by DAVID B. COE
“Mists and winds,” he said. “Fire, healing, shaping. Let me assure you that I have gleaning, language of beasts, and delusion as well.”
Stavel looked like he might be ill. “You’re a Weaver,” he whispered.
“Yes. Drawing on my own powers and melding them with the magic of those in this chamber, I could tear this palace to the ground, killing every Eandi within it. With the force that I have assembled throughout the Forelands, I can overcome the combined might of the seven realms.”
Gorlan stood and faced the others. “What he’s telling you is true. I’ve felt his power. It’s greater than I ever thought possible.”
“You’re involved in this, too?”
“We’re part of a great movement,” Dusaan said, ignoring Stavel. “We’re on the verge of changing the course of history. I would gladly welcome all of you to our cause, if you so choose. But you must decide now. You have spent your lives in the service of Eandi lords, men who did not deserve your devotion. Now I offer you the opportunity to join me in building a Qirsi empire. You need only swear your fealty to the movement.”
“And if we refuse?” asked one of the chancellors.
“I have revealed to you that I’m a Weaver, and I’ve declared myself at war with the Eandi courts, including that of the emperor. If you refuse, you declare yourself his ally. You’ll have until nightfall to leave the palace without fear of reprisal. After that, if you remain and you still refuse to pledge yourself to our cause, I’ll have no choice but to kill you.”
“Do you honestly believe that you can win our allegiance with threats?”
Again, the Weaver ignored the question, eyeing the others. Nitara had been right: all of the ministers were with him, and at least one of the older Qirsi.
“All of you who intend to join me, please stand.”
All six ministers and two of the chancellors stood, leaving only Stavel and two others sitting.
“You’re mad!” Stavel said. “All of you.” He pushed himself out of his chair and started for the door.
“Hold, Stavel.”
The old chancellor halted, his back to Dusaan. After a moment, he turned. His face was deathly pale, and there could be no mistaking the terror in his eyes. Yet, once more, he surprised the high chancellor with his bravery. “What are you going to do to me?”
“That depends. Where are you going?”
“To the emperor, of course. I must tell him of this.”
Brave indeed. “You know I can’t let you do that.”
“So it’s to be murder then.”
“I’d rather it not be.” Dusaan wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he actually meant what he said. Just the day before he wouldn’t have thought twice about killing this man. But Stavel had earned his respect this day. Dusaan was forced to admit that there was more to the man than he had ever imagined. “I know that we’ve had our differences over the years. I know that you were jealous of me when I first came to Curtell. I’ll even grant that you had reason to be. I was new to the palace, and I was very young to be made high chancellor. It couldn’t have been easy for you, being passed over when you had waited so long. But I’d be willing to put all of that aside if you’ll pledge your fealty to me now.”
“Never.”
“Surely you can’t think that the emperor deserves such loyalty. The man’s a fool. He cares nothing for the Qirsi who serve him. He can barely even remember our names.”
“None of that matters, Dusaan, and you know it. I swore an oath to serve the empire, and I will not go back on my word.”
“Even if it means turning against your own people?”
“You may be a Weaver, and you may lead a movement that stretches across all the Forelands, but that doesn’t mean that you speak for our people.” The old man took a long breath, drawing himself up so that he stood straighter than Dusaan had seen in many years. “So if you wish to stop me, you’ll have to kill me.”
Their eyes were locked, and the Weaver refused to look away, but he sensed that the others were watching him, wondering what he would do.
“Go ahead, Dusaan. Kill me. Show them what kind of leader you intend to be.”
It would have been easiest to break his neck. One simple push with his shaping power would do it, and it would be a relatively painless death for Stavel. But he needed to decide what point he wished to convey to the others—did he want them to think him merciful, or would it be more useful to make them fear his power?—and he had only an instant to make his choice.
Stavel turned again, reaching for the door handle.
“Stop, Stavel.” He pushed as he said the words, touching the old man’s mind with his magic. The chancellor hesitated, his hand resting on the door handle for an instant before dropping to his side. The others were watching in grave silence, but Dusaan didn’t think they understood quite what was happening.
The Weaver glanced about the chamber, trying to decide what to do with Stavel now that he controlled him. It took him but a moment to decide. “Retrieve my sword, Chancellor, and bring it to me.”
Stavel looked at him, despair in his yellow eyes, but he could only obey. He crossed the chamber, pulled the sword from its scabbard, and walked back to where the Weaver stood.
“Lay the point against my chest.”
Stavel lifted the blade so that its point rested on the high chancellor’s breastbone.
“No doubt he’d like to kill me,” Dusaan said so that the others could hear, all the while keeping a tight hold on Stavel’s mind. “But I control him. He’s helpless to do anything other than what I command.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” Stavel whispered, a tear winding a crooked course down his face.
“Because you turned against me. Because you chose service to the Eandi over loyalty to your own people.”
“What are you going to do to him?” asked Bardyn, another of the old ones who had refused to join him.
“What would you suggest I do with him, Chancellor? He’s been spying on all of us for the emperor. He’s guilty of the worst kind of betrayal.”
“He was only doing what his sovereign asked him to do. Harel feared for his life and his court—with good reason it now seems—and he ordered Stavel to do this. Surely you can’t fault the chancellor for that.”
“So you would have done the same thing?” Gorlan demanded.
Bardyn glared at him briefly before looking away. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
Stavel’s hand was trembling. Dusaan could feel him fighting to win back control of his mind and body.
“Turn the sword on yourself,” he said.
Another tear slid from Stavel’s eye as he turned the blade and held the tip against his own chest.
The Weaver almost told the man to kill himself then. He intended to. He considered Stavel’s betrayal a crime against the Qirsi people, one for which the old man deserved to die. But looking at the others once more, he saw apprehension on their faces. Even Nitara seemed to be pleading silently for Stavel’s life, her pale eyes wide and brimming with tears. If this woman, who had willingly taken the life of her former lover, couldn’t bear to see the chancellor killed, how would the rest respond?
“You understand that it would be nothing for me to take your life, that you’ve earned such a death with all you’ve done?”
Stavel nodded.
“And you understand as well, that if you dare go to the emperor with any of this, I will kill you, and Bardyn, too.”
His eyes flicked toward his friend, then back to Dusaan’s face, the sword still pressed to his heart. “I understand.”
“Good.” Dusaan took the blade from him and released his hold on the man’s mind. Stavel blinked once, his entire body appearing to sag. “You’re to leave the palace at once, Chancellor. I don’t ever want to see your face again. If I do, your life is forfeit.”
Stavel started to say something, then seemed to think better of it. With one last glance at the others, he left the chamber.
“If any of you still intend to oppose me, you should leave now as well. My patience for traitors runs thin.”
There was a brief silence. Then Bardyn stood, crossed to the door, and pulled it open. Pausing on the threshold, he turned to stare back at Dusaan. “Stavel is right, you know. You’re all quite mad.”
Dusaan raised the sword, so that it pointed directly at Bardyn’s chest. “Not a word to anyone, Chancellor. You’ll find that a Weaver’s reach is not limited by walls, or mountains, or even oceans. Defy me now, and I’ll find you, no matter how far you run.”
The man blanched and pulled the door shut, his footsteps retreating quickly down the corridor.
“Anyone else?” Dusaan asked.
No one moved.
“I’m pleased,” he said. “And I welcome you to the Qirsi movement. Before this day is done the Imperial Palace will be ours, and soon after, all of Braedon. From there, it won’t be long until we’ve conquered all the Eandi courts and created a new land ruled by the Qirsi people and defended by Qirsi magic.”
“How will we take the palace, Weaver?” Nitara asked.
The high chancellor allowed himself a smile. “Leave that to me.”
* * *
Dusaan left his chamber a short time later, instructing the other Qirsi to remain there and await his return. He wouldn’t need them for what he intended to do next, nor did he wish for any aid. Harel was his. He had been anticipating this day for too long to share its pleasures with anyone else.
The guards at Harel’s door stopped him, of course.
“The emperor isn’t expecting you,” one of them said.
“I know that, but it’s rather urgent that I see him.”
The one who had spoken stepped into the imperial chamber, closing the door quietly behind him. After some time he reemerged, eyeing Dusaan with manifest distrust.
“What is it you want?”
“It’s a rather delicate matter, involving the fee accountings. I’d prefer not to say more than that.”
The man frowned, but went back into the chamber. When he returned to the corridor once more, he nodded to the other guard then faced the high chancellor. “You’ll have to remove your weapons.”
“Yes, I know. And I suppose I’ll have to wear that hood again as well.”
“I’m afraid so,” the man said, sounding more insolent than apologetic.
They took his dagger, tied the hood in place, and led him into the chamber. Dusaan sensed four guards in the chamber, two by the throne and two more by the door. Two of Harel’s wives sat in a far corner whispering to one another as a harpist played nearby. Harel was sitting on his throne as Dusaan entered, but he stood immediately and began to pace. The two guards who had accompanied the Weaver into the chamber withdrew, closing the door behind them.
“Well, High Chancellor?” Harel said, his voice tight. “What is it you want?”
“I thought your man explained that, Your Eminence.”
“Yes, yes, the fee accountings. What about them?”
The guards seemed content to remain where they were, no doubt believing that the hood rendered Dusaan powerless to harm the emperor. Within the muslin the Weaver smiled.
“I fear that some of your gold has been misused, Your Eminence.”
Harel stopped pacing. “What? How much?”
“Quite a lot actually. Several thousand qinde, at least.”
“Several thousand! How is this possible?”
“It’s difficult to say, Your Eminence. I found some notes that I had written down some time ago and I realized that the numbers on those notes were not consistent with what I remember being requested by the fleet commanders in the strait.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It would be easier to explain if we had the accountings here with us. Perhaps you can have the master of arms summoned.”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.” Harel approached the guards at the door. “Have the master of arms brought here at once, and make certain that he brings the fee accountings.” Harel hesitated, then turned to Dusaan. “All of them?”
“No, Your Eminence. Only the current one.”
“The current fee accountings,” Harel repeated to the guard, as if the man couldn’t hear.
The soldier left them, and Harel resumed his pacing.
For a long time the emperor merely walked, saying nothing, though Dusaan sensed his impatience mounting. The high chancellor would have liked for Harel’s wives to leave. The harpist, too. He had no desire to harm them, but neither could he have them running through the palace raising the alarm.
“How could this have happened?” Harel finally demanded, sounding like a petulant boy. “Where could the gold have gone if not to the fleet?”
“Your Eminence, it might be best if we discuss this matter in private.”
“What? Oh, yes, of course.” Dusaan heard him snap his fingers. An instant later the music stopped, as did the whispers and soft laughter. “Leave us. I’ll call for you again later.”
The two wives rose and walked quickly from the chamber, followed closely by the harpist.
“Now, Dusaan, can you tell me where this gold might have gone?”
“Actually, Your Eminence, I believe so.”
He sensed the emperor’s surprise. “You can? Where?”
“I think it will be easier to explain when the master of arms arrives with the fee accountings.”
“Damn you, Dusaan! Stop weaving mists and tell me what’s happened to my gold!”
Before the Weaver could respond, there came a knock at the door.
“Enter!” Harel shouted.
A guard stepped into the chamber to announce the master of arms, but the emperor cut him off and called for Uriad, who stepped past the man and knelt. The guard remained by the door, which Dusaan had expected. Four guards in all, the emperor, and Uriad.
“You asked for this, Your Eminence?” said the master of arms, apparently referring to the fee accountings.
“Yes. According to the high chancellor, some of my gold has been lost.”
He sensed Uriad turning to face him. “Before or after I took control of the accounts?”
“Before. The fault is mine, armsmaster, not yours.”
“I’ve been trying to get him to tell me where the gold has gone, but he won’t answer me.”
“It’s not that I won’t answer, but rather that I wanted Uriad to hear what I had to say.” He reached up and began to untie the cords that held his hood in place.
“What are you doing?” Harel demanded.
“I’m removing this damned hood.”
“Don’t you dare!”
Dusaan continued to work the knot loose.
“Stop him!” the emperor said, his voice rising.
The guards converged on him. The two who had been nearest the throne were closer, and so he struck at them first, hammering at them with his shaping power. He heard the muffled snapping of bone and the clattering of swords and mail as they fell to the floor. He didn’t even turn to kill the other two. His magic was as precise and lethal as a war hammer; it was as effortless to wield as an Uulranni blade.
The two guards from the corridor burst into the chamber. Dusaan whirled and conjured a great killing flame that enveloped them like a mist. Within seconds he heard their blades fall to the floor.
He sensed that Uriad was gathering himself for an assault.
“Don’t do it, armsmaster,” Dusaan warned, turning once more toward Harel and his master of arms. “The emperor would be dead before you took your first step. And neither of you had better call for help. I’ll kill you for that as well.” Without even looking back he summoned a wind that blew the doors closed.
“But you can’t see!” the emperor whispered.
The Weaver laughed. “You’re a fool, Harel. You collect Qirsi the way other men collect fine blades or Sanbiri mounts, but you’ve never bothered to learn anything about us or our magic. I don’t need to see you to use my powe
r against you. I can sense your every movement.” He pulled off the hood to find Harel staring at him as if the high chancellor had grown into some beast from a child’s darkest dream. Uriad stood near the emperor, his sword drawn, as if that might protect them. Just for amusement, Dusaan shattered the blade.
“What is it you want?” Harel asked, his voice quavering.
“It’s not a matter of what I want, Your Eminence. You’re the one who asked me what happened to your gold. I can tell you exactly what happened to every qinde, every silver that was diverted from your treasury. It has been given to the Qirsi movement.”
It took Harel a moment. “The Qirsi movement? You mean the conspiracy?”
“No, you fat fool, I mean the Qirsi movement. That’s what we call it. What I call it.”
“So you’re a traitor.” Uriad sounded calm, as a warrior should. Perhaps Kayiv had prepared him for this before his death.
“I’m more than that, armsmaster. I’m the traitor. I created what you call the conspiracy, and I’m its leader. And still, I’m even more than that. I’m the most powerful Qirsi either of you has ever known.” He smiled. “I’m a Weaver.”
That morning, when he revealed his powers to the emperor’s other Qirsi, he had reveled in their awe. This, he had thought at the time, is how Qirsi across the Forelands will receive me. With wonder and reverence. But that was nothing compared with the fear he now sensed from both the emperor and his master of arms. While his own people would exalt him, the Eandi would tremble before him. His people would see in him the embodiment of a glorious future; the Eandi would see in his powers the promise of their own doom. Harel’s terror strengthened Dusaan, until he felt that he was invincible, that entire armies were not enough to quell his power.
“A Weaver,” the emperor repeated, as if he had never heard the word before.
“By law, Weavers are to be executed.”
Dusaan regarded the master of arms, noting the fighter’s stance, the way his hand wandered toward the hilt of his dagger. “I respect you, Uriad. I want you to know that. I have nothing but contempt for our emperor here, for most Eandi really, particularly those one finds in the courts. But I’ve always thought that you were an uncommonly thoughtful man for one of your race.”