Weavers of War: Book Five of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  Yet what disturbed him even more than Elspeth’s allegations was the fact that Mittifar had been murdered. He never had any doubt that the conspiracy was responsible, which meant that they knew what Pillad had done before Renald’s soldiers reached the tavern, quite possibly before they even left the castle. There were other traitors in Galdasten, at least one of them in Renald’s court.

  Having no proof that Pillad was a traitor, they could not imprison him. So it was that he was in his chamber two nights later when the Weaver came to him in a dream, incensed and bent on vengeance. Never before had the minister endured such torment, and he hoped that he would die rather than suffer it again. The man burned him with white-hot flames, blackening the flesh on Pillad’s chest and back. He broke the minister’s ribs one by one, healed them, then broke them again. And all the while he raged at him for his betrayal. Pillad couldn’t remember any of what the Weaver said, having heard the words through a blinding haze of agony, but he did recall that the Weaver understood why he had done it, and that he expected Pillad to regain Renald’s confidence eventually.

  Pillad remembered something else from that night as well, a detail that reached him through the pain and terror and stuck in his mind long after he had awakened. All of the injuries dealt him by the Weaver were to his torso, where they would remain hidden from Galdasten’s Eandi. Even as he seethed, the Weaver recognized that Pillad had made himself valuable to the movement once more. Renald would turn to him again, would heed his advice and share with the minister his plans for answering the Braedony invasion. That must have been why the Weaver didn’t kill him, why, in fact, he mended all the wounds he inflicted on him. In the midst of his torture, this realization sustained Pillad, gave him strength he hadn’t known he possessed, served as a balm for his injuries. He mattered again. He had wondered for so long if he would.

  The duke’s suspicions lingered for some time. Elspeth’s had yet to fade entirely. But finally, in only the last few days, the minister had been welcomed back into the court. There was never any formal acknowledgment of this; he received no apology from Renald for his lack of faith, nor did the duke even ask him to join his daily discussions with the swordmaster. Just the other morning, nearly a full turn after the tavern keeper’s death, Pillad was in Renald’s chambers answering yet another round of questions about Mittifar and what Pillad had seen in his visits to the White Wave. After perhaps an hour Ewan arrived to discuss military matters with the duke, as he did every day. On this morning, however, Renald did not ask the minister to leave. Instead he launched directly into his conversation with the swordmaster. Pillad’s exile was over.

  That very night the Weaver came to him once again, and though Pillad’s climb to the plain where the man awaited him might have been somewhat more arduous than he recalled from previous dreams, nothing else about the encounter struck him as unusual. The Weaver asked him if Renald had come to trust him again, but clearly he knew the answer already. He asked about Renald’s plans, and he told the minister that the time was fast approaching when he would reveal himself to all the Forelands.

  “I want Galdasten to be at war when I do,” he went on. “I want Renald and his army on the Moorlands, fighting the empire’s invaders. Can you convince your duke to ride to war?”

  “I can, Weaver,” he said, knowing it was true. “Renald wants to fight. Every day that goes by with Braedon’s men in his city and the realm at risk, pains him. His swordmaster is much the same and will support me.”

  “Good. Then I expect this will prove quite easy for you.”

  “Not entirely. The duchess will oppose me.”

  “The duchess?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

  “Yes, Weaver. She holds sway in Renald’s court. If she can’t be convinced, Renald may resist.”

  “See that he doesn’t.”

  He knew better than to argue. If he failed the Weaver in this, his punishment would make their last encounter seem pleasant by comparison. “Of course, Weaver.”

  “You possess healing and fire magics.”

  “Yes, Weaver.”

  “They’ll prove useful when our war begins. I’ll weave your fire with that of a hundred other Qirsi. Entire armies of Eandi soldiers will fall before you.”

  Pillad had never considered himself a warrior, but he couldn’t deny that the idea of this thrilled him. “My magic is yours, Weaver.”

  The following morning, the eighth of Adriel’s waxing, the minister made his way to the duke’s presence chamber intending to raise the matter immediately. When he arrived there, however, he found the duchess with Renald and Ewan.

  “What is he doing here?” Elspeth asked, eyeing the minister warily as he stepped into the chamber.

  Renald winced, but quickly gathered himself, saying, in a reasonably steady voice, “I asked him here.”

  The duchess started to say something, then stopped herself, a thin smile flitting across her exquisite face. “I’m not certain that was wise, my lord. We don’t know yet that we can trust him.”

  “I believe we can.”

  Pillad could not remember ever hearing the duke speak so to his wife, and it made him all the more certain that he could be persuaded to march to war. By the same token, though, the minister decided then that he would not broach the matter that day, in Elspeth’s presence. Renald could only be expected to stand up to her so often before falling back into his usual submissiveness. In some respects Pillad and his duke were quite similar.

  The minister sat near the chamber door, far from the duchess and from the duke as well. He merely listened as their discussion began slowly and soon foundered. Ewan spoke of his own frustration and that of his men, their eagerness to fight, and the suffering of Galdasten’s people under the authority of the empire.

  Renald wore a pained expression and nodded his agreement several times, but he said little more than did Pillad. It fell to the duchess to answer the swordmaster’s plea for action, and she did so with no apology.

  “There’s more at stake here than a warrior’s pride, swordmaster,” she said, sounding like a parent scolding a thoughtless child. “I’d have thought that you understood that by now. How long has it been since a man from Galdasten sat on the throne, Renald?”

  She didn’t even look at him, and still the duke quailed, his normally ruddy face turning pale. “Nearly a century.”

  “Nearly a century,” she repeated. “And it’s been more than three hundred and fifty years since anyone challenged Thorald’s supremacy under the Rules of Ascension. We seek to change the course of history. We cannot rush this.”

  “And what of the people, my lady?”

  There could be no denying Ewan’s nerve.

  “That they suffer is regrettable,” she said, without any trace of regret. “But always there is a price for such momentous change.”

  That ended their discussion. The duke asked his swordmaster a few questions about the castle’s stores and readiness of the army should the time to march come soon, but within a few moments Ewan had stood and crossed to the door, clearly troubled by what the duchess had said.

  Pillad stood as well, intending to leave with him. Perhaps if they worked together, they might more easily convince the duke to oppose his wife.

  “Stay a moment, won’t you, First Minister?”

  He turned. Elspeth was eyeing him as a spider might regard a newly caught fly. “Of course, my lady.”

  She stood and began to pace as Ewan left the chamber. “You disagree with me,” she said.

  “I do, my lady.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I believe that the conspiracy was responsible for Lady Brienne’s death, and I fear that the duke is mistaken in opposing the king. I fear for the realm, indeed for all the Forelands.”

  She raised an eyebrow. Apparently she hadn’t expected him to speak against the conspiracy so forcefully. “So you believe that the Qirsi plot is connected in some way to the empire’s invasion?”

  “I believe it’s
possible. The barkeep in Galdasten City saw me in his establishment every day for more than a turn, but he didn’t offer me gold or speak to me of the conspiracy until after Braedon’s ships had appeared in Falcon Bay.” He shrugged, pleased with himself. “That isn’t proof, of course, but it does make me wonder.”

  “I see.” She continued to circle the chamber, as if lost in thought. After a time, she glanced at Pillad again. “That’s all, First Minister. You may go.”

  He cast a look at the duke, who gave a small nod and, Pillad thought, the barest hint of a smile. Offering a quick bow, he left them.

  Over the course of the next few days, Pillad met with the duke several times, but always with Elspeth present. It almost seemed that she was afraid to allow them to speak in private. Their discussions covered little that was new, while avoiding any mention of the war being fought on the Moorlands. For all Pillad knew, the duke was receiving daily reports on the fighting to the south, but Renald didn’t speak of them.

  Finally, on this, the thirteenth day of the waxing, Pillad arrived at Renald’s chamber to find that the duchess was not yet there. While still in the corridor he had heard Ewan’s voice, though he had been unable to make out any of what the swordmaster said, and with two guards standing by the door, he didn’t dare try to listen. Once he saw that the two men were alone, he had a good idea of what the swordmaster had been saying.

  “Come in, First Minister,” Renald said, waving him into the chamber and then pointing to an empty chair.

  “Are you certain I’m not interrupting, my lord?”

  “Not at all. The swordmaster has been telling me once more that it’s time we joined the fighting.”

  He didn’t even have to raise the subject himself. The gods were with him.

  “You know where I stand on the matter, my lord.”

  “Yes, I believe I do. You weren’t swayed by what the duchess said the other day?”

  “I’m certain you would make a fine king, my lord,” he said, speaking carefully. “And I think it possible that the situation on the Moorlands is already desperate enough that your arrival there will save the realm, placing you in a position to demand the crown. But I fear that if you wait too long in the hope of positioning yourself to be king, there will be no realm left for you to rule.”

  “Exactly!” Ewan said, sitting forward so suddenly that he nearly propelled himself out of his chair.

  “We always knew that I would have to strike a fine balance,” the duke said. “Els— The duchess merely wishes to make certain that we succeed.”

  “If I may, my lord,” Pillad said. “Such considerations ought to be secondary. Your people are suffering. The city of your forebears is overrun with the emperor’s soldiers. You should strike at them, drive them back to their ships. If you take the crown, so be it. But the time has come to act like a king.”

  As soon as he spoke the words, Pillad feared that he had gone too far. But Renald merely sighed, running a hand through his fiery hair.

  “You’re right, of course. But the duchess—”

  The door opened.

  “What about me?” She stood in the doorway, wearing a gown of red that nearly matched the duke’s hair, her dark eyes flitting from Renald to Ewan to Pillad, and then back to the duke. She stepped into the chamber and closed the door. “Well? What were you saying about me, Renald?”

  The duke stood. Pillad could see his hands trembling, but the duke still held himself straight. “I was saying that you still wish to wait before sending the army south. And I was going to add that I think you’re mistaken, and that I intend to strike at the emperor’s men come morning.”

  “I knew it,” she said, her voice heavy with contempt. She turned to glare at Pillad. “I knew that you’d turn him against me at the first opportunity.”

  Ewan stood as well. “Actually, my lady, I was the one who began this discussion. The first minister came in later and only added to what I had been saying all along.”

  “Then you’re all fools. And my husband is the biggest fool of all, for listening to you.”

  “Oh, Elspeth, be quiet.”

  Her cheeks colored as if he had slapped her, but after only a moment, she smiled. Clearly it was forced, a mask for her rage and humiliation, but it seemed as natural on her features as any smile Pillad had ever seen there. “Fine, Renald. If you wish to strengthen Glyndwr’s hold on the throne, and destroy any hope we might have had of ending the Rules of Ascension, so be it. I’ll not have any more to do with you.”

  The duke gave a curt nod. “Very well. As you pass the guards on your way out, please tell them that we’re not to be disturbed. We have preparations to make.”

  She glowered at them all, the muscles in her jaw clenched. Then she whirled away from them, flung the door open, and stormed from the chamber, saying nothing to the soldiers as she strode past them.

  For several seconds, none of the men spoke. They didn’t even move. Pillad and Ewan were both watching the duke, wondering whether he would go after her. But at last, he merely stepped to the door, closed it quietly, and turned to face them. He still appeared to be shaking, but he looked pleased with himself, as if he had just come through a sword fight unscathed.

  “We have a great deal to discuss,” he said. “I want Braedon’s men out of my city, but I don’t wish to spend too much time driving them off, and we can’t afford to lose many men. Suggestions?”

  Ewan was grinning now—it almost seemed that he, too, had won a battle of sorts. “Yes, my lord,” he said. “I’ve given this a good deal of thought.”

  Pillad had no doubt that this was so.

  * * *

  Renald knew that he would pay a price for what he had done this day. One did not spurn Elspeth, lady of Prindyr, duchess of Galdasten, as he had done, without inviting her wrath. For a time, she would refuse to speak to him at all, and after that she would take to insults, small barbs cast at him in front of his soldiers, his advisors, noble guests of the castle. The affections she had shown him in recent days were now forfeit. She would not share his bed again for some time, if ever. She might even seek to turn their sons against him, telling the boys that his cowardice and folly had cost them their chance to sit on the Oaken Throne. Elspeth had always been a proud woman, and today Renald had dealt her pride a blow. She would be slow to forgive; she would never forget.

  The duke, however, didn’t care. He would not go so far as to blame his wife for the humiliation of Galdasten’s people or the damage to the realm done by his own timidity. She had urged this course of action, but he was duke, and he had made the decision not to oppose Braedon’s invasion. She had preyed on his ambition, as well as on his fear of her, and he had allowed her to have her way. Ashamed as he was of what he had become, Renald would accept responsibility for it, not only in his own mind, but also when it came time to face Kearney. The hour was late, but at last he was ready to comport himself as befitted a duke.

  And it pleased him to do so. Merely sitting in his presence chamber, speaking with Ewan and Pillad of military tactics, he felt more like the leader of a great house than he had in many turns. Yes, he feared death. He would be as scared riding to this war as any boy newly enlisted in the Galdasten army. But there was some satisfaction to be found in that fear. Even the most frightened soldier marching to war was less a coward than the man who did nothing while his realm burned. Renald would endure Elspeth’s contempt, he would explain to his sons that ambition and duty to one’s realm were not always compatible, that honor should mean more to a man than should power. He didn’t want the crown—not this way. As to the rest, he thought with some chagrin, he would have to get used once more to bedding serving girls and ladies of the court.

  It became clear from the very start of their discussion that the swordmaster had spent days thinking of how they might break Braedon’s hold on Galdasten City. Ewan believed that under cover of a fierce assault from Galdasten’s archers, several large raiding parties could leave the castle by way of the sally
ports and strike at the Braedony soldiers who were camped outside its gates. Once they were defeated—and the swordmaster didn’t believe that would take long—Renald could send the full force of his army into the city to drive the invaders back to their ships.

  Ewan actually believed that the duke’s reluctance to act before now would work to their advantage.

  “They’ve grown lax, my lord. They don’t expect you to do anything.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on any of them.

  “No doubt generations from now, my descendants will celebrate the brilliance of our strategy.”

  Pillad grinned. “No doubt, my lord.”

  “Prepare your soldiers, swordmaster.”

  “My lord, I would suggest that we wait until dawn. If we do it in the middle of the day, Braedon’s men will have little trouble spotting the soldiers leaving the castle by way of the sally ports.”

  “What about dusk? The light will be more favorable then.”

  “Aye, my lord, dusk might be better for the initial assault. But if we wait until dawn—”

  “I don’t want to wait another night. We’ll strike at dusk. Ready your men, swordmaster.”

  Ewan frowned, but stood. “Yes, my lord. I’ll begin preparations immediately.”

  “Very good. Keep me informed of your progress.”

  Ewan bowed and hurried from the chamber, leaving Renald alone with his first minister. Renald had convinced himself that Pillad served him loyally, seeing Elspeth’s suspicions of the man as another of her ploys. The minister advocated going to war, and so she accused him of treason hoping that this would keep Renald from heeding his counsel. Yet, though certain of this, he couldn’t help but feel discomfited being alone with the Qirsi. He tried to tell himself that it had always been this way, that the white-hairs were strange, their powers unfathomable. Who among the Eandi enjoyed being around them? But he knew that there was more to his uneasiness. Try as he might to put the doubts out of his mind, he could not help but wonder if the man had betrayed him.