Weavers of War wotf-5

by DAVID B. COE

  “All the more reason for my father to let me fight.”

  Tavis shrugged, seeming to concede the point. Then he started toward his horse.

  “Tavis, wait!”

  His friend turned.

  Xaver looked toward his father, who was intent on his conversation with the duke and the battle unfolding before them.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Tavis shook his head. “Stinger-”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Even the old nickname rankled. A stinger was what soldiers called a child’s training weapon, and since Hagan had long been called the Sword, it had always seemed fitting that they call him Stinger. But didn’t it imply that he was still but a boy, not yet as tempered as his father’s steel, not yet ready to fight alongside men?

  “I’m sorry,” Tavis said, frowning. “But I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “I’m your liege man. If you tell me to stay behind, I have no choice but to obey. But you know that I don’t deserve to be left here. I’m as good with a sword as any of these men.”

  His friend looked truly pained, and Xaver knew that he was being unfair to him, placing him in an impossible position. “The last thing I want to do is get between you and Hagan,” Tavis had said the last time they discussed this. Yet that was precisely where Xaver had just put him.

  “I’ll tell my father that it was my idea,” he said. “And your father, too. I’ll take all the blame.”

  “I’m not worried about getting in trouble, Xaver.”

  He felt his face growing hot. “You think I’m going to get myself killed. You don’t think I can fight either.”

  “That’s not true. But this is a war. Anything can happen. Any of us can be killed. I don’t know that I’ll survive.”

  “But you choose to fight anyway.” Seeing Tavis hesitate, Xaver pressed his advantage. “Shouldn’t I be allowed to make that same choice?”

  Tavis stood there chewing his lip, looking for just that moment like the boy Xaver used to play with in the gardens of Curgh Castle. At last he exhaled through his teeth, shaking his head. “Your father is going to thrash us,” he said. “And if he doesn’t, mine will.”

  Xaver grinned. “They’ll never know,” he said, and ran to get his mount.

  * * *

  Lenvyd jal Qosten had ridden north, just as the Weaver commanded, leaving Audun’s Castle and the City of Kings even before he knew whether the poison he gave to the woman there had killed her. The Weaver had long told him that his time would come, that someday his service to the movement would prove invaluable. Now, it seemed that the time was at hand. First he had been called upon to kill the traitor, Cresenne ja Terba, to punish her for turning against the Weaver and his great cause. Today he would strike a second blow, using his other magic, the one nobody knew he possessed. Nobody, that is, except the Weaver.

  The Eandi thought him harmless, an old healer whose talents were limited to mending insignificant wounds and mixing tonics for the foolish ladies of the king’s court. But he had always been clever-how else could he have concealed his fealty to the Weaver’s cause for so long? The Weaver had recognized this, of course. He had rewarded Lenvyd handsomely for his role in the killing of old King Aylyn, and had promised to do the same if he managed to kill Cresenne.

  “But even that payment will be nothing next to what I’ll give you if you succeed in this last endeavor,” the Weaver had told him one night just before Lenvyd left the castle. “You’ll have riches beyond your wildest imaginings, and you’ll spend your last days serving in my court.”

  He was only too happy to comply.

  None of the Eandi knew which of the castle healers Minqar, the master healer, had ordered to the Moorlands and which had been instructed to remain behind. Even the king did not trouble himself with such matters. Some of the Qirsi knew-Minqar would have had to speak of this with the archminister, and of course the other healers would know who among their brethren had gone north. But if necessary Lenvyd could always claim that the master healer had sent him to join the others, fearing that the king didn’t have enough healers with him. No one would question him. And even if Minqar thought to send a messenger north to warn Kearney of Lenvyd’s betrayal, Lenvyd would reach the army first. By the time the missive arrived, it would be too late.

  He expected, though, that lies wouldn’t be necessary, and that no message would come. He was right.

  Lenvyd had come within sight of the Eibitharian camp several days before. He sent his horse away, waited until nightfall, then covered the remaining distance on foot, slipping into the camp unnoticed and lying down to sleep near the other healers. When morning broke and they woke to find him there, no one said a word. One or two looked at him strangely, as if wondering how he had gotten there, but most seemed to take for granted that he had been with them all along. Old Lenvyd, whom no one ever noticed.

  For a few days he tended to the wounded, saying little, trying only not to be noticed. But finally last night, the Weaver entered his dreams again.

  “You’re with Kearney’s army,” the man said to him, as Lenvyd shielded his eyes from the brilliant light that shone behind him.

  “Yes, Weaver.”

  “And the king still lives?”

  “He does, Weaver.”

  For several moments the Weaver didn’t speak. Lenvyd sensed his fury and lowered his gaze, afraid that he might be punished, though he knew he’d done nothing wrong.

  “I would have preferred that another see to this task, but she has failed me, so it falls to you. You know what it is I want?”

  “Yes, Weaver.”

  “Good. My army and I are but a day’s ride away from your battle plain. I want this done tomorrow, so that when we arrive the soldiers of Eibithar will be grieving for their king and blaming the empire for his death.”

  “Kearney doesn’t allow his healers to venture so close to the fighting. It will be difficult for me to do this in the midst of a battle. Were I a younger man, my magic still strong and new, I could do it from some distance. But now…” He shrugged, again fearing the Weaver’s wrath.

  But the man merely said, “I understand. Still, there is no one else. You must not fail me. Get as close to him as you dare, but not so close that you arouse the suspicions of those around you. I want this to seem an accident or an act of the Eandi warriors. There are times when we must become more than we are, perhaps more than we ever were. For you, that time has come.”

  “Yes, Weaver.”

  “If you do this, you will never again want for anything. Your last days on Elined’s earth will be glorious, and when you die, Bian will offer you a special place in his realm.”

  “Thank you, Weaver.”

  Lenvyd had awakened to a starry sky, exhausted and awed. He had never thought to see a day when a Weaver walked the Forelands. Certainly he had never dared hope to draw the attention of one so powerful. Truly he had been blessed to live in such times.

  As the day progressed however, Lenvyd began to wonder if there would even be a battle. When he heard that Kearney had ridden forward to sue for peace, his hands began to tremble so badly that he had to leave the other healers for a time in order to compose himself. But at last, late in the day, after the king’s attempt to forge a truce failed, the armies finally began to ready themselves for combat.

  The sun had already started its slow descent toward the western horizon when the first arrows flew. Screams went up from both sides, the Braedony swordsmen commenced their charge and were met by Kearney’s warriors before they had covered half the distance between the two armies. In moments, the battle plain was in tumult and Eibithar’s healers were called upon to mend shattered bone and repair mangled flesh. As always, their work took them dangerously close to the front, and just this once Lenvyd didn’t mind at all.

  He could see the king from where he tended to the first of the fallen, but the distance was still too great. Others were struck down closer to the fighting, and Lenvyd hurried
toward them, continually marking the king’s position, doing all he could to narrow the gap between them.

  “Lenvyd!” one of the other healers called to him. “You’re too close! It’s not safe there!”

  “What choice do I have?” he called back. “This is where the injured are!” He turned his back on the man.

  “You’ll get yourself killed!”

  He ignored the healer, kneeling down beside a wounded soldier and placing his hands over a deep, bloody gash high on the man’s chest.

  “Thank ye, healer,” the soldier whispered.

  Lenvyd nodded, but he was watching Kearney, who steered his mount skillfully, first to one side, then to the other, his blade rising and falling with terrible grace, the steel stained crimson.

  He was almost close enough.

  Another man dropped to the ground several fourspans ahead. Lenvyd glanced down at the soldier he was healing. The wound had nearly closed.

  “That should hold for a time,” he said quickly. “Make your way back to the other healers. They’ll do the rest.”

  “Yes, healer. Again, my thanks.”

  Lenvyd was already scurrying forward, his head held low. Yes, this one would get him close enough. His heart pounded in his chest, fear and elation warring within him. Old Lenvyd. He’d be so much more than that after this day.

  He had hoped that this next soldier would already be dead, but he wasn’t. The soldier bled from a cut on his temple, and his leg was broken, but he was alive, and, worse, awake.

  “Ean be praised!” the warrior said, as Lenvyd knelt beside him. “I though’ I was goin’ t’ die here.”

  Lenvyd didn’t answer. He was watching the king, waiting for the right moment, gathering his power. Not healing, of course, but his other magic. Language of beasts.

  * * *

  Keziah strained to keep Kearney in view. As long as she could see him, she told herself, he was alive. So she watched, her fists clenched so tightly that they ached, her throat dry, her stomach feeling hollow and sour. Yet even now, struggling with her fear, she couldn’t help but take pride in what she saw.

  She had never been a woman to be impressed with a man’s brawn or prowess with a blade. She had been drawn to Kearney by his wit and his intelligence; she had fallen in love with his tenderness and compassion. But seeing him now, his sword a gleaming blur in the golden sunlight, his mount whirling under his command like the Sanbiri horses that danced in Bohdan’s Revel, Keziah felt as though she were watching Binthar himself. This was the stuff of myth and song. She knew that she and the king would never again be together, but she knew as well that she would always love him, that his death would kill her as well.

  A moment later she saw the healers making their way toward the front, and she wondered where her brother was, and who had fallen. Where were Tavis and his father, Fotir and Evetta and the other ministers? Where was Sanbira’s queen? With the Weaver and his army bearing down on them, they could ill afford to lose anyone.

  Once again, she had to fight her desire to mount her horse and ride to Kearney’s side. He’d get himself killed trying to protect you, a voice in her mind told her. You serve him best by remaining here. Realizing this did nothing to reassure her or lessen her frustration, but it did keep her from doing anything foolish.

  Look at him, the voice said, as her gaze returned to Kearney. Do you honestly believe that he needs your protection?

  Confusion and violence swirled all around the king. Everywhere Keziah looked she saw men dying. Battle-axes and pikes and swords glinted in the sunlight, steel and flesh alike bore the stain of blood, and a thin haze of dust hung low over the plain. A thousand voices seemed to be screaming out at once, cries of fear and pain, battle lust and death mingling into an incomprehensible din.

  Which is why, when Keziah first heard the name called out-“Lenvyd”-she knew she must be imagining it. How could she possibly pick out a single voice in the midst of this clamor? Unless it was the name. For she knew a man named Lenvyd. He was a healer who they had left back in Audun’s Castle, an older man whom the master healer had deemed too aged to make the journey northward. More than that, it seemed that the name had been shouted by another of the healers, a man who would also have known the old Qirsi. Looking at him now, she saw a second Qirsi beyond him, tall and thin, his back bent with age. And seeing this second man’s face as he turned for just an instant, a name-the full name-immediately leaped to mind. Lenvyd jal Qosten.

  “He shouldn’t be here,” she murmured, her eyes following him.

  Yet there he was, and hadn’t he been with them since they marched from the City of Kings? She had taken little notice of the healers during their journey. Certainly it was possible that the master healer had changed his mind about Lenvyd. Minqar would have known that there would be no shortage of wounded men; he might have decided that the addition to their company of even one skilled healer might well turn the tide in this war. Keziah had never seen Lenvyd minister to a patient, so she had no idea how fine a healer he was, but there could be no denying his courage. Even now, he was venturing closer to the battle line, braving the carnage to reach yet another fallen soldier. Indeed, it seemed this was why the other healer had called to him in the first place.

  Only when Keziah had convinced herself that the old healer had been with them from the outset and had turned her attention back to Kearney, did she notice how close Lenvyd was to the king. It occurred to her then that every time the man had hurried to the side of another soldier he had also closed the distance between Kearney and himself.

  This too, she was ready to dismiss as mere coincidence. But then Lenvyd stood. His back was to her, but she knew that he was staring at the king.

  Terror seized her heart. She opened her mouth to scream a warning, fearing that already she was too late. But before she could make a sound, she sensed someone behind her, far too close.

  “Archminister,” a voice said.

  She spun, found herself face-to-face with Abeni ja Krenta.

  “Archminister!” she said in return.

  Unable to help herself, she glanced back over her shoulder in time to see Kearney’s mount rear. He clung to the beast, but almost immediately it reared again.

  “You look like you’ve seen a wraith,” the woman said, forcing Keziah to look at her before she could see whether Kearney was able to withstand Lenvyd’s second attempt to unseat him.

  “What? No. I … I’m just watching the … the battle.” She laughed, short and abrupt. She sounded mad to her own ears. “I’m afraid I’m not very well suited to war.”

  Abeni raised an eyebrow. “No? What are you suited to?”

  A cheer went up behind her, and whirling around once more, Keziah searched frantically for any sign of Kearney. After a moment she spotted his mount, but the saddle was empty.

  “It seems the king has fallen,” Abeni said. “Surely you had hoped for that.”

  Keziah faced her again, feeling dizzy and weak. Just because Kearney had been thrown from his mount didn’t mean that he was dead. He was a fearsome warrior, and there were as many of Eibithar’s men around him as there were soldiers of the empire. She needed to concentrate. The woman standing before her was dangerous; not only was she a chancellor in the Weaver’s movement, she was also a shaper. And just now, when she spoke, there had been something strange in her tone.

  “What do you mean by that?” Keziah demanded, winning herself just a bit more time to clear her mind.

  Kearney!

  The archminister smiled, a predatory look in her yellow eyes. “I must ask you again, as I did earlier today, what is it the Weaver has asked you to do?”

  “As I told you, I don’t think-”

  “Yes, I know: the Weaver wouldn’t want you to say. That strikes me as being a very convenient excuse.”

  She could barely stand for the trembling of her legs. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Abeni eyed her briefly, her eyes narrowing, as if she were look
ing for a flaw in a newly forged blade. “Do you know that the gleaner has a sister?”

  Keziah opened her mouth and closed it again. The sky above her seemed to be spinning, the world falling away beneath her feet.

  Abeni stepped closer to her so that when next she spoke Keziah could feel the woman’s breath against her cheek, warm and soft as the whisperings of a lover.

  “I’m a shaper,” she said, so softly that Keziah had to strain to hear her. “If you call for help or cry out, I’ll break your neck.”

  “But I-”

  Pain lanced through her hand, making her gasp.

  Abeni held a finger to her lips. “Shhhh,” she said, smiling again. “That was just the bone in your little finger. I can do far worse, but I’m hoping I won’t have to.”

  “What do you want?” Keziah asked, sobbing, her eyes closed.

  “Walk with me.”

  “No. You’ll kill me as soon as you have the chance.”

  This time she heard the bone break-same hand, the ring finger. She clutched the mangled hand to her breast, tears streaming down her face. Had there been food in her stomach she would have been ill.

  “I won’t kill you unless you make me. You’re more valuable to us alive, Keziah. Surely you see that. Grinsa jal Arriet’s sister. The Weaver will be so pleased.” The smile vanished from her face. “Now walk, or you’ll die. And any you call to your aid will perish as well.”

  Her hand throbbing, her sight clouded with agony and despair, Keziah made herself walk. It wasn’t surrender, she told herself. Hope remained so long as she still drew breath. She had only to find some way to escape the chancellor.

  But she was addled with grief. Walking through the camp, past soldiers still recovering from yesterday’s wounds and the cold, blackened remains of the previous night’s fires, she could think only of Kearney and her brother, and how she had failed them both.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Grinsa had heard it said that a warrior who marched to war without passion-be it hatred of the enemy, or fear of death, or love of country-was doomed to walk among wraiths before the battles were ended. Clearly it was an Eandi saying, for his people, he still believed, were never meant to be warriors, and on this day he was proving that by relying on magic a man could survive a battle for which he had no enthusiasm at all.