by DAVID B. COE
She slipped out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.
Aindreas reached for his wine once more, then thought better of it and sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes with an unsteady hand.
He had no qualms about opposing Kearney or even about waging civil war so long as he had reason to hope that he might prevail. Until he met Jastanne, he had been eager to do whatever was necessary to remove Glyndwr from the Oaken Throne.
Suddenly, though, his certainty had vanished.
Those I serve want civil war in Eibithar. The words repeated themselves in his head like the insipid lyric of a child’s song, relentless and unwelcome.
He shouldn’t have been surprised. Ean knew he shouldn’t have been. For he had heard much the same thing said before, by Javan and by Kearney and by the strange Qirsi man who had saved Tavis of Curgh from Kentigern’s dungeon. Before tonight, he had dismissed such claims as the desperate excuses of men who had embraced a killer and turned their backs on truth and honor. But it was another matter entirely to hear the words spoken by a leader of the conspiracy.
From the beginning, the duke had every reason to believe that Tavis had killed his Brienne. The dagger, the blood, the locked door. He had never thought to question his own assumptions. Certainly he had never considered asking Brienne about the murder. More than once he had considered going to. the Sanctuary of the Deceiver in Kentigern City on Pitch Night so that he could see her. Ean knew how much he wanted to go, and also how much he feared the encounter. He never made the journey. It was too soon, he told himself each turn. I’m not ready to face her. Even on the Night of Two Moons in Bian’s Turn, when his daughter’s wraith came to him, Aindreas had been unable to do more than weep at the sight of her. But even had he managed to speak with her, he wouldn’t have asked her about that terrible night so many turns ago. Tavis had killed her. He knew this.
Or at least he thought he did. Are you certain? she had asked him last night. It wasn’t the real Brienne. He knew that of course. His mind wasn’t so far gone. But the doubts voiced by this apparition that haunted him echoed his own, particularly now, with what the Qirsi woman had told him.
Those I serve want civil war in Eibithar.
He was bound to the Qirsi now, held fast by chains he had forged himself. He had thought to use them, to harness the power of their conspiracy to rid Eibithar of the demons in Audun’s Castle. Now it seemed he was surrounded by demons, and he could find nothing to distinguish one from another.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Great Forest of Aneira
With all that had happened in Aneira over the past few turns, Grinsa should have expected that a thick mist and strong wind would not be enough to keep the soldiers of Solkara from pursuing them. “That man is an Eibitharian lord, come to kill our queen!” Shurik had said, pointing an accusing finger at Tavis and calling for the royal guard. At any time, such a claim would have drawn the attention of soldiers and city folk alike, but with the king dead and Grigor’s hanging still fresh in the minds of every man and woman in the realm, Shunk’s words seemed to awaken all of the Solkaran countryside.
Just an hour after their escape through the south gate of Solkara City, Grinsa and the boy crouched in the shadows of the Great Forest and watched as guards poured from the castle, fanning out in every direction.
“Is that all for us?” Tavis whispered, face grim and eyes wide.
“I’m afraid so. By now Shurik has probably told them who it was he saw. Tavis of Curgh, who murdered Lady Brienne and came to Solkara to do the same to the new queen. He may even have told them that I’m a Weaver.”
“They’ll kill us both.”
The gleaner nodded. “If we give them the chance, yes, I expect they will.”
A few moments later, they were on their way again, running through the wood like hunted elk. Grinsa wanted desperately to go north toward Mertesse, where he suspected Shurik would be headed. But with the soldiers following, he didn’t dare give away their true intentions so soon.
Instead, he led Tavis to the south and east, toward the Rassor River and the shores of the Scabbard, hoping their pursuers would believe they had a ship awaiting them in one of the inlet’s many hidden coves.
For several days they continued in this direction, sleeping in what natural shelter they could find in the forest, and eating Osya’s root and what remained of the harvest berries growing along the forest road. They built no fires, and they wasted no time hunting for more substantial fare. Most of the guards sent after them were on foot, and though Grinsa sensed that they were still following, he and Tavis saw no sign of them. On two occasions, however, smaller parties of mounted soldiers nearly found them. Once, two days out from Solkara, they managed to avoid the soldiers by concealing themselves in a dense and uncomfortable copse of holly until the men had passed. The second time, caught in a portion of the wood that was relatively open, Grinsa had no choice but to raise a mist. He coaxed strands of fog from the earth as slowly as he dared, hoping the soldiers would take it for a natural mist rather than an act of magic, but judging from the way the men drew their swords, peering through the fine grey cloud and bare tree limbs, he felt certain that he hadn’t fooled them. After a time, Grinsa summoned his power a second time, snapping a large limb from a nearby oak so that it crashed loudly to the ground. To their credit, the horsemen didn’t flee, though several of their mounts reared, whinnying nervously. But they did retreat at last, allowing Tavis and Grinsa to hurry away from this section of the wood.
The next morning, the two fugitives turned north and west, away from the Rassor, and toward the center of the forest. Almost immediately, they encountered a large group of soldiers on foot, and only barely managed to evade them. Once again, however, they were forced to turn southward, at least until Grinsa convinced himself that they had put some distance between themselves and the Solkarans.
Two nights later, trudging among the trees by the dim light of the moons, they caught a glimpse of a fire burning a short distance ahead. It was too small to warm more than one man, so Grinsa and Tavis approached, feeling sure that they were not putting themselves in danger. As they drew nearer, Grinsa heard a horse snort, and saw a small trader’s cart. A moment later, he saw the trader himself, a diminutive white-haired Eandi with a long nose and sullen face.
“A peddler,” he said to Tavis, keeping his voice low. “If we’re lucky, we might be able to buy a warm meal and a night’s sleep beside a fire.”
The gleaner began to sing an old Sanbiri melody his father had taught him as a child. He had a poor singing voice, but he hoped to alert the peddler to their presence in the wood so that their appearance wouldn’t startle him.
As it happened, the sound of his voice had the opposite effect on the man. Instantly, he was on his feet, dagger held before him as he stared into the darkness.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“Friends,” Grinsa answered, smiling as he and Tavis stepped into the firelight.
The old man shook his head and took a step back, fear in his dark eyes. “You’re not friends of mine, Qirsi. I know who you are.” He waved the blade at Tavis. “He’s the Eibitharian who tried to kill the queen.”
“I did not!” Tavis said.
Grinsa glared at him. “Be quiet!”
“You’d rather he thought that I tried to kill her?”
The gleaner shook his head and faced the man again. “Who told you this?” he asked.
“That’s not your concern, Qirsi! Now leave me, or I’ll be forced to use this blade!”
His hand was shaking so violently that Grinsa half expected him to drop the dagger and run. Certainly, he posed no threat to either the gleaner or the boy. Grinsa was more afraid that he would cry out for help, bringing any soldiers who might be nearby.
The Qirsi held up his hands to show that he had no weapon, and took another step toward the fire. “Come now, friend. We both know that you’re not going to hurt us with that blade. We mean you no harm. M
y companion doesn’t always know when to keep silent, but he spoke truly when he told you that we made no attempt on your queen, nor do we intend to.”
“I don’t believe you.” His eyes flicked to Tavis and he backed away again.
“You see the scars on the boy’s face?” Grinsa asked, beginning to circle the fire slowly. “We’re looking for the man who did that. Our search took us to Solkara. He is from Eibithar, but we’re not assassins, and we’re not your enemies.”
“Stay where you are!” the man said in a quavering voice.
But by now, Grinsa was close enough.
“Tell me where you heard that we tried to kill the queen,” he commanded again. This time, however, as he spoke the words, he reached out with his magic and touched the man’s mind lightly. He didn’t like to use mind-bending power. It was by far the most intrusive of all Qirsi powers and in many ways the most dangerous. If he used too heavy a hand, he could impair the man forever. But in this case he felt that he had little choice.
Immediately, the peddler lowered his blade. “It’s all over the wood,” he said, his voice suddenly calm. “Everyone’s speaking of it.”
“You mean the soldiers?”
“The soldiers, village folk, everyone. Riders came from the castle to tell us. There isn’t a town between here and Kett that will welcome you.”
“Is there a bounty as well?”
“None that I’ve heard.”
Grinsa glanced at Tavis. “They probably feel that they don’t need one, that hatred of Eibithar will be incentive enough.”
“We need to get out of the wood,” Tavis said. “We’re not safe here.”
“We may not be safe anywhere in the kingdom.”
“What about Bistari?”
Grinsa weighed this briefly. It was possible that the people of Bistari hated the Solkarans even more than they did Aneira’s northern neighbor, but he wasn’t certain enough of this to chance turning back to the west.
He looked at the peddler again. He still held the man with his mind, though he was tiring quickly. Magic so precise demanded a good deal of effort.
“What should we do with him?”
“We’re not going to harm him,” Grinsa said quickly.
Tavis frowned. “I know that. You really think that’s what I meant?”
The Qirsi took a breath. “No. Forgive me.” He rubbed his brow. “I don’t know what we should do with him, but we need to decide quickly. I’m getting weary.”
“Can your magic make him forget all of this?”
“Not all of it, no. He’ll remember he met someone. I can alter the memory some, though if I try to change it too much I’ll… I’ll injure him.”
Tavis appeared to flinch, as if the very idea of it made his head hurt.
“What do you sell?” Grinsa asked the merchant.
“Lots of things. Mostly pipeweed and spices this time of year.”
“We’ll take some pipeweed and any food you have to spare.”
“I need my food.”
Grinsa touched his mind again, harder this time, though he hated to do so.
“I can spare a bit of food. Dried meat, maybe some cheese.”
“That will be fine.” It was nothing short of theft, and it made Grinsa sick to his stomach. But they needed something other than roots and berries if they were to keep ahead of Solkara’s soldiers.
The peddler pulled several pouches of dried meat from his cart, along with a small sack of Caerissan pipeweed and two large rounds of hard cheese.
“One will be enough,” Gnnsa said.
Tavis started to object, but the Qirsi silenced him with a stony look.
He gave the peddler ten qinde-far more than the food and pipeweed were worth, though that did little to assuage his guilt.
“Did the soldiers say where they thought we were going?” he asked the man.
“They said you were headed south, but that they expected you to turn north eventually, to return to Eibithar.”
Damn you, Shuri! “Very well,” he said, stepping closer to the trader and staring into his eyes. “I’m going to make you sleep now. When you awake, you’ll remember nothing of the boy. You sold food and pipeweed to a Qirsi man and woman. They paid you five qinde. Do you understand?”
The old man nodded.
Grinsa led him to a blanket that lay on the ground beside his fire. “Lie down.”
The man lowered himself to the ground and Grinsa found a second blanket to cover him.
“Sleep now,” the gleaner said.
Immediately the man’s eyes closed and his breathing slowed.
“It seems Aneira’s new leaders are eager to find us,” Tavis said, watching the man sleep.
“Yes. We might be better off heading east to the steppe.”
“The steppe? That will take us a hundred leagues out of our way. We won’t reach Mertesse for another turn.”
Grinsa knew he was right. Truth be told, he didn’t want to leave Aneira either. Now that Tavis had finally agreed to go after Shurik, the Qirsi was anxious to reach Mertesse and question the traitorous minister. He wasn’t certain what he would do with Shurik after that-perhaps kill him, perhaps return him to Aindreas as a gesture of goodwill. That decision could wait-for now, he was consumed with merely finding the man. Already Tavis was beginning to talk once more of the need to search for the assassin, to avenge Brienne’s murder and clear his name. It wouldn’t be long before he began to chafe at the idea of going to Mertesse. Grinsa needed to get them there as quickly as possible. Every delay gnawed at him.
He also realized, however, that if they remained in Aneira, they would be taking a grave risk. Tavis needed to understand that. “At least in Caensse, we can travel without constantly fearing for our lives,” he said, eyeing the boy. “I don’t know if we can avoid Solkara’s soldiers forever.”
“Better to try than to go running to the steppe. For all we know, they’ll be expecting that. It’s far closer than the Tarbin; the Solkarans are probably watching the slope already.” He looked up at the gleaner. “Each day that I spend running means one more day in exile. I want to go home, Grinsa. I want to go back to Curgh. And at this point I’d rather fight off the entire Solkaran army than waste another turn seeking refuge on the steppe.”
“Actually, I feel the same way, but I wanted to give you the choice.”
They started north immediately, putting some distance between themselves and the peddler’s camp before stopping for the night. The next morning they resumed their journey, avoiding the forest roads and staying close to the thicker groves of the wood. This slowed their progress, but it kept them far from most of the soldiers, and it allowed them to elude those they did encounter. They followed a meandering course through the wood to further frustrate those pursuing them, but still they reached the southern banks of the Kett only a few days after leaving the peddler. The waters were slow here, though Grinsa couldn’t tell how deep the river might be. Not that it mattered. With the air this cold, they would have been fools to ford the waters, especially since he still feared attracting the soldiers’ attention with a fire. Yet, he was certain that the Aneirans would be watching all the bridges. In the end, they decided to gather fallen logs and lash them together into a small punt using willow boughs. It took them much of what remained of the day, but they were able to cross the river without freezing or alerting the Aneirans. Once they were across, Grinsa shattered the boat with a thought, rather than leave it for someone to find.
With the Kett behind them, the two travelers continued north, though they began to angle westward once more. At some point they would have to cross the farmlands between the Great Forest and Mertesse, but Grinsa wanted to make certain that they spent as little time as possible in the open.
For a court boy who had enjoyed a comfortable childhood and still desired the comforts of a noble’s life, Tavis was a surprisingly good travel companion. He rarely complained of being tired, and had no trouble matching the pace Grinsa set for him. When
the gleaner complimented him on this, a few days after they had crossed the river, the boy smiled.
“You should save your praise for Hagan MarCullett.”
“Xaver’s father?”
“Yes. He’s my father’s swordmaster, and as many times as he’s had me run the towers of Curgh Castle, I ought to have the endurance of an Uulranni mount.”
They walked a short time in silence, before Tavis glanced at him again.
“What about you?” the boy asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve always heard that Qirsi are weaker than the Eandi, yet you don’t get tired as one might expect. When we rest it’s usually for my benefit, not yours.”
Gnnsa shrugged. “I’m a Weaver.”
“So Weavers are stronger than other Qirsi-physically I mean?”
“Usually, yes.”
“Is that why my people are so afraid of your kind?”
The gleaner hesitated. Since the night he rescued Tavis from Kentigern’s dungeon, with the help of Fotir jal Salene, first minister of Curgh, he and Tavis had rarely spoken of Grinsa’s secret. When the boy asked him questions of this sort, he usually gave a terse answer, making it clear that this was not a topic he wished to discuss. Perhaps, though, the time had come to tell Tavis a bit more. They had been traveling together for nearly half a year now, and if the visions Grinsa had of the boy prior to Tavis’s Fating proved to be accurate, they would be together for some time to come.
“What do you know about Weavers, Tavis?”
“Not much really. I know that Weavers led the Qirsi invasion of the Forelands, and that after the army of the Southlands was defeated all the Weavers were executed.”
“But you don’t know why.”
“I’d guess it was because you’re stronger than the other Qirsi, not only physically, but also in terms of your magic.”
“You’re right, we are. But that’s not why we’re feared. That’s not why the Eandi have been executing Weavers for the last nine centuries.”
“Then why?”
“Have you noticed how many different types of magic I possess?”