Weavers of War: Book Five of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  How he longed to shatter that blade, or better yet, to force the woman to turn it on herself, as he had done to Carden so long ago. But the other Weaver held him fast.

  “Get rope,” the duchess said. “Irons are no good against a shaper.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Or better yet…”

  He knew what was coming before she pulled the dagger away. He would have done the same had he been in her position.

  “Damn,” he had time to mutter.

  Then he felt an explosion of pain at the back of his skull, and the minister knew no more.

  * * *

  The healers did what they could for her, mending the shattered bones in her leg and body, and easing her pain somewhat. Keziah had been through this before, however, and far too recently. She knew that it would be days before she could move without discomfort.

  She also knew that she was fortunate to be alive at all, that had it not been for Aindreas of Kentigern, she too would have been counted among the victims of the Weaver and his war.

  “Where can we take you, Archminister?” one of the healers asked, when they had finished ministering to her leg.

  Keziah could hear soldiers cheering to the north. It seemed that the Weaver had been defeated. Somehow, incredibly, Grinsa had prevailed. Keziah felt that she was living some marvelous dream; for just an instant she feared waking to find that none of it was true, that the war had yet to be fought, that her survival and Grinsa’s remained uncertain.

  “I want to see my—” She felt her face color. “The gleaner. I want to see Grinsa.” She tried to stand. “But I can go to him myself.”

  The healer laid a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder. “No,” he said. “You can’t. You’ll be walking on your own soon enough. Tomorrow perhaps, or the day after. But for now, I’ll carry you.”

  She started to object, then stopped herself. It hurt just to breathe, much less move. “Very well.”

  He lifted her effortlessly, and began walking toward the center of the Eandi lines. Resting in the healer’s arms, Keziah suddenly found herself thinking of Fotir and Kearney and even Tavis of Curgh, wondering if they were alive, hoping desperately that they had survived the battle.

  So it was that she was already looking for Curgh’s first minister when he spotted her and called out her name. Fotir ran to her, grinning like a young boy on Bohdan’s Night.

  “You’re alive!” he said. “Earlier, when we couldn’t find you, Grinsa and I feared the worst.” He looked at the healer. “Thank you. I can take her.”

  The healer glanced at Keziah, grinning slightly, an eyebrow raised.

  She smiled in turn. “It’s all right. He’ll see to it that I don’t walk.”

  The healer laughed. “Very well.”

  Fotir took her from the man.

  “Thank you,” Keziah said, as the healer began to turn away.

  “Of course, Archminister. Stay off that leg.”

  “I will.”

  “What happened?” Fotir asked her, when they were alone.

  She met his gaze briefly, then looked away, abruptly remembering the awkwardness of the night before. “The Weaver sent a shaper to kill me.”

  “What is it with you and shapers?”

  “Careful, First Minister. As I remember it, you’re a shaper.”

  This time it was Fotir who looked away. “True. Well, in any case, I’m glad you managed to defeat him.”

  “Actually, it was a woman, and I was saved by the duke of Kentigern.”

  Fotir stared at her, his bright yellow eyes wide. “Kentigern?”

  “Yes. He died rescuing me.” She almost said more, but thought better of it. “He wanted nothing more than to redeem his house.”

  “Perhaps by saving you he did.”

  She feared that redemption wouldn’t come so easily for the people of Kentigern, but she merely nodded and said, “Yes, perhaps.” A moment later, their eyes met again. “Where’s Grinsa?”

  “I’ll take you to him.” Fotir began to walk, carrying her past clusters of soldiers, some wounded, others simply smiling, sharing tales of the recent battle. “He was hurt,” the first minister said. “The Weaver broke both of his legs and his shoulder.”

  Fear seized her heart. “But he’s alive.”

  Fotir smiled reassuringly. “Yes. And he’ll be very happy to see you.”

  They reached her brother a few moments later and Fotir lowered her to the ground beside him. Three healers knelt beside him, their hands on his legs and shoulder. Grinsa’s eyes were closed and his face was damp with sweat.

  “Grinsa,” she said, shocked to see him looking so.

  His eyes flew open. “Kezi!” He gripped her hand so tightly that it hurt. “I thought I’d lost you. Are you all right?”

  “Not too bad. Better than you, it would seem.”

  He gave a small frown. “I’m fine. I was just helping the healers.”

  “Please talk to him, Archminister,” said one of the healers, an older woman. “He’s supposed to be resting.”

  “The sooner they’re done with me, the sooner they can help someone else.”

  The healer continued to look at her, pleading with her pale eyes.

  “I think it’s best that I stay out of this.” She glanced up at Fotir. “Don’t you agree?”

  But the minister was staring northward, his expression grim. “Excuse me,” he said after a moment, and walked off without waiting for her reply.

  Keziah looked at her brother, who merely shrugged.

  “Tell me what happened,” she said after a brief silence.

  Grinsa began to describe for her his battle with the Weaver, and for a long time she forgot about Fotir and Aindreas and the woman who had nearly killed her, so rapt was she held by Grinsa’s tale.

  “Do you know who she is?” she asked when at last he had finished. “This woman who saved us?”

  He shook his head. “No. But the Weaver spoke to her, so others may know what she did. I fear for her.”

  Keziah nodded.

  “What about you?”

  She told her story in turn, once again saying nothing about all that had passed between Aindreas and the Qirsi woman. Grinsa, however, seemed to sense that she had left something out.

  “How fortunate for you that the duke happened upon you when he did.”

  Her gaze flicked toward the healers. “Yes.”

  Grinsa was watching her, and he nodded, seeming to understand her reticence.

  “Do you know what happened to Tavis?” Keziah asked.

  His brow furrowed. “No. I saw him charge the Qirsi lines, but I lost track of him in all that happened after.”

  “I’m sure he’s all right,” Keziah said, knowing how empty the words would sound, but feeling that she should say something. “It seems you were right about him. He did have a role to play in all this.”

  Before Grinsa could answer, the healers sat back on their heels, all of them looking worn.

  “That’s all we can do for you now, gleaner,” the woman told him. “The rest will take some time. The bones in your leg have knitted well—you should be able to walk normally in just a few days.” She hesitated. “Your shoulder … It had been broken before…”

  Grinsa sat up slowly and smiled, though Keziah could see that it was forced. Her chest ached for him.

  “It’s not your fault,” he said. “How bad is it?”

  “You’ll be able to move the arm, but not as you once did. And it will never look quite right.”

  He nodded, smiled again. “It could have been much worse. Thank you—all of you—for what you did.”

  They bowed to him, then moved off.

  “I’m so sorry, Grinsa.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said. He looked at her, his eyes meeting hers. “Truly, Kezi. With all that could have happened, this is a trifle.”

  “Of course,” she said. But there were tears on her face.

  “We should find someone who can help us up, and the
n search out the king and Tavis.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  Grinsa laughed. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we. Unable to walk, barely able to sit up. It’s a wonder we survived at all.”

  But Keziah knew better; surely her brother did as well. She was alive because Aindreas had given his life to protect her. Grinsa had prevailed because one woman in the Qirsi army had dared to oppose the Weaver, though she might well have died for the choice she made. There was nothing miraculous about their survival. It had been purchased with far too much blood.

  * * *

  Tavis stood alone in the middle of the battle plain, his sword held ready. He turned a slow circle, looking for someone to kill, or for someone who might kill him. He didn’t care which just then. He wanted only to lash out with his steel, to feel his blade bite into flesh or armor or the edge of another sword. Already, he had killed two Qirsi in the time since the Weaver died. But it wasn’t enough, not nearly.

  “Come on!” he shouted, watching Eandi soldiers chase down the few renegades who remained on the plain, searching for just one white-hair of his own. “Cowards!”

  “Tavis!”

  He ignored the voice, though for just a moment it sounded like his father’s.

  “Tavis, lower your sword!”

  Maybe it was Xaver calling to him. Perhaps he was surrounded by wraiths, the shades of all his dead.

  “Tavis,” came the voice again, softer this time, and much closer.

  He spun, prepared to strike at the white-hair he saw standing before him.

  “I can break your blade if I have to.”

  Tavis blinked, realized it was Fotir.

  “Please, my lord.”

  He lowered his sword, abruptly finding that he was too weary to hold it high anymore. “First Minister,” he muttered.

  “I’m so sorry, my lord. To have lost one of them would have been bad enough. But to lose both…” He shook his head, looking like he might weep. “There’s been no darker day in the long history of our house.”

  Tavis should have known what to say, but his battle rage had sluiced away, leaving him utterly spent. Even had he wanted to cry, he couldn’t have. He could only nod dully, his eyes fixed on the ground at his feet.

  “Let me take you back to the camp, my lord. Grinsa is eager to see you.”

  “He survived,” Tavis said.

  “Yes, my lord. He was injured, but the healers have treated him. He’ll be fine.”

  “Good.” He nodded again. “That’s good.”

  Fotir put an arm around Tavis’s shoulders and began to guide him back toward the Eandi lines. After only a few steps, however, Tavis stopped, turning his gaze to where his father had fallen.

  “I should … He shouldn’t just be left there.”

  “He’s already been borne back to the Curgh camp, my lord. So has Master MarCullet.”

  They began to walk again. Tavis realized that he still held his blade in his hand, and he sheathed it.

  “Should we send a messenger to my mother?” he asked.

  “Truly, my lord, I don’t know. It might be easier for her to hear these tidings from you.”

  Tavis looked up at that, meeting the minister’s gaze. He nearly told the man to send a messenger, for he had no stomach for that conversation. But something stopped him.

  For too long he had considered himself a coward, seeing in his failures as a warrior and the craven manner in which he had killed the assassin in Wethyrn, all the evidence of this that he needed. And though ashamed of his weakness, he had chosen to accept it as part of who he was. Today, he had acquitted himself well in combat, only to realize now how poor a measure of bravery was one’s performance on a battlefield.

  More to the point, on this day, he had become duke of Curgh. It was not a title he wanted, not so soon. But it was his nevertheless. The facile acceptance of his own limitations was a luxury he could no longer afford.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I should be the one to tell her of Father’s death.” He straightened, even managed a small smile. “Thank you, Fotir. I know how much you cared for my father, and how much he valued your service to our house. I’m a poor substitute for him, but still I hope that you’ll continue to serve as Curgh’s first minister.”

  “If you wish it, my lord, I’d be honored.”

  “Thank you, Fotir.”

  “Lord Curgh!”

  They halted and turned. Kearney strode toward them, followed by Gershon Trasker and the thane of Shanstead.

  Tavis knelt, as did the minister. “Your Majesty.”

  “Please rise.”

  They both stood again.

  “I’m pleased to see that you’re all right, Tavis.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “I was deeply saddened to hear that your father was lost. He was as fine and noble a man as I’ve ever known. The Underrealm will shine like Morna’s sky with his light. I can say the same of Master MarCullet. The House of Curgh has paid a dear price for the freedom of the Forelands. All in the land shall hear of the valor of her sons.”

  Tavis looked away, his eyes stinging. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “I take it you were on your way to see the gleaner.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I’d like to join you if I may. He’s earned our thanks and more.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  They began once more to walk, Tavis dabbing at his eyes, hoping Kearney wouldn’t notice. A few moments before, he couldn’t bring himself to shed even a single tear. Now he couldn’t stop his tears from flowing.

  They found Grinsa sitting on the grass beside his sister. His face was the color of ash and his clothes were soaked dark with sweat. But he smiled when he spotted Tavis and even raised a hand in greeting.

  Kearney hurried forward to the archminister, hesitated briefly, then stooped and kissed her quickly on the cheek.

  “I feared for you,” he said, a bright smile on his lips.

  Keziah’s cheeks colored. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Weaver sent an assassin for me. I would have died had it not been for Lord Kentigern.”

  “Aindreas?” the king said, clearly surprised. “Where is he now?”

  “He’s dead, Your Majesty.”

  The king’s smile vanished. “Damn. We lost too many today.”

  “Tavis?” Grinsa was eyeing him grimly, as if readying himself for dark tidings. “Tell me.”

  “My father,” Tavis said, his voice breaking. “And Xaver.”

  The gleaner closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Tavis.”

  They were all watching him, pity in their eyes, and though he knew that they meant well, Tavis couldn’t bear their stares or their sympathy. He turned abruptly and started away. “My pardon, Your Majesty,” he called over his shoulder.

  Tavis knew just where he was going, or rather, who he was looking for: the one man on the Moorlands who understood what he was feeling, who fully shared his grief.

  It took him some time to find Hagan MarCullet, but he spotted the swordmaster at last, sitting on the grass some distance to the south of the Eandi camps. He had his back to the armies, and as Tavis approached he suddenly found himself hesitating, wondering if he should leave the man to his solitude and his anguish. At last he halted, intending to turn back.

  But at that moment, Hagan turned to look at him. There were tears on the swordmaster’s ruddy cheeks, and his eyes were swollen and red.

  “I’m sorry, Hagan. I … I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  The man beckoned to him with an open hand. “It’s all right, lad. Come on, then. He’d want us to be together. Both of them would.”

  Tavis nodded, walked to the swordmaster, and sat down beside him. Hagan held a sword across his lap. Xaver’s sword.

  “All that I taught him,” Hagan said, his voice even despite the tears streaming down his face. “I thought that it would prepar
e him for any enemy, that it could save him from … from this.” He shook his head, sobbing. “It was all for nothing.”

  “That’s not so, Hagan,” Tavis said, tearful once more. “There was nothing you could have done to prepare us for this war. But I wouldn’t have traded those days in the castle wards for anything, and neither would Xaver. The lessons themselves were what mattered most. Don’t you know how proud he was to be your son, to train with you, to hear the castle guards speak of you with such awe? Even as a boy, he loved being called Stinger, because it marked him as Hagan MarCullet’s son. You taught him well, swordmaster, just as you did me.”

  Hagan nodded, though his sobbing continued. Tavis laid a hand on his broad shoulder and said nothing more. But the two of them sat there for some time, their backs to the armies, their faces warmed by the sun and brushed by a gentle wind, their tears somehow less bitter for being shed together.

  * * *

  “He’s suffered too much for a boy so young,” the king said, watching as Tavis hurried off.

  Grinsa’s heart ached for the young lord, but he thought it important that the others begin to see Tavis as he did, especially now, with the dukedom thrust upon him. “He’s not as young as you think he is.”

  Kearney looked at him, frowning. “He’s but a year past his Fating, gleaner. He may have matured, but he’s still a boy.”

  “Yes, he is. But he’s strong, and wise beyond his years. And he has more mettle than even he knows.” Grinsa stared past the king, following Tavis’s progress as the young noble made his way through the camp. “I wouldn’t have said this when I met him, but I think he’ll make a fine duke.”

  “I agree with you,” Kearney said. “Still, I lament that he’ll have to prove himself in the court at so tender an age.”

  Keziah touched Grinsa’s arm, as if telling him to let the matter drop. She was right, of course.

  For several moments, none of them spoke. Grinsa could hear warriors laughing and singing throughout the camp, which was as it should be. They had won a great victory today. But in this small circle, the king, his nobles, and their ministers were subdued. Too many soldiers had died, too many nobles had been lost. And though the Weaver was dead, the rift between Qirsi and Eandi remained, wider than it had been in centuries.