Weavers of War wotf-5

by DAVID B. COE

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Pronjed could hardly believe how quickly their fortunes had turned. Moments before the Weaver and his army had been on the verge of a great victory. Now the Weaver was dead, his army scattering over the battle plain, some fighting, others in flight. In the days leading up to this war, Pronjed had considered many possible outcomes, most of them turning on the simple fact that Dusaan jal Kania hadn’t liked him very much and might well have killed him once the war was over. But the archminister didn’t believe that he would see the Weaver defeated. He never imagined that he would watch the man die.

  He had little interest in continuing this fight. Whatever his feelings toward the Eandi, he knew better than to think that he could stand against an army of them. His powers were considerable-having both delusion and shaping power, he could talk or fight his way past a good number of warriors. And if those didn’t work, he also had mists and winds. Nevertheless, he preferred to slip away, unnoticed and preferably alone.

  But where to go? There was no future for him in Aneira, where by now he had been branded a traitor and sentenced to death. Nor could he remain in Eibithar, where his accent marked him as an enemy. He had no desire to live in Braedon or Wethyrn. The nobles of the empire would never again trust a Qirsi, and Wethyrn, for all its charm, was simply too small and weak to hold his interest. Which left him with Caerisse or Sanbira, and both lay to the south and west.

  He made this choice in a matter of seconds and promptly turned his mount westward, intending to ride off at a full gallop.

  “Hold, Qirsi.”

  A woman’s voice, young but not without some mettle. A noble of some sort, probably a duchess. From Sanbira judging from the accent.

  Pronjed turned slowly to face her. She looked even younger than she sounded and was every bit as beautiful as one would expect a noble of the southern realm to be. Her hair and eyes were black; with her long limbs and lanky frame she looked more like a festival dancer than a warrior. But she held a blade ready, and Pronjed felt certain that she knew how to use it. Four men stood with her, all of them holding bows.

  Looking at the soldiers, the minister had the sense that they were swordsmen rather than archers; none looked comfortable with his bow. But all had arrows nocked and the bowstrings drawn. Whatever their skill, one of them would probably manage to aim true. Pronjed thought that he could snap all four bows before one of the men managed to loose his arrow, but he wasn’t certain.

  “My lady,” he said, needing time, needing to take the measure of this bold duchess.

  “Throw down your weapons and dismount.”

  He laughed. She might have been brave, but she was too young and foolish to represent any true danger. “My weapon?” He pulled his sword free and tossed it on the ground at her feet. “There. Do you truly believe that you’ve nothing to fear from me now?”

  “Of course not, Minister. But my father always taught me that in disarming a foe, one should begin with the most obvious dangers.”

  Pronjed eyed her curiously. Minister. “Have we met, my lady?”

  “I don’t believe so. But you knew me for a duchess, and I know you for a minister. Is that so strange?”

  Perhaps there was more to this woman than he had thought. “Who are you?”

  “Off your horse, Qirsi. We’ll have ample time later for such questions.”

  “Tell me,” he said, and this time he touched her mind lightly with his delusion magic.

  “My name is Diani. I’m the duchess of Curlinte.”

  Of course. He’d heard of this one, and of the attempt on her life. “Well, Lady Curlinte, I think I’d be better off remaining on my horse. I don’t imagine your queen or Eibithar’s king will be dealing lightly with men like me. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  The soldiers were glancing at one another, frowns on their faces. “My lady,” one of them said.

  The duchess shook her head, then looked up at Pronjed with a mix of horror and indignation. “What did you do to me?”

  “As you see, my lady. That sword was the least of my weapons.”

  Before she could order the soldiers to kill him, Pronjed struck at them with his shaping magic, splintering the four bows. As an afterthought, he broke her sword as well, leaving the duchess and her warriors looking bewildered and afraid.

  “I think I’ll be leaving now,” the minister said. He grinned. “Unless you intend to pull me from my mount with your bare hands.”

  But the duchess wasn’t ready to surrender. Pulling her dagger free, she stepped in front of him. “Get off that horse.” After a moment’s hesitation, the four soldiers joined her.

  “Don’t be a fool. I’ll ride you down. That is, if I don’t snap your neck first.”

  “Then do it. But I won’t just stand by as you ride to freedom.”

  Normally, this woman and her soldiers wouldn’t have been of any concern to him. But it had already been a long morning, and he had used a good deal of power on the Weaver’s behalf. He could kill the five of them, but how much magic would he have left if others confronted him before he escaped?

  “Move!” he said, pushing again with his delusion magic.

  The duchess took a step to the side, then stumbled, as if resisting his power. She lifted her hands to her head, grimacing in pain.

  “Don’t let him get away!” she said, her teeth clenched.

  The soldiers, who by now also had their daggers drawn, stood shoulder to shoulder in front of him. He read doubt in their faces, but he saw nothing to indicate that they were about to flee. Reluctantly, Pronjed reached for his shaping magic.

  At the first touch on his mind, the minister thought that the Weaver had joined his fight, that he wasn’t dead after all. But rather than feeling his power bolstered by this new presence in his mind, he felt it bound. The other Weaver. Somehow the man had sensed his power and taken hold of it. Abruptly, shaping was lost to him. He reached for delusion, but he could no more use that magic than the other. Mists and winds. Nothing.

  “No!” he cried, without thinking.

  The sound of his voice seemed to propel the duchess and soldiers into motion. Powerful hands grabbed hold of his leg and arm, and yanked him off of his horse. He landed hard on the ground, but still Pronjed fought to break free, even as he continued to battle the intruder in his mind. In all ways, however, he was helpless. A moment later, he felt the point of a dagger at his throat and he stiffened, ceasing his struggles.

  The duchess seized a handful of his hair, forcing him to meet her gaze. “If you so much as blink, I’ll kill you.”

  How he longed to shatter that blade, or better yet, to force the woman to turn it on herself, as he had done to Carden so long ago. But the other Weaver held him fast.

  “Get rope,” the duchess said. “Irons are no good against a shaper.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Or better yet…”

  He knew what was coming before she pulled the dagger away. He would have done the same had he been in her position.

  “Damn,” he had time to mutter.

  Then he felt an explosion of pain at the back of his skull, and the minister knew no more.

  The healers did what they could for her, mending the shattered bones in her leg and body, and easing her pain somewhat. Keziah had been through this before, however, and far too recently. She knew that it would be days before she could move without discomfort.

  She also knew that she was fortunate to be alive at all, that had it not been for Aindreas of Kentigern, she too would have been counted among the victims of the Weaver and his war.

  “Where can we take you, Archminister?” one of the healers asked, when they had finished ministering to her leg.

  Keziah could hear soldiers cheering to the north. It seemed that the Weaver had been defeated. Somehow, incredibly, Grinsa had prevailed. Keziah felt that she was living some marvelous dream; for just an instant she feared waking to find that none of it was true, that the
war had yet to be fought, that her survival and Grinsa’s remained uncertain.

  “I want to see my-” She felt her face color. “The gleaner. I want to see Grinsa.” She tried to stand. “But I can go to him myself.”

  The healer laid a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder. “No,” he said. “You can’t. You’ll be walking on your own soon enough. Tomorrow perhaps, or the day after. But for now, I’ll carry you.”

  She started to object, then stopped herself. It hurt just to breathe, much less move. “Very well.”

  He lifted her effortlessly, and began walking toward the center of the Eandi lines. Resting in the healer’s arms, Keziah suddenly found herself thinking of Fotir and Kearney and even Tavis of Curgh, wondering if they were alive, hoping desperately that they had survived the battle.

  So it was that she was already looking for Curgh’s first minister when he spotted her and called out her name. Fotir ran to her, grinning like a young boy on Bohdan’s Night.

  “You’re alive!” he said. “Earlier, when we couldn’t find you, Grinsa and I feared the worst.” He looked at the healer. “Thank you. I can take her.”

  The healer glanced at Keziah, grinning slightly, an eyebrow raised.

  She smiled in turn. “It’s all right. He’ll see to it that I don’t walk.”

  The healer laughed. “Very well.”

  Fotir took her from the man.

  “Thank you,” Keziah said, as the healer began to turn away.

  “Of course, Archminister. Stay off that leg.”

  “I will.”

  “What happened?” Fotir asked her, when they were alone.

  She met his gaze briefly, then looked away, abruptly remembering the awkwardness of the night before. “The Weaver sent a shaper to kill me.”

  “What is it with you and shapers?”

  “Careful, First Minister. As I remember it, you’re a shaper.”

  This time it was Fotir who looked away. “True. Well, in any case, I’m glad you managed to defeat him.”

  “Actually, it was a woman, and I was saved by the duke of Kentigern.”

  Fotir stared at her, his bright yellow eyes wide. “Kentigern?”

  “Yes. He died rescuing me.” She almost said more, but thought better of it. “He wanted nothing more than to redeem his house.”

  “Perhaps by saving you he did.”

  She feared that redemption wouldn’t come so easily for the people of Kentigern, but she merely nodded and said, “Yes, perhaps.” A moment later, their eyes met again. “Where’s Grinsa?”

  “I’ll take you to him.” Fotir began to walk, carrying her past clusters of soldiers, some wounded, others simply smiling, sharing tales of the recent battle. “He was hurt,” the first minister said. “The Weaver broke both of his legs and his shoulder.”

  Fear seized her heart. “But he’s alive.”

  Fotir smiled reassuringly. “Yes. And he’ll be very happy to see you.”

  They reached her brother a few moments later and Fotir lowered her to the ground beside him. Three healers knelt beside him, their hands on his legs and shoulder. Grinsa’s eyes were closed and his face was damp with sweat.

  “Grinsa,” she said, shocked to see him looking so.

  His eyes flew open. “Kezi!” He gripped her hand so tightly that it hurt. “I thought I’d lost you. Are you all right?”

  “Not too bad. Better than you, it would seem.”

  He gave a small frown. “I’m fine. I was just helping the healers.”

  “Please talk to him, Archminister,” said one of the healers, an older woman. “He’s supposed to be resting.”

  “The sooner they’re done with me, the sooner they can help someone else.”

  The healer continued to look at her, pleading with her pale eyes.

  “I think it’s best that I stay out of this.” She glanced up at Fotir. “Don’t you agree?”

  But the minister was staring northward, his expression grim. “Excuse me,” he said after a moment, and walked off without waiting for her reply.

  Keziah looked at her brother, who merely shrugged.

  “Tell me what happened,” she said after a brief silence.

  Grinsa began to describe for her his battle with the Weaver, and for a long time she forgot about Fotir and Aindreas and the woman who had nearly killed her, so rapt was she held by Grinsa’s tale.

  “Do you know who she is?” she asked when at last he had finished. “This woman who saved us?”

  He shook his head. “No. But the Weaver spoke to her, so others may know what she did. I fear for her.”

  Keziah nodded.

  “What about you?”

  She told her story in turn, once again saying nothing about all that had passed between Aindreas and the Qirsi woman. Grinsa, however, seemed to sense that she had left something out.

  “How fortunate for you that the duke happened upon you when he did.”

  Her gaze flicked toward the healers. “Yes.”

  Grinsa was watching her, and he nodded, seeming to understand her reticence.

  “Do you know what happened to Tavis?” Keziah asked.

  His brow furrowed. “No. I saw him charge the Qirsi lines, but I lost track of him in all that happened after.”

  “I’m sure he’s all right,” Keziah said, knowing how empty the words would sound, but feeling that she should say something. “It seems you were right about him. He did have a role to play in all this.”

  Before Grinsa could answer, the healers sat back on their heels, all of them looking worn.

  “That’s all we can do for you now, gleaner,” the woman told him. “The rest will take some time. The bones in your leg have knitted well-you should be able to walk normally in just a few days.” She hesitated. “Your shoulder … It had been broken before…”

  Grinsa sat up slowly and smiled, though Keziah could see that it was forced. Her chest ached for him.

  “It’s not your fault,” he said. “How bad is it?”

  “You’ll be able to move the arm, but not as you once did. And it will never look quite right.”

  He nodded, smiled again. “It could have been much worse. Thank you-all of you-for what you did.”

  They bowed to him, then moved off.

  “I’m so sorry, Grinsa.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said. He looked at her, his eyes meeting hers. “Truly, Kezi. With all that could have happened, this is a trifle.”

  “Of course,” she said. But there were tears on her face.

  “We should find someone who can help us up, and then search out the king and Tavis.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  Grinsa laughed. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we. Unable to walk, barely able to sit up. It’s a wonder we survived at all.”

  But Keziah knew better; surely her brother did as well. She was alive because Aindreas had given his life to protect her. Grinsa had prevailed because one woman in the Qirsi army had dared to oppose the Weaver, though she might well have died for the choice she made. There was nothing miraculous about their survival. It had been purchased with far too much blood.

  Tavis stood alone in the middle of the battle plain, his sword held ready. He turned a slow circle, looking for someone to kill, or for someone who might kill him. He didn’t care which just then. He wanted only to lash out with his steel, to feel his blade bite into flesh or armor or the edge of another sword. Already, he had killed two Qirsi in the time since the Weaver died. But it wasn’t enough, not nearly.

  “Come on!” he shouted, watching Eandi soldiers chase down the few renegades who remained on the plain, searching for just one white-hair of his own. “Cowards!”

  “Tavis!”

  He ignored the voice, though for just a moment it sounded like his father’s.

  “Tavis, lower your sword!”

  Maybe it was Xaver calling to him. Perhaps he was surrounded by wraiths, the shades of all his dead.

  “Tavis,” came the voice again, softer this
time, and much closer.

  He spun, prepared to strike at the white-hair he saw standing before him.

  “I can break your blade if I have to.”

  Tavis blinked, realized it was Fotir.

  “Please, my lord.”

  He lowered his sword, abruptly finding that he was too weary to hold it high anymore. “First Minister,” he muttered.

  “I’m so sorry, my lord. To have lost one of them would have been bad enough. But to lose both…” He shook his head, looking like he might weep. “There’s been no darker day in the long history of our house.”

  Tavis should have known what to say, but his battle rage had sluiced away, leaving him utterly spent. Even had he wanted to cry, he couldn’t have. He could only nod dully, his eyes fixed on the ground at his feet.

  “Let me take you back to the camp, my lord. Grinsa is eager to see you.”

  “He survived,” Tavis said.

  “Yes, my lord. He was injured, but the healers have treated him. He’ll be fine.”

  “Good.” He nodded again. “That’s good.”

  Fotir put an arm around Tavis’s shoulders and began to guide him back toward the Eandi lines. After only a few steps, however, Tavis stopped, turning his gaze to where his father had fallen.

  “I should … He shouldn’t just be left there.”

  “He’s already been borne back to the Curgh camp, my lord. So has Master MarCullet.”

  They began to walk again. Tavis realized that he still held his blade in his hand, and he sheathed it.

  “Should we send a messenger to my mother?” he asked.

  “Truly, my lord, I don’t know. It might be easier for her to hear these tidings from you.”

  Tavis looked up at that, meeting the minister’s gaze. He nearly told the man to send a messenger, for he had no stomach for that conversation. But something stopped him.

  For too long he had considered himself a coward, seeing in his failures as a warrior and the craven manner in which he had killed the assassin in Wethyrn, all the evidence of this that he needed. And though ashamed of his weakness, he had chosen to accept it as part of who he was. Today, he had acquitted himself well in combat, only to realize now how poor a measure of bravery was one’s performance on a battlefield.