic on me, one that forced me to do things.”

Grinsa took a breath. He could see where this was going. “It’s called delusion. I’ve also heard it called mind-bending power.”

Marston had moved to stand beside the duchess and he was watching the minister warily. “Whatever it’s called, he’s clearly as dangerous as this woman, perhaps more so.”

“I agree,” the king said. “How do we guard Qirsi with such powers, gleaner? You can’t watch them all the time, and our weapons are of little use against them.”

The thane shook his head. “They shouldn’t be imprisoned. They should be executed. They’re traitors and murderers, and they deserve no less.”

“I agree,” Gershon said.

Keziah looked at him, but said nothing.

Caius was gripping his sword tightly, as if he would have liked to strike the killing blow himself. But he kept his distance from the two Qirsi. “How do you execute a shaper? Our weapons are useless against them.”

Marston nodded toward Grinsa. “The gleaner can kill them. He can use their own power against them.”

“I can,” Grinsa said. “But I won’t.”

“What?”

“I fought for the courts, and was glad to do so. But I won’t execute prisoners for you.”

“Not even if His Majesty orders you to?”

Grinsa held the thane’s gaze. “Not even then.”

“You know what they’ve done, what they’ll do again, if only we give them the chance. And still you refuse? All you white-hairs are the same!”

Xivled jal Viste stepped forward, glowering at Marston. “White-hairs?” he repeated. “You haven’t learned a damn thing from all this, have you?”

The thane’s eyes widened. “Xiv, I-”

“No, my lord. You need to hear this. We’ve just come through the most horrific war our land has known in centuries. I never thought I’d see so many killed in my lifetime, much less in a single day. And all of them died because our people-yours and mine-have paid more attention to the color of each other’s eyes and hair, than to all that binds us to one another. It has to stop, my lord. Your suspicion, your prejudice-we can’t afford them anymore. We need to find some way to trust one another, to put these ancient hatreds to rest finally and for good. If we can’t, we’re doomed to repeat this war.”

“Of course, I know that. But this gleaner-”

“This gleaner saved us all, my lord. He’s done enough. If you can’t see that, then I’m not certain that I wish to continue serving in your court.”

Before Marston could respond, his minister turned and walked away, leaving the thane looking perplexed.

For some time, none of them spoke.

“He’s right, of course,” Keziah said at last.

“Let it be, Kez,” the king said in a low voice.

“No, Your Majesty, I won’t! That’s what we’ve done for too long. We’ve refused to talk about it, hoping the problem would simply disappear, and as a result it nearly destroyed us. We can’t wait any longer.”

“All that may be true, but this is a discussion we can have later.”

“When? When the dead have been buried? When the rest of the renegades have been found? When the wounds of this war have healed? Or must we wait even longer than that? Shouldn’t we do this now, before your dukes return to their castles?”

“You’re wasting your breath, cousin,” Jastanne said, an insolent smile on her lips. “The Eandi will never change. They hate us, and do you know why? It’s because they fear us, they fear our magic.” She shook her head. “No, you can’t change them. Your only hope lay with the Weaver and his movement, and now you’ve destroyed that.”

Kearney stared at the woman, as if seeing her for the first time. At last he faced Keziah again. “We won’t wait long. Discussing this matter before we bid farewell to the dukes strikes me as a fine idea. I give you my word. For now though, we should deal with these two, and any other renegades we can find.”

“Your Majesty-”

“Have done, Marston. Please. I have no intention of ordering the gleaner to do anything that he does not choose to do voluntarily.”

Grinsa tipped his head. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Nevertheless, Grinsa, I do agree that this man and woman should be put to death, and I need to know if you intend to intervene on their behalf.”

Grinsa felt the others watching him, waiting. Gershon still held his weapon, as did the duchess, Caius, and several of the soldiers. He was quite certain that they were prepared to fight him if they thought it necessary.

“No, Your Majesty, I have no such intentions. If you think it best to execute them, you should do so.”

Kearney nodded.

Keziah glanced Grinsa’s way, then said, “You should blindfold them, Your Majesty. Keep their hands bound, and bind their ankles as well. You should also have several archers watching them at all times.”

“Thank you, Archminister.” The king turned to his soldiers. “You heard what she said. See to it right away, and have preparations made for their executions. I want them dead before nightfall.” He looked at Grinsa again, nodded once. “Gleaner.”

The king strode away, followed closely by Shanstead, Labruinn, and the others.

“I’m sorry,” Keziah said when they were gone.

“For what?”

“For telling Kearney how he should guard them. The truth is, I want them dead. I never thought I’d say it, but in spite of everything else, I agree with Marston: they deserve to die.”

“Actually, I agree with him, too.”

Her eyebrows went up.

“It’s true,” he said, feeling terribly weary. “I just didn’t want a hand in their deaths. Is that so difficult to fathom?”

His sister looked pained. “No, not at all. I should have understood.”

He shrugged. “It’s been a long day. For all of us.”

She summoned one of the soldiers with a gesture. “I’m going to get some food. Why don’t you join me? You must be famished.”

Grinsa made himself smile. “I’ll eat soon. First I want to speak with Cresenne.”

“Of course.”

The soldier helped Keziah to her feet and led her away, leaving Grinsa alone on the cool grass. He could have slept for hours, and he wasn’t certain how long he could keep himself in Cresenne’s dreams. But it was growing late; she would be waking soon to another lonely night, and he didn’t want to wait even one more day to tell her that Dusaan was dead.

Closing his eyes, he sent his mind southward to Audun’s Castle. He found her quickly and entered her mind. Immediately he felt the dull pain in her chest. Had she been attacked yet again?

“Cresenne!” he said as soon as he saw her.

She gazed toward him, then took a tentative step forward. It occurred to him that in her dream he would be sitting, just as he was in the waking world.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s me.”

“Grinsa?”

“Yes. I was hurt, but I’m fine now.”

She ran to him, dropped to her knees beside him. Despite the scars that he still saw on her face, he thought that she had never looked more beautiful. She kissed him lightly on the lips, then sat back meeting his gaze, fear and hope mingled in her eyes.

He reached out a hand and cupped her cheek. “He’s dead. It’s over.”

For a moment she merely stared back at him. Then tears flooded her eyes and she began to sob. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. He can’t hurt you anymore.” He found that he was crying as well, though he was also smiling.

“A woman attacked me today. I nearly died again, and she nearly took Bryntelle. I went to sleep thinking that this would never end, that I’d be fighting off his servants and living in fear of his dreams until he finally managed to kill me.”

“I don’t know how many more of his servants are out there,” Grinsa told her. “But Dusaan will never walk in your dreams again.”

She put her arms around him, still weeping, and for a long time they held each other.

“How bad was it?” she finally asked. She pulled back quickly. “Is Keziah all right?”

“She’s fine.”

“And Tavis?”

“He’s … it’s complicated. He survived the fighting, but his father was killed and his closest friend.”

“I’m sorry for him. Truly.”

“You said that Bryntelle was nearly taken from you. Is she-”

“She’s right here beside me. Trin saved her. He saved us both.”

Grinsa gaped at her. “Trin?”

She nodded.

“Trin,” he said again. After a moment he laughed. “What a day.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Not now,” he said, shaking his head. “I need to rest. But soon. I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”

“All right.” She kissed him again, deeply this time. Then she smiled, the dazzling smile he remembered from so long ago. He hadn’t seen her smile like that in more turns than he could count. “I love you.”

Grinsa brushed a strand of hair from her face. “And I love you.”

He opened his eyes to the late-day sun, blinking against the brightness. He sat there a moment, then forced himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. His legs felt well enough, though-the healers had worked their craft well-and he turned gingerly to face the battle plain.

Dusaan’s body still lay amid the grasses. Other bodies, Eandi and Qirsi alike, had been moved. But no one had bothered with the Weaver. Or maybe none had dared go near him.

Grinsa reached out with his magic and tried to touch the Weaver’s mind, much as a soldier might prod a fallen enemy with the toe of his boot. Nothing. Dusaan was dead; his war was done. Over the next several turns, perhaps stretching to years, all the realms of the Forelands would continue to pay a price for what the man and his movement had done. Even now, Grinsa could hear Gershon Trasker in the distance, barking commands to the archers who would soon execute Jastanne and Pronjed. In the days to come, parents would weep for children lost in battle, sons and daughters would learn their first painful lessons about war and death, lovers would grieve at the realization of their worst fears.

But too, the land would begin to heal itself. At least Grinsa could hope as much. Throughout the Forelands, suspicions ran deep and in all directions, like fissures in dried earth. It would take time, he knew, for trust to take root again. Already though, he saw signs that the process was under way. Kearney had lied to preserve Kentigern’s honor. Soldiers in the king’s army were treating both Keziah and Tavis with the courtesy and respect that were their due.

These were trifles, to be sure. But they were a start. And on this day, when so much blood had been spilled and the Weaver had come so very close to defeating them all, Grinsa could hardly ask for more.