by DAVID B. COE
* * *
Filtem found the place, a small bed of grass in a cluster of great grey boulders, sheltered from the wind and blissfully private. Actually, others had found it before him-he had seen a couple emerge from the stones the night before, two Sanbiri warriors. Though the queen allowed women and men to fight side by side, she prohibited them from having romances. Those who defied her had to be discreet. And so did two ministers serving in different courts.
After their conversation with the gleaner, Craeffe had thought that Abeni would want to speak with them. But she went off with Eibithar’s archminister, affording Craeffe and Filtem an opportunity to steal away.
There was no one in the circle of stones when they reached it, and they quickly slipped out of their robes, before falling into each other’s arms and stretching out on the lush grasses. The sun was high enough to warm their skin and soon both of their bodies were flushed and covered with a fine sheen of sweat, the rhythm they shaped together growing more urgent by the moment. At last Craeffe climaxed biting back a cry, her back arching, her breasts bared to the sky. Then she lay forward, kissing Filtem deeply.
He bit gently on her lip, and she started to laugh.
But just then the sound of voices reached them, and they both froze. At first, Craeffe couldn’t make out any of what was being said. She sat up again, holding a finger to her lips to keep Filtem from speaking and closing her eyes in concentration.
“… I’m looking for reasons to doubt them,” a man said, “seeking out enemies when that’s the one thing we have in abundance.”
“Then let’s not talk about this anymore.” That voice Craeffe recognized. Lady Curlinte.
“I’m tired of worrying about the gleaner and his sister and whose side they’re on and all the rest of it.”
Craeffe’s eyes flew open and she stared down at Filtem. Clearly he had heard it as well, for he was gaping back at her.
The conversation continued for another few moments-nothing else that caught her attention. But they didn’t need to say anything more. The gleaner had a sister! And since the man was a Weaver, it was likely that few others knew of her.
She hadn’t heard Lady Curlinte and this man she was with leave, and she wondered idly if the duchess had found love out here on the moor.
Craeffe rolled off of Filtem and both of them began to dress as quickly and silently as possible. Still they waited-something told the minister that Diani was still there, and she half-wondered if they too might seek refuge within the circle of stones. Eventually, however, she heard them speaking again, their voices so low that Craeffe couldn’t hear any of it. Soon there was nothing but silence. Stepping lightly out of the circle, Craeffe saw that the duchess and her consort had gone.
“Come on,” she called softly to Filtem. “We have to find Abeni.”
As it turned out, the archminister was looking for them as well.
“Where have you two been?” she demanded upon seeing them.
“That doesn’t matter. We overheard something.”
“Overheard what?”
Craeffe smiled. She couldn’t help it. She knew that Abeni disliked her, that the woman hated depending on her for anything. She would have enjoyed stretching this out a bit, making the archminister wait. But in this case, her tidings were too important.
“The gleaner has a sister, and I believe she’s here.”
“What?”
“We heard Diani speaking of it-it was just in passing, but there could be no mistaking what she said.”
“Which was?”
“‘I’m tired of worrying about the gleaner and his sister and whose side they’re on,’ or something to that effect.”
“And how does that prove that his sister is here?”
“Why else would Diani be concerning herself with it at all? If the man had a sister elsewhere, it wouldn’t be of concern to the Eandi. But if she’s here, and they’re still trying to figure out if they can trust him, or both of them, then it would be of great concern.”
Abeni appeared to consider this. Finally, she looked at Filtem. “Is that what you think?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose it does make sense.”
“Do you know who it could be?”
Abeni shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t know where to-” She stopped, her mouth falling open. “Demons and fire!” she whispered.
“You do know.”
“I might.” She looked at them both. “Don’t speak of this to anyone, not even to each other. I’ll take care of it.”
She started to walk away.
“But-”
Abeni spun to face her, a finger leveled at her heart. “Not a word!”
Craeffe glared after her. “Who does she think she is?”
But Filtem didn’t have to reply. Craeffe knew the answer. Abeni was the Weaver’s chancellor.
Chapter Seventeen
They were walking around the camp-it seemed to Keziah that she had spent much of this day circling the Eandi soldiers, first with Sanbira’s archminister and now with her brother. Usually Grinsa was quite skilled at concealing his emotions. He had spent his life hiding not only the true extent of his powers, but also his fear of being discovered, and his concern for Keziah’s safety. But at this moment, turning over in his mind what she had told him, he had the look of a man confronting his own doom. Passing a hand over his haggard face, he shook his head.
“You’re certain of this?” he finally asked.
As if she could be wrong about such a thing.
“Yes. She left little doubt about any of it.”
“Three of them.”
“She told me who they are, Grinsa. The first ministers of Macharzo and Norinde, and of course Abeni herself.”
“Knowing who they are isn’t enough.”
“But surely you can defeat three Qirsi.”
“Yes, but that’s not the point either. I knew that one of them was a traitor, maybe even two. But three? That leaves me with an army of thirteen.” He shook his head again. “Even if the imperial army was with us, that wouldn’t be enough.”
She sensed his fear, his desperation. But someone had to say it. “That’s all you’ve got. It has to be enough.”
He cast a look her way, but he didn’t grow angry. He merely nodded.
“Abeni wanted to make an attempt on your life immediately, but I convinced her to wait, saying it would be better to make you think that you commanded a loyal army. I hope that was the right thing to do.”
“Actually, I’m not certain it was. I’d rather face the Weaver with a small army than have to fight traitors and his force at the same time.”
Keziah had thought of this as well, though only after her conversation with the archminister ended. “I’m sorry. She spoke of killing you and I panicked.”
“It’s all right.”
“Do you want me to go back to her and convince her to strike at you sooner?”
He shook his head. “You risk raising her doubts.”
“Then maybe we should go to the nobles and tell them that we’ve learned of traitors in their courts.”
“That’s also too dangerous. Abeni will know that the information came from you.”
“Couldn’t you say that you sensed their treachery?”
But even before he answered, Keziah knew that this wouldn’t work either. If Abeni and her fellow renegades were executed as traitors, leaving Keziah as the only survivor among those who claimed to support the movement, the Weaver would know that she had betrayed them.
“There’s nothing to be done about it now, Kezi. She’ll make her plans, and you’ll have no choice but to follow along.”
“What will you do?”
He smiled, looking so weary that it made her chest ache. “Whatever I have to.”
“We should turn back,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of Kearney.
“You need to be careful, Keziah.”
She faced him again, putting on he
r bravest smile in turn. “I always am.”
“I’m serious. Norinde’s first minister isn’t much of a threat, but both women are shapers. Either of them can kill you with a single thought, and I won’t be able to do anything about it.”
“Why would they kill me? Abeni is ready to declare herself my closest friend, and I get the sense that she keeps a tight rein on the others.”
He looked away, the muscles in his jaw bunching as they often did when he wanted to say something but feared her reaction.
“Hasn’t this gone on long enough?” he finally asked. “You’ve learned the names of the other traitors in this army, you’ve learned that the Weaver intends to have Kearney killed on the battlefield. We know as much about Dusaan’s plans as we need to, in large part thanks to you. But this war-the real war-will begin in the next day or two.” He winced, as if suddenly in pain. “Actually, I suppose it’s already begun. Dusaan is done making plans. It seems to me that the time has come to end this deceit, before you get yourself killed.”
“How do I end it, Grinsa? Do you see a way out of this? Because I certainly don’t. Until the Weaver is killed, I won’t be safe, no matter how much you try to protect me. You saw what he did to Cresenne when she betrayed him. He’ll be no less brutal with me.”
“So what are you going to do? Kill Kearney? Fight me? Do all the things Dusaan and his servants expect of you?”
“Of course not!”
“Then what choice do you have, Kezi? You’re fast reaching a point where you can’t risk staying with them anymore.”
“That may be so, but I’m not there yet!”
Keziah started to walk away, not quite understanding why she was so angry with him. She knew that he was right. She had barely slept the past several nights, fearing that the Weaver would come to her demanding to know why Kearney still lived, and she was still shaken from her conversation with Sanbira’s archminister. How much longer could she continue to deceive Abeni and the others? How many more times could she allow the Weaver to enter her mind without revealing her true feelings for Kearney or her love for her brother?
But even knowing all this, she couldn’t bring herself to admit that it was time now to end the lies. She tried to tell herself that there was still more that she could learn, that her access to the conspiracy could still help Grinsa and the king. But in truth she wasn’t even certain that this was true anymore. A part of her wondered if this were a matter of pride. When she succeeded in joining the conspiracy she assumed a unique role in this war. Never before had she felt so important, and it occurred to her that she might have been allowing vanity to cloud her judgment. But after considering this possibility for but a moment she dismissed it. In the end it came down to fright. Keziah was just scared. She had survived for this long through cunning and lies; she could survive that way a bit longer. But if she revealed to the Weaver that she had deceived him …
Keziah shuddered. Yes, that was the reason.
“Keziah,” Grinsa called, after she had taken only a step or two.
She halted, but didn’t turn.
“I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. You know that.”
Probably she should have said something. She could have thanked him in some way, or at least told him that she wasn’t really angry with him. Instead, she just nodded and left him there.
She walked northward toward the battle front, her pace quickening as she went. Abruptly she needed to be near Kearney. Grinsa’s warnings had taken her thoughts in a new direction. War with the Qirsi army was almost upon them, and the Weaver had made it clear to her that he wanted the king dead before that final conflict began. Clearly she couldn’t kill him, but it seemed to her equally clear that in a matter of such importance, the Weaver would not depend solely on her.
When at last she found the king, he was checking the blade of the broadsword he usually carried in the silver, red, and black baldric of his forebears. Another sword hung on his belt, and his horse stood nearby, saddled and bearing battle armor.
“What’s happened?” she asked, her apprehension mounting.
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers for just an instant. Then he sheathed his blade and nodded toward the north. “Braedon’s men are on the move. I expect them to attack any time now. You shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.” He stepped to his mount and began to tighten the saddle.
Keziah gazed at the enemy lines. There did appear to be a good deal of activity there, though she couldn’t make any sense of it.
“I’ll ride with you,” she said.
He stopped what he was doing and stared at her. “What?”
“I can wield a blade. And I have language of beasts and mists and winds. I can help you.”
“You could be killed.”
She raked a hand through her hair. Why were the men in her life constantly reminding her of that?
“He wants you dead!” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve told you that. I know that you have to fight, but someone has to be near you, to protect you.”
“The Weaver isn’t even here yet.”
“No, but he’s near, and he wanted me to do this before he arrived. If there are others who have been told to kill you, they’ll make the attempt today.”
She had no proof of this, of course, but as she spoke the words she knew in her heart that it was true.
“We’re at war, Kez. Anyone who isn’t an ally will be trying to kill me. Do you really think that one more Qirsi assassin will make that much difference?”
“I can make a difference.”
“And who will keep you alive?”
Keziah started to answer, then closed her mouth, unsure of what she had intended to say.
Kearney smiled with such tenderness that it was all she could do to keep from crying. “You see? You’re asking me to exchange my life for yours, and that’s not a trade I’m willing to make.”
Men called out from both ends of the Eibitharian camp, and Kearney’s eyes snapped back to the front.
“They must be bringing their archers forward.” He looked at her again. “I have to go.”
She said nothing.
The king swung himself onto his horse, gazed at her once more.
“They’ll try for your mount first,” she said. “The Weaver wants you dead, but he wants it to appear to be the empire’s fault, so the attempt will be subtle. They’ll try to make him rear suddenly, or they’ll break his leg.”
Kearney nodded. “I’ll do my best to be ready.”
Their eyes remained locked for another moment before he wheeled his mount away and started toward the front.
She could hear singing coming from the soldiers of Braedon, and though Grinsa had counseled peace time and again, trying to make all who would listen understand that they would need every soldier on both sides of the battle plain to defeat the Weaver, she couldn’t help hating them.
* * *
Soldiers ran in all directions, archers taking position on the flanks, preparing to answer the Braedony volleys that were already pelting down on the Eibitharian army, and swordsmen taking positions in the center, where they would meet the inevitable charge from the army of the empire. As always, Hagan MarCullet was beside the duke of Curgh, giving voice to Javan’s commands, and offering advice when the duke asked for it. And as always, Xaver stood a few paces from his father, waiting to learn if he would be allowed to fight. He had fought in the previous battle, but only because Hagan had been distracted as the fighting began and hadn’t noticed his son charging forward with the other soldiers. Afterward, when Hagan was certain that Xaver was all right, he gave the boy a tongue-lashing that Xaver would not soon forget.
Tavis was nearby, his face pale, so that his dark scars stood out even more starkly than usual. Though Xaver and the young lord were the same age, Tavis was strapping on a sword, preparing for combat, while Xaver, his liege man, could only watch.
The injustice of it made Xaver want to scream out loud.
He did
n’t blame his friend. With all that he had endured the past year, Tavis had earned the right to fight for his realm. But hadn’t Xaver as well? Hadn’t he fought bravely, albeit clumsily, during the siege of Kentigern a year before? Hadn’t he borne the hardships of the march from Curgh along with the other men in Javan’s army? Hadn’t he acquitted himself well in the recent battle? Didn’t he wield a blade as skillfully as any soldier on that battle plain?
Of course he did. For he was Hagan MarCullet’s son, trained to fight by the Sword himself. And there lay the problem. As long as his father remained in command of Curgh’s army, Xaver might never be allowed to fight again. In a way, Xaver understood. Ever since the death of Xaver’s mother, Daria, Hagan had done all he could to protect his son. Matters had only gotten worse since Kentigern, when Xaver accompanied the duke and Tavis to the tor only to find himself imprisoned and then caught in the midst of a siege. The recent deaths of the duke of Heneagh and his son had made Hagan even more cautious. Still, understanding was one thing; tolerating this treatment was quite another. Xaver was a year past his Fating now. Younger men had marched to the Moorlands with Javan’s army. Yes, some of them had died, but others had fought bravely, even gallantly. Xaver could well be one of those young heroes, if his father would only give him the opportunity. He could almost see himself ten years from now, a father in his own right, still standing behind Hagan as others marched to battle. It would be funny, if it didn’t gall him so.
He had asked Tavis to speak with the duke on his behalf, but he knew that there was little his friend could do for him. The young lord might have been his liege, but he had no real authority on this battle plain. Javan was duke, Hagan his swordmaster. On matters pertaining to the army, a duke almost always deferred to his swordmaster’s judgment.
Tavis glanced at him now, even as he checked his weapon one last time, and there was an apology in his dark blue eyes. “It won’t be much of a battle,” he said. “We have twice as many men as they do.”