by DAVID B. COE
Uestem jal Safhir, solid like the great boulders on Ayvencalde Moor, had proved himself intelligent as well, if somewhat unimaginative. He was already in Galdasten. And Pronjed jal Drenthe had managed to escape the prison tower of Dantrielle and was already making his way northward. As always, the archminister was eager to please and, after his questionable decision to kill Carden the Third, king of Aneira, frightened of incurring Dusaan’s wrath again.
There were others-men and women who served in courts or sailed ships or journeyed the realms with festivals. And on this night, Dusaan spoke with all of them, telling each the same thing.
The time has come. I will reveal myself within the day and will begin to fight the Eandi courts in earnest. Prepare yourselves and make your way to Galdasten as quickly as possible. I intend to form an army the likes of which has not been seen in the Forelands for nearly nine centuries.
The sky had already begun to brighten when he ended the last of these conversations. He hadn’t slept at all. He should have been too weary to stand. Instead, he felt invigorated. The sky over the Imperial Palace glowed indigo and the moons hung low to the west. What a glorious day to begin his reign.
He had a servant bring him his morning meal, and this time he ate, like a newly robed cleric breaking his fast. When he had finished, he sat by the window and dozed until the first of the ministers arrived for the day’s discussion. He watched them file into the chamber, singly and in pairs, their hair as white as bone, their eyes a dozen different shades of gold and yellow. He had heard it said among the Eandi that all Qirsi looked the same. Dusaan couldn’t have disagreed more. There was as much variety in the Qirsi face as in the Eandi, and far more beauty. Their skin was as pure as new snow, their features as fine as Sanbiri metalwork. He would challenge any man in the Forelands to show him an Eandi woman as beautiful as Jastanne, or Cresenne for that matter.
His mood darkened at the thought of Cresenne. Had she not betrayed him for Grinsa, she would have been one of those whose dreams he entered this past night. She could have had a hand in this momentous day, she could have been his queen and shared with him the glorious future he had conceived and would soon create. Instead, she would die an enemy of the new Qirsi court. A pity. But she had brought this fate upon herself.
“We’re all here, High Chancellor.”
He looked up to find Nitara standing before him, lovely in her own way, her face flushed with desire for him, and, just perhaps, her anticipation of what was about to happen in this chamber.
Dusaan gazed past her to find that all of them were watching him: Gorlan looking younger than the Weaver had ever seen him, a smile on his lips; Stavel looking old and scared, as well he should. The others appeared oblivious, some even bored. That wouldn’t last long.
He smiled at Nitara and gestured for her to sit. “Thank you, Minister.”
How many times had he envisioned the scene unfolding before him? For how long had he been composing what he was about to say? It seemed to Dusaan that his entire life had been leading to this very moment.
“Have you any further word from Pinthrel, High Chancellor?”
The Weaver glared at Stavel, causing the old man to shrink back into his chair.
“All of you have heard rumors of the Qirsi movement, the so-called conspiracy that threatens the Eandi courts, that strikes fear into the hearts of nobles throughout the Forelands, that unmans Braedon’s emperor. For many turns now, we’ve denounced this movement, just as the emperor would expect. We’ve done so to keep ourselves from being branded as traitors, we’ve done so because as servants of an Eandi lord we could do no less.”
“High Chancellor,” Stavel said meekly, “what does this have to do with the pestilence and Pinth-?”
Dusaan pounded his fist on the writing table. “Will you be silent?” He closed his eyes briefly, trying to compose himself, trying to remember exactly where he’d been in his oration. “As I say, we’ve denounced this so-called conspiracy because that’s what was expected of us. But how many of us have wished for the freedom promised by this movement? How many of us have dreamed of a day when Qirsi ruled in the great cities of the Forelands? I know that I have.”
“What are you saying?”
It wasn’t Stavel this time, but rather one of the young ministers. He looked nearly as frightened as Stavel. Indeed, with the exception of Nitara and Gorlan, all of them appeared scared, like children caught in a sudden storm.
“I’m saying just what you think I am. I believe the time has come to put an end to Eandi rule in the Forelands. Our people have served inferior men for too long. We possess great powers. Qirsar has given us the gift of his magic. He has allowed us to glimpse the future, to heal flesh and shape matter, to turn the elements to our will. And yet we are expected to humble ourselves before Eandi nobles who possess neither our powers nor our wisdom. Why should this be?”
“Because they defeated us.” Stavel again, bolder this time. He was trembling-Dusaan could see his hands shaking-but he held his chin high, defiant and proud. The Weaver hadn’t known that he possessed such nerve. “We fought this war nine centuries ago, High Chancellor, and we were beaten back. The Eandi rule the Forelands because we weren’t strong enough to take it from them. We failed then, and this conspiracy will fail now.”
Not long ago, he would have responded to such words with rage. But he was too close now to care what this one man said, weak and inconsequential as he was. He merely shook his head, grinning fiercely. “No, Stavel, you’re wrong. We failed then because we defeated ourselves, through the treachery of a single man.” Even now, on the verge of undoing all that this traitor had wrought, Dusaan found it difficult to speak his name. “Carthach ruined us, he doomed our people to nine centuries of servitude and humiliation. But all that is about to end.”
“You can’t really think to defeat them. Their armies-”
“Their armies are already destroying one another. By the time we strike at them they will have so weakened themselves that our victory will be assured.”
“How long have you been with the conspiracy, High Chancellor?” Rov asked, her tone betraying little.
“I prefer to call it a movement, Minister. And I’ve been with it from the beginning. The movement is me, and I am the movement.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s very simple. I lead the movement.”
The woman blinked, wide-eyed.
“I don’t believe you.” Stavel, of course.
“Don’t you, Chancellor? Look into your heart. You know that it’s true.” He smiled again. “But there’s more.” He looked around the chamber. “Who here knows what powers I possess?”
No one spoke.
With only the merest effort, he called forth a wind, allowing it to sweep through the chamber, then die away. He held forth his hand and conjured a flame. Then he held his other hand over the fire, wincing at the pain. Several of the Qirsi gasped, including Nitara. He let the fire go out and held up his burned hand so that all could see the wound. And then he healed it. He picked up a wine goblet from his writing table, balanced it in his palm, and shattered it with a thought.
“Mists and winds,” he said. “Fire, healing, shaping. Let me assure you that I have gleaning, language of beasts, and delusion as well.”
Stavel looked like he might be ill. “You’re a Weaver,” he whispered.
“Yes. Drawing on my own powers and melding them with the magic of those in this chamber, I could tear this palace to the ground, killing every Eandi within it. With the force that I have assembled throughout the Forelands, I can overcome the combined might of the seven realms.”
Gorlan stood and faced the others. “What he’s telling you is true. I’ve felt his power. It’s greater than I ever thought possible.”
“You’re involved in this, too?”
“We’re part of a great movement,” Dusaan said, ignoring Stavel. “We’re on the verge of changing the course of history. I would gladly welcome
all of you to our cause, if you so choose. But you must decide now. You have spent your lives in the service of Eandi lords, men who did not deserve your devotion. Now I offer you the opportunity to join me in building a Qirsi empire. You need only swear your fealty to the movement.”
“And if we refuse?” asked one of the chancellors.
“I have revealed to you that I’m a Weaver, and I’ve declared myself at war with the Eandi courts, including that of the emperor. If you refuse, you declare yourself his ally. You’ll have until nightfall to leave the palace without fear of reprisal. After that, if you remain and you still refuse to pledge yourself to our cause, I’ll have no choice but to kill you.”
“Do you honestly believe that you can win our allegiance with threats?”
Again, the Weaver ignored the question, eyeing the others. Nitara had been right: all of the ministers were with him, and at least one of the older Qirsi.
“All of you who intend to join me, please stand.”
All six ministers and two of the chancellors stood, leaving only Stavel and two others sitting.
“You’re mad!” Stavel said. “All of you.” He pushed himself out of his chair and started for the door.
“Hold, Stavel.”
The old chancellor halted, his back to Dusaan. After a moment, he turned. His face was deathly pale, and there could be no mistaking the terror in his eyes. Yet, once more, he surprised the high chancellor with his bravery. “What are you going to do to me?”
“That depends. Where are you going?”
“To the emperor, of course. I must tell him of this.”
Brave indeed. “You know I can’t let you do that.”
“So it’s to be murder then.”
“I’d rather it not be.” Dusaan wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he actually meant what he said. Just the day before he wouldn’t have thought twice about killing this man. But Stavel had earned his respect this day. Dusaan was forced to admit that there was more to the man than he had ever imagined. “I know that we’ve had our differences over the years. I know that you were jealous of me when I first came to Curtell. I’ll even grant that you had reason to be. I was new to the palace, and I was very young to be made high chancellor. It couldn’t have been easy for you, being passed over when you had waited so long. But I’d be willing to put all of that aside if you’ll pledge your fealty to me now.”
“Never.”
“Surely you can’t think that the emperor deserves such loyalty. The man’s a fool. He cares nothing for the Qirsi who serve him. He can barely even remember our names.”
“None of that matters, Dusaan, and you know it. I swore an oath to serve the empire, and I will not go back on my word.”
“Even if it means turning against your own people?”
“You may be a Weaver, and you may lead a movement that stretches across all the Forelands, but that doesn’t mean that you speak for our people.” The old man took a long breath, drawing himself up so that he stood straighter than Dusaan had seen in many years. “So if you wish to stop me, you’ll have to kill me.”
Their eyes were locked, and the Weaver refused to look away, but he sensed that the others were watching him, wondering what he would do.
“Go ahead, Dusaan. Kill me. Show them what kind of leader you intend to be.”
It would have been easiest to break his neck. One simple push with his shaping power would do it, and it would be a relatively painless death for Stavel. But he needed to decide what point he wished to convey to the others-did he want them to think him merciful, or would it be more useful to make them fear his power? — and he had only an instant to make his choice.
Stavel turned again, reaching for the door handle.
“Stop, Stavel.” He pushed as he said the words, touching the old man’s mind with his magic. The chancellor hesitated, his hand resting on the door handle for an instant before dropping to his side. The others were watching in grave silence, but Dusaan didn’t think they understood quite what was happening.
The Weaver glanced about the chamber, trying to decide what to do with Stavel now that he controlled him. It took him but a moment to decide. “Retrieve my sword, Chancellor, and bring it to me.”
Stavel looked at him, despair in his yellow eyes, but he could only obey. He crossed the chamber, pulled the sword from its scabbard, and walked back to where the Weaver stood.
“Lay the point against my chest.”
Stavel lifted the blade so that its point rested on the high chancellor’s breastbone.
“No doubt he’d like to kill me,” Dusaan said so that the others could hear, all the while keeping a tight hold on Stavel’s mind. “But I control him. He’s helpless to do anything other than what I command.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” Stavel whispered, a tear winding a crooked course down his face.
“Because you turned against me. Because you chose service to the Eandi over loyalty to your own people.”
“What are you going to do to him?” asked Bardyn, another of the old ones who had refused to join him.
“What would you suggest I do with him, Chancellor? He’s been spying on all of us for the emperor. He’s guilty of the worst kind of betrayal.”
“He was only doing what his sovereign asked him to do. Harel feared for his life and his court-with good reason it now seems-and he ordered Stavel to do this. Surely you can’t fault the chancellor for that.”
“So you would have done the same thing?” Gorlan demanded.
Bardyn glared at him briefly before looking away. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
Stavel’s hand was trembling. Dusaan could feel him fighting to win back control of his mind and body.
“Turn the sword on yourself,” he said.
Another tear slid from Stavel’s eye as he turned the blade and held the tip against his own chest.
The Weaver almost told the man to kill himself then. He intended to. He considered Stavel’s betrayal a crime against the Qirsi people, one for which the old man deserved to die. But looking at the others once more, he saw apprehension on their faces. Even Nitara seemed to be pleading silently for Stavel’s life, her pale eyes wide and brimming with tears. If this woman, who had willingly taken the life of her former lover, couldn’t bear to see the chancellor killed, how would the rest respond?
“You understand that it would be nothing for me to take your life, that you’ve earned such a death with all you’ve done?”
Stavel nodded.
“And you understand as well, that if you dare go to the emperor with any of this, I will kill you, and Bardyn, too.”
His eyes flicked toward his friend, then back to Dusaan’s face, the sword still pressed to his heart. “I understand.”
“Good.” Dusaan took the blade from him and released his hold on the man’s mind. Stavel blinked once, his entire body appearing to sag. “You’re to leave the palace at once, Chancellor. I don’t ever want to see your face again. If I do, your life is forfeit.”
Stavel started to say something, then seemed to think better of it. With one last glance at the others, he left the chamber.
“If any of you still intend to oppose me, you should leave now as well. My patience for traitors runs thin.”
There was a brief silence. Then Bardyn stood, crossed to the door, and pulled it open. Pausing on the threshold, he turned to stare back at Dusaan. “Stavel is right, you know. You’re all quite mad.”
Dusaan raised the sword, so that it pointed directly at Bardyn’s chest. “Not a word to anyone, Chancellor. You’ll find that a Weaver’s reach is not limited by walls, or mountains, or even oceans. Defy me now, and I’ll find you, no matter how far you run.”
The man blanched and pulled the door shut, his footsteps retreating quickly down the corridor.
“Anyone else?” Dusaan asked.
No one moved.
“I’m pleased,” he said. “And I welcome you to the Qirsi movement. Before this day is don
e the Imperial Palace will be ours, and soon after, all of Braedon. From there, it won’t be long until we’ve conquered all the Eandi courts and created a new land ruled by the Qirsi people and defended by Qirsi magic.”
“How will we take the palace, Weaver?” Nitara asked.
The high chancellor allowed himself a smile. “Leave that to me.”
* * *
Dusaan left his chamber a short time later, instructing the other Qirsi to remain there and await his return. He wouldn’t need them for what he intended to do next, nor did he wish for any aid. Harel was his. He had been anticipating this day for too long to share its pleasures with anyone else.
The guards at Harel’s door stopped him, of course.
“The emperor isn’t expecting you,” one of them said.
“I know that, but it’s rather urgent that I see him.”
The one who had spoken stepped into the imperial chamber, closing the door quietly behind him. After some time he reemerged, eyeing Dusaan with manifest distrust.
“What is it you want?”
“It’s a rather delicate matter, involving the fee accountings. I’d prefer not to say more than that.”
The man frowned, but went back into the chamber. When he returned to the corridor once more, he nodded to the other guard then faced the high chancellor. “You’ll have to remove your weapons.”
“Yes, I know. And I suppose I’ll have to wear that hood again as well.”
“I’m afraid so,” the man said, sounding more insolent than apologetic.
They took his dagger, tied the hood in place, and led him into the chamber. Dusaan sensed four guards in the chamber, two by the throne and two more by the door. Two of Harel’s wives sat in a far corner whispering to one another as a harpist played nearby. Harel was sitting on his throne as Dusaan entered, but he stood immediately and began to pace. The two guards who had accompanied the Weaver into the chamber withdrew, closing the door behind them.