by DAVID B. COE
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.
Chapter Seven
Galdasten, Eibithar
It was a siege without blood, a war without swords, at least for the people of Galdasten. Bodies still washed ashore occasionally, bloated and foul, still held together by the purple and gold uniforms that bound them. Braedon’s men had recovered their own from the waters after the naval battle ended and Eibithar’s fleet, or what little was left of it, fled Falcon Bay. But they had left Eibithar’s dead to the surf.
It was but one indignity among many. The emperor’s men had set fire to much of the city before marching past the castle and on toward the Moorlands. Those soldiers who remained—perhaps six hundred—had garrisoned themselves in the few homes and buildings they left standing. They patrolled the city as if they owned it, enforcing a strict curfew, closing the taverns, taking the ale and food for themselv
es, and confiscating the wares of those peddlers foolish enough to enter Galdasten. They maintained a presence outside the walls of Galdasten Castle, but they needn’t have bothered. Renald, Galdasten’s duke, had no intention of challenging their supremacy within his city, nor had he shown any willingness to pursue the bulk of Braedon’s army, which had long since marched southward.
Pillad jal Krenaar, Galdasten’s first minister, felt certain that even as the men and women of the city took refuge in the wards of the duke’s castle, they cursed Renald’s name, seeing him as a traitor to his realm and his people. Had the minister been in their position, he would have done the same. He was just as certain that Renald suffered for his own compliance with the enemy. He seldom left his chambers, speaking only with the duchess, his swordmaster, and Pillad, who had managed at last to regain the trust of Galdasten’s Eandi leaders.
Pillad’s betrayal of the Qirsi barkeep in Galdasten City had been but the beginning of an ordeal he thought might end with his own execution. Indeed, had he known what his accusations against Mittifar jal Stek would do to his own life, he might never have made them in the first place. But on that day in Elined’s turn he hadn’t been thinking at all. He had been angry, still smarting from the humiliation of the tavern keeper’s refusal to serve him Thorald ale. He had also grown weary of being ignored, of being viewed by Qirsi and Eandi alike as useless. He was eager to reclaim his influence within Renald’s court, and he had known that by sacrificing Mittifar, like Pillad, a member of the Weaver’s conspiracy, he would enhance his own influence.
He had been pleased with himself when the duke’s men left the castle to arrest the man. When they returned empty-handed and reported to Renald that the tavern keeper was dead, Pillad felt his entire world shudder, as if Elined had pounded at Galdasten Tor with her mighty fist. The duchess accused him of being a liar and traitor, of arranging the tavern keeper’s murder in order to gain the duke’s trust while at the same time masking his own treachery. She even speculated that he had broken Mittifar’s neck himself, though this much Renald and his swordsmaster told her was impossible. Ewan Traylee pointed out that the tavern keeper had been too large and powerful for a man of Pillad’s stature to best in a physical fight, and the duke made it clear that Pillad didn’t possess shaping power. Still, the accuracy of her accusation left the first minister so badly shaken that he barely managed to speak in his own defense.