Weavers of War: Book Five of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  “Do you want me to speak with the king?”

  The gleaner had to smile. Tavis had grown a good deal in the past year. “No, thank you,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Shanstead’s suspicions will prove useful as long as Keziah is still maintaining her deception.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Tell me about these stories you’re hearing.”

  “Actually most of them are coming from my father. He’s saying that along with Fotir and the archminister, you held off the entire Aneiran army.”

  Grinsa laughed. “That’s not quite true.”

  “Still, that’s what he’s saying. He also told me that Aindreas accused you of putting a hole in his castle so that I could escape. Now, he said as well that Fotir claimed to have shaped the hole himself, but my father doesn’t believe that for a moment.” He paused, eyeing the gleaner. “You do see where I’m going with all this.”

  “I do,” the gleaner said, rubbing a hand over his face. It wasn’t as funny anymore.

  “He wasn’t just telling stories, Grinsa. He took me aside and started asking questions about you, about your powers, about what I’ve seen you do during our journeys together. My father’s no fool. He may not know as much about Qirsi magic as I do at this point, but he’s going to figure this out. He might have already.”

  “What will he do when he does?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I need his support, Tavis. With Shanstead telling everyone who’ll listen that I’m a traitor, and Aindreas still bitter over your escape, I’ll need all the friends—”

  “You’re going to tell them?”

  “I haven’t much choice. Even now, the king is preparing for a final battle with the empire. I can’t allow that to happen. If these armies destroy one another, we’ve no hope of defeating the Weaver. As it is, we might have lost too many men already. I intend to reveal to the nobles that I’m a Weaver, to try to make them see what it is we face. I’m hoping that I can convince them to sue for peace with the Braedony army.”

  “They won’t do it.”

  “They have to.”

  Tavis shrugged. “They won’t. You’ve taught me a good deal about your people and your magic during this past year. Now, let me tell you something about the Eandi courts of Eibithar. They don’t tolerate invasions. It amazes me that you convinced them to spare the lives of those Solkarans. You might get them to do the same with what’s left of the empire’s force, but you’ll never convince them to sue for peace, much less fight beside them. I do know what’s at stake, and I’ve half a mind to destroy their army anyway.”

  “I understand what you’re telling me. But still, I have to try.”

  “I know you do,” Tavis said, sighing. “I’ll do all I can to convince my father. He can be stubborn, although no more so than I.” A smile touched his lips and was gone. “After all you’ve done for me, he won’t be one of those calling for your execution. I can promise you that.”

  “Thank you, Tavis.”

  “Have you told Keziah what you intend to do?”

  “Yes.” Grinsa faltered, but only briefly. Tavis should know all of it. He had earned that much. “You should also know that I intend to enter the Weaver’s dreams tonight.”

  He expected the young lord to express amazement, or perhaps to tell him that he was a fool. Instead Tavis just nodded, and said, “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  They stood in awkward silence for several moments. It seemed to Grinsa that they had reached some sort of ending, as if all that they had shared since Tavis’s escape from Kentigern was drawing to a close. And strangely, the gleaner found himself saddened by this.

  “I suppose everything is going to be different once others know,” the boy said. The smile sprang to his lips again, looking forced and bitter among the scars Aindreas had left on his face. Once Grinsa had thought that the scars fit the boy, giving him a hardened look that was a match for his difficult manner. That was when they first began to journey together. Over the course of the past year, however, as they searched for Brienne’s assassin and prepared for this war, their relationship changed. Tavis changed. Where once he had been a selfish, undisciplined child, he now stood before Grinsa a man, still with his faults to be sure, but more mature than the gleaner would have thought possible. With time, perhaps, as Tavis’s face aged, adding other lines, and softening the effect of the old wounds, he’d look wise and strong. That struck Grinsa as more apt now.

  “I won’t be the notorious one anymore,” Tavis said after a moment. “They’ll all be looking at you.”

  “I’d think that you’d welcome that.”

  “I guess I should.”

  “But?”

  Tavis shrugged, then shook his head. “But nothing.” The smile lingered, grew warmer. “What a pair we make.”

  Before Grinsa could answer, Tavis stepped forward and gathered him in a rough embrace.

  “Thank you, Grinsa,” he whispered. Then he pulled back, turned away, and hurried off.

  The gleaner wandered off in a different direction, eventually taking a seat on a large grey stone and watching the sun set. As darkness gathered around the armies, the soldiers lit fires and the faint smell of roasting fowl reached him. He hadn’t eaten since morning, but he wasn’t hungry. He remained where he was, watching as stars began to spread across the night sky. Fragments of conversations reached him, occasionally he heard a burst of laughter, or the sound of rough voices singing some Eibitharian or Sanbiri folk song. After some time, Keziah came to him and sat as well. He thought that she would resume her argument against what he was planning, but she said nothing, just rested her head on his shoulder, and stared up at the stars. Eventually she began to nod off, jerking herself awake more than once. At last she stood, yawning deeply. Gazing at him in the darkness, she smiled sadly. Then she kissed his cheek, gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and moved off, leaving him alone with the soft wind and the distant, mournful cry of an owl.

  Still he waited, watching for the moons. Only when both were up, did he finally close his eyes and stretch his mind forth, searching for the Weaver. He had known to look northward, expecting that Dusaan would be on the waters beyond Galdasten. Instead, he found the Weaver in the company of nearly two hundred Qirsi on the moors south of the castle, only a few days’ ride from the battle plain. Fear gripped him and he nearly opened his eyes once more and went immediately to Kearney. But such a warning could wait a short while—Dusaan and his army weren’t on the move just now. And the truth was, Grinsa wanted to face this man again. He wanted to prove to himself, and to the Weaver, that he could stand against the high chancellor’s power. He wasn’t proud of this—it was something he would have expected of Tavis, not himself—but there could be no denying the strength of the impulse. It was more than he could resist.

  Taking one long, final breath, he entered Dusaan’s mind.

  He had chosen the moors near Eardley for their encounter—the same place he usually spoke to Keziah when he entered her dreams. It was where he felt most comfortable; he wanted to keep all his attention on the Weaver and what he said, without having to give a thought to their surroundings. Still, he made certain that the sun was high overhead. Dusaan liked to hide his face during such encounters. Grinsa wouldn’t allow him that luxury.

  An instant later, Dusaan stood before him, dressed in warrior’s garb, an amused grin on his square face.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” he said.

  Without bothering to respond, Grinsa reached for the man’s power—shaping first, then fire, then healing. Dusaan blocked his efforts with ease.

  “You disappoint me, gleaner. You didn’t really think that you’d best me with such a predictable attack.”

  “It was worth trying.”

  Dusaan shrugged indifferently. “I suppose, though it seems to me that you do our relationship a disservice.”

  “We have no relationship.”

  “No? I walk in your dreams, you walk in min
e.” He smiled. “People will talk.”

  Again Grinsa tried to take hold of the Weaver’s healing power, but Dusaan had an iron grip on all his magic. The gleaner sensed no fear in the man. Only confidence, an unshakable faith in his own strength and the inevitability of his victory.

  “Be honest with me, Grinsa. You’ve never known another Weaver, have you?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Nor have I. We share something unique. Before this moment, no one had ever entered my dreams as you’ve done. Just as I was the first to walk in your dreams. You can protest all you like, but we share a kinship, even if it is based solely on our desire to kill one another.”

  “We’re both Weavers, but beyond that we have nothing at all in common. I’ve seen the things you do—you’re cruel, arbitrary, ambitious beyond reason.”

  The Weaver shook his head, making a clicking noise with his tongue. “All this because I hurt your love? You judge me too harshly.”

  Grinsa didn’t answer immediately. He needed to be more careful. As Keziah had told him, the Weaver could sense his emotions, and the last thing Grinsa wanted was to betray his sister’s secret.

  “I know what I’ve seen,” he said at last.

  “Cresenne betrayed me. Can you honestly say that an Eandi lord wouldn’t do the same to a traitor?”

  “That’s a strange defense of your actions. You speak of a new future for the Qirsi people, and yet you look to the Eandi courts to justify torture.”

  “Don’t try to goad me, Grinsa. It won’t work, nor is it necessary. No doubt you wish to know my plans, to divine the ploys I intend to use against your Eandi friends. The truth is, there are no ploys. I plan to lead my army onto the Moorlands and defeat the armies of the Forelands in battle. You found me, so you know where we are and how many I command. I don’t care. I’m sure you count it a victory that you can see my face, but at this point that doesn’t concern me, either. I’ve nothing to fear from Kearney and his allies, or from you for that matter. I defeated the emperor’s army with but a handful of Qirsi. I took Ayvencalde with less than half the number of Qirsi I have now. My army is the most powerful force to travel the Forelands in nine hundred years. There isn’t an army you could assemble that would stand against us.”

  “That army of nine centuries ago was defeated, and yours will be as well.”

  A bright angry grin lit the Weaver’s face. “No, Grinsa. You’re wrong. The Qirsi army of old was betrayed. But I know these Qirsi—my Qirsi. There’s no Carthach here.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  Dusaan’s grin deepened. “Because you’re the only Carthach in the Forelands. You’ve already betrayed your people, and we’re going to prevail in spite of you.”

  Now who was doing the goading? Grinsa shouldn’t have been bothered, but this talk of Carthach—why had he even mentioned the ancient traitor in the first place?—hewed too closely to his own deepest fears to be ignored. He knew that this man before him was not fit to lead his people, much less all the realms of the Forelands. But he knew as well that his people deserved to be treated better than they were by Eandi nobility, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he would be remembered as the Weaver who betrayed his people by fighting to save their oppressors.

  “I’ve silenced you,” the Weaver said. “How glorious.”

  There was nothing for him to say. All that was left, in his desperation and his fear, was to make one last attempt at killing the man. He grappled for the Weaver’s power once more, lunging for it with his mind, battering at Dusaan’s defenses. Fire, shaping, healing—any magic that might allow him to exact revenge for what the Weaver had done to Cresenne, what his schemes had done to Tavis, what the need to defeat him had done to Keziah. And again, he failed. Dusaan actually laughed at him, as if Grinsa were a child leaping to catch hold of wonders that hung beyond his reach.

  Then, without warning, the Weaver did something Grinsa hadn’t anticipated, hadn’t even thought possible. With one quick stride forward, he stretched out a hand, taking hold of the gleaner’s throat. Abruptly Grinsa couldn’t breathe. It shouldn’t have been possible. There was nothing in Grinsa’s knowledge of Qirsi magic to explain it. Yet there could be no denying the pressure on his neck, the sudden burning of his lungs.

  “You thought to enter my dreams?” the Weaver demanded, his hot breath on Grinsa’s face. “You believed yourself powerful enough to use my magic against me? You’re nothing, gleaner.” He said the word with contempt, as if he were calling Grinsa a whoreson. Or a traitor.

  He struggled to free himself, then stopped, realizing that this was just what the Weaver wanted him to do, just what he had warned Cresenne and Keziah not to do. Instead, he took hold of his own magic again, breaking free of Dusaan’s control. An instant later, he drew breath again. Dusaan still stood just before him, his hand at Grinsa’s throat. But the gleaner no longer felt the man’s touch.

  Dusaan gave a wry smile. “Very good, gleaner. You did that quite well. Of course a man of your power shouldn’t have allowed me access to your magic in the first place, but I’m sure that when you tell your king of this encounter, you’ll leave out that small detail.”

  An instant later, everything went dark. Grinsa warded himself, grasping at his magic as if it were a battle shield. Only after a few moments did he understand that the Weaver had ended their conversation, waking himself with ease. The gleaner couldn’t help but remember how he had struggled to thrust the Weaver from his mind when Dusaan invaded his dreams.

  He opened his eyes, bracing himself with his hand to keep from toppling over. The stars above him seemed to pitch and spin, as if he were a feather blown about by a harvest wind. He squeezed his eyes closed, opened them again. After some time, the stars began to slow.

  When he could walk again, he made his way to Kearney’s tent. Most in the camp were asleep, but a candle still burned within the king’s shelter and after a word with Kearney, a guard allowed Grinsa to enter.

  The king sat at a small table, a modest, half-eaten meal before him. He looked weary. Even in the candlelight, Grinsa could see the dark lines under his pale eyes. “Yes, gleaner. What is it?”

  “I went to the Weaver, Your Majesty, as I told you I would.”

  Kearney stood, nearly upsetting the table. “I had forgotten. Did you…? Were you able to hurt him?”

  “No, Your Majesty. But I did learn something of his plans. He’s closer than we thought—no more than two or three days’ ride from here. He leads an army of some two hundred Qirsi.”

  “Two hundred?” the king repeated, frowning.

  “It’s more than it sounds, Your Majesty. With two hundred Qirsi he can destroy all of the armies on this plain.”

  “But you’re a Weaver as well, with Qirsi on your side. Surely you can help us defeat him.”

  “I’ll do my best, Your Majesty. He’s … he’s very powerful.”

  “As are you.”

  “Yes, but he has more Qirsi with him than I do. And he’s been using his power as a weapon far longer than I have.”

  “Still, your presence here must mean something.”

  “I hope it will, Your Majesty, but I’m not strong enough to do this on my own. You need to end this war with Braedon.”

  “I intend to try. I’ve been trying.”

  “No, Your Majesty, you don’t understand. I don’t mean defeat them. I’m asking you to sue for peace and end this conflict before others die.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “It’s the only way. We can’t afford to lose any more men.”

  “The empire invaded this land! Harel seeks the conquest of Eibithar! And you want me to make peace with him?”

  “Harel no longer rules Braedon, Your Majesty! Dusaan has defeated the part of his army that remained in Curtell. For all we know, the emperor is dead. The conspiracy is your enemy, just as it’s the enemy of every sovereign in the Forelands. Even if you defeat Braedon’s men, this war you’re fighting now will destroy y
ou. I beg of you: end it while you can, and prepare for the true battle.”

  Kearney sat again, looking confused and more than a bit frightened. “He defeated Harel? You’re certain?”

  “Yes. He also took Ayvencalde, and though he didn’t say so, his presence on the Moorlands tells me that he defeated Galdasten as well.”

  The king stared at the candle flame. “Demons and fire.”

  “Please, Your Majesty. Make peace with the empire’s men. It may be our only hope.”

  “I’ll think on it.” He looked up, meeting the gleaner’s gaze. “Truly, I will.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  Grinsa bowed, then left the tent, wondering if even an alliance between Eibithar and her enemies would be enough to withstand the Weaver’s onslaught. The king, he realized, was depending upon him to win this war. So were Keziah and Fotir and Tavis. The others might revile him when first he revealed himself as a Weaver, but with time they would see him much the same way. He was their hope, and yet he had no hope himself. This, as much as anything, explained why Dusaan had been right, why Grinsa hadn’t mentioned to Kearney the ease with which the Weaver took hold of his magic.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Diani awoke before dawn, roused from her slumber by the voices of soldiers around her, the ring of steel as swords were drawn, checked for notches, and resheathed, the impatient snorting and stomping of the horses, and the jangling of saddles being fastened. She sat up, winced at the pain. Every muscle in her body was screaming. Her back and legs were so stiff that she wondered how she would ever manage to stand, much less fight. The previous day’s battle had been her first, and though she had come through it unscathed save for a few small cuts and bruises, she knew already that she was no warrior. Her ability to avoid injury was due far more to her skill as a rider than to any prowess with the blade. She had inflicted no more wounds than she had sustained. Mostly she had sought to stay alive and to keep out of the way of Sanbira’s real soldiers.

  Much to Diani’s surprise, Naditia was one of them. The duchess of Macharzo, so painfully shy during audiences with the queen and in private conversations alike, was a skilled and powerful fighter. She wielded her blade aggressively and with uncommon agility, and she was as fearless in battle as she was shy at court. It seemed to Diani that the woman had been born for combat. More than once during the course of the previous day, Naditia had saved Diani’s life. Yet after the fighting ended, she instantly became again an awkward, tongue-tied young duchess.