by DAVID B. COE
The two men Ewan had sent to scout the north rode into view as the duke and his swordmaster neared the rear of Galdasten’s army. Both men looked terribly young, their faces ashen in the moonlight.
“Report,” Ewan commanded.
“We watched th’ northern horizon as ye ordered, swordmaster. An’ at first we saw nothin’. But a few times we heard horses, or thought we did. And so we slows down and waits a bit. And then we sees ’em. A large army of riders followin’ behind us.”
“Riders?”
“Not just riders,” the other one said. “White-hairs. Must be two hundred of ’em.”
“Qirsi?” Ewan said, breathless, fear in his eyes.
“Where’s Pillad?” the duke asked, looking around for the man.
The swordmaster stared at him. “I don’t remember seeing him when we stopped.”
Renald closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face, fearing that he might vomit. “He wasn’t there,” he said, as certain of this as he was of his own name. “He’s already gone to join them.”
“You said there’s two hundred of them?” Ewan asked, turning to the men once more.
“Yes, swordmaster.”
“We’ve five times that many, my lord. Magic or no, we should be able to defeat them. We’ll marshal the men, make our stand right here. Archers on the flanks, swordsmen in the center.”
Renald nodded, but said nothing. Let the swordmaster and his men believe this. He knew better. These Qirsi had gotten past the force he left in Galdasten, and perhaps the Braedony fleet, as well. It would be a slaughter.
“Do you know what powers Pillad possesses?” he asked at last, gazing northward, waiting for a glimpse of the Qirsi army.
“Not all of them, my lord. I know he can heal, and I once saw him start a fire in his hearth with only a thought.”
Fire, yes. That was it. They’d all be killed by Qirsi fire.
* * *
Slipping away from Renald’s army was laughably easy, though it soured his mood for a time. That none of them should notice or care struck him as insulting, one final indignity among too many to count. Still, had a soldier spotted him, forcing him to fight or flee, it would have made matters considerably more difficult. It might have cost him his life. Better to be ignored than pursued.
Once he was clear of the Eandi army and the two scouts sent back by the swordmaster, he rode northward at a full gallop. And when at last he spotted the Qirsi army, he raised a hand, summoned a flame and his healing magic, and bore a bright beacon on his palm, announcing himself to his fellow warriors. Abruptly his heart was pounding, not with remorse at what he had done, nor with fear of the battle to come, but rather with anticipation. At long last, he was to meet the Weaver, to bow before the man who would lead the Forelands and guide his people to their rightful destiny. He wondered briefly if he’d recognize this man who he had only encountered previously in dreams.
He needn’t have worried.
The Weaver rode at the head of the army, his mane of white hair flying behind him like a battle pennon, his face chiseled as from alabaster. Uestem jal Safhir, the merchant who first recruited Pillad into the movement, rode on one side of him. On the other rode a slight, pretty woman who looked to be no more than a year or two past Fating age. And behind the three of them came an army of his people, mounted as he was, armed as well. The force was a mere fraction of the size of Renald’s, yet they had the look of conquerors from some tale of old.
Seeing Pillad, the Weaver raised a hand and his army came to a halt. The minister slowed his mount, but didn’t stop until he was only a few paces from the Weaver. Then he dismounted and dropped to one knee.
“Weaver. I am Pillad jal Krenaar, first minister of Galdasten. I offer myself to your service.”
“Rise, Pillad.”
He straightened.
“Your duke’s army is near?”
“Yes, Weaver. Perhaps half a league ahead. No more.”
“Good. You’ve done well. You’ll ride with Uestem, who commands those with shaping and fire.”
The minister bowed again. “Yes, Weaver. Thank you.” He started to remount, but then hesitated. “My pardon, Weaver. I know that it’s not my place, but I’d ask that you use fire magic against my duke.”
“Why?”
“It’s the one magic I wield that can be used as a weapon. I want Renald to know that I was part of the army that destroyed him.”
The Weaver regarded him briefly, then nodded. “So be it.”
Pillad climbed onto his horse and fell in behind Uestem. The merchant nodded to him as he rode past, but kept silent. Once the minister would have been desperate for any word of greeting from the man, having harbored affection for him. But he cared now only for war and flame. There would be time for other considerations after their victory. For now, Pillad was just as glad to have the merchant treat him as merely another warrior.
They started southward and soon encountered the scouts. The woman riding beside the Weaver said something, but he shook his head.
“Let them go. They’re nothing.”
Not long after, they saw the army of Galdasten arrayed before them on the Moorlands in a great crescent.
“There will be archers on the flanks, Weaver!” Pillad cried out.
The Weaver looked back at him, and for a moment the minister worried that he had angered the man. But the Weaver simply nodded. “I know.” He swept the others with his gaze. “Mists and winds!” he called.
Immediately a wind started to blow, building swiftly to a gale that howled in the stones and flattened the moorland grasses. Pillad grinned. Let Renald’s archers contend with that!
The Weaver turned to Uestem and his warriors. “Fire!”
An instant later, Pillad felt something tugging at his mind. It took him only a moment to understand that it was the Weaver reaching for his magic and that of the others. He made no attempt to resist and abruptly felt power flowing through his body like sunlight through glass.
At the same time, a flame appeared just in front of the Qirsi army, brilliant blue at its center, bright yellow above that, and orange at its top. For a single heartbeat it remained where it was, seemingly suspended in midair. Then it began to move toward the Eandi soldiers, slowly at first, but building speed quickly. As it rushed forward, it grew larger as well, until it towered over the battle plain like a huge fiery cloud. It lit the faces of Galdasten’s warriors, so that all the Qirsi could see their fear and despair.
Pillad saw his duke then. The man’s mouth was open as if he were wailing, the killing blaze shining in his eyes. The minister almost hoped that Renald would look at him, so that he might know that Pillad had killed him, that he had contributed his magic to this spiraling storm of flame. But the duke seemed incapable of looking away from the fire. He was still staring up at it when the full force of the magic crashed down upon his army, swallowing him and the soldiers around him, blackening the ground, lighting the Moorlands as if a piece of Morna’s sun had fallen to the earth. Renald hadn’t even drawn his sword.
Pillad wanted to laugh aloud. Never before had he felt so strong, so alive. Never before had he been so free.
Chapter Eleven
Glyndwr Highlands, Eibithar, Adriel’s Moon waning
Abeni ja Krenta, archminister of Sanbira, lay on the damp ground, staring up at the few pale stars that still lingered in the brightening blue sky. Around her, the camp was coming to life slowly, warriors awakening, horses nickering in anticipation of another day’s ride.
The archminister had been awake for some time. Her encounters with the Weaver always left her too unsettled to sleep, and on this past night he had come to her when the sky was still black, speaking to her only briefly before leaving her, no doubt to walk in the dreams of another of his servants. She had not entertained any hope of falling asleep again, but neither did she think it prudent to leave her sleeping roll and walk, as she often did back in Yserne after the Weaver came to her. So she lay where she was, tryi
ng to still her racing heart and slow her breathing, and turning over in her mind all that the man had told her.
Any doubts that might have lingered in her mind as to the purpose of this war in the north to which she and Sanbira’s army were riding had been dispelled tonight. Braedon’s invasion of Eibithar had been contrived by the Weaver’s movement—he had all but said so. The armies of the Eandi were destroying one another, so that when the Weaver and his army struck at them, they would be too weakened to defend themselves. That Sanbira’s queen had elected to join this war pleased him greatly.
“Your army should arrive at nearly the same time as the Solkarans,” he had said. “With so many of the Foreland’s powers there, making war on one another, our task grows simpler by the day. By convincing the queen to fight you’ve made our victory that much more certain. You’re to be commended.”
Abeni explained that she had little to do with the queen’s decision, but he continued to praise her, particularly after learning that the first ministers of Macharzo and Norinde, both of whom served his movement as well, rode with her.
“Three of you together,” he said. “Truly the gods must be with us.”
There was little she could say, except, “Yes, Weaver.”
“Don’t reveal yourselves yet. Do nothing to delay your queen’s arrival at the battle.” She could hear the excitement in his voice, and she found that she felt it, too. They were approaching the culmination of their efforts, the final battle for which they had been preparing these long years. Yet, even recognizing this, she hadn’t been prepared for what he said next.
“Look for me when you reach the battlefield.”
“What?”
“I’ll be there. I’m not going to reveal myself to you now, but you’ll know me, you’ll feel me as I reach for your power. Be prepared to give your magic to me so that I can wield it as my own against the enemy. Tell the other two to do the same. Our time is at hand. The Forelands will soon be ours.”
The archminister had nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.
“One more thing. There’s a man with Eibithar’s army, a Qirsi named Grinsa jal Arriet. He claims to be a mere gleaner, but he’s far more. This man is dangerous. Keep away from him. When the time comes, I’ll deal with him myself. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Weaver,” she whispered. “Do we also have allies among the Eibitharians?”
For a moment the Weaver said nothing, and Abeni wondered if she had angered him. When he did answer, however, his tone was mild. “Actually, yes. Usually, I don’t reveal such things, but it may be time that I started to bring together those who serve me in different realms. There is a woman—your counterpart actually.”
“The archminister?”
“Yes. But don’t approach her unless you absolutely must. The risks are far too great.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“The hour of our victory approaches. Until then.” An instant later, she was awake, shivering in the darkness, though with excitement or fear or simply the cold, she couldn’t say. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have another take hold of her magic, to give herself over to a man so completely. Though she had never taken a husband, she had shared her bed with many, both men and women. She wondered if it would be anything like the act of love.
Since learning that the queen intended to ride to war, and listening as Olesya speculated as to whether this conflict was connected in some way with the conspiracy, Abeni had feared that the Eandi might yet find a way to thwart the Weaver’s plans. In the wake of her dream, however, she was reassured. The Weaver had spoken of the coming war with such confidence that she couldn’t help but take heart. There was a portent in this dawn she was witnessing, the promise of a new era in the singing of the larks and the earliest golden rays of sunlight. For the first time since leaving Yserne with the Sanbiri army, she was anxious to be riding. When at last the soldiers and nobles and other ministers began to stir, she rose, bundled her sleeping roll, and saddled her mount with the exuberance of a young warrior riding to her first battle.
Olesya, the queen, expected Abeni to ride with her, just as the dukes of Brugaosa and Norinde, and the duchess of Macharzo assumed that their ministers would ride with them and their armies. The nobles of Sanbira had long since lost faith in their Qirsi, their trust shaken by the attempts on the life of duchess Diani of Curlinte and the death of Kreazur jal Sylbe, her first minister—or, more precisely, his murder, for which Abeni was responsible. Eager as the archminister was to tell Craeffe and Filtem of her dream, she would have to await an opportunity, or create one. Diani herself had ridden with the queen as well, and seemed to have taken it upon herself to keep watch on the archminister. Whether she expected Abeni to make an attempt on Olesya’s life or to flee the war party at her first chance, the minister couldn’t say, but as their journey into Eibithar continued, she had found the woman’s constant presence increasingly bothersome. On this day, she no longer cared. Let Diani of Curlinte indulge her suspicions and her lust for vengeance. Abeni had nothing to fear from her, nor did the movement. The woman would be crushed with the rest of them, destroyed by the combined might of the Weaver and those who served him.
Abeni actually smiled at the duchess as they began to ride.
“Good day, my lady. I trust you slept well?”
Diani frowned, as if confused by Abeni’s courtesy. “Yes, thank you. And you?”
“Very well, thank you.” The lie came to her with such ease that she nearly laughed aloud.
Even the prospect of another lengthy ride was not enough to dampen her spirits. They had come a great distance already—the ride from Yserne to Brugaosa alone had been over forty leagues—and Abeni, who had spent little time riding before then, was in agony day and night, her muscles aching.
Once the duke of Norinde and the duchess of Macharzo reached Edamo’s castle with their warriors, the journey began in earnest. After fording Orlagh’s River into Caerisse, the Sanbiri army rode northwest, between the duchies of Aratamme and Valde. They then forded the headwaters of the Kett River and began the arduous climb into the Glyndwr Highlands, crossing into Eibithar in the midst of a violent storm. Throughout their travels, Olesya had assured the minister that she would grow accustomed to riding, that her body would soon learn to move with her mount, but Abeni’s discomfort only grew worse, until she wondered how she would ever make it all the way to Eibithar’s Moorlands.
Over the past few days, however, as they made their way through the highlands passing close to Glyndwr Castle and its sparkling jewel of a lake, her pain had finally begun to subside.
Hearing the cheer with which Abeni greeted Curlinte’s duchess, the queen slowed her mount, allowing the two of them to catch up with her. Her master of arms, Ohan Delrasto, slowed as well, though he didn’t look pleased. Abeni had noticed that he often seemed to resent those who intruded upon his time with the queen, and she wondered if the old warrior fancied himself a suitor for Olesya’s affections.
“You’re in a fine mood today, Archminister,” the queen said. “I take it you and your mount have reached an understanding.”
Abeni grinned. There were times when she did like Olesya. “I suppose you could say that, Your Highness. It may be more accurate to say that my horse has finally succeeded in training me.”
The queen laughed. “Well said! I’ve long believed that the first step in becoming a true rider is giving up the illusion of control. As my mother used to say, we may hold the reins, but the horse holds us.”
Diani frowned again. “I’ve been riding since I was a child, and I always have control over my mount.”
“My mother also used to speak of the arrogance of youth,” Olesya said, a conspiratorial tone in her voice.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“It seems I’m outnumbered,” the duchess said, raising an eyebrow.
They crested a small rise, and beheld a sight that took Abeni’s breath away. Ahead, less than half a league off, the earth seemed to fall a
way, as if Elined had carved a great hole in the surface of her world. They had reached the edge of the Caerissan Steppe. To the east, the waters of Binthar’s Wash churned and rumbled, glimmering like a river of sapphires, toward a great waterfall from which rose a fine white mist. Beyond the rim of the steppe and a thousand fourspans below them, the Moorlands stretched toward the horizon. Brilliant green, they were bounded on the east by the wash, which looked like little more than a thin blue ribbon, and on the west by the great Sussyn River. Farther to the east, so dark that it looked almost black, stood Eibithar’s North Wood, nearly as vast as the Moorlands and divided by yet another river, the Thorald, if she remembered correctly.
“What are these falls?” Diani asked in a hushed voice.
“Raven Falls, I believe,” the queen said. “I’d never go so far as to say that any realm was as beautiful as our own, but surely Eibithar comes closest.” She inhaled deeply, as if trying to breathe in the splendor. “We’ll rest here briefly before beginning the descent.” She cast a sympathetic glance at Abeni. “I’m afraid going down from the highlands will be no easier than the climb into them.”
A moment later they were joined by the dukes of Brugaosa and Norinde, the duchess of Macharzo, and their Qirsi.
Craeffe and Filtem still looked ill at ease atop their mounts, and Abeni took some solace in knowing that however much she would suffer on the way down from the highlands, they would suffer more. She shared their cause, but she had never liked either of the Qirsi, particularly Craeffe, who had long envied Abeni’s status as a chancellor in the Weaver’s movement. Fortunately, their mutual dislike made it far easier for them to spend time in each other’s company without drawing the attention of Olesya and her nobles. The real danger was not Diani or the queen—Abeni and her allies knew better than to say anything revealing in front of them. But the fourth Qirsi in their midst, Vanjad jal Qien, Brugaosa’s first minister, remained loyal to his lord and to the realm. As far as Abeni could tell, the man had never even considered whether his duke deserved such devotion. He was, in her mind, the worst kind of Qirsi traitor.