by DAVID B. COE
“Mother?”
“Get up,” the Qirsi soldier said, his voice flat.
“Please,” she sobbed, hot tears coursing down her cheeks. “Don’t do this.”
The Weaver kept his back to her, speaking in low tones with another of his soldiers.
“For pity’s sake, they’re just children!”
At that, he glanced back. “Yes. But one day they’d be men.”
Chapter Ten
The Weaver had told Nitara that they would be there, much the way a parent might tell a child that she was to have a younger sibling.
Two of my chancellors await us in the city, to join our assault on the castle and add their number to my army.
They had been at Galdasten’s pier waiting to greet the ship. When Dusaan stepped off the vessel, they knelt before him, compelling the rest in the army, those who had already ridden with him and killed with him, to do the same. A man and a woman. The man was a merchant, with an air of success and wealth about him. He was lean of face, but his body was thick and his belly round. He had lived well.
The woman was said to be a merchant as well, but Nitara found that difficult to believe. She was as young as Nitara, perhaps younger, with thick white hair that she wore loose to her shoulders, and brilliant yellow eyes that were almost a match for Dusaan’s. She was as lean as the other merchant was broad, as beautiful as he was plain. It took Nitara but a moment to understand that they weren’t a couple, that this woman had her sights set higher. One need only see how she looked at Dusaan to know just how high. Nitara hated her before they left the pier. By the time they reached the walls of Galdasten Castle, she was ready to plunge her blade into the woman’s back.
Jastanne ja Triln. The man’s name she already had forgotten, but the woman’s name stuck in her mind like a child’s rhyme, repeating itself again and again. Both merchants had shaping power and mists and winds—it was small wonder they had become chancellors in the Weaver’s movement, or that Dusaan welcomed them into his army with such enthusiasm.
Perhaps he didn’t notice how this woman eyed him, how her cheeks reddened every time their eyes met. Surely he would have been as discomfited by her affections as he had been by Nitara’s. This was no time for such thoughts. They were at war, fighting for the freedom of all Qirsi in the Forelands, fulfilling the dream that had brought them all to the Weaver’s cause in the first place. That was what the Weaver had told her, and that was what he would have told this woman, this Jastanne ja Triln, had he only noticed.
Except that as the Weaver strode toward the great fortress, flanked by his two chancellors, and followed by the rest, including Nitara, Dusaan did appear to notice. When had she ever known him to miss anything? In Jastanne’s case, it seemed he simply didn’t mind.
The ease with which they took the castle should have been cause for rejoicing. Even the unfortunate but necessary execution of Galdasten’s three young lords the following morning would not have been enough to dampen such a victory. But Nitara could think only of how the Weaver had trusted Jastanne and the other chancellor with tasks that would have fallen to her just a day before. He sent Jastanne into the city to find other Qirsi to join their cause; he had the man lead a group of several shapers to imprison Galdasten’s soldiers. In the span of a single day, she had become merely another servant of the Weaver, but a single soldier in a growing army.
The morning after their victory, with the grievous cries of the duchess still echoing through the castle and many of the newly recruited Qirsi guarding the fortress walls, they took nearly every horse in the city and castle, and started southward in pursuit of Galdasten’s army. Again, the chancellors rode with the Weaver; the rest trailed behind. Dusaan had barely said a word to Nitara since they docked in Galdasten; she had little choice but to ride with B’Serre, Rov, and the others from the court of Curtell. If the other ministers had noted her fall from the Weaver’s favor, they had the good sense not to mention it. They made room for her, so that she could ride beside them, and they continued their conversation. Nitara said nothing—she couldn’t take her eyes off the woman riding with her Weaver—but at least she didn’t have to ride alone, looking foolish and pitiable.
Late in the day, as they rested along the banks of a small rill, Jastanne approached them, leading her mount on foot, the wind making her hair dance, the setting sun gleaming like gold in her eyes. In spite of herself, Nitara could see what the Weaver might find attractive in this woman.
“Hello,” she called to them as she approached, a hand raised in greeting.
B’Serre and the others nodded, and Rov called out a tentative “Hello” in return.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all, Chancellor.”
She smiled, though it never reached her eyes. “Good. The Weaver asked me to speak with you. He intends to divide the army into smaller forces, and he’s placed Uestem and me in charge of doing so.”
“Has he really,” Nitara said, her voice flat.
Gorlan shot her a look, and gave a small shake of his head, but Nitara ignored him.
“You’ve been with us for less than a day, and already we’re to take orders from you?”
The smile lingered on Jastanne’s face as she eyed Nitara. Then she turned to the rest of them. “Shapers are to go with Uestem, as are those with fire magic. If you have mists and winds or language of beasts, you’re to stay with me. And if your powers place you with both of us, follow the deeper magic—if you have mists but also fire, stay with me, language of beasts and shaping, go with Uestem.”
“Yes, Chancellor,” Gorlan said. “Thank you.”
“We’ll ride a bit further today. We’ll divide into units tonight when we stop. Uestem will be on the west end of camp, and I’ll be to the east.”
The others nodded, and the woman’s smile broadened.
“I don’t know how all this will separate out, but I look forward to working with as many of you as possible.” She started to walk away, then halted, glancing back over her shoulder at Nitara. “Minister, would you walk with me for a moment?”
Nitara almost refused. She would have given anything for the courage to tell this woman exactly how much she hated her. But Jastanne was the Weaver’s chancellor, and Nitara knew that he would be furious with her. Besides, having both mists and winds and language of beasts, Nitara would be under the woman’s command. What could she do but follow? She knew the others were watching her, wondering if she had already pushed the chancellor too far, but Nitara didn’t look back at them.
“The Weaver has told me a good deal about you,” Jastanne said, when they were alone.
“Has he?”
“Yes. He tells me that you’ve served him quite well since joining the movement. He said you even killed an old lover who betrayed us.”
Quite unexpectedly, she found herself angry with the Weaver. She had never thought she could feel such a thing, but it was not his place to tell this woman what had happened with Kayiv. “What of it?” she demanded.
Jastanne stopped and stared at her, that smile on her lips once more. “You don’t care much for me, do you?”
Nitara looked away. “I hardly know you.”
“I could make the same point.”
“Was there something you wanted, Chancellor? A reason why you pulled me away from my friends?”
“I sense your hostility, Minister. I did before as well. And I want to know if I need to speak with the Weaver about this, if it compromises your ability to serve his movement.”
Nitara felt the color drain from her cheeks. “No, Chancellor.”
The woman regarded her for several moments. “What is it about me, Minister? Why do you hate me so?”
She shook her head. “It’s not … I don’t hate you.”
“Now you’re lying.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Wouldn’t I? Or are you afraid that I would, all too well?” The smile again, kinder this time. “You love him very much, do
n’t you?”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“There are others, you know. There are women in every realm who serve this movement. Do you really believe that you’re the only one who feels this way about him?”
“No,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Look at him,” the woman went on. “Do you really think that a man like that—a Qirsi king—will take but one wife? How many women did your emperor have?”
Nitara shrugged. “I don’t know. Several.”
“Yes. And so will the Weaver. You may well be one of them. And I might as well. We’re going to have to get along, you and I, not only during this war, but after it. So I’d suggest you put your hatred aside. The Weaver feels that you could be of value as a noble once we control the Forelands. You’d be a fool to do anything to change his mind.”
“I understand, Chancellor.”
“I have others to inform of our plans. We should be riding again shortly.”
Before Nitara could even nod to her, Jastanne turned and walked away, lithe and confident. Nitara watched her go, then started toward her mount, having no desire to face her companions again. Before she reached her horse, however, she heard Gorlan calling to her. She stopped, closing her eyes for just a moment.
“What?” she said, looking at the other Qirsi.
“Are you mad?” Gorlan asked, stopping just in front of her. “You can’t afford to anger that woman, no matter what you might think of her.”
“I know that, Gorlan,” she said crossly. “Thank you.”
“What did she say to you?”
“Basically the same thing you just did.”
“Well, you’d better listen. I don’t even understand why you’re so angry with her. What could she have possibly done to you?”
“Nothing, Gorlan. Nothing at all. Just leave me alone.”
He frowned, shaking his head. After a moment he left her, as did several of the others. Only B’Serre remained with Nitara.
“I think I understand,” the minister said softly. “And I don’t really blame you.”
Nitara raked a hand through her hair. “I’m a fool. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Sure you do. It seems pretty normal to me. Clearly the Weaver thinks highly of you. You were the one riding beside him before the chancellors arrived.” She gave a conspiratorial smile. “If I were you, I’d hate her, too.”
Nitara had to grin. “Watch what you say. You’ll get yourself in trouble.”
They stood in silence for some time, the smiles lingering on their faces. Nitara stared at the ground, uncertain of what to say next. She had few friends to speak of. Kayiv had been a friend once, before he began to share her bed. Before she killed him. She would never have been so bold as to call the Weaver a friend, but other than Dusaan, she had spoken to few people in the past several turns. She wasn’t quite certain how to behave around this woman who had gone out of her way to declare her friendship. She knew only that she didn’t want to do anything to drive B’Serre away.
“Gorlan’s probably right, you know,” the minister said at length, drawing Nitara’s gaze. “You shouldn’t anger her again. I don’t think you want her as an enemy.”
Nitara gave a small laugh. “It might be too late for that.” When B’Serre didn’t respond, she grew serious again. “I know. I’ll be careful.”
A short time later, the chancellors called for the army to ride on, and soon they were thundering across the moor again, their shadows stretching eastward in the dying light of the sun. When they stopped for the night, Nitara followed Jastanne to the eastern side of the camp. Most of the others who had ridden with her from Curtell, including B’Serre, Gorlan, and Rov, went to the other side, further darkening her mood.
Once the army had been divided, the chancellors began to divide it a second time between those who possessed the two magics each would command. A few on Jastanne’s side had both language of beasts and mists and winds. As before, she instructed them to follow the deeper magic. When Nitara started toward the group with mists, however, the chancellor stopped her.
“You have both?” she asked.
“Yes, Chancellor.”
Jastanne considered this. “Stay with those who have language of beasts.”
Nitara felt her face color. She knew that this was Jastanne’s revenge, that the chancellor was looking for some way to humiliate her for what Nitara had done earlier. But the minister refused to let herself grow angry. She merely bowed and murmured, “Yes, Chancellor.”
“You think I’m punishing you.”
“If you are, I’m sure you feel you have reason.”
Jastanne grinned—it seemed she responded to everything with a smile. “You’re controlling your temper, I’ll give you that much. But you have much to learn about me. I want you to remain with the other group because I need to choose a commander from among those with language of beasts. And I choose you.”
Nitara opened her mouth. Closed it again. “Why?”
“Because I trust you. I know that you’ll give your life for the Weaver’s cause. And I sense that you’re clever enough to lead them.”
“But I’ve never—”
“None of us has, Minister. You’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, Chancellor.” She had no idea what else to say.
“Your task, and that of your unit, will be to get as close to the mounted soldiers and nobles as possible. It promises to be dangerous work. The Weaver has also told me that he’s least likely to weave those with language of beasts. In most cases, it’ll be easier to unnerve their mounts one by one.”
“Of course.”
“That said, if you face a larger force on horseback, the Weaver may have to weave your powers with his own. You’ll need to be prepared for that.”
“I’ll make certain that we are, Chancellor.”
“I don’t doubt that you will.”
Nitara had never before thought of herself as a commander, and after the chancellor walked away, she knew a moment of panic. What if the others wouldn’t follow her? What if she made some terrible blunder and all of them were killed? She nearly ran after Jastanne to ask her what to do next, but she immediately thought better of it. The chancellor had given her a gift, in spite of how Nitara had treated her earlier in the day. No doubt it wouldn’t take much to make the woman reconsider her decision.
Taking a breath, Nitara turned to face the Qirsi standing near her. They were already watching her. A few she recognized, but most were strangers.
“My name is Nitara ja Plin,” she said. “I was a minister in the court of the emperor of Braedon until the Weaver revealed himself.” She hesitated. Their expressions hadn’t changed, and she wondered if she were going about this the wrong way. “The chancellor has asked me to command this unit of the army.” Still no response. She repeated for them what Jastanne had just told her, about how they would need to get close to the mounted Eandi, and how the Weaver would likely leave them to use their powers individually.
“Do you have questions?” she asked after another silence.
Nothing.
“Perhaps I’ll take some time to speak to each of you, learn your names and where you’re from.”
Were they simple? Had they understood any of what she told them? Or did they merely resent taking orders from a young minister?
“In the meantime, make camp. Start finding wood for fires and preparing your suppers.”
That set them in motion. Given something to do, they seemed to rouse themselves from a stupor. Perhaps there was a lesson there—to succeed as a commander, one first had to give commands.
Once the fires were burning, the smell of roasting fowl and boar hanging in the still air, Nitara began to make her way through the camp. Her conversations with the Qirsi in her unit quickly convinced her that they did not in fact resent her authority. None of them had ever been warriors before, and none aspired to command. Many of them had long sympathized with the Weav
er’s cause, but didn’t know how to go about joining the movement until Dusaan captured their cities. Others had joined when they did because they feared what might happen to them if they didn’t. All of them, it seemed, merely wanted someone to tell them what to do.
By the time she had spoken with all the soldiers under her command and returned to where her horse stood, chewing noisily on the moorland grasses, Nitara was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to eat something and sleep. Before she could even take a bite of the cold fowl left for her by one of the soldiers, however, she heard someone calling for her. It wasn’t until she turned and realized the man approaching her was a stranger that it occurred to her that he had been addressing her as “Commander.”
“Yes,” she said, with as much brightness in her voice as she could muster.
“The chancellors wish a word with us.”
Of course they did. She nodded. “Lead the way.”
She fell in step beside him, eyeing him briefly.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I don’t recognize you.”
“There’s no reason you should. I was an underminister in the court of Ayvencalde and was never fortunate enough to travel to the imperial city. The chancellor chose me to lead those with mists and winds. I’m Yedeg jal Senkava.”
“Nitara ja Plin.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, surprising her.
“You do?”
“You’re obviously quite important to the Weaver. He trusted you with a great deal in Ayvencalde.”
“Yes,” she said, facing forward again, her jealousy returning in a rush. “He did there.”