by DAVID B. COE
The name seemed familiar somehow, though Grinsa couldn’t quite place it. “You came here as a healer?”
“Yes.”
“From where? I don’t recognize you. Are you one of the queen’s Qirsi, or do you come from one of Eibithar’s houses?”
He smiled thinly. “No. I came from the City of Kings. Just because you didn’t notice me doesn’t mean that I wasn’t there.”
The gleaner nearly struck him again. “You think that justifies it, don’t you? You aren’t noticed enough, you want to be praised, and instead you’re ignored, and that’s reason enough to betray your king and your realm.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Your eyes may be yellow, but your blood runs Eandi.”
Grinsa had once been married to an Eandi woman; he’d had the barb directed at him too many times for it to bother him anymore. “What else have you done for the conspiracy?”
“You’ll have to take that from me, gleaner. Use your mind-bending magic if you must. I’ll tell you no more willingly.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Gleaner?” he said.
The healer smiled again. “Oh, yes. I know who you are. I didn’t know that you were a Weaver, but I know you. You were a Revel performer once—that strikes me as even more pathetic now that I know how powerful you truly are. And then you were Tavis of Curgh’s toady. I take it you’re his squire now.”
“What else have you done for them?” Grinsa demanded, struggling to keep control of his temper.
“Actually, there is one thing that will interest you,” he said. “The woman in Audun’s Castle, the one who betrayed our movement—I killed her.”
It hit Grinsa like a fist to his stomach, knocking the air out of him. He knew she wasn’t dead—he’d entered her dreams too recently; the healer couldn’t possibly have killed her since then and still made it to the Moorlands so quickly. But he should have known the name as soon as he heard it. Lenvyd jal Qosten. He could hear Cresenne speaking of him, telling Grinsa of the poisoning that nearly took her life.
Abruptly the gleaner’s sword was in his hand, though Grinsa didn’t remember pulling it free. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of his steel, but Grinsa didn’t even give him a chance to speak. He grabbed Lenvyd by the shoulder with one hand, and drove the point of his blade into the healer’s heart with the other. Lenvyd opened his mouth, as if to scream, but he could only manage a wet gasping sound, as his eyes slid briefly toward Grinsa’s face, then rolled back in his head.
“You didn’t kill her,” the gleaner said, pushing the man off his blade. “You failed. You’re lucky I got to you first. Your Weaver would have been far more cruel in meting out his punishment.”
Perhaps he should have been ashamed. Against him, Lenvyd had been defenseless, an old healer, with barely enough magic to be a threat to anyone. As Grinsa himself had said, the man had only succeeded in making Cresenne ill. He was but a foot soldier in the Weaver’s army.
Yet in that one moment, he had been the embodiment of all that had been done to Cresenne in the Weaver’s name. There was no real vengeance to be found in the killing; only an outlet for rage and frustration and grief. Had Tavis done something similar, Grinsa would have railed at him. But in this case the gleaner couldn’t bring himself to care. It was a murder, nothing more, and certainly nothing less. Given the opportunity to do it again, he would have, without hesitation.
He stooped to wipe the man’s blood from his sword, glancing briefly at the healer’s body. Then he turned and strode toward the soldiers who were fighting for Kearney’s life.
* * *
They had chosen to fight near the king because they didn’t dare remain too close to their fathers, who were fighting at the head of the Curgh army, west of Kearney’s force. Had Hagan seen Xaver with a sword in his hand, blood trickling from a small cut above his eye, he would have flown into another rage. And since Tavis had fought and marched with both the king’s army and that of his father in recent days, none would think it strange to see the young lord and his liege man fighting under Kearney’s banner.
They remained on the fringe of the battle, both of them putting to use all that Xaver’s father had taught them in the wards of Curgh Castle as they tested their skills against the brawny swordsmen of the empire. Tavis had done his share of fighting in recent days and felt confident enough to wade farther into the melee. He sensed, however, that while Xaver was glad to be fighting, he remained unsure of himself. Tavis made no effort to take them closer to the center of the battle, and his friend gave no indication that this troubled him.
At least not until Kearney fell.
They were resting when the king’s horse first reared. Tavis had just succeeded in wounding his foe and had turned his blade on the young soldier Xaver was fighting. Faced with two adversaries, this man retreated, a gash on his thigh and another high on his sword arm. Xaver had done well.
“Thanks,” the liege man said, lifting a hand to the cut on his brow and wincing slightly. “I was getting tired.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
Xaver smirked. “Right.”
“No, I’m serious. You fought well.”
His friend regarded him for several moments, as if surprised by the compliment. “Thank you,” he finally said. “I’d say the same about you, but I was too scared to look away from the man I was fighting.”
Tavis laughed, but before he could say anything more, he saw Xaver’s eyes go wide and his face blanch. Following the line of his gaze, the young lord looked just in time to see the king tumble from his mount into a sea of warriors.
Xaver didn’t falter for even an instant. Tavis was still trying to decide what he ought to do when he saw his friend running to the king’s aid, his sword raised, a cry on his lips. There was nothing for the young lord to do but follow.
The two boys quickly found themselves surrounded by scores of Eibithar’s men, all of them pushing forward, trying to reach the king. And for once, their slight builds helped them. Squeezing past several of the other men, all the while keeping the king’s horse in view, as if the beast’s regal head were a beacon, they soon found the king. He was on his back still, kicking out with both feet, parrying chopping blows from the empire’s men with his sword. Several soldiers of Eibithar were with him already, some fighting off the enemy, others trying to help Kearney to his feet. But the press of Braedon’s men was relentless. The king and his guards had little room in which to maneuver.
Xaver leaped forward, joining those who were opposing the empire’s men. Tavis, with another of the realm’s soldiers, bent over the king, took Kearney by the arm, and hoisted him to his feet.
“My thanks to both of you,” the king said, looking a bit shaken.
They didn’t have time for more. Braedon’s warriors were everywhere. It seemed that when they saw Kearney fall, they concentrated their assault on the very center of Eibithar’s army. Within moments Tavis realized that he, Kearney, Xaver, and a small number of the king’s guards were surrounded, cut off from the rest of Eibithar’s army.
None of them spoke. They didn’t have to; all of them knew it. Wordlessly they formed a tight circle, their backs to one another, their weapons held ready, glinting in the sunlight. Two of the larger soldiers stood on either side of Kearney, as was appropriate. Tavis and Xaver stood together on the opposite side of their small ring. There was a soldier on Tavis’s other side, no doubt one of the many among the king’s men who still thought him a butcher who had murdered Brienne and earned every one of the scars given to him by Aindreas of Kentigern. Tavis wondered briefly if the man would see this as an opportunity to get the young lord killed.
“Don’t break formation,” the king said, his voice low and taut. “If the man next to you falls—no matter who he is—don’t stoop to help him. Close the gap as quickly as possible and keep fighting.”
Xaver and Tavis exchanged a brief, silent look. An instant later, they were battling to stay alive, outnumbered by the empire’s men and unable
to give ground without endangering the lives of the others in the circle. Braedon’s warriors weren’t fools. Seeing the two boys standing shoulder to shoulder, thinking them the weakest swordsmen in the ring, they concentrated their attack on the young lord and his liege man.
Tavis found himself fending off several enemy soldiers at once, their blades hacking at him from all angles. Had he not been wearing a coat of mail, he would have died in those first few moments. As it was, he soon had gashes on his neck, face, and both hands, and welts covering much of the rest of his body. Yet he also realized early on that again his was the quickest sword—the men facing him were larger and stronger, but they fought sluggishly, without imagination. Once more, as he had so many times in this past year, he found himself silently thanking Xaver’s father for all the years of training. He might have cursed Hagan a thousand times for his exacting sword drills and the extravagant punishments he devised for laziness and lapses in technique, but the swordmaster had taught them well. After a time, Tavis found that his foes were tiring, their sword strokes becoming less precise and forceful, their defenses slackening. He was able to parry more and more of their blows, and on several occasions he even had opportunity to lash out with his own attacks, surprising the Braedony soldiers with his speed. He wasn’t able to kill any of them, or even drive them to the ground, but he did keep them at bay.
Even as his confidence grew, he didn’t dare look away for the merest instant. He sensed rather than saw that Xaver was still beside him, on his feet, his blade dancing. The soldier on his other side was also still standing, his shoulder nearly touching Tavis’s. Whatever the man thought of Tavis, he seemed to understand that if one of them fell, they all might die. In fact, as far as the young lord could tell, all in their circle were still alive, including the king and his guards. When at last Tavis’s father and Hagan MarCullet reached them, fighting through the horde of enemy soldiers and forcing into retreat those they left alive, every man in the ring greeted the Curgh warriors with a hoarse cry.
As the fighting around them subsided, Hagan and Javan approached the two boys, Hagan looking none too pleased, and the expression on the duke’s face making it clear to the young lord that he should expect no help from his father.
“I’ll take the blame,” Tavis whispered to his friend. “Just keep quiet and leave this to me.”
Xaver said nothing.
Tavis turned to look at him, and saw that the boy’s eyes were fixed elsewhere. Before he had the chance to ask Xaver what he was looking at, or even to turn and look himself, his friend bolted forward, shouting a warning.
Without thinking, Tavis ran after him, and so saw too late what his friend had spotted. One of the Braedony soldiers, a man whose right shoulder was a bloody mess, had crept back within striking distance of the king, his sword held low, but a dagger flashing in his good hand. Tavis heard Hagan behind him, calling to his son, but Xaver didn’t hesitate for even a moment.
Kearney seemed at last to have sensed his peril, but before he could raise his sword to defend himself, Xaver crashed into the Bradeony soldier, knocking the man to the ground and falling on top of him. They grappled for a moment, the soldier, despite his wound, quickly overpowering Xaver and raising his dirk to strike. By then, however, the king and several of his men had come to Xaver’s aid. They pulled the empire’s man off of him, the soldiers beating the invader with their fists until he crumpled to the ground.
The king offered a hand to Xaver, who stared up at him for a moment before taking it and allowing Kearney to pull him to his feet.
“I’m in your debt, Master MarCullet.”
“N-not at all, Your Majesty.”
The king smiled, glancing at Tavis and then Hagan, both of whom had stopped a short distance off.
“He’s quite a warrior, swordmaster. You should be very proud.”
Hagan bowed his head, his color rising. “You honor us, Your Majesty.”
“I thought you were fighting with your father’s army today, Lord Curgh.”
It was Tavis’s turn to feel his face redden. “Yes, Your Majesty. Xaver and I … we…”
“I asked them to convey a message to you, my liege,” Tavis’s father broke in. “The fighting must have started before they could return to the Curgh lines.”
“Indeed,” the king said, raising an eyebrow. “And what message was that?”
Javan allowed himself a small smile. “I’m afraid that in the excitement of the battle, I’ve forgotten.”
Kearney nodded. “I see. Well, it’s fortunate for me that they were here, no matter how that came to pass.”
“Fortunate for all of us, my liege.”
“Thank you, Javan. How goes the rest of the battle?”
The duke’s expression sobered instantly. “The enemy has been driven back, my liege. They lost a good many men. To be honest, I don’t see how they can continue this war.”
“And what of our losses?”
“Not nearly as bad as the empire’s, my liege, but still more than I would have hoped.”
“Damn.”
Before either man could say more, Grinsa joined them, looking grim.
“Your Majesty,” the gleaner said, dropping briefly to one knee. “I’m glad to see you’re unhurt. I feared the worst.”
“Thank you, gleaner.” Kearney narrowed his eyes, as if the full import of the gleaner’s presence there on the battlefield had finally reached him. “Was it magic that made my horse rear?”
“Yes, it was. I tried to stop him, but couldn’t act quickly enough.”
“Who was responsible?”
“One of your healers, Your Majesty. A man named Lenvyd jal Qosten.”
The king frowned, seeming to search his memory. “The name is vaguely familiar. An older man, isn’t he?”
“Yes. He was left behind when you marched from the City of Kings. He followed you here, later, though only after making an attempt on Cresenne’s life.”
“It seems the gods were with me today.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Where is this man now? I want to speak with him.”
Grinsa looked away. “He’s dead.”
“Dead? You killed him?”
The gleaner’s mouth twitched, and he didn’t meet the king’s gaze. “Yes, I did.”
Kearney started to say something, then he glanced at the others standing with them and appeared to think better of it. In the end, he merely said, “We’ll speak of this again, gleaner.”
Grinsa inclined his head slightly. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
Kearney began to lead his men and the other nobles back toward the camp. Hagan put an arm around Xaver’s shoulder and steered him after the king, his anger seemingly overmastered by his relief, at least for the moment.
“You and I will speak a bit later, as well,” Javan told Tavis, sounding cross, and fixing him with an icy glare.
“Yes, Father.”
The duke turned and walked away, leaving Tavis alone with Grinsa.
“Sounds like we’re both in a bit of trouble,” the young lord said.
“I suppose.”
“Why did you kill that man, Grinsa?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He started away, but Tavis grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop and face him.
“That’s too bad. I want an answer.”
Grinsa shrugged off his hand, just as Tavis would have had their roles been reversed. “You want…” the gleaner repeated, shaking his head. “What business is this of yours?”
“I’m your friend, Grinsa. It’s as much my business as everything else that’s happened in the past year. And if that’s not enough, it’s my business because I’m depending on you to defeat the Weaver. So is everyone else on this plain. I need to know if you’re able to do that, or if your feelings for Cresenne are going to get in the way.”
“How dare you!” The gleaner spun away again.
“You killed him for vengeance, didn’t you?” Tavis called after h
im. “You once accused me of pursuing Cadel just to get revenge, but you just did the same thing. Isn’t that so?”
The gleaner halted, his hands balled into fists. After a moment, he turned, and stalked back to where Tavis still stood, looking so angry that for a moment the boy thought Grinsa was going to hit him.
“This wasn’t the same,” he said. “The man was Qirsi. He had language of beasts. He was still a threat to the king and everyone else with a mount.”
“Cadel was still an assassin. Wasn’t he a threat?”
“The Weaver could have contacted this man. He could have learned a great deal from him.”
“How much more does the Weaver need to know, Grinsa? He knows where we are, how many men we have.”
Grinsa looked off to the side, his lips pressed thin. It was, Tavis realized, the first time he had ever seen the gleaner truly ashamed of something he had done.
“I don’t blame you for doing it,” the young lord said, as gently as he could. “I would have done the same thing.”
Grinsa’s eyes flicked in his direction for just a second.
“Of course, that might only make you feel worse.”
The gleaner smiled, shaking his head again. After a moment he began to laugh quietly. “Well, it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Tavis laughed in turn.
“The truth is, I’m not sure why I killed him,” Grinsa admitted, turning serious once more. “I did it without thinking. He told me that he had poisoned her, and I killed him. It wasn’t out of vengeance. It was just rage.”
The young lord nodded. “I understand. But it’s one thing to act on your rage with a healer. It’s quite another to do it with the Weaver.”
“I don’t need you telling me that. Truly, Tavis, I don’t.”
Tavis shrugged. “Then I won’t speak of it again.”
They returned to the camp, where they found the king speaking with Sanbira’s queen and the rest of the nobles. A few of the Qirsi were there as well, but not many.
“Gleaner,” Kearney called as they approached. “Have you seen the archminister?”
Grinsa faltered in midstride. “Demons and fire! Keziah!”