by DAVID B. COE
“I’ve silenced you,” the Weaver said. “How glorious.”
There was nothing for him to say. All that was left, in his desperation and his fear, was to make one last attempt at killing the man. He grappled for the Weaver’s power once more, lunging for it with his mind, battering at Dusaan’s defenses. Fire, shaping, healing-any magic that might allow him to exact revenge for what the Weaver had done to Cresenne, what his schemes had done to Tavis, what the need to defeat him had done to Keziah. And again, he failed. Dusaan actually laughed at him, as if Grinsa were a child leaping to catch hold of wonders that hung beyond his reach.
Then, without warning, the Weaver did something Grinsa hadn’t anticipated, hadn’t even thought possible. With one quick stride forward, he stretched out a hand, taking hold of the gleaner’s throat. Abruptly Grinsa couldn’t breathe. It shouldn’t have been possible. There was nothing in Grinsa’s knowledge of Qirsi magic to explain it. Yet there could be no denying the pressure on his neck, the sudden burning of his lungs.
“You thought to enter my dreams?” the Weaver demanded, his hot breath on Grinsa’s face. “You believed yourself powerful enough to use my magic against me? You’re nothing, gleaner.” He said the word with contempt, as if he were calling Grinsa a whoreson. Or a traitor.
He struggled to free himself, then stopped, realizing that this was just what the Weaver wanted him to do, just what he had warned Cresenne and Keziah not to do. Instead, he took hold of his own magic again, breaking free of Dusaan’s control. An instant later, he drew breath again. Dusaan still stood just before him, his hand at Grinsa’s throat. But the gleaner no longer felt the man’s touch.
Dusaan gave a wry smile. “Very good, gleaner. You did that quite well. Of course a man of your power shouldn’t have allowed me access to your magic in the first place, but I’m sure that when you tell your king of this encounter, you’ll leave out that small detail.”
An instant later, everything went dark. Grinsa warded himself, grasping at his magic as if it were a battle shield. Only after a few moments did he understand that the Weaver had ended their conversation, waking himself with ease. The gleaner couldn’t help but remember how he had struggled to thrust the Weaver from his mind when Dusaan invaded his dreams.
He opened his eyes, bracing himself with his hand to keep from toppling over. The stars above him seemed to pitch and spin, as if he were a feather blown about by a harvest wind. He squeezed his eyes closed, opened them again. After some time, the stars began to slow.
When he could walk again, he made his way to Kearney’s tent. Most in the camp were asleep, but a candle still burned within the king’s shelter and after a word with Kearney, a guard allowed Grinsa to enter.
The king sat at a small table, a modest, half-eaten meal before him. He looked weary. Even in the candlelight, Grinsa could see the dark lines under his pale eyes. “Yes, gleaner. What is it?”
“I went to the Weaver, Your Majesty, as I told you I would.”
Kearney stood, nearly upsetting the table. “I had forgotten. Did you…? Were you able to hurt him?”
“No, Your Majesty. But I did learn something of his plans. He’s closer than we thought-no more than two or three days’ ride from here. He leads an army of some two hundred Qirsi.”
“Two hundred?” the king repeated, frowning.
“It’s more than it sounds, Your Majesty. With two hundred Qirsi he can destroy all of the armies on this plain.”
“But you’re a Weaver as well, with Qirsi on your side. Surely you can help us defeat him.”
“I’ll do my best, Your Majesty. He’s … he’s very powerful.”
“As are you.”
“Yes, but he has more Qirsi with him than I do. And he’s been using his power as a weapon far longer than I have.”
“Still, your presence here must mean something.”
“I hope it will, Your Majesty, but I’m not strong enough to do this on my own. You need to end this war with Braedon.”
“I intend to try. I’ve been trying.”
“No, Your Majesty, you don’t understand. I don’t mean defeat them. I’m asking you to sue for peace and end this conflict before others die.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“It’s the only way. We can’t afford to lose any more men.”
“The empire invaded this land! Harel seeks the conquest of Eibithar! And you want me to make peace with him?”
“Harel no longer rules Braedon, Your Majesty! Dusaan has defeated the part of his army that remained in Curtell. For all we know, the emperor is dead. The conspiracy is your enemy, just as it’s the enemy of every sovereign in the Forelands. Even if you defeat Braedon’s men, this war you’re fighting now will destroy you. I beg of you: end it while you can, and prepare for the true battle.”
Kearney sat again, looking confused and more than a bit frightened. “He defeated Harel? You’re certain?”
“Yes. He also took Ayvencalde, and though he didn’t say so, his presence on the Moorlands tells me that he defeated Galdasten as well.”
The king stared at the candle flame. “Demons and fire.”
“Please, Your Majesty. Make peace with the empire’s men. It may be our only hope.”
“I’ll think on it.” He looked up, meeting the gleaner’s gaze. “Truly, I will.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Grinsa bowed, then left the tent, wondering if even an alliance between Eibithar and her enemies would be enough to withstand the Weaver’s onslaught. The king, he realized, was depending upon him to win this war. So were Keziah and Fotir and Tavis. The others might revile him when first he revealed himself as a Weaver, but with time they would see him much the same way. He was their hope, and yet he had no hope himself. This, as much as anything, explained why Dusaan had been right, why Grinsa hadn’t mentioned to Kearney the ease with which the Weaver took hold of his magic.
Chapter Fifteen
Diani awoke before dawn, roused from her slumber by the voices of soldiers around her, the ring of steel as swords were drawn, checked for notches, and resheathed, the impatient snorting and stomping of the horses, and the jangling of saddles being fastened. She sat up, winced at the pain. Every muscle in her body was screaming. Her back and legs were so stiff that she wondered how she would ever manage to stand, much less fight. The previous day’s battle had been her first, and though she had come through it unscathed save for a few small cuts and bruises, she knew already that she was no warrior. Her ability to avoid injury was due far more to her skill as a rider than to any prowess with the blade. She had inflicted no more wounds than she had sustained. Mostly she had sought to stay alive and to keep out of the way of Sanbira’s real soldiers.
Much to Diani’s surprise, Naditia was one of them. The duchess of Macharzo, so painfully shy during audiences with the queen and in private conversations alike, was a skilled and powerful fighter. She wielded her blade aggressively and with uncommon agility, and she was as fearless in battle as she was shy at court. It seemed to Diani that the woman had been born for combat. More than once during the course of the previous day, Naditia had saved Diani’s life. Yet after the fighting ended, she instantly became again an awkward, tongue-tied young duchess.
Sweating and out of breath, too relieved by the end of combat to care how her army had fared, Diani thanked the woman for protecting her.
“You fight magnificently,” she said. “I wish I wielded a blade as you do.”
Naditia had given an embarrassed smile and ducked her head, swiping at the hair that clung to her damp brow. “My father taught me.”
“You almost seem to enjoy it.”
The tall woman shrugged. “I do. As long as I’m fighting, I don’t have to say anything.”
Struggling to get to her feet on this cool, dark morning, gasping at the pain of every movement, Diani wondered if Macharzo’s duchess was actually looking forward to another day of battle. Ean knew that Diani was not. She stood for a moment,
stretching her back, then walked stiffly to where the queen and her master of arms were eating a small breakfast. Both were already dressed for battle. Abeni, the queen’s archminister, lurked nearby, ghostly pale in the dim light.
“Good morning, Lady Curlinte,” Olesya called as she approached. “Are you hungry?”
“No, thank you, Your Highness.”
“You should have something, Diani. If the fighting begins again, there’s no telling when you’ll have a chance to eat.”
Reluctantly, Diani took some bread and a piece of hard cheese, thanking the queen and, as an afterthought, Ohan as well. “Do you expect the fighting to begin soon?” she asked between bites.
“I don’t know. We’re awaiting word from Eibithar’s king.”
“If the Braedony army chooses not to attack,” the swordmaster added, “I expect that Kearney won’t force the matter.” From his tone, it seemed that Ohan thought this a mistake on the king’s part.
Diani felt differently. “Then let’s hope the enemy thinks better of it,” she said.
Olesya nodded. “Indeed.”
They continued to eat, saying little, as the sky slowly brightened. Gazing northward, Diani saw no sign that the empire’s men were readying themselves for battle. There was some movement in the Braedony camp, but nothing threatening. One by one, the other nobles joined them, Naditia first, the dukes of Norinde and Brugaosa soon after. Their Qirsi came with them, joining the archminister a short distance off and speaking in hushed tones among themselves.
“I still think we should take the battle to them,” Ohan said at last, his eyes fixed on the enemy lines.
Alao glanced at the master of arms. “I tend to agree. With the men who joined Kearney’s force yesterday, we have enough to overwhelm Braedon’s force. Let’s attack and be done with it.”
“It’s not our decision to make, Lord Norinde,” the queen said.
“I mean no disrespect, Your Highness, but I must say I find that troubling as well. It’s bad enough that we’ve allowed ourselves to be entangled in Eibithar’s conflict with the empire. But for us to submit to the king’s authority seems to me foolhardy and dangerous.”
“Yes, Lord Norinde,” Olesya said, sounding weary. “I’m quite aware that were you sovereign, matters would be very different. But you’re not, and I have made my decision. Kearney appealed to us for aid and we chose to grant it. You disagreed at the time, and you’ve made it clear that you still think our course an unwise one. Repeating your opinion will accomplish nothing, save to annoy me further.”
Alao’s face turned crimson, and there was rage in his eyes. But he nodded once, and said simply, “Yes, Your Highness.”
“I’ll raise the matter of the battle with Kearney when I can. In truth, I don’t relish the idea of waiting for another assault either.”
A few moments later an Eibitharian soldier approached, resplendent in purple and gold. He bowed to the queen and told her that his king requested a word with her at her convenience.
“Did he want me alone?” Olesya asked.
“No, Your Highness. He asks that you bring your nobles and ministers.”
“My ministers?”
“Yes, Your Highness. He made a point of that.”
“Very well,” the queen said, frowning slightly. “Tell him we’ll be along shortly.”
The man bowed a second time and left them.
“Now he’s summoning us, as if we served in his court.”
“Oh, Alao, do be quiet! He did nothing of the sort.” She looked at Diani. “It is strange, though, that he’s asked us to bring the Qirsi.”
It was more than strange; it was disturbing. In this instance, Diani agreed with the duke of Norinde. By asking the queen to bring her Qirsi, Kearney had overstepped propriety and whatever authority he held on this battle plain. More to the point, from what Diani had observed in her short time with the king of Eibithar, the man placed far too much faith in the white-hairs. It almost seemed that he had never heard of the conspiracy, that nothing had happened in the past year to shake his faith in the loyalty of his ministers. She wanted to speak against honoring Kearney’s request, but after hearing Olesya reprimand the duke, she didn’t dare.
“Yes, Your Highness, it is strange,” was all she said.
“Still, I’m sure he has his reasons.”
The queen beckoned to Abeni, who led the other Qirsi to where Olesya and her nobles stood.
“The king wishes to speak with us, Archminister. We’re to join him at his camp presently.”
“Very good, Your Highness,” the archminister said, with a smile that was clearly forced. “We’ll wait for you here.”
“Actually, Archminister, Kearney has asked that you and the ministers come with us.”
Abeni made no effort to conceal her surprise. “Did he say why?”
“No. Nor did I ask. I take it you have no objection.”
“None, Your Highness.” She glanced uncomfortably at the other ministers. “We’re ready when you are.”
Olesya nodded and led them all to the Eibitharian camp. Kearney was waiting for them outside his small tent. His nobles were already there, as were several Qirsi, including the tall, broad-shouldered man Diani had noticed two nights before. He was unlike any Qirsi she had ever seen. He had the body of an Eandi warrior, and though his skin and eyes were pale like those of other white-hairs, they did not make him appear frail or sickly. On the contrary. He was, perhaps, the most formidable man of either race she had ever seen. A young Eandi man stood near him, his dark blue eyes watchful. He might once have been handsome, but his face now was lined with scars that made him appear both sad and menacing.
Diani recognized some of the other Eibitharian nobles and was able to assign names to a few of the faces. When Marston of Shanstead caught her eye, she nodded to him and smiled. He nodded in return, but his expression remained grim.
“Your Highness,” Kearney said, bowing to her. “Thank you for honoring my invitation so quickly. It seems for now that the empire’s army is content to rest this day, but we must remain wary. I won’t keep you long.”
“Actually, Your Majesty, if I may interrupt, a few in my company have suggested that we take the battle to Braedon. They point out that we now outnumber the enemy by a sizable margin. Wouldn’t we be wise to end this threat as quickly as possible?”
The king’s eyes flicked toward the tall Qirsi. “Indeed we might, Your Highness. I’ve considered this as well, and have heard much the same thing from several of my dukes. But I’d ask your indulgence before we make this decision. There are … other factors at work here that bear consideration.”
“What other factors?” Alao demanded, drawing a scowl from the queen.
“I have good reason to believe that there’s more to this invasion than Harel’s lust for power and land. I fear that much of what’s happened in the Forelands in the past year, particularly here in Eibithar, has been contrived by others.”
Alao made a sour face. “You speak of the conspiracy.”
“Yes.”
“All the more reason to end this conflict quickly and decisively.”
“Not necessarily,” said the broad-shouldered Qirsi.
They all looked at him.
“And who are you, sir?” the queen asked. “I saw you with the king yesterday, but I didn’t hear your name or title.”
The man bowed. “My name is Grinsa jal Arriet, Your Highness. I’m a gleaner in Eibithar’s Revel.”
“A gleaner? Hearing these dukes speak of you, I had the impression that you’re somewhat more than that.”
“I’m a gleaner by profession.”
“So am I to gather that you’ve had a vision of what’s to come, and this has convinced you that we shouldn’t attack?”
“It’s more than that. As we speak, a Qirsi army approaches from the north. They’re led by a man named Dusaan jal Kania-”
“Harel’s high chancellor?”
“Yes. But he’s far more than that
. He’s a Weaver.”
Olesya raised a hand to her mouth. “A Weaver?”
“Yes, Your Highness. A powerful one. He and his warriors have the power to destroy all the armies on this battle plain. If we continue this war-even if we prevail-we only assure Dusaan’s victory. We have to end this conflict now. The Weaver is our true enemy and we can only defeat him by joining forces with Braedon’s men and fighting as one.”
“This is too much!” said one of Kearney’s dukes, a stout man with yellow hair and dark eyes. “It was bad enough when you made us spare Numar’s men. But now you want us to make peace with Harel’s invaders? I won’t do it!” He turned to the king. “I beg you, Your Majesty! Don’t listen to this man!”
Diani had to agree, and she was pleased when others spoke against the Qirsi.
“Lord Labruinn is right, Your Majesty,” said Marston of Shanstead. “This is not some border skirmish we’re fighting. This conflict wasn’t caused by some minor land dispute. The empire invaded our realm and until its soldiers are driven from Eibithar, there can be no talk of peace.” He pointed a finger at the tall Qirsi. “This man speaks of the conspiracy as if he’s the first to bring its perils to our attention. He’s not, of course. All of us have suffered for its treachery, including our friends from Sanbira. And in Eibithar, no one has spoken against the Qirsi renegades more strongly than I. There has been no greater threat to our land in my lifetime. But to weaken ourselves in the cause of fighting the Qirsi threat makes no sense at all.” He faced the Qirsi. “I find myself questioning this man’s motives. If he truly cares about this realm, why does he speak only of accommodating our enemies?”
The young man with the scarred face stared at the thane, shaking his head. “Are you really that stupid?” he asked at last.
“Tavis!”
“I’m sorry, Father, but this has to stop!” He faced the thane again. “Grinsa is no traitor, Lord Shanstead. The king can tell you so, my father and his first minister can tell you so, I can tell you so. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead by now, or at best, still a prisoner in Kentigern. He’s saved my life time and again, and he has spent the last year fighting the conspiracy at every turn.”