Weavers of War

Chapter Six

That Fotir was right shouldn’t have surprised Keziah at all. She had spent enough time with Curgh’s first minister to realize that he was every bit as brilliant as he was reputed to be. When he warned that Braedon’s attack would come before the day was out, she should have believed him.

Nor should she have been taken aback by the ferocity of the empire’s assault. She had seen combat before, only a year earlier. The fight to end the siege at Kentigern had not lacked for violence or blood, and though she had been horrified by what she witnessed, she had also believed that the experience had hardened her, preparing her for the day when once again she would have to follow her king into battle. Nothing, though, could have readied her for the storm of steel and flesh and blood that raged before her now.

It seemed as well that she was not the only one. Even with scouts from Heneagh, Curgh, and the King’s Guard keeping watch on the Braedon army, the enemy’s attack caught the Eibitharians off guard. The empire’s army gave no warning at all. Among the houses of Eibithar it was tradition to loose a single arrow into the sky over the battle plain before commencing an attack. Braedon offered no such gesture. Nor did their Qirsi raise a mist to conceal their numbers. Keziah did not even hear an order shouted to the empire’s archers before their first volley. One moment all seemed as it had for the past several days, the next a thousand arrows were carving across the sky and pelting down on Eibithar’s warriors.

Even before the first of the darts struck, Braedon’s soldiers had begun their charge across the moor, sunlight glinting off their blades and helms, the earth seeming to tremble with the roar of their war cries. Kearney and his dukes barely had time to call their men to arms, much less marshal an ordered defense. They had thought that the attack would be concentrated on Heneagh’s lines-clearly Welfyl’s army was no match for Javan’s or Kearney’s.

But Braedon’s commanders, rather than striking at the weakest point in Eibithar’s defenses, aimed their assault on the King’s Guard itself, the strongest of the three armies. Curgh and Heneagh weren’t spared. Far from it. Within moments of that first volley of arrows, all three armies were under attack, but Kearney’s guard bore the brunt of the onslaught. Poorly prepared for the intensity of Braedon’s attack, Eibithar’s men were forced to fall back. Kearney and Javan had managed to get their archers in place soon enough to loose one barrage of arrows at the charging Braedony soldiers, but after that, their bowmen had little choice but to draw swords and fight with the rest. Heneagh’s archers didn’t loose a single arrow before the empire’s men crashed into their lines.

“Why would they attack this way?” Keziah called over the din of battle, as she rode beside Kearney, who was rallying his men as best he could.

“Because it’s working!” he shouted back, green eyes blazing, his face damp with sweat.

She nodded, wishing she hadn’t asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said a moment later. “None of us expected this. But I think they wanted to keep our armies from working together. Had they focused their attack on Welfyl, Javan and I would have banded together to try to flank them. This way we have no chance to combine our forces.”

Keziah nodded a second time, eyeing the battle with apprehension. The king’s men were still giving ground, more grudgingly now, but there could be no mistaking the trend. It wouldn’t be long before Kearney rode forward to join the fighting. He had deployed his men as best he could under the circumstances, and already he was glancing toward the lines, his hand wandering to the hilt of his sword. And as much as Keziah feared for him, she envied him more. She felt useless. She had no place in this battle. Though competent with a blade, she was neither skilled enough, nor strong enough, to fight beside these men. None of Braedon’s soldiers were on horseback, so having the magic her people called language of beasts did her no good, and with the men already fighting at close quarters, it did no good to raise a mist or wind.

Looking toward the middle of the fighting, Keziah tried to catch sight of Grinsa or Fotir. The fighting there appeared every bit as vicious as it did along Kearney’s lines, and like the King’s Guard, Curgh’s army looked to have slowed Braedon’s advance somewhat. Gazing beyond Javan’s army, however, she could see that the men of Heneagh were still being driven back with alarming speed. She didn’t need Kearney’s knowledge of military matters to understand how vital it was that Welfyl’s men keep the Braedony force from breaching their lines.

“Keziah.”

She forced herself to meet his gaze, knowing what he would say.

“I have to join my men. I can’t just-”

“I know,” she said. “Go. Orlagh guide your blade and keep you safe.”

“And you.”

They stared at one another for just a moment more, Keziah doing her best to commit his features to memory, every line on the youthful face, every strand of silken hair, silvered before its time and gleaming in the bright sun.

I love you, she mouthed.

And I love you.

An instant later, so suddenly that she actually started, Kearney pulled his sword free and swung his mount around, plunging into the bloody tumult. Even as the tide of the fighting drew him away from her, she could still see him, towering and fell atop his mount, his sword rising and falling, its blade stained crimson. It didn’t take long for the battle to close in around him, as if cutting him off from her, from any path to safety.

Such confusion, such frenzy, such carnage. As Keziah watched the battle unfold, one thought kept echoing in her mind, and it scared her more than all that she saw. Anything could happen in conditions like these; what a perfect place to kill a king.

She could even imagine different ways it might be done, ways she might do it herself. “You possess both language of beasts and mists and winds,” the Weaver told her the last time he walked in her dreams, just after he punished her for failing to kill Cresenne. “They should serve you quite well in this regard.”

He was right, of course. She could see it now, how easy it would be. A sudden gust of wind might alter the path of an arrow aimed at another. Or even better, a single word whispered to Kearney’s mount might make the beast throw the king into the fury around him. No one, no matter his skill as a warrior, would survive long on his back amid the steel and the blood.

Keziah was horrified at herself for thinking any of this, but once she began, she couldn’t stop. As more died, falling at the feet of Kearney’s mount, it would be more and more difficult for the horse to step true. A shaper might break one of the beast’s legs and drive the king to the ground that way. Or he might shatter Kearney’s blade as the king struck at another, leaving the king defenseless. Working with a second person, an assassin perhaps, a Qirsi might raise a mist to conceal the other’s approach. With so many sorcerers on the battle plain, with so many dying in this fight, almost anything was possible.

How many of the Qirsi around her served the conspiracy? To how many of them had the Weaver given the order to kill her king? Surely she wasn’t the only one. As the Weaver himself had reminded her, she had already failed him once. Knowing that she had loved Kearney, that she might love him still, he would not trust her with this unless he had others poised to act should she falter.

Frightened now, convinced that one of the Weaver’s servants would make an attempt on Kearney’s life at the first opportunity, Keziah very nearly spurred her mount forward into the fray. She had no idea what she would do when she reached the king, she only knew that she wanted to be there, to guard him, to watch for the Weaver’s killers. The archminister had gone so far as to adjust her sword in preparation for entering the battle, when she felt something brush her mind as a stranger might brush one’s arm in a crowded marketplace.

For a single, horrifying instant, she thought it was the Weaver, reaching for her, attempting to read her thoughts or compel her to kill Kearney. In the next moment, however, she realized that there was something familiar in the touch, and something gentle as well. Turning to gaze toward the Curgh lines, she saw Grinsa atop a mount, looking back at her. She couldn’t understand why he would have reached for her now. Fotir, perhaps, but not her. She hadn’t any magic that would be of use to them. Certainly he couldn’t think that raising a mist would do any good. But after catching her eye ever so briefly, no longer than the span of a single heartbeat, he looked away, his touch gone from her mind. It almost seemed that he had only wished to reassure himself that she was all right. Or maybe he had sensed what she was about to do, and had wanted to stop her, if only for a moment, so that she might reconsider. Whatever the reason, she realized that she could do Kearney no good by rushing to his side. Her presence would only distract him, making it easier for agents of the conspiracy to strike at him.

Unable to do anything more than watch the battle, Keziah began what could only be called a vigil. She kept her gaze riveted on Kearney, straining to see him through the sun’s glare and the haze of dust and dirt kicked up by the warriors. So long as she could see his bright silver hair, and the gleaming blur of his sword slicing through the air, she knew that he was safe, or at least alive.

As the seething shadows of men and beasts and weapons lengthened across the bloodstained grass, the tide of the battle began to turn. Eibithar’s forces were not able to gain back much of the ground they had lost initially, but they managed to halt Braedon’s push forward. Even in the west, where it had seemed that Heneagh’s lines must surely be broken, Welfyl’s men rallied, aided by reinforcements from the Curgh army. When at last the sun dipped below the western horizon, leaving a fiery sky of yellow and orange and scarlet, the empire’s men broke off their attack and pulled back.

Raising a ragged cheer, some of Kearney’s soldiers began to give chase, only to be called back by their king. Kicking her mount to a gallop, Keziah rushed to Kearney’s side, resisting an urge to throw her arms around his neck. He had several gashes on his legs and a deep wound on his side, where blood oozed through his chain mail.

“You need a healer,” she said.

Kearney flashed a smile. One might have thought that he’d come through nothing more dangerous than a battle tournament. “I’m all right. I need to speak with my dukes.”

“Your Majesty-”

“Find them for me, Archminister. Bring them here as quickly as possible. Their ministers as well.”

Keziah frowned, but nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

She wheeled her horse and started toward the Curgh lines, only to halt after a few paces, her stomach heaving. The grass, once lush and green, had been trampled and soaked in blood, so that the earth itself seemed to be bleeding from some gaping wound. Scattered among the corpses of more soldiers than she could count were severed limbs, disembodied hands that still clung to swords and battle-axes, and heads that stared up at the darkening sky through sightless eyes, some of them with their mouths open in silent wails, as if with death cries still on their lips, waiting to be given voice. She should have been looking at their surcoats, trying to determine which side had gotten the better of the day’s fighting, but she couldn’t look away from those faces, those hands, that blood.

“Keziah.”

She flinched, looked toward the voice. Kearney gazed back at her, the smile gone, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Are you all right?”

“I…” She swallowed, fighting another wave of nausea. “I will be.”

“Don’t look. Just find Javan and Welfyl. Send them to me, and then ride away from the lines, away from all this. Do you understand?”

She nodded, but even as she did, her eyes dropped again. One of the dead seemed to be staring at her, a look of surprise on the young face that might have been amusing had it not been-

“Keziah.”

Her eyes snapped up again.

“Find the dukes.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

She started forward again, allowing her mount to navigate among the corpses as best he could, forcing herself to keep her eyes on the men ahead of her, the ones who lived still and who wore the brown and gold of Curgh. She spotted Grinsa and Fotir, and hurried toward them, knowing that the duke would be nearby. A moment later she saw Javan, standing with Tavis, Curgh’s swordmaster, and another young man who she had gathered from previous conversations was Tavis’s liege man and the swordmaster’s son. Like Kearney, Javan bore a number of wounds, but none of them appeared grave. Grinsa, too, was bleeding. Indeed, all of them were. Aside from the healers, she was probably the only person on the Moorlands who hadn’t been injured.

At her approach, the duke raised a hand in greeting. “Archminister. What news of the king?”

“He’s well, my lord. He wishes to speak with you and your minister.”

“Of course. We’ll go to him immediately. How fared the King’s Guard?”

“I’m not certain, my lord. I wasn’t in the fighting. I don’t … I don’t have the magics of a warrior.”

“Of course, Archminister. Forgive me.”

“Not at all, my lord. I’ll see you shortly. I must find the duke of Heneagh as well.”

Javan glanced quickly at Fotir before facing her again, and she knew from his expression what he would say. “The duke is dead, Archminister. He fell in battle.”

Her first thought was of Heneagh’s duchess, who had no idea that she had lost a husband and a son on this day. Keziah didn’t even know the woman’s name. As archminister to the king, she should have, but they had never met, and because Welfyl was duke of a minor house, he and the king had little contact before these last few turns.

“Archminister.”

She shook herself, as if waking from a bad dream. She was not cut out for war. “Yes, my lord. Who commands Heneagh’s army now?”

“Welfyl’s swordmaster, a man named Rab Avkar.”

Keziah looked westward to the Heneagh army. She didn’t relish the idea of entering the camp and searching for a warrior she’d never met before.

“I know him,” Hagan MarCullet said, sensing her unease. “With my lord’s permission, I’ll go and find him.”

“Of course, Hagan.”

“Thank you, swordmaster,” Keziah said.

He nodded to her and walked away, reminding her so much of Gershon Trasker, Kearney’s swordmaster, who was marching south to fight the Aneirans, that she had to smile.

Javan climbed onto his mount, moving stiffly, a rueful grin on his lips. “What I wouldn’t give to be ten years younger.”

“Only ten?” Tavis said, drawing laughs from all of them.

Within moments Keziah, the duke, Tavis, Grinsa, and Fotir were on their way back toward Kearney. The MarCullet boy followed as well; Keziah couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Tavis without the other young man nearby. Almost immediately, Grinsa steered his horse to Keziah’s side-the side nearest the battle plain, she noticed, as if he wished to shield her from the horrors there.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

“No.”

He turned and stared at her.

“Don’t look so surprised. After all that you’ve seen today, can you honestly tell me that you are?”

“It’s only going to get worse, Kezi.”

“I know.” She glanced at his wounds, deep cuts on his arms and hands, and a nasty bruise just below his right temple. “Do they hurt much?”

“No. If they did, I’d have healed them by now.”

“Why haven’t you?”

He shrugged. “I’m too weary.”

“There are other healers, Grinsa. One of them…”

“I’m fine, Keziah. I’ll heal myself later. I promise.”

She nodded, pressing her lips in a tight line.

They soon reached Kearney, who was walking among the injured men of his guard, offering what comfort he could as the soldiers waited for healers to tend their wounds. Two of his captains stood nearby. Seeing Javan approach, the king came forward. He, too, had not yet had his own injuries healed.

“Well met, Lord Curgh. I’m glad to see you’re well.”

“Thank you, my liege. I could easily say the same, except it seems you’re hurt.”

Kearney glanced down at the bloody gash on his side. “It’s nothing of concern. We have more pressing matters to discuss.”

“Forgive me for saying so, my liege. But we can speak of these things while the Qirsi minister to you.” Javan caught the eye of one of the healers and beckoned him over.

A healer could do much damage under the guise of trying to help him. An herbmaster could easily exchange poison for a tonic.…

“No!” Keziah said, a bit too quickly. The healer hesitated. “The … the matters we need to discuss are of a sensitive nature.”

Grinsa was eyeing her strangely. But after a moment he appeared to catch on. “She’s right, Your Majesty. I’m not a healer by trade, but perhaps I can help in this instance.”

Kearney seemed to understand as well. He even paled a bit. “Very well, gleaner.” He faced the healer and forced a smile. “Thank you anyway.”

The healer stood there a few seconds longer, then returned to the soldiers, appearing nonplussed by the exchange and leaving Keziah to wonder if she should have kept silent.

“What was that about?” Fotir asked.

“We have cause to think that the conspiracy will make an attempt on the king’s life,” Grinsa said. “We should be wary of allowing any Qirsi we don’t know to get near him.”

Javan narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think they want to kill the king? Did that woman you imprisoned tell you this as well?”

“I can’t say,” Grinsa told him.

“But surely-”

“Leave it, Father.” Tavis placed a hand on the duke’s shoulder. “Grinsa wouldn’t have said anything if he didn’t have good reason to believe it was true. Trust him as I do and let it be.”

Javan regarded his son briefly, as if seeing him anew. Then he nodded. “Very well.”

They found a pallet on which Kearney could sit, and Grinsa knelt before him, laying his hands over the wound on the king’s side.

“Tell me of your battles,” the king said, clearly uncomfortable with having Grinsa tending his wounds with the others nearby. His expression changed. “Where’s Welfyl?”

Javan took a long breath. “He’s dead, my liege.”

Kearney closed his eyes briefly. “Demons and fire. This is a black day for the House of the River.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“How severe were Heneagh’s losses?”

Curgh’s duke shook his head. “We don’t know for certain yet, my liege, but it appeared that they had lost nearly a third of their men. Perhaps more.”

“Damn. And yours, Lord Curgh?”

“Not quite as bad as that, though close.”

“Same for my guard. We’ve yet to make a count of the enemy dead and wounded, but I’m sure they fared better than we did.”

“I’m afraid so, my liege.”

Hagan MarCullet returned, accompanied by a lanky man with a shaved head and trim beard who Keziah assumed to be Rab Avkar.

“Swordmaster,” the king said, looking up at the man. “All of us are deeply saddened by the loss of your duke, none more so than I.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the swordmaster said, his voice thick, his eyes reddened. “I tried to reason with him, to keep him from joining the battle-a man his age…” He shook his head. “He insisted. He said he wanted to strike a blow for his son. And for some time he fought as a man possessed. But he wasn’t strong enough. I saw him go down-” His voice broke and he turned his head, swallowing hard.

“Songs will be written of his bravery, and of Dunfyl’s as well. The Underrealm will shine like Morna’s sky with their light.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the man whispered. “Thank you.”

Grinsa removed his hands from Kearney’s side and sat back on his knees, his face shining with sweat.

“Thank you, gleaner,” the king said, twisting his body tentatively and then lifting his arm. “That’s much better. You have a deft touch.”

“You have other wounds, Your Majesty. I can heal them as well.”

Kearney stood. “Thank you. Perhaps later.” He stepped to where Welfyl’s swordmaster stood. Immediately the man dropped to one knee, bowing his head. “Rise, Sir Avkar.” The man did as he was told. “I know that you grieve for Lord Heneagh,” the king went on, “but this is not the time for mourning. Braedon’s army will attack again, perhaps as soon as dawn. I need for you to command your duke’s army. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You’ve suffered terrible losses. I can offer you a few hundred men, but it won’t be enough to take the place of all those who have fallen.”

Rab straightened. “With all respect, Your Majesty. We don’t need any more men. We may not be as well trained as the soldiers of Curgh or the King’s Guard, but we fight now for the memories of our duke and lord. The empire’s army won’t get past us.”

For a moment it seemed that the king might insist, but then he appeared to think better of it. “Your duke would be proud, swordmaster. Very well. We’ll leave the armies as they are for now.”

It had grown dark. Throughout the camp, soldiers were lighting small fires. A few could be heard singing softly, their voices mingling with the low moan of the wind and the cries of the wounded. A short distance to the south a great fire burned, the pyre for Eibithar’s dead. Gazing up at the sky, Keziah saw stars beginning to emerge in the blackness, bright and clear. The moons weren’t up yet, but already she could see that it was going to be a glorious night.

“We need to be ready when they attack again,” Kearney was saying. “I want archers posted at the front of our lines at all times. Have them stand in three shifts.”

Javan, the swordmaster, and Kearney’s captains murmured their agreement.

Fotir glanced at Grinsa, who nodded. “Pardon me, Your Majesty,” the minister said. “But Grinsa, the archminister, and I all have magic of mists and winds. On your authority, we can summon a wind to aid our archers and hinder Braedon’s.”

“Yes, First Minister, that would be fine. But remember that the empire has Qirsi as well. Any wind you raise may well be countered before it can do much good.”

“Wait,” Javan broke in, staring at Grinsa. “You have mists and winds? I thought you were just a gleaner.”

Keziah felt her entire body growing tense, but her brother merely smiled.

“I’m somewhat more than I seem, my lord,” he said, “as your son will attest.” He gave the king a meaningful look. “And I assure you, Your Majesty, the wind we raise will be more than a match for that of Braedon’s Qirsi.”

Again the king blanched, appearing to remember in that moment that Grinsa was a Weaver. “Yes, of course, gleaner. Thank you.” He took a breath, as if to gather himself. Then he turned to the older of his captains. “What news of Shanstead?” he asked. “Do you still expect him to reach here tomorrow?”

“Last we heard, Your Majesty, he was approaching the far banks of Binthar’s Wash. But that was a day ago, and still we haven’t seen them on the moors.”

Kearney’s mouth twitched. “We may have to fight without them again.”

“They won’t catch us unaware again, my liege.” Javan gave a thin smile. “The first battle went their way. But the dawn brings a new day, and it will be ours.”

The king’s smile was brittle and pained. “Of course, Lord Curgh. My thanks.”

They continued to speak of the day’s battle for some time, eating cold provisions just as did the men around them. Some of what they discussed would serve them in devising tactics for their next encounter with the empire’s forces, but much of it, Keziah could tell, was simply warriors exchanging tales of combat. She had little to add of course, but she remained with them, watching with pleasure how Kearney came alive when he spoke of wielding his blade and dancing his mount amidst a sea of enemy soldiers. Even Tavis, who usually seemed so withdrawn around anyone other than Grinsa and the MarCullet boy, offered a tale or two of his own and laughed with the others.

Grinsa said very little, though, like Keziah, he made no effort to excuse himself. After a time he moved so that he was beside her. Kearney eyed him as he did, but said nothing.

“Feeling left out?” Grinsa asked, his voice low, a small smile on his lips.

“A bit. I was wondering if I should ride to the North Wood, find something to kill, and then come back and tell all of you about it.”

He laughed. “You don’t have to go to such lengths. These are warrior tales. They don’t have to be accurate.”

“I heard that, gleaner,” Hagan MarCullet growled from nearby.

Her brother grinned at the man, then faced her again. “Earlier, when I asked if you were all right, you made it sound like you weren’t. I was wondering if there’s anything I can do.”

“I shouldn’t have said that. I had just seen some things, and then hearing that Welfyl was dead…” She shrugged. “I’m better now.”

“But this day took its toll on you, didn’t it?”

“No more than it did on others.”

“Kezi-”

“I’m fine, Grinsa.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Keziah almost got up and walked away. She was tired, and though Kearney’s soldier-her shadow-would follow her wherever she went, at that moment she would have preferred his silent stares to Grinsa’s questions.

During the lengthy silence that ensued, Grinsa seemed to sense how angry she was. “I’m sorry, Kezi,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Forgiveness came grudgingly. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. You don’t need me taking care of you anymore. I shouldn’t even try.”

She couldn’t help herself. For years he had treated her as though they were still children, as though she still needed the protection of an older brother. “No, you shouldn’t. You may be the older one, the more powerful one, but that doesn’t mean that I’m helpless.”

“I know that. Truly I do. But the ones who really need my protection are beyond my reach. And so I try to protect you instead.”

The ones who really need … Cresenne and Bryntelle. Sometimes her own capacity for selfishness and stupidity took her breath away. He had meant well. His questions had done no harm, except perhaps to her pride. But she was so absorbed with her own concerns that all she could see was the meddling of an older brother. She gazed at him now, marveling at how little he had changed over the years. He seemed ageless, save for his eyes. They were medium yellow, like the sun early on a harvest morning, and they appeared to carry within them the cares of all the land. For all the youth she still saw in Kearney’s face, her king had aged considerably in the last year. Tavis of Curgh had grown to manhood, it seemed, almost before her eyes. And when she looked in a mirror, she saw time marking its progress with small lines around her own mouth and eyes. But Grinsa remained as she remembered, the man who had loved and protected her all her life, who had always borne burdens the likes of which she could scarcely comprehend.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes stinging. “I didn’t think…” She trailed off, not knowing what to say, realizing that what she had said, though incomplete, was as true as anything else she might have offered. “You told me that she won,” she said a few moments later. “She shouldn’t have anything to fear from him anymore.”

Grinsa just nodded. They both knew all too well that the Weaver wouldn’t give up so easily.

“I’ll trust you to watch out for yourself,” he said, staring at the fires burning throughout the camp. “But let me give one last caution. If he has eyes watching this war, keeping him apprised of its ebbs and flows-and I’m certain he does-he’ll know that the fighting began in earnest today. If I were you, I’d be prepared to dream of him tonight, and tell him why your king still lives.”

Keziah didn’t need to feel the familiar dread washing over her, like the waters of Amon’s Ocean during the snows, to tell her that he was right. She knew the Weaver better than he did. She should have thought of this hours ago. Despite all her claims that she didn’t need her brother caring for her anymore, she found herself struggling to keep up with the speed and clarity of his thinking. Yet, once she looked past her chagrin, she realized as well that she was ready for the Weaver, that she knew just what she would tell him. The time was fast approaching when her lies wouldn’t serve her anymore, when she’d either take control of her own magic and banish the Weaver from her mind, or she’d die, a victim of her dreams. But this was not that night.

“I’ll be ready for him,” she said.

Grinsa actually smiled. “I believe you will.”

Pride demanded that she not let him see just how much this pleased her, but she couldn’t keep the grin from springing to her lips, or the blood from rushing to her cheeks.

A short time later, Kearney stood, announcing that he intended to retire for the night. Though he said no more than this, all understood that he expected them to do the same. None among them doubted that the fighting would resume with first light. Grinsa smiled at her one last time before walking off toward the Curgh camp, and Keziah turned to follow her king.

“He loves you, you know,” she heard behind her before she could take a step.

Looking back, she saw Tavis standing nearby, his face in shadows. He looked taller than she remembered, and broader as well.

“Aside from the woman and his daughter, there’s no one who matters more to him than you do.”

It seemed a strange comment coming from this young noble whom she had long considered a spoiled court boy. She sensed though that he was trying to help, that he had taken note of the anger she directed at Grinsa.

“I know that,” she said. “But I’m grateful to you just the same.”

“Well, if you know it, you should show some gratitude. He’s sacrificed more than any of us and he deserves better than your anger and your jealousy.”

She felt her anger flare, and opened her mouth to lash out at the boy. But as she did, the breeze shifted slightly and a torch sputtered nearby. The light didn’t change much, but it was enough to illuminate the scars on his cheek and jaw. If this boy, who had suffered so much, could speak of Grinsa’s sacrifice, how could she not? Which of them was the spoiled child?

“You’re right,” she said at last, and walked away, gratified by the look of surprise on the young lord’s face.

It didn’t take her long to find her sleeping roll, or for her shadow to find her, lowering himself to the ground only a few strides from where she lay. She worried that he might hear her if she cried out in her sleep, but there was nothing to be done. If she tried to move away from him, he would only follow, positioning himself even closer to her than he was now.

Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, bracing herself for the coming encounter with the Weaver.

But sleep did not come easily this night. She found herself haunted by images of the battle and its aftermath, and troubled by her conversation with Grinsa and her brief exchange with the Curgh boy. Horror and fear, anger and remorse warred within her, making her toss and turn, keeping her mind racing until she wondered if she’d ever sleep again.

So it was that despite Grinsa’s warning and her meager preparations, she was unprepared for the dream when finally it began. One moment she was staring up at the stars over the battle plain, watching as Panya and Ilias climbed into the night, and the next, the sky had turned purest black and the familiar grasses and boulders of the Weaver’s plain surrounded her.

Before she understood entirely what she was doing, she had begun to walk, trudging up the hill toward the spot where the Weaver awaited her. By the time she reached the top, and the Weaver’s brilliant white sun stabbed into her eyes, she had gathered herself, remembering all that she had intended to tell him.

“You expected to dream of me.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“Is that why you took so long to fall asleep? Did you fear this encounter?”

“No more than usual, Weaver,” she said, and sensed his amusement. “I tried to make myself sleep, but I couldn’t.”

“Because of the battle?”

She nodded, summoning the images that had troubled her so.

“I see. You understand that there will be more of this. Eventually, it will be my army-including you-that does the killing but the results will be much the same.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“I take it Kearney still lives.”

“Yes, Weaver. He was hurt, but his wounds were easily healed.”

“I didn’t expect you to kill him today, knowing that the first battle might be difficult for you, but my expectations haven’t changed.”

She had been waiting for this, planning what she would say. And so she nodded her understanding, and began to tell him all the ways she had thought of to kill her king, the sudden gust of wind that changes the flight of an arrow, the dark words whispered to Kearney’s mount, the shattering of his horse’s leg, the harm that could be done by a healer, the poison that could be slipped into an herbmaster’s tonic.

“Just when I had been ready to give up on you, you exceed all of my expectations.” She could tell from his voice that he was beaming at her. “All the methods of which you speak will work, though some will require that you find another Qirsi to help you, unless you’ve added shaping and healing to your magics since last we spoke.”

“No, Weaver,” she said.

“I’d suggest you use language of beasts. That’s least likely to draw anyone’s attention.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“You hesitate. Why?”

“That man is here. The gleaner. He might know that it was me.” The Weaver would know already that Grinsa had joined the Eibitharian army. But having spoken to her of the gleaner in the past, he might find it suspicious if she didn’t mention his presence on the battle plain.

“What makes you say that?”

“He speaks of you, Weaver. He warns the king about you. And I just wonder if he knows you’re a Weaver, mightn’t he be one as well?”

“Does he fight beside Kearney?”

“No, Weaver. He stays with the Curgh boy and fights with Javan’s army.”

“Good. That should make this easier. Make certain that the gleaner is far away when you do this and you should be fine.”

“I will, Weaver. Thank you.”

“I want this done soon. When next we speak, Kearney should be dead.”

Before she could answer, the Weaver was gone, and she was blinking her eyes open. The sun had yet to rise, but a faint silvery light had already begun to light the Moorlands, shimmering on the dancing grasses and great stones. Keziah could smell the rank smoke from Eibithar’s pyre, and, after a moment, she realized that she could hear singing.

She knew immediately that these were not the soft notes sung by Kearney’s men the night before. This was a battle hymn, and the voices were those of Braedon’s men, loud and boisterous and too damned confident.

Keziah sat up, pushing the tangle of hair back from her face.

“The king is asking for you, Archminister.”

She looked up to see her shadow standing over her. She hadn’t noticed before how young he was, but it was said that fear did that to a soldier, robbed him of his years as well as his nerve, making him a babe once more.

“All right,” she said, stiffly getting to her feet. “Tell him I’ll be along in a moment.”

He nodded and started to walk away.

“Are the empire’s men moving yet?” she asked.

“No, not yet. But soon. Captain says they want to wear us down before Shanstead arrives.”

It was more than he had said to her since they marched from Audun’s Castle.

It’s only going to get worse, Grinsa had told her the day before. And the Weaver had echoed that in her dream. You understand that there will be more of this. Imagining the unimaginable, a war between Weavers, Keziah knew that they were right. The soldier was watching her, not with suspicion, as he usually did, but with need, his eyes begging her to reassure him, to tell him that Marston and the Thorald army would arrive in time.

All she could do was turn her back on him and reach for her belt and blade.