Weavers of War

Chapter Five

The Moorlands, Eibithar

The skirmish had begun without warning, just like the others. One moment all had been quiet; the next the silence was riven by war cries and the clash of steel on steel, the rhythmic shouts of army commanders and the whistle of arrows soaring high into the hazy sky before beginning their deadly descent. Once again, the encounter was initiated by the Braedon army, which seemed capable of striking at any given moment, anywhere on the battle plain.

Eibithar’s king had arrayed the three armies-his own guard, as well as the soldiers of Curgh and Heneagh-as best he could. But they were outnumbered, and would be until the soldiers of Thorald, Labruinn, and Tremain arrived. Add to that the fact that Heneagh’s men lacked the discipline and skill of the other two armies, and it was something of a miracle that they hadn’t been overrun already. Had Galdasten sent soldiers, or Sussyn, or Domnall, or any of the other houses that stood with Kentigern in defiance of the king, matters would have been different. As it was, it seemed to Tavis that the survival of the kingdom was in doubt.

The previous night, Braedon’s warriors had struck at Kearney’s lines, on the eastern front, nearest to the river. The battle had been short-lived-a few volleys of arrows exchanged and a brief, fierce engagement between swordsmen which left several men dead and many more injured-and had ended as abruptly as it began, with the soldiers of Braedon breaking away and retreating. The morning before that, the enemy had staged a similar attack on the Curgh lines, striking and withdrawing with astonishing swiftness.

This time, the empire’s men were attacking the western end of the Eibitharian lines, which were defended by the army of Heneagh.

“They’re testing us,” said Tavis’s father, the duke of Curgh, his face grim and etched with concern as he watched this latest skirmish unfold. “They’re looking for weaknesses in our lines, trying to decide where to concentrate their assault when it begins in earnest.”

“Can Heneagh hold them?” Xaver MarCullet asked, standing beside his father, Hagan, Curgh’s swordmaster.

Hagan shrugged. “I don’t know. But if the duke’s right, I think they’ve probably found what they were looking for.”

Within just a few minutes, the Braedon raiding party had withdrawn. They were pursued briefly by a large group of Heneagh’s men, but Welfyl’s swordmaster quickly called them back. It had seemed to Tavis that this skirmish was even briefer than the previous night’s, but he couldn’t say if he thought this boded well or ill for Eibithar’s forces.

“We should check on them,” the duke said, swinging himself onto his mount. “They may need healers.” Javan glanced down at Tavis. “Come with me?”

The young lord nodded, a smile springing to his lips. Then he climbed onto his horse. Grinsa followed, as did Xaver and Hagan.

Tavis and Grinsa had finally caught up with Kearney’s army four days before, finding the king some ten leagues north of Domnall, where he waited for the armies of Curgh and Heneagh to join his own. From there they had ridden northward with the king and dukes for two days until finally encountering the empire’s invading force on this plain in the northeastern corner of the Moorlands, within sight of Binthar’s Wash and only seven leagues or so from Galdasten Castle. The skirmishes had begun almost immediately, and though Tavis’s father had brought most of the Curgh army and also commanded five hundred men of the King’s Guard, the duke had been alarmed by his army’s showing during their brief encounter with the enemy. A number of his men had been wounded. Qirsi healers had little trouble mending most of their injuries, but Curgh’s soldiers should have fared better.

Still, even under these extraordinary circumstances, Javan had clearly been pleased to see his son; Tavis, in turn, had been surprised by how happy he was to be with his father again. Theirs had never been an easy relationship, even before the brutal murder of Tavis’s promised bride, Lady Brienne of Kentigern, and the young lord’s imprisonment in Kentigern. Tavis hadn’t been certain how the duke would receive him. But Javan had openly welcomed both Grinsa and the boy, and Kearney had done much the same.

The soldiers of the King’s Guard, however, had made it clear from the moment Tavis and Grinsa joined them that they still considered the young lord a murderer who had lost all claim to nobility. Since his arrival, they had offered naught but glares and vile comments uttered just loud enough for Tavis to hear. The boy had thought, or at least hoped, that once he proved his innocence their hostility toward him would abate. But though Cresenne ja Terba had confessed to hiring an assassin to kill Brienne, and Tavis had managed to kill that assassin on the shores of Wethyrn’s Crown, little had changed.

“It’s going to take them some time,” Grinsa had whispered that first day, as they rode past the soldiers, Tavis’s face burning as if it had been branded. “Not all of them will have heard yet that you killed the assassin, and even after they do, some of them will never accept your innocence.”

Tavis had simply nodded, unable to bring himself to speak.

Curgh’s men had been far more welcoming. As word of his encounter with the assassin, Cadel, spread through his father’s army, men began to treat him like a hero, a conquering lord returning to his homeland. This made Tavis nearly as uncomfortable as the rage he saw on the faces of Kearney’s men. He had been fortunate to survive his battle with Cadel, and the man had been defenseless when Tavis killed him. I’m no hero, he wanted to yell at them. And I’m not a butcher, either. I’m just a man. Let me be. But that, he was beginning to understand, would never be his fate.

Still, despite all of this, he was glad to be with his father again, and also with Hagan and Xaver MarCullet, and Fotir jal Salene, his father’s first minister. For a year he had been an exile, denied the comfort of his friends and family, denied the right to claim his place as a noble in the House of Curgh. Now his life as a fugitive was over. He had told Javan all that he could remember of his final encounter with the assassin, and though he knew that many in the realm might be slow to believe him when finally his story was told to all, he had no doubt that his father did. He longed to see his mother, to set foot once more in the castle of his forebears, but already he felt that this was a homecoming of sorts.

Just as Tavis’s father had expected, the Braedon attack, brief as it was, had taken a heavy toll on Heneagh’s army. At least two dozen men lay dead in the long grass; most of them bore ugly, bloody wounds. Nearly three times that number had been injured. Already healers were tending to them, but Tavis could see immediately that they had need for more.

“Go to the Curgh camp,” Javan told the nearest of Heneagh’s uninjured men. “Tell them to send all our healers.”

“What of the king’s healers?” the man asked.

“Curgh’s should be enough. Go. Quickly.” As the man ran back toward the Curgh lines, Javan surveyed the Heneagh army, shielding his eyes with an open hand. “Where is Welfyl?” he muttered.

“You don’t suppose he fell in the battle.”

The duke glanced at his son. “He shouldn’t have been anywhere near the battle.” He made a sour face. “He shouldn’t be here at all.”

Welfyl was by far the oldest of Eibithar’s dukes. Indeed, he came to power the same year Aylyn the Second, Kearney’s predecessor, began his reign as king of the realm. Javan, Tavis knew, had always liked Heneagh’s duke, but there could be no denying the fact that the man was simply too old to be riding to war. He was frail and bent-Tavis wondered if he could even raise a sword, much less fight with one. But he had led his army to the Moorlands, and unless the king said otherwise, he would lead them into battle.

“My lord, look.” Fotir was pointing farther west, his white hair gleaming in the sun, his bright yellow eyes seeming to glow like coals in a fire.

Following the direction of his gaze, Tavis saw the old duke kneeling in the grass, cradling a man in his arms, a stricken expression on his bony face.

Kicking at his mount, Javan rode toward the man, Tavis and the others following close behind.

“Get a healer!” the old duke cried as they drew nearer. “He’s dying!”

It was true. Even Tavis, who knew little of such things, could see that the man in Welfyl’s arms had lost too much blood. He had a deep gash on the side of his neck, and another that had nearly severed his leg just above the knee. Blood pulsed weakly from both wounds and already the man’s uniform was soaked crimson, as was the duke’s.

“More healers are on the way,” Javan said, dismounting and crouching beside Welfyl. “I’ve sent for all the Qirsi who accompanied my army.”

“Can you help him?” the duke asked Fotir, seeming to ignore Javan. “Please.”

Fotir looked pained as he shook his head. “I haven’t that power, Lord Heneagh. I’m sorry.”

It had to be Welfyl’s son. Looking at the face of the wounded man, Tavis saw that he had the duke’s nose and chin. The man’s hair was yellow, rather than white, and his face was fuller than Welfyl’s, but the resemblance was strong. He glanced back at Grinsa and read desperate frustration in his friend’s eyes. No doubt he wanted to try to heal the man, but couldn’t without giving away who and what he was.

A moment later, one of Heneagh’s Qirsi arrived, breathless, her cheeks flushed.

“Ean be praised,” the duke said, looking up at her. “Save him! I beg you!”

She frowned. “I’ll do what I can, my lord.”

Javan placed a hand on Welfyl’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should leave them-”

“No!” The duke seemed to tighten his hold on the man.

“Your healer will do all she can for him.”

“I’m not leaving him!”

Javan gave a low sigh and nodded. “Very well.” Straightening, he stepped away a short distance, gesturing for his company to follow.

“He won’t make it,” Hagan said, his voice low.

“Probably not.” Javan closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. “Damn.”

“That’s his son, isn’t it?” Tavis said, careful to keep his voice down as well.

Javan eyed him briefly, then nodded. “Dunfyl, thane of Cransher. He’s a good man, and a fine warrior.”

“Why isn’t he duke?”

Tavis’s father looked over his shoulder, as if to make certain that Welfyl couldn’t hear, then he walked a bit farther from where the thane lay dying. “That’s a good question. The two of them had a falling-out many years back-I never learned what caused it. But Welfyl is given to pride, and the son doesn’t step far from his father’s shadow. For years they didn’t even speak to each other. To be honest, I never thought I’d see the day when they rode together to battle. It seems they reconciled none too soon.”

They heard horses approaching and turned, seeing Kearney and his archminister riding toward where they stood. Behind them, on foot, came several more Qirsi and a small contingent of soldiers.

“What’s happened?” the king asked, as he climbed off his mount. His eyes fell on Welfyl then quickly darted away. “Is that the thane?”

“It is, my liege.”

“Will he live?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Kearney shook his head slowly, his lips pressed thin. “Demons and fire. How many others were lost?”

“Twenty-five. Maybe more. I expect many of the wounded won’t make it.”

“Were your losses this high, Lord Curgh?”

“No, my liege. About half, though even that was too many.”

“Yes. Ours were similar.”

“If I may, Your Majesty,” Hagan said, “Heneagh has never been known for her might. And I’ve never seen an army that could strike as quickly as that of the empire.”

“I agree with you, Sir MarCullet. I’ve been thinking that perhaps we’d be better served by giving Lord Heneagh command of the five hundred men I originally gave to you, Javan.”

Curgh’s duke gave a single nod. “Of course, my liege.” But he wasn’t pleased by this. Kearney didn’t notice, but Tavis did. He had spent all his childhood gauging his father’s mood changes by inflections far more subtle than this one.

“You can’t do that, Your Majesty!”

“Hagan!”

“It’s all right, Lord Curgh. Let him speak.” The king faced Javan’s swordmaster, a slight smile on his youthful face. “Why can’t I do this?”

Hagan had colored to the tips of his ears, and he was staring at the ground, looking for all his height and brawn like an abashed child. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I shouldn’t have spoken.”

“It’s all right, Hagan. Clearly you feel that I’m making a mistake. Why?”

“Th-the Curgh army holds the center, Your Majesty. Braedon’s soldiers have been testing us, looking for where we’re weakest. If they see that we’ve shifted so many men, they’ll strike at where they had been. And if our center fails, we’re lost.”

“Thorald’s army should reach us by tomorrow, Hagan. They can reinforce the center. But right now our weakest point lies here. If Braedon’s army strikes at the western lines, the entire Heneagh army could be lost. Surely you see that I can’t allow that.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Kearney grinned, though the look in his eyes remained bleak. “Don’t humor me, swordmaster. Gershon Trasker has served me for quite a few years now, and whenever he agrees with me in the manner you just did, I know that I’ve done something wrong.”

Kearney’s archminister cleared her throat. “If I may offer a suggestion, Your Majesty: you’ve also given five hundred men to Lord Shanstead. If we wait until nightfall to move the men from Curgh’s army to Heneagh’s, the enemy might not notice. And tomorrow, when the Thorald army arrives, Lord Shanstead can send half of those five hundred men to Lord Curgh.”

The king smiled again, more convincingly this time. “A fine idea, Archminister.”

“It is, Your Majesty,” Fotir said. “But I don’t think we should wait until dark. As the archminister just said, Lord Shanstead should reach here tomorrow. If Braedon’s scouts learn of his approach, the empire will attack today. Certainly that’s what I’d advise them to do. We should move half the men immediately.”

“You make a good point, First Minister.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“What do you think, Hagan?”

The swordmaster smiled as well, though clearly it was forced. “Very well, Your Majesty. We’ll send two hundred and fifty men to the Heneagh lines. I’ll see to it right away.”

The king nodded. “Good.” He glanced at Welfyl, his smile fading. The old duke was weeping, and though his son’s chest still rose and fell, the healer had stopped working on him. It was but a matter of time.

“Excuse me,” Kearney said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. He stepped to where Lord Heneagh still knelt and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. Welfyl seemed to collapse at the king’s touch, falling against Kearney’s leg and sobbing.

“Two hundred and fifty men is nothing,” Hagan said, pitching his voice so that Javan could hear but Kearney could not.

“I know. But it’s all we have. Half of the King’s Guard is in Kentigern, and half of Eibithar’s houses have chosen not to fight at all. We’re fortunate to have as many men as we do.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“There’s nothing for us to do here,” the duke said, looking once more at Welfyl and wincing, as if the man’s grief pained him. Tavis couldn’t help but wonder if Javan was thinking about how close he had come to losing his own son the previous year. “We should return to the Curgh lines.”

Tavis saw Grinsa and Keziah exchange a look.

“I’ll be along shortly, Tavis,” the gleaner said. Then, facing Fotir, he raised an eyebrow. “Will you join us for a moment, First Minister?”

“My lord?” the minister said, seeking Javan’s permission.

“Yes, of course.”

The duke had climbed onto his mount again, as had Hagan. They started away to the east, and Tavis and Xaver followed, scrambling onto their horses and following some distance behind the duke and his swordmaster.

For a time the two young men rode in silence, Tavis enduring the stares of his father’s soldiers as best he could.

“I wonder if they’ll even let us fight now,” Xaver finally said, his voice so low that Tavis wasn’t certain he had heard correctly.

“Let us fight?”

His liege man nodded, then glanced toward their fathers so that Tavis would know who he meant.

“Why wouldn’t they let us fight?”

“Dunfyl, of course. My father didn’t even want to bring me along from Curgh; he made up some nonsense about how he needed me to take command of the castle guard while he was gone. After seeing Dunfyl killed he’ll have me standing watch over the provisions or some such thing. You watch, your father will be the same way.”

“I doubt that.”

“Tavis, you and your father might not always see eye-to-eye-”

“No, it’s nothing to do with all that. I’ve been gone for a year now, evading Aindreas’s guards, journeying through Aneira, tracking down Cadel. He doesn’t get to choose anymore whether or not I fight. I know he’s my father, but the fact is that I’ve been taking care of myself for some time now. I don’t need his permission to pick up a sword.” He looked over at Xaver, who was regarding him as if they’d never met before. “I guess to you I sound pretty full of myself, eh?”

“Not really. Somebody else saying all that, maybe. But not you. Not after what you’ve been through.”

He continued to stare at Tavis, until the young lord began to feel awkward, the way he did when the soldiers cheered for him.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Xaver dropped his gaze, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his light curls stirring in the wind. “Sorry.”

“What are you staring at, anyway?”

“You look different.”

“Yes, well, Aindreas saw to that with his blade, didn’t he?”

“That’s not what I mean. I’m used to the scars now. In a way, I find it hard to imagine you without them.”

Tavis looked away. Grinsa had said much the same thing to him not long ago. For his part, Tavis still imagined himself without them all the time. Indeed, even now, whenever he saw his reflection, he found the lattice of scars on his face jarring. He wondered if he’d ever get used to them.

“You look older, Tavis,” Xaver said, drawing the boy’s gaze once more. “Older even than you did when I saw you in the City of Kings.”

“A lot’s happened since then.”

Xaver hesistated. “You still haven’t told me about … about the assassin.”

He shook his head, staring straight ahead. “I’m not sure I can. I killed him. That’s really all that matters.”

“I don’t believe that.”

He could see it all again. The storm that had battered the Wethy Crown that day, the serene expression on the assassin’s face just before he died, the way his own sword cleaved the man’s neck. And he could remember as well being held under water, with Cadel kneeling on his back, the man’s hands clamped on his neck and head. He could feel his lungs burning for air, the frigid waters of the gulf making his head ache.

“I almost died, Xaver. He had me, and he let me go. When I killed him, he wasn’t even trying to protect himself anymore.”

His friend was watching him, seemingly at a loss for words.

“I thought that I’d find peace once I’d killed Cadel, that avenging Brienne would make up for everything that’s happened since she died. But I was wrong.”

“It’s too soon to know that. You may find peace yet, but it can’t be easy when everyone around you is preparing for war.”

A smile touched his lips and was gone. “I suppose.”

“Maybe once this war with the empire is over, and you’ve-”

“You know what, Stinger,” he broke in, “I understand that you’re trying to help, but I just don’t want to talk about any of this.”

Xaver’s jaw tightened and he lowered his gaze. “Fine.”

“Why don’t we talk about you for a while?”

The boy looked up again, a slight frown on his lean face. “About me?”

“Yes. You haven’t told me anything about home.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“There has to be something. Tell me about your studies, or your training. I don’t even know if you have a girl.”

That, of all things, made Xaver’s face shade to scarlet.

“You do! I knew it!”

The boy shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “She’s not really…”

“What? She’s not really a girl?”

Xaver laughed. “Oh, she is that.”

“Well, now I really want to hear.”

His friend was a bit sparing with details-her name was Jolyn, and she was the daughter of one of the ladies who served Tavis’s mother. Other than that, Xaver offered precious little information. But Tavis hardly cared. Long after he and Xaver had returned to the Curgh camp, they continued to talk, laughing and teasing one another as they had long ago, before their Fatings and all that followed. And for a brief time, as the day grew warm and the sun turned its slow arc over the Moorlands, Tavis gave little thought to Cadel or the conspiracy or the war that loomed over them like a dark cloud.

Later in the day, however, after they had talked themselves into a lengthy silence, Xaver eyed the young lord, suddenly appearing uneasy.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” he said, meeting Tavis’s gaze for but a moment before looking away.

“Of course. Anything.”

“Don’t say that until you’ve heard what it is.”

Tavis felt his stomach tighten.

“I’m not certain that my father’s going to let me fight,” said the liege man. “And if he asks your father to keep me out of the battle, your father will do just that.”

“I really don’t think-”

“Please, let me finish. You’re my lord-I swore an oath to serve you. And since we’re both past our Fatings, you have the authority to overrule my father.”

“Xaver, the last thing I want to do is get between you and Hagan. Besides, if my father decides to keep you out of combat, there’s nothing I can do.”

His friend scowled at him.

“Why are you so eager to fight, anyway?”

“You have to ask? You’re just as avid for it as I am.”

Tavis shook his head. “That’s different. I have reasons that have nothing to do with this war and everything to do with Cadel and Brienne and all the rest.”

“Well, I have reasons, too, Tavis! You’re not the only one who wants to strike back at the Aneirans and the Qirsi and the empire, and everyone else who’s been attacking us for the past year. You’re not the only one whose father…” He shook his head. “I know it’s hard between you and your father, but it’s not easy being the son of Hagan MarCullet either. He’s been the best swordsman in the land for just about all my life. And everyone expects me to be just like him.” Including me.

Xaver didn’t have to say this last aloud. As his friend spoke Tavis found himself remembering what Xaver had told him of the siege at Kentigern, which was the first and only time the young man had fought in a battle of any sort. He said at the time that he had acquitted himself poorly, that he had embarrassed himself in front of Javan. For his part, the duke never had anything but praise for Xaver’s courage as a warrior, but that wouldn’t have kept Xaver from feeling that he had something to prove to himself, to his duke, and to his father in this newest war.

“I’m sorry, Stinger. You’re right, I’m not the only one. As I said before, I have no desire to put myself between you and Hagan, but I’ll do what I can.”

Xaver nodded, still looking displeased.

“Personally, I’d be honored to march into battle beside you.”

He smiled at that. “We’ve been talking about it since we were five.”

“Longer than that, if my mother is to be believed.”

“Thanks, Tavis.”

“I’m not promising anything. You understand that.”

“I know. But I’m grateful anyway.”

“Just promise me that you’ll watch my back, and I’ll do the same for you.”

Xaver grinned. “Done.”

* * *

After Javan and Tavis rode away, Keziah turned her attention back to Kearney, who was still giving comfort to the duke of Heneagh. There was a pained expression in her pale eyes. She held a hand to her mouth, as if afraid that she might weep at any moment.

“Perhaps we should find someplace where we can speak,” Fotir suggested.

She nodded, but her gaze never left the king.

“Keziah.”

She looked at Grinsa, seeming to rouse herself from a dream. “Yes, of course.”

It looked to the gleaner that she hadn’t slept in days. There were circles under her eyes, and her skin was so wan that she almost looked gray. He wondered how many times in the past few nights she had dreamed of the Weaver.

The three Qirsi walked away from the king toward the rear of the Curgh camp where there were fewer soldiers. After a few moments, Grinsa realized that one of Kearney’s men was following a short distance behind them.

“My shadow,” Keziah said, seeing him glance back.

“Kearney’s having you watched?”

“It’s necessary. We still need for everyone to believe that he doesn’t trust me.”

Fotir looked from one of them to the other. “Am I to understand that the king knows of your attempt to join the conspiracy?”

Keziah gave a rueful smile. “That was necessary as well. He was preparing to send me away from his court.”

“This seems to be growing more perilous by the moment.”

Grinsa said nothing, though it occurred to him that it had all been far too dangerous from the very beginning. Keziah had contrived to join the Qirsi conspiracy, making it seem to the Weaver that she served his cause, and convincing all those around her that she had betrayed her king and her land. Kearney knew the truth now, but that seemed small consolation to Grinsa. If the Weaver learned that Keziah had been deceiving him, he would make her suffer terribly before killing her.

“Can we speak frankly with that soldier hovering at our shoulders?” Fotir asked.

“We haven’t much choice, First Minister,” Keziah said, impatience creeping into her voice. “Believe me when I tell you that these inconveniences mean little to me at this point. I have far greater matters weighing on my mind.”

The gleaner thought that Fotir might respond in anger-the minister was no more accustomed than was Keziah to having people speak to him so. To his credit, however, the man gave a small smile and inclined his head. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me, Archminister.”

Keziah frowned, as if she had expected more of a fight.

“Have you heard from the Weaver again?” Grinsa asked in a whisper.

“I last heard from him about a half turn ago,” she answered, whispering as well, “just after we marched from Audun’s Castle. He was angry with me for failing to kill Cresenne.”

“Did he hurt you?”

His sister tried to smile, failed. After a moment she looked away. “It wasn’t too bad.”

Grinsa didn’t believe her, but he let it pass, his heart aching for her.

“He told me that he would find another way to kill her. Don’t worry,” she said, seeming to believe that she was anticipating Grinsa’s next question. “I sent word back to the castle. She knows to expect an attack.”

The gleaner looked away. “The attack’s already come.”

She gaped at him.

“Is she-?”

“She’s all right.” Actually, the gleaner couldn’t say with any certainty that she would ever truly recover from all her encounters with the man. The Weaver had tortured her, leaving scars on her face that might have looked like those Tavis bore had Grinsa not been able to heal her so soon after the assault. One of the Weaver’s servants had poisoned her, very nearly taking her life. And the last time he entered her dreams, the Weaver had raped her, or come as close to rape as a man could without actually touching her physically.

“What did he do to her?”

“It’s not important. What matters is that Cresenne drove him from her dreams. She won.” Though at what cost?

Keziah still stared at him, but the horror on her face had given way to a look of wonder.

“Did she really?”

“Yes. And as I’ve been telling you all along, you have the power to do the same.”

After his own unsuccessful encounter with the Weaver half a turn before, as he and Tavis were riding across the southern Moorlands, Grinsa had come to doubt that anyone could prevail against the man. But despite all that she had endured during her dreams of the Weaver, Cresenne had given him hope, not only for himself, but for Keziah as well. He still feared for his sister-for all of them, really-but he had to believe that Dusaan could be beaten.

“She did it,” Keziah whispered, sounding awed and shaking her head slowly.

“You were telling us of your own encounter with the Weaver,” Fotir prompted gently.

She ran a hand through her hair, smiling self-consciously. An instant later, though, she had grown deadly serious. “Yes, of course. He gave me a new task to complete. He wants me to kill Kearney.”

“What?” Fotir said, far too loudly, his eyes widening. He glanced back at the soldier. “How?” he asked a moment later, his voice lowered once more.

“He left that to me. He wants it to happen in battle, so that no one suspects the Qirsi.”

“Does Kearney know?”

She looked at Grinsa. “I’ve warned him, yes.”

“Why bother?” Fotir asked. “It’s not as though you intend to go through with it, right?”

“Of course she doesn’t. But if the Weaver really wants Kearney dead, and if her failure to kill Cresenne has made him question Keziah’s commitment to the conspiracy, then he’ll have given the same order to others who serve him.”

Fotir shook his head slowly. “You both seem to understand him so well. I’m out of my depth.”

“We have an advantage, First Minister,” Grinsa told him. “If you care to call it that. We’ve both spoken with the man. He’s walked in our dreams.”

Keziah gaped at him. “You dreamed of him, too?”

“Yes, not long after you did, it seems. He tried to attack me, and he threatened Cresenne.”

“But he couldn’t hurt you, right? You’re too strong for him.”

Grinsa’s stomach turned at the memory of what the Weaver had done to him, of the pain in his temple as the man tried to crush his skull. Seeing how Keziah looked at him, begging him with her eyes to say that his magic had been a match for that of the Weaver, he almost lied. Qirsar knew that he wanted to.

Instead he shook his head. “I wasn’t strong enough.”

“He did hurt you.” Her voice shook and terror was written plainly on her face.

“I was able to wake myself before he could do any real harm. And I managed to summon a flame that lit his face and the plain on which we stood. I know for certain who he is.”

“Were we right about him?” Fotir asked. “Is it the emperor’s high chancellor?”

“Yes. Dusaan jal Kania. He was on Ayvencalde Moor. He tried to keep me from using my fire magic, but I have to say that once I’d seen him, he didn’t seem overly concerned.”

“Still,” the first minister said, “we know who he is. That has to count for something.”

“Does this mean that he’s more powerful than you are?” Keziah asked, sounding so young, so scared.

“I don’t know, Keziah. Truly I don’t. As Tavis pointed out to me, we were hardly on equal footing. He was in my dream, so he could hurt me, but I couldn’t hurt him. The most I could do was illuminate his face and the moor, and I managed that.”

She nodded, but he read the despair in her expression, and he knew its source. If he, a Weaver, couldn’t keep this man from hurting him, how was she to protect herself? Any hope she had drawn from Cresenne’s success was already gone.

For a long time, Keziah didn’t speak. She just stood there, staring off in the distance, until Grinsa began to wonder if he and the first minister should leave her. But after several moments, she seemed to gather herself. Looking first at Grinsa and then at Fotir, she said, “There’s another matter we need to discuss, before the empire strikes at us again.” She cast a quick look at Kearney’s soldier, as if to assure herself that he wasn’t close enough to hear. “When the fighting begins, how far will we go with our magic to aid Kearney and the dukes?”

“Do you mean will I weave your powers with mine?”

She nodded.

“I think the risk is too great,” Fotir said. “The emperor sent Qirsi with his army-quite a few really. And they’ll be watching us closely. I don’t know what powers you possess, archminister, but I’m a shaper and I have mists and winds. If the gleaner and I raise a mist together, Harel’s Qirsi are likely to know it. Word of a Weaver would spread across this battlefield in no time.”

“But what if it’s the only way to keep them from breaking through our lines?” Keziah demanded. “Kearney already knows that Grinsa’s a Weaver, and if Eibithar’s other nobles find out because he used his powers to save the realm, they can hardly turn around and have him executed.”

“It would be foolish of them, I agree. But that doesn’t mean they won’t do it.”

“Careful, First Minister,” Grinsa said with a smile. “That’s something one of the renegades might say.”

Fotir’s expression didn’t change. “Well, in this case they may be right. This is no time for us to underestimate Eandi fear of Qirsi magic. With all that the conspiracy has wrought in the last few years, I’m afraid our nobles will be more inclined than ever to put a Weaver to death, even one who uses his magic to protect their realm.”

“Is that what you think?” Keziah asked.

Grinsa shrugged. “I suppose it is.”

She nodded, though clearly unhappy with his answer.

“But I can’t see allowing the empire to prevail in this fight, no matter the danger to me.”

“The danger isn’t yours alone,” Fotir said. “They’ll kill Cresenne and your child as well.”

“They may try, First Minister, just as they may try to execute me. I assure you that they’ll fail. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. We have a number of Qirsi on our side; I may not need to weave at all. And if it does come to that, I believe I can join our powers without anyone realizing it.” He looked at Keziah again, wanting to brush a strand of hair away from his sister’s face. But he didn’t dare, not with the soldier so close. Even Fotir, who knew so much about him, didn’t know that Keziah was his sister. The danger was still too great to reveal that to anyone. Fear of Weavers ran deep among the Eandi, and for centuries, when Weavers were executed, so were all those in their families. Add to that the fact that Dusaan might have spies on the battle plain ready to report back to him any strange behavior on Keziah’s part, and they were risking her life merely by standing and talking to one another. “I won’t let them get past us. You have my word on that.”

“Shouldn’t the three of us be together then, fighting in the same place?”

“The first minister and I will be together on the Curgh lines, and if I need your power too, I can find you.”

She nodded again, but appeared tense and uncertain.

“I should return to my duke,” Fotir said, his gaze wandering northward, to the Braedon army. “And I’d suggest, Archminister, that you find Kearney. I expect that we’ll be raising mists and summoning winds before long.”