by DAVID B. COE
“Yes, thank you. I’m fine. But Grinsa wasn’t able to defeat him.”
“But he came through it unhurt?”
Keziah nodded.
“Well, good. I’m sorry that he wasn’t able to do more, but the important thing is that both of you are safe.”
“Yes,” she said, grinning mischievously. “I could see how concerned you were for us. You almost managed to stay awake.”
“No, it’s not … I was…”
She was laughing at him, her eyes dancing. “It’s all right, First Minister. You should have been resting. I would have, had I been in your position.”
“You mean prone?”
Her mouth fell open. “Was that a joke? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say something humorous.”
Fotir looked away. “That’s not fair. I’m not as serious as all that.”
“Aren’t you? You remind me of Grinsa sometimes. You seem to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
“These are dark times. Is it any wonder?”
“Even in the darkest of days, we have to be able to laugh. If we can’t, we’ve lost already.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Is this why you woke me? To coax more humor from me?”
She shrugged, smiling. “I can’t sleep.”
“After the day you’ve had, I’m not surprised.”
“No,” she said, with a small laugh. “I mean that I can’t risk trying to sleep. The Weaver threatened to kill me if I dared sleep again tonight. I was hoping you might be willing to keep me company while I await the dawn.”
He was as flattered as he was surprised. Mostly, though, he was at a loss as to what he should say. “I’m honored that you’d ask me,” he said at last, inwardly cringing at how formal he sounded. “Of course I will.”
For several moments neither of them spoke. The archminister was staring at her hands.
At last she faced him once more. “I want to tell you how much I appreciate your words of support earlier tonight. If you hadn’t said what you did, the king might not have given us permission to make the attempt.”
“You’re welcome. Though it seems that it didn’t do much good.”
She frowned. “Do you think now that it was a mistake?”
“Not at all. I thought it quite a fine idea. I just…” He shook his head, wishing that he had kept his mouth shut. “Never mind.”
They lapsed into another silence. Fotir had to keep himself from staring at her as he cast about for something-anything-to say.
“Are you certain I’m not disturbing you?” she finally asked. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have woken you.”
“You’re not disturbing me. I’m just not very good at this.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Good at what?”
Fotir felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Why was it that he always found himself so flustered when he was with this woman? “Making conversation,” he said.
“You’re first minister to a major house. Surely you’re accustomed to speaking with nobles and ministers.”
“Somehow this is different.” You’re different.
She gave a kind smile. “Would you like to walk?”
Even if he had wanted to refuse her, he hadn’t the power to do so. “Of course,” he said, standing.
She offered him a hand and he pulled her gently to her feet, their eyes meeting for just an instant.
“Is something the matter?”
His cheeks still burning, Fotir looked away and shook his head. “Not at all.”
They started away from the camp, southward, picking their way among the grasses and boulders. Panya, the white moon, shone low in the eastern sky, thin and curved, her edges as sharp as an Uulranni blade. As they walked, Keziah took Fotir’s hand, her skin cool and soft.
“What about the king?” he asked, the first words that came to mind.
As quickly as she had claimed his hand, she let it drop.
“What do you mean?”
He squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, cursing his stupidity. “Forgive me, Archminister. It’s really none of my concern.”
For some time Keziah said nothing, and though they continued to walk, Fotir suddenly sensed a great distance between them.
“It’s not really something I can discuss,” she told him at length, her voice so low he had to lean closer just to hear her.
“You don’t have to. I shouldn’t have-”
“No, you had every right. I just thought…” She stared straight ahead, looking as if she might cry. “I should have known better.” They walked a bit more, and then she stopped, facing him with a smile that was clearly forced. “Perhaps we should return,” she said.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t. You asked a question that I’m not ready to answer. And I shouldn’t have come to you until I am.”
She started away, but Fotir merely stood there. After a moment Keziah stopped, facing him again.
“I don’t want to go back,” he said.
She looked so sad, so beautiful. “Neither do I. But I think it’s best that we do.”
Keziah started walking once more, and Fotir could do nothing but follow, railing at himself for speaking so carelessly. She led him toward the king’s camp, but stopped a good distance from Kearney’s tent, the same difficult smile on her lips.
“Thank you,” she said.
Fotir frowned. “For what?”
She started to answer, then faltered and shook her head. “It’s hard to explain. But I’m grateful to you.” And stepping forward, she kissed him lightly on the lips. Then she left him, hurrying away without a backward glance.
* * *
Grinsa spread out his sleeping roll near where Tavis slept, trying his best to make no noise. He was more weary than he could ever remember being. The day’s battle, the search for Kezi, his confrontation with Dusaan-it had all left him utterly spent, as if he had just done a hundred gleanings at one sitting. He needed desperately to sleep, yet he knew that even a full night’s rest wouldn’t do him much good. Far more than merely being exhausted, he found that he was without hope. As much as he had feared for his sister, he had also known with the certainty of a man facing his own death that tonight’s attempt on the Weaver’s life was their last best hope of defeating Dusaan and winning this war. Their failure struck at his heart like a blade.
He wasn’t certain any longer that the Weaver was more powerful than he was. He had thought so for many turns, but after this night he felt a bit more confident in his own abilities. Not that it mattered. He could have been far stronger than Dusaan, and still his own power would not make up for the sheer number of Qirsi under the Weaver’s command. Dusaan commanded an army of over two hundred. Grinsa had a force-if it could be called that-of thirteen. Perhaps a few more of the healers would join them in the end, but while they might number twenty before all was said and done, that still was not enough. Not nearly.
Yes, they had the Eandi warriors, and Grinsa spoke of them to the others as if they might actually balance the coming battle. But he knew they could not. He was a Weaver and so he knew what a wind summoned by so many sorcerers could do to the arrows of even the finest archers. He had healed wounds and burns and mangled limbs, and so he knew what Qirsi fire and shaping power could do to mortal flesh and bone. This war-and again, he wondered if the word was appropriate in this instance-would be quick and brutal. It would be a slaughter.
He should have told Kearney and Sanbira’s queen and their soldiers to flee while they still could. Better to make Dusaan hunt them down. Perhaps a series of wars, scattered across the Forelands, would offer them some hope. Perhaps over time, they could whittle away some of the Weaver’s army. Then there might be a chance.
But Eandi warriors didn’t think this way. They heard Grinsa speak of an army of two hundred Qirsi, and they tried their best to understand what that meant, how much power such a force might wield. But in their hearts, they scoffed at his warnings. The
y envisioned a puny army being overwhelmed by steel and muscle and courage, failing to realize that they would never get close enough to Dusaan and his servants to pull their blades free, much less fight. Keziah and Fotir and the other Qirsi understood, but though they might have spoken in support of retreat had Grinsa suggested it, their nobles would not have listened. Not now, after all that the Weaver’s movement had wrought.
No, the war would be fought on the morrow. And by nightfall every person in these camps would probably be dead.
Grinsa lay down, but he didn’t even try to sleep, staring up at the stars and the moons instead.
“You’re alive,” Tavis said sleepily.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s all right. How’s the archminister?”
“She wasn’t hurt. The Weaver’s still alive.”
“I assumed that. You would have woken me had you managed to kill him.”
“Probably, yes.”
“What’s troubling you?”
Everything. We’re all going to be killed. “I’m just tired.”
“It’s more than that.” The young lord sat up. “Was he too powerful for you again?”
“No,” Grinsa said, his voice flat. “Actually, I got the better of him this time. I couldn’t kill him, but I did hurt him.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
The gleaner shook his head. “Please, Tavis. Let it be.”
He closed his eyes, hoping that the boy would lie down and go back to sleep, knowing that he wouldn’t.
“You’re thinking about tomorrow, aren’t you? About the battle?”
The gleaner sighed. “If you must know, yes, I am.”
“I’ve been thinking about it, too.”
Something in the way he said this made Grinsa sit up as well, and eye the boy with interest. A year ago he wouldn’t have given much consideration to anything Tavis had to say on such a matter. But he had come to appreciate the young lord’s insights on all things, even Qirsi magic.
“What have you been thinking?” he asked.
“That it all comes down to numbers. The Weaver isn’t any smarter than you are, and despite your doubts, I’ve never thought that he was any more powerful. But he has far more Qirsi with him.”
“Obviously.”
“And that led me to a question. It might be foolish, but if it’s not, it could be of some help to you.”
“What is it?”
Tavis told him, and long after he had spoken the words, Grinsa merely continued to sit there, staring at the boy as if he had suddenly conjured golden flames or made his dark scars disappear.
“Grinsa?” the young lord finally said.
“It’s far from a foolish question, Tavis. It’s brilliant.” He stood. “We have to find the others.”
“The others?”
“Kearney, the queen, the other Qirsi. We have to tell them.” He smiled, daring to hope for the first time in so long. “You may have just saved us all,” he said.
Tavis beamed.
Chapter Twenty-two
Southeast of the battle plain, the Moorlands, Eibithar
In all probability she had maimed herself for life. There hadn’t been time to allow her shoulder and leg to mend themselves properly, and though the bones hadn’t broken again as she rode northward, neither had they healed as they should. Evanthya couldn’t walk without limping, nor could she move her mangled arm as freely as before. Fetnalla’s treachery, which had scored her heart in ways none could see, had also left its mark upon her body.
Still, she had managed to continue her pursuit, following as the woman she loved rode headlong toward her Weaver and his war. Nothing else mattered to her. She knew better than to think that she could turn Fetnalla from the path she was on. Whatever hope she once had of being able to reason with her love, of convincing her that she had erred in casting her lot with the Weaver, had died with the shattering of her shoulder and the snapping of the bone in her leg. She now meant only to stop Fetnalla, even if that meant killing her.
Once they had struck at the conspiracy together, paying the assassin to kill Shurik jal Marcine. Since then, Evanthya had hungered for another opportunity to fight the renegades. Emboldened by their one success, she had imagined herself a warrior of consequence, someone who might tip the balance in the coming war. Not anymore. The fate of the Forelands would be decided by the powerful. Evanthya cared only that Fetnalla not join the Weaver’s horde. It wasn’t that she thought her love’s presence on the battlefield would matter much one way or another, or even that she sought to deny the Weaver as many of his servants as possible. Rather, she knew that history would remember those who had betrayed their realms to fight for the Weaver’s dark cause, and she didn’t want Fetnalla’s name listed among them. In a sense, she wished to save Fetnalla from herself. Already her love was infamous-the traitor who killed Brall, duke of Orvinti, as he marched to break Solkara’s siege of Dantrielle. That was bad enough. Evanthya couldn’t allow Fetnalla to do more.
She owed Fetnalla that much. Whatever had become of their love, once it had filled her world with light and laughter and passion. That was how she intended to remember Fetnalla.
She rode through heat and hunger and thirst. She rode through pain. Every step of her mount jarred her tender bones, until at times, thundering northward across Eibithar’s Moorlands, she felt lost in a haze of agony and was forced to rely on her horse to keep them headed in the right direction. Occasionally she thought she caught a glimpse of Fetnalla in the distance. Often at night, she spied a fire burning ahead of her, a tiny spark of light on the horizon. Sometimes in the morning, as she resumed her pursuit, she found the charred remains of the blaze or a patch of crushed grass where her love had bedded down for the night. These discoveries kept her moving, spurring her on when her body screamed for her to stop.
Fetnalla had to know that she followed still; no one knew her as well as did her love. Yet Fetnalla made no more effort to stop Evanthya, nor did she quicken her pace. This, as much as anything, gave Evanthya some small cause for hope. She could almost imagine Fetnalla watching for her fires, fearing their next encounter, yet drawing comfort from her proximity.
And Evanthya had to admit that she preferred it this way as well. Even had she been able to close the distance between them, she wasn’t sure that she would. Fetnalla had hurt her badly the last time they faced each other. Who knew what she would do next time, or what she would force Evanthya to do? Who could say how it would end? There was more than a little consolation to be found in this uncertainty. At least for a short while, they both lived knowing that the other was safe and nearby.
All that had changed late this day, when Evanthya first saw the thin lines of smoke rising into the sky. It seemed a vast host was encamped ahead of her. The battle plain. What else could it be? Surely Fetnalla had seen the fires as well, and had turned so that she might skirt the edge of the plain and ride on to join the Weaver. But would she turn west or east? After considering the matter for only a few moments, Evanthya turned east. Fetnalla would not risk the western course, where she might be seen by the Eibitharian warriors, a dark form against the fiery western sky.
Evanthya rode on, even after the sun had set, her eyes fixed on the north, searching for some sign of her love. When the small fire jumped to life some distance ahead, she smiled grimly, steering her horse toward the light as if it were a beacon at sea, and she a lost ship.
It was completely dark by the time she drew near to Fetnalla’s blaze. Stars glowed brightly in the night sky, but this late in the waning the moons were not yet up, and Evanthya could barely see the ground in front of her. She could see Fetnalla, though, sitting beside her fire, poking at the coals with a long stick, her face bathed in the warm light. Evanthya dismounted a short distance from the fire and covered the last bit on foot. A few strides from the fire, she reached for her sword, only to remember that Fetnalla had shattered it during their last encounter. She pulled her dagger free instead
, continuing forward warily and silently. Or so she thought.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” her love called before Evanthya had reached the circle of light created by the flames.
Evanthya hesitated, unsure of what to say or do.
“Come on, Evanthya. Let me see you.” Fetnalla had stood and was peering into the darkness, trying to catch sight of her.
“How do I know you won’t try to kill me again?”
“If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. I healed you, remember? If either of us has murder in her mind, it’s most likely you. I’d wager you already have your weapon drawn.”
“I don’t have shaping magic. I need to protect myself somehow.”
“A dagger will do you no good, and you know it. I can break that blade as easily as I did your sword.”
“As easily as you did my shoulder and my leg?”
“You gave me no choice, Evanthya! I warned you time and again!”
“Yes, you warned me. And I chose to believe that you wouldn’t be able to hurt me, that you loved me too much. It seems I was wrong.”
“That’s not-” Fetnalla shook her head. “This is ridiculous! Come here where I can see you. I feel like I’m speaking with a wraith.”
Evanthya took a long, steadying breath and sheathed her dagger. Then she limped into the firelight, her eyes fixed on her love’s face.
Seeing her, Fetnalla let out a small cry, her face contorting with grief and pity. “Look at you!” she whispered. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself!”
“Done to myself?”
Fetnalla hurried to where Evanthya stood and guided her to a spot beside the fire. “I told you to rest. I warned you that the bones needed time to mend.”
Evanthya sat, and Fetnalla knelt before her, placing her hands first on Evanthya’s leg, and then on her shoulder, her eyes closed, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“The bones have knitted poorly.” She opened her eyes again, shaking her head. “But they’re set now. I don’t think there’s anything I can do for you.”