The World Weavers

by Kelley Grant

  Whew, that wasn’t fun, he confided to her. Not much to report here. Saw a Tigu city, traveled through a lot of desert, and got a new horse.

  It hasn’t been a fun ten-­day here, Sulis said grimly. An arrogant Descendant of the Prophet is making life miserable, we had to bargain with a Tigu guide to lead us through the desert this late in the season, and we’re leaving as soon as humanly possible.

  Descendant of the Prophet? Kadar asked.

  He listened while she explained, until Onyeka’s shadow fell on his door flap as she peered in. It must seem odd to her, this silent communication between the siblings.

  Gotta go, Kadar said. The Tigus await me. Careful travels, sis.

  You as well. I know you need to report to the warriors, but don’t forget about me, Sulis sent plaintively.

  You know I won’t. Love and misses.

  Love and misses.

  Kadar ate quickly. He was pleased to see Onyeka and the other warriors on horseback rather than humpback. He calmed Asfar as he saddled her, then leapt onto her back.

  Onyeka handed him a bow and a quiver of arrows.

  “Do you know how to use these?” she asked.

  Kadar tried the tension of the bowstring. “It’s been a ­couple years since I practiced,” he admitted. “And never on horseback. I was a good hunter when I was younger.”

  “You’ll want to practice. We want you to stay back in battle. Give us cover as we fight. Observe for the warriors of the One and report to them.”

  “I don’t mind fighting alongside your warriors,” Kadar said.

  Onyeka shook her head as they rode into the desert.

  “No. Farspeakers are too important and rare to risk in battle. You must protect yourself,” Onyeka said.

  “I’m surprised the Tigus don’t have farspeakers.”

  “Tigu children who can farspeak or work with energy are sent off to train with priestesses like your grandmother and take positions at Kabandha. Such abilities are protected and treasured. We are fighters and would not see such talents die in battle when the warriors of the One desperately need them.”

  Midday they were met by a sentry and directed to the scouts and to Jaiden, the sharp-­eyed battle leader for the tribes. She and Onyeka spoke rapidly as directions were given.

  “This outpost has been here over a century as a place for the army to gather and train their fighters. But the army of the deities has been quickly growing the past three years. In the past month those expanded numbers have doubled,” Onyeka told Kadar. “The Tigus have allowed them to expand their encampment farther south than we normally would, in order to get a sense of their numbers. We’ve allowed them to believe that we have withdrawn farther into the desert after seeing their size.”

  “Wouldn’t it be wiser to withdraw if they are that strong?” Kadar asked.

  “We never confront them directly,” Onyeka said. “All the warrior tribes of the Tigus are allied for the first time in centuries, but we cannot match their numbers. The warriors of the One will direct us, once the army begins to march on the desert.” She grinned. “Turo brought orders from the warriors of the One that we should start harassing the army. The Tigus will send in spies to collapse the latrines, run off their horses. Men who venture far will disappear. Food will become spoiled or opened to rodents. This will turn a happy, sheltered army into an uncomfortable, hungry place where men go about in twos or threes and ­people spit over their shoulders expecting ghosts.”

  Another warrior held their horses as battle leader Jaiden motioned them to follow her on foot. Kadar and the other warriors followed. The terrain here at the northern edge of the Sands was rocky and ridged, unlike the high dunes they’d been traversing deeper into the Sands. The ground rose as they hiked, the midday sun beating on their sand-­colored scarves and light robes. Their feet were silent on the path—­the soft soles of their leather boots were made for stealth. Jaiden motioned for them to crawl for the last portion, and they came out on a high ridge, looking down into a smaller, rocky plain. A small stream trickled through the valley, but only scrub brush and sage grew by the banks.

  A vast field of tents, in groups of fifty or more, sprawled along the banks and receded into the distance. The plain was smoky from dung fires, and men milled around the tents, doing daily chores. Strings of horses were set far from the stream, so as not to contaminate the water source. Jaiden silently pointed to different places around the army, drawing Kadar’s attention to the supplies, the latrines, training fields, and other strategic settings. They then crawled out of sight.

  “How many?” Kadar breathed.

  “The watchers estimate between eight and ten thousand,” Onyeka told him. “They practice drills closer to the northern side of the encampment. We have tribes circling the entire camp. They are aware we are watching them, but our spies tell us they have no idea of our numbers.”

  “Spies?” Kadar asked. She flashed him a grin.

  “Oh yes. We know the army’s schedules, know which platoon is less organized or has recently gotten new members where we can slip in undetected. We have spent most of the past century keeping Voras’s armies out of the Sands. It is the duty of every Tigu tribe to protect the Sands from invasion.”

  “Why doesn’t Voras keep the army closer to Illian?” Kadar asked.

  “This area is out of the way but has a good water source and plenty of land where they can train and drill thousands of men.”

  “There’s no way Voras can bring ten thousand men through the Sands, not even in the winter when the oases are full of water,” Kadar said thoughtfully.

  “I don’t know what they are planning,” Onyeka said. “But we know Voras is looking for every known path through the desert. That is why they have captured caravan leaders in Illian. They don’t realize only one route exists for larger parties. Have you seen enough?”

  “Do the Tigus have charts, showing where the leaders are camped and what their movements are?” Kadar asked. “If so, that would be more useful than me trying to spy on the camp.”

  Onyeka nodded. “We will go back to camp. The Tigu elders are in charge and will gather the information for you. I’ve told Kai to expect you for training with the archers this afternoon. Then you will contact the Kabandha warriors and we will see what this nest of Voras’s hornets looks like when we stir it up.”

  She sounded positively bloodthirsty. Kadar knew that war was necessary, but he wasn’t a fighter. He didn’t want to kill other humans. Onyeka was a true warrior, and he wasn’t sure he understood what made her so different than him, that killing and war were anticipated rather than dreaded.

  Back in camp, Kadar was amused by the sight of Amber in front of the cook fire, scarfing down the remains of a warrior’s food while three warriors looked on in apprehension.

  “Did you steal that?” Kadar asked the feline. She arched her back and purred, not surrendering the plate.

  “She’s only a cat, you know,” he told Onyeka. “Not some ghost from the desert. They don’t have to give her their food.”

  “She’s a suncat,” Onyeka returned mildly. “A cat of legends, a cat of the One. Anytime a pale golden cat tipped with sunset orange appears, great changes happen to the tribes and the Suma she companions. The last one came to the tribes during the drought and led us to our new city. I’ll tell you the legend of the suncat sometime.”

  “I’d enjoy that, after we steal some food from the cat and get to those charts. The Kabandha warriors are waiting for me to contact my cousin and give them a report,” Kadar told her.

  The room of commanders was quiet a moment after Abram relayed Kadar’s information, then questions erupted from all sides of the room.

  Master Tull raised her hand to silence her commanders. “Yes, the numbers are alarming. But we need answers, not hysterics.”

  Master Ursa tapped Abram on the shoulder.

&n
bsp; “This will take some time and we don’t need a record. We need the northern desert territory maps from my office. I want you and Casia to fetch midmeal and extra tash as well. Don’t gossip. This information is for commanders’ ears only. Abram, we’ll use you to talk to Sari later this evening.”

  Abram nodded, and he and Casia slipped out.

  “Why don’t we just go attack the army, instead of sitting here letting the Tigus do the fighting?” Abram muttered to her as they fetched the maps from Ursa’s office.

  “Weren’t you listening?” Casia asked, sifting through papers on a desk. “They have almost ten thousand fighters. How many do you think we have?”

  Abram shrugged. There were more warriors here than he’d seen in one place, but he’d never counted them.

  “Less than three thousand. The majority are also strong energy users, which tips our odds, but not enough. The Tigus number less than two thousand. But they’re valuable. The Tigu magic can blend their warriors into the desert, so they can winnow the army down bit by bit to give us better odds.”

  Abram was aghast. “They outnumber us two to one? We’re doomed. We can’t win.”

  Casia shook her head. “Winning was never the goal. We knew the numbers were bad, though not this bad. We exist only to give the Chosen time to weave the deities back into the One. Our job is to hold back an army double our size, get the Voices to the Obsidian Temple, and protect the rest of the desert.”

  “Easy, right?” Abram said weakly. “But why aren’t the warriors fighting alongside the Tigus?”

  “We don’t have very many true fighters,” Casia said. “The ones we have are already scouting closer to the western part of our border to make certain Voras doesn’t slip spies in, while the Tigus focus on the army in the east. Our true strength is in our warrior mages. They raise energy and use it for protection. But that isn’t fast or easy, and it is almost useless with the Tigus’ strike-­and-­run style of fighting. When the deities’ army comes, we’ll need to raise a sandstorm to reduce their numbers further. It’ll take months for us to pull together enough energy to suddenly change the winds and to cast protections around our ­people for the full-­on battle with the army. Making over two thousand stubborn mages work together is impossible. I’m glad it’s Master Ursa’s job, not mine.”

  She rolled her eyes, then searched deeper in the pile. “Found them!” she said, pulling the maps from the pile.

  She turned pale and leaned against the desk, and Abram quickly pushed a bench to her and helped her sit.

  “Are you okay? Should I fetch Jarol?” he asked anxiously as she ducked her head and breathed deeply. Her lover had some skill at healing.

  “Why, so you can flirt with him again?” she asked, looking up. Her face had a little more color. “I’m fine. Master Ursa had me doing higher-­level weather work and it rebounded on me. I’m just low on energy.”

  Abram grinned, relieved that she was recovering quickly. “Jarol is quite handsome. But you have no worries. Master Tull has already stolen my time and my adoration,” he said, his tone joking.

  “Isn’t she a little old for you?” Casia asked, smoothing out the maps she’d wrinkled.

  “Age does not matter to an empath,” Abram declared. “It is what’s in her heart.”

  Casia mock-­gasped. “Master Tull has a heart?” she asked and stood. “I thought she was all iron. Come, we’d better go fetch food before your love starts eating her warriors for midmeal.”

  Jonas could feel the tension in the room as the other Voices waited for the Templar to arrive to this Curia. The Crone glanced uneasily at her feli, who was grooming himself beside her chair. The Herald straightened her cloak and caressed her feli’s head, coughing and clearing her throat. Pollux sat beside Jonas, twitching his tail and gazing at the pile of shortbread on the table. Jonas received a frown from the Magistrate, sitting beside him, as he slipped the great cat a cookie, but he felt Parasu’s amusement in the back of his mind.

  Alannah’s note hadn’t been the personal letter Jonas had hoped for. Instead she’d written “Remember who you are,” and enclosed a second note. That note was addressed to Parasu rather than Jonas. A Descendant of the Prophet had written that note.

  Parasu had asked Jonas not to share that note with the Magistrate. Instead he told Jonas to go to the Herald. Then Aryn had taken over the Herald and Parasu had spoken directly with her.

  The Templar entered the room and waved away refreshments. He gave the Voices a transcript of the interviews from Southern caravan leaders. The Magistrate shuffled through the papers and Jonas felt a slight pressure in his skull. He slid out of Parasu’s way, allowing his deity to the forefront of his mind. He felt his deity’s approval.

  “That is all I need you for, Magistrate,” Parasu said.

  The man stood and bowed to the other Voices before gathering his papers and fleeing out the door.

  Parasu glanced around the table and one by one the deities possessed their Voices, who became something more than human. Jonas could feel Parasu’s assessment of the Voices’ strengths and failings; his concern at the advanced age of the Herald’s body, and his appreciation for Jonas’s adaptable body and mind.

  Voras’s eyes blazed red. “What do you want, Parasu?” he hissed. “You waste my time here. This is nothing my Templar could not have handled.”

  “What, you’d rather be out playing with your army by the desert?” Aryn growled. Voras shot a sharp look at her. “Yes, of course we know you’ve tripled its size. There isn’t much about your activities we don’t know,” she said scornfully.

  “We want to know what information you have on the Obsidian Temple,” Parasu said calmly. “We are willing to share the information we have in exchange.”

  Voras’s face twisted in rage, and Jonas felt a thrill run through Parasu as Voras took the bait so quickly. His assumptions of betrayal would be his and Ivanha’s downfall. Voras glared over the table at Ivanha. “You idiot,” he snarled. “You told them. You wasted our advantage.”

  She sneered. “It wasn’t me, darling,” she drawled, putting sarcasm into the endearment. “Probably one of your meatheaded advisors. They never could keep secrets.”

  “Or your Mother Superior,” he shot back. “Sleeping her way through half the soldiers . . .”

  “Enough,” Aryn said. “What do you intend to do about the Obsidian Temple? Give us your information and we will give you ours.”

  Jonas’s body tensed as Parasu waited. The note that the Descendant had left for Alannah to deliver had been cryptic, saying only that what Parasu truly wanted was in the desert, in a temple that had been built where the deities had been defeated—­the Obsidian Temple. Neither Parasu’s nor Aryn’s spies had discovered more information. Parasu hoped that that by playing coy in this meeting, Voras would grandstand and volunteer the information they needed. They would prey on his belief that Ivanha had betrayed him, and he would squeal to them in his anger.

  Voras looked between Parasu and Aryn, maybe sensing the trap. But Aryn sneered at him, then smiled nicely at Ivanha, goading him.

  “I intend to crush it and those miserable warriors of the One with my army,” Voras said. “Do you see another way of getting our powers back? You can’t tell me that you don’t want your freedom and to be unchained from the feli and the One. For all your posturing and supposed goodness, you’re exactly like the rest of us. You want that part of yourself they’ve trapped in that desert temple.”

  Jonas admired the way Aryn’s face did not change. He hoped Parasu had good control over his own, because elation hit as Parasu understood what Voras meant. Voras was saying that the key to the deities’ freedom lay in the desert temple. That their lost powers were trapped there. Neither Aryn nor Parasu had known that. His deity mulled over this information.

  “And your army can get it for you?” Aryn said, still playing her part. “I don’t
think so.”

  Voras slammed his fist on the table and rose. “I almost had my powers returned! With only one soldier! If he’d been able to touch my statue I would already have been whole again. All we need to do is get past those cursed Tigu nomads, destroy the South’s pathetic army and those Chosen witches, and we can push through the barrier to reclaim our true selves!”

  “You thought to go in, only you and Ivanha,” Parasu said coolly. “You’d thought to unbalance the system, make us subordinate. It won’t work and would destroy us all. We must all join together to fight the desert menace, or we will all fail.”

  “Join together?” Ivanha asked, a slight smile on her face. “Apparently you knew about the Obsidian Temple as well, but you did not come to us. You would have let us become subordinate to you with half a chance.”

  “Unfortunately we are stuck with one another,” Aryn said with a harsh laugh. “How do you suggest we proceed?”

  “I had a letter,” Parasu said evenly. “From the Descendants of the Prophet.” He raised his hand as Voras and Ivanha protested. “No, I won’t show it to you. They claim not to be a threat to us. They claim they wish to balance the power between the One and the deities. They feel that the only way to harmony is for us to regain our powers. They will help us, but only if we work as a whole to show we are willing to create harmony.”

  “They’re infidels,” Ivanha hissed. “I’ve been trying to eradicate them for years. They believe in the Southern prophecy.”

  Voras snorted. “Crazy fanatics. We don’t want to be balanced with the One. We want to rule him.”

  Parasu remained calm, detached, and rational. “Ah, but the Descendants say the way to balance is by going to war with the South and traveling to the Obsidian Temple to reclaim what is ours,” he said. “They don’t have to know we don’t want balance. We can use their fanatical beliefs and once we have what we need, nothing they can do will stop us.”

  This silenced the two deities. Aryn looked like a cat that had gotten into the cream. Parasu nodded to her.