Weavers of War

Chapter Eight

Curtell, Braedon

On the morning following their capture of the emperor’s palace, Dusaan sent Nitara and several of the other ministers to Curtell City with instructions to scour the inns and taverns and marketplace for all the Qirsi they could find.

“For now, you’re simply to tell them that the emperor’s high chancellor wishes to speak with them,” he said, sitting in the middle of what had been Harel’s imperial chamber.

Nitara had stared back at him, her pale eyes wide, still so afraid of giving offense. “But Weaver, they know that you’ve taken the palace. Everyone does. Many will have heard that you’re … that you lead our movement.”

“They still know me as the high chancellor,” he told her, keeping his voice low so that she would know that he wasn’t angry. “And I’m not ready to announce myself as Weaver to all in Curtell.”

“What if the Qirsi refuse to come with us?” another asked.

The Weaver considered this briefly. “For now, that’s their right, though if they’ve heard of our victory over Harel’s guards, I don’t think they’ll refuse you. Now go.”

Nitara had bowed then, lovely and eager to please, despite her fear of him, and she had led her small band of Qirsi out into the lanes of the imperial city.

A short time later, Gorlan came to him, a grin on his lean face. “The emperor is demanding to speak with you.”

Dusaan barely looked up from the treasury accountings-not much had changed in the short time they had been out of his control, but he wanted to make certain he knew just how much gold was at his disposal.

“Is that so?” he said evenly. “About what?”

“I believe he’s dissatisfied with his quarters.”

At that Dusaan did look up, nearly laughing aloud. “You’re not serious.”

“Yes, Weaver, I am. He’s also demanding a healer. It seems you wounded him last night.”

He shook his head and turned his attention back to the accountings. “I’ll deal with it later. In the meantime, take some of the others and gather whatever weapons are left in the guard house and armory.”

“Weapons, Weaver? Do you mean to destroy them?”

“No. I plan to use them.”

“But our magic-”

“I mean to lead a conquering army, Minister.” He had decided that he would allow the Qirsi to keep their titles for now. For many of the older ones, the changes of the past few days had been difficult; best to let them hold on to a few harmless remnants of the old ways. “While you and I know that our magic is the only weapon we need, the Eandi do not. I want them to see us as warriors. Besides, it never hurts to be too careful. I happen to be quite skilled with a blade, and I expect the same of those who serve me.”

“Yes, Weaver. I’ll do it right away.”

Dusaan had much to occupy his day, and even had he not, he would have gone out of his way to make Harel wait. He wasn’t even certain he ought to go to the man at all, but in the end curiosity got the better of him. Late in the day, some time after the ringing of the prior’s bells, the Weaver made his way to the prison tower.

There were no Eandi guards in the corridor of course-all who had survived the previous day’s battle were gone-and Dusaan hadn’t enough Qirsi to leave even one to watch over the emperor. In all likelihood, Harel had been alone in his chamber since Gorlan’s visit several hours before. Even before he opened the door to the sparse, round chamber, Dusaan knew that the emperor would be in a foul temper. He would enjoy this.

“It’s about time!” Harel said, as soon as the Weaver turned the lock. “I called for you hours ago!”

Dusaan stepped inside, saying nothing, but walking a slow circle around the perimeter of the emperor’s prison. A platter of half-eaten food sat on the floor near the door-a rind of hard cheese, a few scraps of stale bread, and a small, empty cup that might once have held water. Closer to the lone window, a chamber pot sat unattended, foul-smelling and buzzing with flies. Dusaan wrinkled his nose as he walked past.

“You see what I’ve had to put up with?”

The Weaver said nothing. Pausing by the window, he gazed down on the palace courtyard where the battle had taken place the day before. His Qirsi had used fire magic to dispose of the bodies, but the soldiers’ weaponry still lay in an enormous pile on the bright grass.

“They’ve brought me only the one meal.”

Dusaan turned to face the man. Harel looked a mess, his round face flushed, his brown curls sticking out at odd angles, his imperial robes disheveled.

“There’s little I can do about your food,” the Weaver said. “It seems your kitchenmaster and all your cooks have fled the palace.”

Harel held up his hand, which was swollen and purple around the little finger, the bone of which Dusaan had snapped the previous night. “And what of the healers? Surely your own people didn’t flee.”

“No, they didn’t. But they’ve been busy attending to other matters.”

“Other matters?” the emperor repeated, his voice rising.

“Yes. But allow me.”

Dusaan crossed to where Harel stood, and gently taking hold of his maimed hand, closed his eyes and began to mend the bone with his healing magic. It was a clean break and a small bone-it healed quickly. After just a few moments he looked at Harel again and released his hand. “Is that better?”

The emperor gazed at his hand with unconcealed wonder. “Yes, it is. Thank y-”

The dry sound of cracking bone echoed in the chamber. Harel dropped to his knees with a shriek, clutching his arm to his chest and whimpering like a beaten dog.

Dusaan stood over him, fighting an urge to kick him in the gut. “I told you last night that if you defied me again I’d break your arm. Next time it will be your neck.”

“But all I did-”

“Don’t ever summon me again. It’s not your place to make demands of me or my Qirsi. You’re no longer emperor, Harel, and I’m no longer your chancellor. You ceded the realm to me, in writing. I am your sovereign, and I will be treated as such. Do you understand?”

Harel nodded.

“Good.” Dusaan started for the door.

“But what about my food? And my arm? What about…?” He glanced at the chamber pot. “What about that?”

“If I think of it, I’ll send a healer for your arm. As for the rest, so long as you don’t eat, the pot shouldn’t be a problem.”

He let himself out of the chamber to the sound of the emperor’s sobbing, and descended the stairs. When he reached the courtyard, Nitara was there with the five Qirsi who had accompanied her, and well over a hundred more. Dusaan strode to where she stood smiling at him, her pride evident in her stance, the squared shoulders and straight back. He had never seen her look more beautiful.

“Report,” the Weaver said.

“We’ve brought one hundred and fifty-four Qirsi to serve you, Weaver. There were even more who were willing, but many were the husbands and wives of those you see before you, and they had children who couldn’t be left alone.”

“Of course. Did you have any trouble?”

“Just a bit at first. We encountered a group of soldiers, the emperor’s men. They attacked us, but B’Serre used fire magic on their leader, and the rest ran off. We saw them again later, but by then we were a far larger group-they didn’t dare come near us.”

“Very good, Minister. Very good indeed.”

She fairly beamed as he stepped past her to address the newcomers.

“Welcome,” he said, opening his arms wide, “to what is now my palace, the seat of power for what will soon be a Qirsi empire extending the length and breadth of the Forelands. I know that a great deal has happened here in the past day, and no doubt you’ve heard much from the former emperor’s soldiers. You have questions, I’m sure. I’ll be happy to tell you what I can.”

For several moments no one said anything. Most of the Qirsi before him simply stared at the ground, fidgeting like embarrassed children. After a time, however, one man stepped out from the middle of the group, glancing about nervously, but eventually meeting Dusaan’s gaze. He looked old, particularly for a Qirsi. He was bald save for a few wisps of white hair that clung to the back of his head, and his face was bony and thin. Yet his eyes were bright, the color of elm leaves during the harvest, and he narrowed them now as he regarded the high chancellor.

“Are you really a Weaver, like they say?”

“Yes, I am.”

“How can we know that for sure?”

“What’s your name, friend?”

He hesitated, but only for an instant. “Creved jal Winza.”

“And you’re a healer, aren’t you, Creved?”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“No. I sense that you have healing magic, and so I assumed.”

“You sensed-?”

“A Weaver can do that. You also have language of beasts. Those are two of the deeper magics. How is it that you never ended up in an Eandi court?”

At first the man gave no response. He merely stared back at Dusaan, without a trace of the skepticism he had exuded just moments before. “I … I never wished to serve, my … your…”

“Call me Weaver.”

“Yes, Weaver, thank you. And besides, Eandi nobles seek out gleaners. They want their ministers to be able to see the future.”

“Quite right, Creved. Isn’t it fascinating,” he went on, speaking to all of them now, “that the Eandi value us precisely for the magic we know to be the least potent. Don’t get me wrong. Gleaning is a talent, and gleaners will be as welcome as all other Qirsi in the new world we’re building. But the Eandi want gleaners for their courts and for their festival tents. Yet gleaning is not one of the deep magics-all of us know this. Perhaps they do as well. They fear our powers. They use what they can, but they fear the rest, which is why for nearly nine hundred years, they have made us their servants, their entertainers, objects of curiosity and contempt.” He smiled. “Well, those days are over.” He looked at the healer again. “You said something else that interested me, Creved. You said that you never wished to serve in their courts. Why not?”

The man shrugged, looking afraid, as if he thought that he had said something wrong. “I don’t know, Weaver. I just … I don’t know.”

“It’s all right, Creved. For too long, our people have willingly given ourselves over to the Eandi. We need more men and women like this fine healer, who can see the virtue of using magic simply because it is our gift, the source of our distinctiveness and our strength.”

Was it just his imagination, or were the others staring at this old healer with admiration and envy, wishing that they, too, might earn the Weaver’s praise? He eyed the men and women Nitara had brought him, divining their powers, searching for any who looked like they might betray him. Like Creved, most of them appeared so awed by the notion of serving a Weaver that Dusaan knew he had nothing to fear from them. One or two remained wary, but this was to be expected.

Nearly all of those standing before him possessed only one or two powers; a few wielded three. Many of the men and women were healers, and a good number of the others possessed fire magic. There were, of course, quite a few gleaners. And a small number wielded the greater magics. Several had mists and winds, a few, like Creved, had language of beasts, and seven were shapers.

“All of you will serve our cause in some capacity. For many of you that will mean helping to protect and maintain this palace. Others among you will accompany me across the Strait of Wantrae to Eibithar, where we will wield our powers as one and destroy the armies of the Eandi courts. Whatever your role in this struggle, I promise you that you will be paid in gold, that your lives will be better than you ever imagined possible under the emperor’s rule, and that someday your children will thank you for what you do now.” He smiled again. “Are you with me?”

“Yes, Weaver!” they answered as one, their voices resounding off the courtyard walls.

He turned to Nitara, B’Serre, and the other ministers. “Find quarters for these people and then assign them tasks. We need some in the kitchens,” he said, lowering his voice. “And others, those with fire power, should be stationed as guards at the gates and in the prison tower.”

Nitara nodded. “Yes, Weaver.” She often spoke for the others, almost as if he had made her one of his chancellors. He didn’t mind, but he found it somewhat curious, and he wondered if her fellow ministers and chancellors thought that she and Dusaan were lovers.

He pointed out the seven shapers. “Bring them to me. They’ll be sailing with us to Eibithar. Oh, and send a healer to Harel. He’s hurt himself again.”

Dusaan returned to the imperial chamber a short time later, and was joined soon after by Nitara and the seven shapers. Five of them were old for his people-thirty years old at least, as far as he could tell, and of the two who were younger, one struck him as being somewhat less than eager to pledge himself to the Weaver’s cause. This man was watching him now, a slight smirk on his oval face. He wore his white hair long and pulled back from his face, and his eyes were so pale as to be ghostlike.

“You,” Dusaan said, nodding toward him. “What’s your name?”

“B’Naer, High Chancellor.”

Nitara cast a quick look Dusaan’s way, seeming to gauge his response. The Weaver hadn’t explicitly instructed the other Qirsi not to use his old title, but he felt that they should have known. Normally he wouldn’t have tolerated such an indiscretion but in this case he decided to give the man a bit of latitude. A very little bit.

“That’s all? Just B’Naer?”

The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, an amused look on his face. “B’Naer jal Shenvesse.”

“And from the looks of you I’d say you’re a peddler.”

“Close enough.”

The Weaver raised an eyebrow. “A brigand then.”

The smile vanished from his face.

“It’s all right, B’Naer. Whatever laws you’ve broken were Eandi laws. That’s not to say that I won’t deal harshly with your kind now that I lead the realm, but consider this your one opportunity to change the course of your life, to choose a brighter path, if you will.” Dusaan crossed to the emperor’s throne and sat. “Tell me, B’Naer, why do you think you’re here? What do you think you have in common with these other six people?”

“I don’t know? Are they brigands, too?”

One of them, an older woman, actually laughed out loud.

“No,” the Weaver said with a smile. “They’re not brigands.” He eyed the man for a moment longer, and when he shook his head, Dusaan looked at the others. “Do any of you know?”

“You know what powers we possess,” the woman answered at last. “Are we all shapers?”

The Weaver smiled. “And your name?”

“Qidanne ja Qed, Weaver. I’m a healer in the city.”

This name he did know. She wasn’t just a healer-she was the most renowned healer in all of Curtell. On several occasions the emperor had asked her to serve in the palace. Each time she had refused him, claiming that her duties as a healer called her into the countryside too often, and that some of those to whom she ministered would not trust another healer. Dusaan had long wondered if these excuses had served to mask her dislike of the emperor. Now he felt certain that they had.

“We’re all honored to have you with us, Qidanne. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Thank you, Weaver.”

“You’re right, of course. All of you are shapers, and as such, will prove invaluable to our movement in battle.”

“In battle?” she said, frowning. “I’m no warrior, Weaver. Surely you understand that all to which I’ve devoted my life is at odds with the very notion of armed conflict.”

“I do understand that, healer. But I know as well that the fate of our people rests with our ability to defeat the combined might of the Eandi armies. I’ll need shapers to do that. The sooner I can destroy the enemy, the fewer of our people will need your talents.”

“I minister to Eandi as well as Qirsi, Weaver, and though I sympathize with your movement, I can’t bring myself to kill anyone, no matter the color of their eyes.”

Dusaan detested cowardice, and had he sensed in her words even a hint of pretense, he would have killed her where she stood. He could tell, however, that she spoke not out of fear of being killed herself, but rather out of a true aversion to killing others, and he knew that to force this woman to fight against her will would diminish him, not only in her eyes, but in those of the men and women around her.

“Will you accompany me to the battle plain as a healer, then?”

“I will, if you will allow me to tend to all who are wounded, no matter the color of their eyes.”

Dusaan gave a small laugh. “You’re a difficult woman.”

“Why is it, Weaver, that I’m called ‘difficult,’ while men who behave as I do are called ‘determined’ and ‘strong’?”

“A fair point, healer.” He nodded. “You can tend to all who are wounded, and I’ll enjoy having you with me, to keep my wit honed.” He eyed the others. “And what of the rest of you? Will you wield your shaping power on behalf of the Qirsi cause?”

“You mentioned gold before,” the brigand said, a sly look on his handsome face. “Just how much will our role in this battle-?”

Before he could finish, Dusaan had taken hold of his shaping power and used it to press on the man’s temples. B’Naer gasped at the pain, both hands gripping his head. The Weaver was willing to tolerate a good deal from a woman like Qidanne. But this man was another matter entirely.

“This is not a negotiation, cousin. The healer has earned some consideration, even from me. You haven’t. Push me too far, and you’ll learn what it is to face the wrath of a Weaver.”

He maintained his grip on the brigand’s magic for a moment longer, then released him. B’Naer toppled to the floor, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut. The other Qirsi were gaping at Dusaan, all of them looking awed and terrified. In a way, the brigand had done him a service. Qidanne had given him the opportunity to show his compassion, his willingness to accommodate those who served him well. B’Naer had allowed him to demonstrate what happened to those who defied him. He knew that it wouldn’t take long before all the Qirsi who had come to the palace that day heard of both the depth of his kindness and the power of his rage.

“Now, I’ll ask all of you again,” he said. “Will you join me in this fight against the Eandi?”

“Yes, Weaver.” They spoke as one, without the enthusiasm that all the Qirsi had shown in the courtyard, but with a tone of reverence that Dusaan found quite satisfying.

“Good. We leave for Ayvencalde in two or three days. Until then, you’re to do as Nitara commands. In my absence, in all matters of importance, she speaks with my authority.” He glanced at Nitara, who nodded in return. “You may go.” They began to file out of the chamber. “A word please, B’Naer.”

The brigand halted, glancing toward the door as if considering whether he might be better off fleeing. The others looked back at him, and judging from their expressions, they could well have been thinking the same thing.

B’Naer walked slowly back to the center of the chamber, stopping at last just before the Weaver’s throne and flinching slightly when the door clicked shut behind him.

“I hurt you,” Dusaan said.

“Yes, Weaver.”

“And now you think I’m going to kill you.”

“Aren’t you?”

“That depends in large part on you. Even as high chancellor to the fat oaf who used to sit in this chair, I grew accustomed to people heeding my commands and speaking to me with deference. If you can do so from this day forward, you’ll live. If not, your death will serve as a lesson to others foolish enough to defy me.”

“Of course, Weaver. I’ll do as you say.”

Dusaan reached for him so swiftly, wrapping a powerful hand around the man’s throat, that the brigand had no time to react. He grabbed for the Weaver’s hand, no doubt to try and break Dusaan’s grip. After a moment, however, he appeared to think better of this.

“You’ll find, B’Naer, that I don’t take kindly to being humored. I’m not some merchant ripe for being cheated, nor am I a simpleminded Eandi soldier to be mollified with a smile and a kind word. I’m the most powerful man you’ve ever met, and the most intelligent as well. Anger me again, and I will kill you. You have my word on that. Do I make myself clear?”

B’Naer nodded, his pale eyes wide.

Dusaan let go of the man’s neck, sitting back in his throne. “What did you do as a brigand?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you must have had a specialty. Men of your sort usually do. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, Weaver.” His face colored. “I … I began as a road thief. Later I turned to city thieving, first in Refte, then in Ayvencalde, and finally here.”

“I see. How does a man choose such a profession, B’Naer? Surely your Determining didn’t show you as a brigand.”

The man smiled-it almost seemed he couldn’t help himself. “No, Weaver, but my Fating did. I’m good with a blade, and I’m strong for a Qirsi. And having shaping power made it that much easier to take care of myself.”

“Yes, I’m sure it did,” the Weaver said, narrowing his eyes, staring intently at this man before him. He couldn’t deny that there was need in his army for men like this one. He had more than enough ministers and healers; shouldn’t he have a brigand or two as well, men who could be ruthless, perhaps even cruel? After all, soon they would be marching to war. “I think I’m glad you’re here, B’Naer. I sense that you may prove useful to me yet.”

The brigand grinned.

* * *

They rode from the palace three days later, seventy strong-a laughably small army by Eandi standards, but powerful enough to topple every fortress in the Forelands if victory demanded it. To her delight, Nitara rode with the Weaver at the head of their column. The other chancellors and ministers-Gorlan, Rov, B’Serre, and the rest-followed just behind them, and they, in turn, were trailed by those newly enlisted in the Weaver’s cause. All told, there were ten shapers in their ranks, as well as twenty who had language of beasts, nearly thirty who could summon mists and winds, dozens of others who could call forth a killing fire, and a good number of healers who would prove of great value when the fighting began.

And, of course, they had the Weaver, who could wield their power as a single weapon more fearsome than any that had been seen in the Forelands for nine centuries. The armies of Eibithar and Aneira and Sanbira had their kings and queens, but what were these sovereigns other than mere men and women? Perhaps they inspired their soldiers to fight and die with a bit more courage than the pathetic souls would muster otherwise. But beyond that, they were nothing; their crowns and thrones signified nothing. To Nitara and the other Qirsi, Dusaan jal Kania was their strength and their hope, their power and intelligence, the link to their past and the path to their future. He was everything-king, commander, god. Nitara would have followed him into Bian’s Underrealm to face hordes of demons and wraiths if only he asked it of her, and though others might not have loved him as she did, the minister sensed that many in their army had already devoted themselves wholly to him and his cause.

They thundered across the moor toward the city of Ayvencalde, knowing that they might meet resistance there from the Eandi lord, who had been a close ally of the emperor. They needed only to reach the pier and seize a ship, but the Weaver made it clear that they would not shy away from a battle if the lord decided to challenge them.

“No doubt he’s heard of what happened in Curtell,” Dusaan told them before they left the palace. “He’ll think this no more than a rebellion, easily beaten back by a show of force. I intend to prove him wrong and then add the willing among Ayvencalde’s Qirsi to our army.”

Pushing their mounts to the limits of the beasts’ endurance, the Weaver and his army were able to cross the moor in only two days, coming within sight of Ayvencalde Castle’s great towers a short time before dusk on the second day. There, on the plain, positioned just before the city walls, the lord was waiting for them, an army of more than a thousand men behind him, their weapons gleaming gold in the dying sunlight.

The Weaver led his Qirsi directly toward the lord and his men, only halting when he was well within range of Ayvencalde’s archers.

“Your advance ends here, High Chancellor,” the lord said, his square face ruddy, as if he had been sitting in the sun and wind for much of the day. “I will not allow you to set foot in my city, nor will I let you take your evil magic to any other lordship in the realm. You may have caught the emperor unawares, but that’s not likely to happen again.”

Dusaan glanced back at the sun, as if judging the hours left until nightfall. “I haven’t time for this, Lord Ayvencalde. Surrender now and let us pass, or you and your men will be destroyed.”

The lord actually laughed. “You don’t suffer for a lack of confidence, do you, High Chancellor?” His smile vanished and he raised a hand. “Bowmen!”

Several hundred archers stepped forward, readying their bows.

“You were warned,” the Weaver said, his voice even and devoid of regret. “We’ll use fire,” he said more quietly, glancing back at the other Qirsi.

For Nitara, who didn’t have fire magic, there was nothing to do but watch. The Weaver closed his eyes and stretched forth a rigid hand. The plain was eerily silent-even the Eandi seemed to be waiting, as if frightened of what would come next, but too fascinated to prevent it. Slowly, as if emerging from the sunlight, a gleaming sphere began to take shape just in front of the Weaver. It appeared to Nitara that he had summoned a bright yellow star from beyond the sky. As she watched, the ball gathered strength, brightening, growing larger, until it seethed and churned like a mighty river in flood.

Ayvencalde shouted to his archers again, and the minister saw them draw back the cords of their bows. Before they could loose their arrows, though, the ball of flame surged forward, flattening as it went, so that it struck the lord and his soldiers as might a great fiery sword. They didn’t even scream. Every man in the army was cut down and consumed in the storm of flame. Only the lord, who had been sitting atop his mount, was spared, and he lay sprawled on the ground, dazed, his leg bent beneath his body at an impossible angle. The horse was dead, its carcass blackened and smoking a short distance from the lord.

Slowly, the Weaver dismounted and walked to where the noble lay, drawing his sword as he went.

“You should have listened,” Dusaan said, resting the point of his sword on Ayvencalde’s chest.

“You’ll never prevail,” the lord said, glaring up at him. “You may have won today, but someone will stop you.”

Dusaan smiled. “You’re wrong.” And he thrust the blade into the noble’s heart. Pulling the sword free, he stooped to wipe the blood from the shining steel, then he sheathed his weapon and walked back to his horse. “Victory is ours again,” he said. “Do you see now that we can’t be beaten, that the might of Eandi armies is nothing against our power?”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“We’ll ride into the city and find as many Qirsi as we can. But we won’t tarry here long. I want to be sailing by morning.”

He swung himself into the saddle once more and they rode toward the city gates. As they drew near, a swarm of arrows rose into the sky and began to fall toward them. Instantly, Nitara felt something tugging at her mind and a moment later, she sensed the Weaver drawing upon her magic. A great wind stirred from the grasses, building rapidly until it howled in the stones of the city wall, though Nitara’s hair barely stirred. The arrows were beaten back, dropping harmlessly to the ground in front of them.

Nitara nearly laughed aloud. It seemed that their power knew no bounds. Never had she felt so close to her people, and glancing back at her companions she saw mirrored in their faces the same joy and wonder at what they had become. They continued to advance on the gate, and as they did, she heard a great rumbling, as from an approaching thunderstorm, and in a billowing cloud of dust, the city wall collapsed on either side of the gate, sending the Eandi archers stationed there tumbling to the ground.

Moments later the Qirsi army entered the city unopposed. They divided into smaller groups and navigated Ayvencalde’s narrow stone lanes in search of others to join their cause. Nitara remained with the Weaver, who sat straight-backed atop his horse like a conqueror. His face, though, was covered with a fine sheen of sweat, and she could see that he had tired himself.

“Shall we rest, Weaver?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

His eyes snapped toward her, blazing angrily. Then his gaze softened and he shook his head. “I’m fine. And in the next several days I’ll be taxed far beyond this. I need to be ready.”

More than anything she wanted to reach out and touch his face, to run her hands through his wild hair and feel the strength of his shoulders and chest. But she merely nodded. “Yes, Weaver.”

Word of what the Weaver’s army had done to Lord Ayvencalde and his men spread swiftly through the city. A few of the soldiers who remained chose to fight the Qirsi invaders, and all of them perished. Most fled, however, and with them many of Ayvencalde’s Eandi inhabitants. The city’s Qirsi-who numbered slightly over one hundred-greeted the Weaver and the others warily, but quickly pledged themselves to Dusaan’s cause. As with the Qirsi in the imperial city, most of them were healers and gleaners. A good number had fire magic and a few possessed one or more of the deeper magics.

After addressing them briefly, telling them of his coming battle with the armies of the Forelands and the fine future his victory would bring, he instructed almost all of them to remain in Ayvencalde and protect it from any attack that might come from other Eandi courts in Braedon. Four of the city’s Qirsi were shapers, and fourteen had mists and winds. These he added to his army.

He led his force to the Ayvencalde piers and quickly took control of one of the lord’s great war ships. A group of Qirsi went below into the hold and rowed the ship free of the docks, while others held flames aloft to light their way through Ayvencalde’s shallow harbor. Once free of the quays, they raised the vessel’s sails.

A breeze freshened from the west, and the ship started across the Scabbard toward the coast of Eibithar.

“Forgive me, Weaver,” Nitara said, approaching him, and lowering her gaze, “but I can summon a wind to take us across the Scabbard. So can any other Qirsi who has mists and winds. You should rest.”

He regarded her briefly, his expression mild. “You serve me well.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

The wind died away. “All right then. Share the burden with others. I don’t want any of you growing too weary. Steer us east of Cormorant Island, and then follow the Eibithar shore toward Falcon Bay. Wake me when we’re close enough to see Braedon’s war ships.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

He started to walk away, then paused, touching her cheek with a gentle hand. It seemed to Nitara that he summoned a soft flame, so great was the warmth that traveled through her body during that brief caress. A moment later he moved on, leaving her shivering in the cool night air as she gazed after him.

The ship sailed the glasslike waters of the Scabbard throughout what remained of the night, no doubt presenting a strange sight to those who saw her from the shores of Braedon and Eibithar. It was a windless night, still as death, and yet the vessel skimmed across the brine like a shearwater, her sails full, her bow carving the surface of the inlet. Nitara summoned the wind herself for some time, before giving over to Gorlan. He, in turn, passed the task to one of the men recruited in Curtell City, who then gave way to a woman from Ayvencalde. All told, seven summoned winds to propel the ship toward Falcon Bay. By the time morning broke and the Weaver returned to the deck, they were well past Cormorant Island. Wantrae Island loomed before them, pale blue in the early morning light. The waters remained calm, the sky clear. They would have no trouble with the weather.

“You’ve done well,” the Weaver said after looking about for some time, as if to determine their position. “But we have need of haste.” All of them were watching him. It seemed to Nitara that the others couldn’t help themselves. Certainly she couldn’t. He turned to her now, beckoning to her with a gesture. Crossing to where he stood, she bowed, then waited.

“Open yourself to me,” he commanded, his voice low.

A moment later, she felt him touch her mind, and there arose around her a gale the likes of which none of the Qirsi, herself included, had been able to raise alone. The ship leaped forward, leaning heavily alee, and the others scrambled to grab hold of something.

“I want others with winds to join us here,” Dusaan called over the rush of the wind he had summoned. Several stepped forward, and the gale began to strengthen, until it seemed that the ship would tear itself apart. The hull held, however, as did the sail, and the Weaver’s windstorm propelled them past Eibithar’s coastline and the islands of the upper Scabbard as if the ship were being pulled by a team of Sanbiri stallions.

Nitara knew that she should be tiring-a Qirsi’s powers were finite. To tax oneself beyond endurance was to risk utter exhaustion, even illness or death. Yet with the Weaver wielding her magic for her, blending it with his own and that of the other Qirsi, she hardly grew weary. She might have been doing gleanings in a festival tent for all the effort the Weaver required of her. Glancing at the others, she saw them smiling with wonder at the wind they had called forth. At midday they rested, taking a meal and speaking of how easy it had been to drive the ship toward Galdasten. Clearly the Weaver had been taxed far more than had they. As soon as they stopped, he went below deck, his face wan and damp. Nitara wanted to follow, but she knew that he didn’t want her with him. Instead she waited with the others, and before long Dusaan returned, looking refreshed.

“Shall we continue?” was all he said. Soon they were cutting through the tide once more, gliding beneath Curgh Castle, perched atop the rocky cliffs above them, and past the sheer cliffs of Eibithar’s northwest coast.

Late in the day, as they approached the mouth of Falcon Bay, Nitara saw the Braedony war ships, sails lowered and sweeps extended for combat, the red and gold painted on their bows glowing in the light of the setting sun. Beyond them, arrayed as if for battle, a second set of ships advanced, their sails lowered as well.

She glanced at the Weaver, wondering if he had expected this, afraid that perhaps he hadn’t.

“The Wethy fleet,” he said. “No doubt the men and women of Galdasten believe their salvation is at hand. If any ships can best those of the empire, Wethyrn’s can.” He smiled. “It doesn’t matter.”

They sailed on, steering toward the heart of the emperor’s navy, and as they drew close, the Weaver strengthened his gale still more, sending it beyond the sails of the Qirsi vessel so that it battered the ships of Braedon. At first the men of the emperor’s fleet ignored the Qirsi vessel. It was but one boat and the soldiers were far more concerned with the strange, powerful wind that had struck at them so suddenly. But as the Weaver’s ship bore down on them, the soldiers finally noticed. Rowing furiously, the oarsmen on several of the vessels managed to turn their boats toward the Qirsi ship, increasing their speed as if to ram. As the distance between the ships closed, one of the men on the lead vessel recognized Dusaan.

“High Chancellor!” he called, raising a hand in greeting, his face a mask of puzzlement.

“Shapers,” the Weaver said without raising his voice. Immediately the shapers stepped forward, and an instant later, the advancing ships crumpled, as if some unseen fist had hammered down upon them. Men tumbled into the cold waters of the bay, some of them screaming, others too shocked to make any sound at all.

Too late, the fleet captains tried to turn their vessels to meet this new challenge. The Weaver and his shapers destroyed these ships as easily as they had the others, spilling more bodies into the sea, turning Braedon’s vaunted navy into little more than jagged scraps of wood and shattered oars. Still the Qirsi ship sailed on, barely slowing as it passed by the ruins of the fleet.

“Fire,” Dusaan said, and more Qirsi moved to stand near him.

The men on the Wethy vessels, who had cheered upon seeing the Braedony ships smashed, now began to shout warnings to one another. A thin line of golden flame appeared on the surface of the water and began to roll toward Wethyrn’s navy, building like a wave as it went, until it towered above the vessels, menacing them like some demon sent by the fire goddess. The Wethy oarsmen tried to reverse course and outrun the wall of fire, but to no avail. The blaze crashed down upon them, blackening wood and flesh alike, making the water hiss and seethe, sending great clouds of steam into the sky.

The ship slowed and the wind around them diminished until it was but a faint breeze. The Weaver looked weary again, but he wore a grim smile as he surveyed the waters around them.

Eandi soldiers would have cheered after such a victory, but the Qirsi standing near the Weaver made not a sound. They seemed awed by what they had done, perhaps even a bit frightened, though Nitara felt certain that this would pass.

“What now, Weaver?” B’Serre asked, her voice barely carrying over the sound of water lapping at the sides of the ship.

“Now, I rest, and those of you with mists and winds steer us into the port of Galdasten. If you meet resistance, call for me. Otherwise, come for me when we’ve tied on to the pier. We’ll take Galdasten tonight. Two of my chancellors await us in the city, to join our assault on the castle and add their number to my army. Tomorrow we ride to the Moorlands. And there, we’ll destroy what’s left of the Eandi armies.”