Weavers of War: Book Five of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  “What is it?” Tavis asked.

  “I’ve no time to explain. We have to find them!”

  “Them?”

  “The archministers.”

  * * *

  Her hand still throbbed, but Keziah’s tears had stopped. She refused to grieve any more. Either Kearney had died, or he hadn’t. Either Grinsa would find a way to overcome the betrayals of the Qirsi around her, or he wouldn’t. She couldn’t help her beloved king, nor could she fight her brother’s battles for him. All she could do was fight for herself, and she had every intention of doing that.

  Abeni was still with her, as was the first minister of Macharzo, whose name, it seemed, was Craeffe. A third traitor, a man who served as first minister of Norinde, was nearby, apparently watching for any sign that others were headed this way, though Keziah couldn’t see him. They were in a tight circle of hulking boulders, sheltered from the wind and the failing sunlight, and hidden from view.

  “They’re going to be missing her,” Craeffe was saying now, her thin face looking grey in the shadows. “We should kill her and be done with it.”

  Abeni looked bored. “We gain nothing by killing her. If she turns up dead, suspicion will fall on us and we’ll have gained nothing. Alive, she’s a valuable tool, and a way of controlling Grinsa.”

  “She betrayed the Weaver. Don’t you think he’d want her dead?”

  “Actually, I expect he’d want to kill her himself.” She looked at Keziah. “Don’t you agree, Archminister?”

  “Craeffe is right,” Keziah said, through clenched teeth. “You should kill me and be done with it. I’ll never help you, and—”

  The rest of the thought was lost in a paroxysm of agony as yet another bone in her hand shattered. That made four now. Only her thumb remained whole. And, of course, the other hand. Better just to die than endure this.

  “Don’t be so certain that you won’t help us,” Abeni said. “Torture does strange things to people.”

  “We can’t keep her hidden forever.”

  “We don’t have to, Craeffe. It will be nightfall soon, and the Weaver should be near. Once it’s dark, we’ll strike out westward until we’re clear of the camps. Then we’ll turn toward the north and find the Weaver’s army.”

  “They’ll be looking for us, for her. We’ll be killed before we ever get near the Weaver.”

  “What was it the Weaver told you to do?” Abeni asked her again, bringing her face close to Keziah’s.

  She closed her eyes and looked away, bracing herself for what she knew would come. Even so, when the bone in her thumb broke, she collapsed to the ground, crying out in pain and cradling her hand.

  “It’s a simple question, Keziah,” the archminister said, standing over her. “Surely it can’t be worth all this. Besides, I think I know. He wanted you to kill the king, didn’t he? That was why that other man was doing it, and you were watching, looking so horrified it was almost amusing.” Abeni kicked Keziah’s hand. The bones within her discolored flesh felt as if they were aflame. “Am I right?”

  Keziah merely whimpered, unable to say more.

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Just kill her already. We can claim that she was a traitor to her realm, that we saw her flee after the king fell.”

  “Her brother won’t believe that. Besides, we really have no choice but to keep her alive. If I’m not mistaken, she’s already told Grinsa that we’re with the movement. Haven’t you, Keziah?”

  At that, Keziah opened her eyes, glaring up at the woman. “Yes, I did. He knows about all three of you, and he’ll never give you the opportunity to get away. You’re going to die on this plain, Abeni. You might as well kill me, too. That’s the best you can hope for.”

  Abeni’s brow creased, and she crouched down beside her. “Why are you so anxious for me to kill you? Is it fear of the Weaver? Is it that you know what he’ll do to you when next you sleep?”

  She looked away again.

  “Yes,” Abeni said, standing once more. “I thought so. You’re right to be afraid. The pain in your hand will be nothing next to his punishment.” She turned back to Craeffe. “The gleaner knows that we’re with the movement. Keziah here is our only hope of getting away alive. If we kill her, Grinsa won’t hesitate to kill us. But so long as she lives, he’ll try to find some way to save her. Won’t he, Keziah?”

  Before she could think of a response, the other Qirsi stepped into their small shelter.

  “What is it, Filtem?”

  “Someone’s coming. A Qirsi. I couldn’t make out his face.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Good. Be silent, both of you.” An instant later Abeni was beside her again, hurriedly binding her hands and tying a gag over her mouth. “Not a sound,” she whispered, her mouth almost touching Keziah’s ear. She pulled her dagger free and held the hilt of it just over Keziah’s hand, as if ready to strike her. “You’ll suffer mightily for any noise you make, and whoever he is will die if he comes near us.”

  Keziah eyed the woman, wishing she could kill her, cursing Qirsar for giving her magics that could not avail her in such times. But in the end she just nodded, drawing a dark smile from the archminister.

  She strained to hear, desperate for any sign that someone had come to rescue her, but she heard nothing, save the breathing of the three traitors. At one point, she thought she heard a light footfall just beyond the stones that surrounded them, and she knew a moment of hope that almost made her forget her anguish. But no one entered the circle, and after hearing nothing more, she felt her despair return, and with it the brutal pulsing in her hand.

  Abeni made a small motion, catching Filtem’s eye. She pointed at him, then gestured toward the narrow entrance to the circle and pulled her dagger free.

  Filtem appeared to understand. Drawing his own blade, he crept to the entrance and slipped out, as silent and graceful as a cat.

  This time she definitely heard something, or someone. It sounded like a brief struggle, just beyond the stones, and then a quick, sharp intake of breath. A moment later, a thick mist began to seep into the circle. It built quickly, until Keziah could see nothing of her captors or the boulders surrounding them. She heard footsteps within the circle, though they seemed unsteady. One of the women shouted something and there was a dry cracking sound followed by the thud of a body falling to the ground.

  A sudden wind swept through the stones, clearing away the mist. And there, in the center of the circle, lay Filtem, a dagger jutting from his chest, his eyes open but sightless, his legs bent at improbable angles.

  “Filtem!” Craeffe shrieked, flying to his side and cradling his head in her lap.

  “Damn,” Abeni muttered.

  Craeffe glowered at the archminister, her face streaked with tears. “You fool! Look what you’ve gotten us into!”

  “Shut up and let me think.”

  “What’s there to think about? The gleaner’s out there! We’re dead!”

  “Don’t be an idiot. If it was Grinsa, he wouldn’t be playing these games. He’d simply take hold of our magic and destroy us.” Abeni shook her head. “No, it’s someone else.” After a moment’s consideration she roughly pulled Keziah to her feet and held her dagger to the woman’s throat.

  “Show yourself,” she called out, “or the archminister dies!”

  There was no response.

  With her free hand, Abeni pulled off Keziah’s gag. “Tell him,” she commanded.

  “She’s a shaper!” Keziah shouted immediately. “And she has mists—” Agony. A terrible pain in her ear and hot blood running down the side of her head and neck.

  Abeni pressed the bloodied blade against her throat again. “Damn you! I should kill you now!”

  “You can’t, and you know it.”

  White-hot pain exploded in her other hand.

  “Get up, Craeffe. I need your help.”

  The other woman gazed down at Filtem for another moment, crying still
.

  “He’s dead, Craeffe. There’s nothing more you can do for him. But we can still save ourselves.”

  “How?”

  “We’ve still got the advantage. That’s but one man out there. If there were two they’d have attacked by now.”

  Craeffe climbed to her feet, wiping the tears from her face. “What do you suggest?”

  “We need to remain together. I should never have sent Filtem out there alone—that was my mistake. But as long as we stay together and keep the archminister with us, there’s nothing he can do. We’re both shapers, after all.”

  As Abeni spoke, she relaxed her grip on Keziah slightly. Not much—the woman probably didn’t even notice that she had done so. But Keziah did, and now she did the only thing she could. Moving as quickly as she ever had, she stamped her foot on Abeni’s and at the same time threw back her elbow, catching the woman full in the breast.

  Abeni gasped, then cursed, but Keziah had already flung herself away from the woman, falling to the ground and rolling until she reached the edge of the ring.

  The pain in her hands was nearly more than she could bear, but she managed to shout out, “I’m free!”

  Immediately, mist began to fill the circle again, driven by a strong wind. There were footsteps, the sudden rustling of cloth, and then that awful, familiar sound of snapping bone. A moment later a second body fell to the earth.

  Keziah felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach.

  Yet another wind whipped through the circle, and when the mist had cleared, Keziah nearly cried out with joy.

  Craeffe was lying on the grass, utterly motionless. And standing over her was Fotir jal Salene, his brilliant yellow eyes fixed on Abeni.

  “It seems you and I wield the same powers, Archminister,” he said to her. He glanced at Keziah for just an instant. “Are you all right?”

  “Well enough.”

  He nodded, facing the traitor again.

  “Take even a single step toward me, and I’ll break her neck,” Abeni said. “If you’re a shaper, you know that I can.”

  “And you know that I can do the same to you.”

  “Then it seems neither of us has the advantage.”

  How many times had Keziah found herself in such a circumstance: helpless to defend herself, depending on another—Grinsa, or Kearney, or Gershon Trasker, or Fotir—to guard her life? She was tired of feeling helpless, of living in fear of the Weaver and his servants, of accepting the suspicions of others as the price of her decision to join the conspiracy. She ached to strike out at any one of her many enemies. And here was Abeni.

  Fotir and Sanbira’s archminister were too intent on each other to take notice of her, or to see what she did as she looked up at the two of them.

  High over the ring of stones, black as night against the deepening blue of the twilight sky, a lone falcon was gliding in slow circles. It was a long way, and Keziah was weary with grief and pain. But still she cast her thoughts upward, reaching for the bird’s mind, and touching it with her magic. Language of beasts. Many times she had used this power to calm an anxious horse, and once, years before, she had escaped uninjured from an encounter with a wild dog in the Glyndwr Highlands. But never before had she attempted to communicate anything to a wild bird, much less one as fierce as this hawk.

  At first she feared that the creature would refuse to heed her request. But she maintained her hold on the falcon’s mind, conveying to it all that Abeni had done to her, and after several moments she sensed the bird’s acquiescence. She saw it pull in its wings and begin a steep dive toward the circle of stones.

  Glancing at Fotir and Abeni again, Keziah saw that they were still staring at one another. Fotir was saying something, but Keziah could not hear him, so absorbed was she in the strange thoughts of the falcon—dizzying images of hunting on the wing, of tearing into the warm, bloody flesh of a ptarmigan, of the bird’s sickening descent toward the Qirsi woman standing over her. Keziah shook her head, trying to break free of the creature’s mind.

  In the next instant, she heard Abeni scream in shock and pain as the bird raked the back of her head with its outstretched talons. The falcon called out as well, a sharp, repetitive cry that echoed among the boulders as the bird climbed into the sky again.

  Releasing her hold on the falcon, Keziah found her sight momentarily clouded, her thoughts muddled. By the time she could see and think clearly again, Abeni lay prone on the grasses beside Craeffe, their heads jutting from their bodies at similar angles.

  “You killed her,” Keziah said, knowing that she sounded simple.

  “You didn’t want me to?”

  “No, I did. I just…” Abruptly she was sobbing, her body shaking so violently that she wondered if she would ever be able to stand. “Thank you,” she managed.

  Fotir crossed to where she lay and reached to untie her hands. When she gasped at his first touch, he stopped, wincing as if he too were in pain.

  “I’m sorry. Should I leave the bonds?”

  She shook her head, taking a long breath. “Please, untie them. I’ll bear it as best I can.”

  Keziah had to grit her teeth and bite back more than one cry as he struggled with Abeni’s knot, but in a few moments her maimed hands were free.

  “Thank you,” she whispered again.

  “Of course. Let’s get you to a healer.”

  “Take me to my brother.”

  Fotir frowned. “Your brother?”

  With all the secrets she had kept and revealed in recent turns, not only to this man, but to so many others, she found it hard to remember what remained hidden and what didn’t.

  “Grinsa,” she said. “Grinsa is my brother.”

  He stared at her a moment, shaking his head. “Your brother,” he whispered. “Yes, of course. I’ll take you to him.”

  He lifted her into his arms as if she were but a child and carried her out of the ring of boulders.

  “Is Kearney all right?” she asked suddenly, remembering all that happened before Abeni began to hurt her.

  “I don’t know,” Fotir said. “The gleaner asked me to keep watch on you. I left the battle before it ended.”

  “He asked you to watch me?”

  Fotir smiled, his eyes so golden they appeared almost orange in the evening light. “Does that surprise you?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Led by Grinsa, Kearney, and the queen of Sanbira, Qirsi and Eandi alike had begun a frantic search of the camp for Keziah and Olesya’s archminister. Tavis heard several of the king’s soldiers speaking of it as a hunt for traitors, but he didn’t bother to correct them, not knowing himself whether Grinsa and Keziah wanted it to seem just that. In fact, Tavis didn’t fully understand why Grinsa was so eager to find the archministers until Fotir walked into camp amid the commotion of the search carrying Keziah in his arms, her mangled hands livid and swollen in the twilight.

  Grinsa was at the minister’s side almost immediately, taking Keziah from him and laying her gently beside a fire.

  “What happened?” he asked, his brow deeply creased as he examined his sister’s hands.

  Fotir and Keziah exchanged a look, as if unsure as to which of them should speak. Other nobles and ministers began to gather around them, as did many soldiers from the various houses of Eibithar and Sanbira.

  “Three of them had taken her captive,” Fotir finally answered. “Sanbira’s archminister and two of her first ministers—Macharzo and Norinde, I believe.”

  The queen gaped at him, her face white as bone. “Demons and fire! Three of them, you say?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

  “Where are they now?” Grinsa demanded, murder in his eyes.

  “They’re dead, in that cluster of boulders back there.”

  The gleaner blinked. “You killed all three of them? By yourself?”

  At that, Fotir smiled, sharing another look with the archminister. “Not entirely, no.”

  Grinsa faced his sister again. “Kezia
h?”

  Before she could say anything, Tavis heard a voice shouting, “Where is she? Is she alive?”

  A moment later, Kearney reached Keziah’s side, relief plain on his face. “Gods be praised. Are you hurt?” His eyes fell to her hands and he grimaced. “Damn!”

  “I was just about to begin healing her, Your Majesty.”

  “Who did this to her?” the king asked.

  “I’m afraid it was my archminister, Your Majesty,” Olesya said. “And two more ministers from houses in my realm. It seems the conspiracy struck hard at Sanbira, and I brought its servants into your midst.”

  “These renegades have plagued all of us, Your Highness. A healer from my own castle nearly killed me today. None of us has been immune.” He looked at Grinsa again. “I take it the traitors have been dealt with.”

  “They have, Your Majesty, thanks to Curgh’s first minister.”

  Kearney turned to Fotir and placed a hand on the Qirsi’s shoulder. “Then I’m indebted to you, Minister.”

  “You honor me, Your Majesty.”

  “Were these ministers acting on the Weaver’s orders?”

  “Forgive me for saying so, Your Majesty,” Grinsa said. “But such questions can wait for a bit. I’d like to heal the archminister’s injuries.”

  “Yes, of course, gleaner. Forgive me.” This last Kearney said to Keziah. He gazed at her a moment, then caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, seemingly heedless of all who were around them. “I don’t know what I would have done had I lost you.”

  Keziah blushed. “You’re too kind, Your Majesty.”

  The king cleared his throat, standing once more and facing Grinsa. “If you need anything for her, anything at all…”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Kearney cast one last look at his archminister, then motioned to the others standing around her. “Come. Let’s leave the gleaner to his work.”

  Tavis and the others followed the king as he walked a short distance from Keziah and Grinsa.

  “Tell me what happened, First Minister,” Kearney said, looking at Fotir.

  “Grinsa asked me to keep watch on her, Your Majesty. He expected something like this might happen. I saw them taking her south from the camp and followed at a distance, afraid of alerting them to my presence.” He shrugged, then shook his head. “As it turns out, had I acted more quickly, I might have kept them from hurting her.”