Weavers of War: Book Five of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  They sat in silence for a moment, their eyes locked. Dusaan appeared amused again, though there was a predatory look in those bright yellow eyes.

  “Well, Chancellor,” he said, “I’m glad to know that you’re well. You can go.”

  Stavel nearly jumped out of his chair, so eager was he to be away from the man. “Yes, High Chancellor. Thank you.” He hurried to the door, then forced himself to stop and bow to Dusaan. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  Dusaan gave a small nod. “Until tomorrow.”

  A moment later he was in the corridor. The air felt cooler, tasted sweeter. He felt as though he had escaped a dungeon. Except that he knew better. Through circumstance, or ill fortune, or just plain carelessness, he now found himself caught between the emperor and Dusaan. If he didn’t extricate himself quickly, he would be crushed, like an innocent trapped between advancing armies.

  * * *

  It had been the last remaining obstacle. After his humiliating encounter with the emperor—he could still smell the muslin hood, dampened by his breath and his sweat—he had determined that there was nothing more to be gained by waiting. Tihod jal Brossa, the Qirsi merchant who had arranged payments of gold to the Weaver’s servants, was dead. Even if Tihod still lived and his network of couriers remained at the movement’s disposal, Harel had taken the fee accountings from Dusaan, placing them under the authority of his master of arms. The high chancellor no longer had access to the emperor’s gold, which meant that he no longer had any reason to debase himself before the fat fool.

  All that kept Dusaan from beginning immediately to set in motion the next part of his plan was his suspicion that Harel had one or more of his Qirsi working as spies within the palace. Until Dusaan had identified the emperor’s agent, or agents, he couldn’t risk revealing himself.

  He had suspected Stavel jal Miraad from the start. From what Nitara told him just after Kayiv’s death, he knew that Stavel had worked with the young minister in his efforts to turn the other Qirsi against Dusaan. At first the high chancellor had been skeptical of this, not because he thought Stavel was loyal to him, but because he didn’t think the old man courageous enough to involve himself in matters of this sort. But when Gorlan jal Aviarre, who had wisely chosen to ally himself with Dusaan’s movement, confirmed all that Nitara had told him, the Weaver had no choice but to believe it.

  Still, the emperor could not have known any of this, and while Dusaan saw the old chancellor as the natural choice to act as Harel’s spy, the emperor might have had someone else in mind. Though certain that he was being watched, that one of his fellow Qirsi had been asking questions about him, he couldn’t be sure which of them had betrayed him. Hence the sword.

  It hadn’t really been with the cutler for four turns. Dusaan had taken his blade to the city only a few days before, departing the palace and returning through a sally port on the western side, taking great care not to be seen by any of the guards. It was a simple ruse, one that might not have ensnared someone more adept at court intrigue. That Dusaan’s trap worked so well was less a reflection of his own cunning than a testament to Stavel’s shortcomings as a spy.

  What mattered was that Stavel was the emperor’s man. Dusaan was certain of that now. Which meant that the time to reveal himself was finally at hand. Through years of careful planning, of meticulously laying the foundation for his coming war, he had remained patient, knowing that eventually he would be rewarded. He would wait no longer. A new day was dawning, and with it a new age for the Forelands. The anticipation of his victory, after so very long, nearly overwhelmed him. He would have liked to go to Harel that very moment and show the fat fool just how powerful he was. But though everything was in place, he still needed to proceed with some caution. Harel might be a fool, easily turned to Dusaan’s purposes and far weaker than he thought himself, but he was not without his resources.

  Only a few moments after Stavel left him, looking like a frightened rabbit, there came a knock at his door. Gorlan and Nitara.

  “Enter,” he called.

  They came in together, but quickly separated, Gorlan taking a seat near the window, Nitara sitting beside the high chancellor. It seemed that his hope of fostering a love affair between them, one that would make her forget her desire for him, had been in vain. A pity: her expressions of affection were becoming more and more distracting.

  “What have you learned?” he asked, looking from one of them to the other.

  “I believe all of the ministers will join with you,” Nitara answered, eyeing Gorlan as she spoke. “And perhaps one or two of the chancellors.”

  “And the rest?”

  “I’m not certain what they’ll do. They’ve served the emperor for so long they’ve forgotten what it is to be Qirsi.”

  She said it to please him, he knew, because she thought it sounded like something he might say.

  “What do you think?” Dusaan asked, looking past Nitara to Gorlan.

  He had chosen to join the movement, just as the Weaver had known he would. The alternative had been death, or a desperate attempt to flee Curtell. Gorlan wasn’t the type to choose martyrdom, and he was too wise to think that he might actually escape. What impressed Dusaan, however, was the fervor with which he had embraced the Qirsi cause as his own. It was hard to tell if the minister had considered the possibility of joining the movement prior to that day when Dusaan offered him the opportunity to do so. But once presented with the choice, he committed himself fully to its success. Dusaan would have known if the man was feigning his enthusiasm—such was the power of a Weaver. It almost seemed that having opened his eyes at last to the suffering his people endured under Eandi rule of the Forelands, Gorlan could hardly stand to look upon what he saw. He was everything Dusaan had once hoped Kayiv would be, and more. Intelligent, passionate, but controlled, and above all, honest with his opinions and insights, even when he knew that they were at odds with what Dusaan wanted to hear.

  “I’m a bit less certain about the ministers than is Nitara. B’Serre and Rov will probably pledge themselves to the movement. I don’t know about the others. And I have little sense of what the chancellors will do.”

  “What do you think it would take to convince those who are less willing to join us?”

  Gorlan shook his head. “I really don’t know.”

  “Do you think telling them of the Weaver would help?”

  “It might.”

  “What if they were to learn that I was that Weaver?”

  Dusaan heard Nitara give a small gasp, but he kept his eyes fixed on the other minister. Gorlan was staring at him, looking awed and just a bit frightened.

  “You’re the Weaver?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m not certain that I believe you.” There was no disrespect in his tone. Just disbelief.

  Dusaan smiled. He had concealed his powers for so long. He would enjoy proving to this man what he was. “Raise a wind,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I want you to summon a wind, right here in this chamber.”

  Gorlan regarded him briefly, then gave a small shrug and closed his eyes. A moment later the air in the chamber began to stir. In a few seconds a gale was howling, blowing scrolls onto the floor and making Dusaan’s hair dance.

  “Good,” the Weaver said. “Don’t stop.”

  He reached for his own power, and joining it to Gorlan’s strengthened the wind as only a Weaver could. Two of the empty chairs toppled. His sword, still sheathed, fell to the floor. The shutters on his window clattered loudly, until it seemed that they would splinter.

  Gorlan’s eyes flew open. “Demons and fire!”

  “You believe me now?”

  The wind died down, and a broad smile broke over the man’s face. “Forgive me for doubting you, Weaver.”

  “You needn’t apologize.”

  “The others will join you,” he said, still grinning. “I’m certain of it. How could they not?”

  “I hope you’re right. If I reveal to
them the true extent of my powers, and they still refuse to pledge themselves to our movement, I’ll have no choice but to kill them.”

  “If you tell them that you’re a Weaver,” Nitara said, “and they still refuse you, they deserve to die.”

  Gorlan nodded. “I have to agree.”

  “You both have served me well, and I know that you’ll continue to do so. For now, though, speak to no one of this. I’ve one more thing to do before I can tell the others who and what I am. Do you understand?”

  They both stood and bowed to him.

  “Yes, Weaver,” Nitara said.

  Once they had left his chamber, Dusaan stood and began to pace. Now that his time had come, he was eager to act, to put an end to the Eandi courts and begin his reign as ruler of the Forelands. But once more, he had to wait until nightfall so that he might speak with those throughout the land who served him. One last time, the sun would set over the Western Sea with the Curtell Dynasty ruling Braedon. When morning came Dusaan would begin to reap the rewards for which he had waited so long. There was no one in all the Forelands who could stop him.

  Chapter Four

  How could a single night take so long to pass? Even with all Dusaan had to do before dawn, it seemed to him that the moons took days to turn their broad arcs across the darkened sky. He had waited years to begin his war in earnest, he had dreamed of doing so since before his Fating. Patience had long been his greatest weapon. But on this final night, his anticipation got the better of him.

  He barely touched his evening meal, which a servant brought to his chamber at twilight and removed several hours later. He paced, he sat by his window staring up at the stars, and he waited for the tolling of the midnight bells, his mind churning, his heart pounding so loudly that he thought everyone in the palace must hear it.

  When at last he heard the bells, he wasted no time. Closing his eyes, he began to reach across the Scabbard and the Strait of Wantrae for his chancellors, his most trusted and most powerful servants. He found Jastanne ja Triln aboard her ship, the White Erne, just off the Galdasten shore, within sight of the warships of Braedon, Eibithar, and Wethyrn. As always, she was naked, her body offered to him as a gift. And, again as always, he sensed her ambition, her daring, and her keen intelligence.

  Abeni ja Krenta, archminister in the court of Sanbira’s queen, proved more difficult to locate. He had expected to find her in Yserne, but she was riding with the queen and a force of nearly eight hundred men. They were two days out from Brugaosa, just across the border into Caerisse, and pushing hard toward northern Eibithar. Dusaan was pleased; he had feared that she might not reach the northern kingdom in time. Of all his servants, she might have been the most valuable. As brilliant as Jastanne and as passionate in her commitment to the movement, Abeni was somewhat older, and with that age came a wisdom and calm that the young merchant lacked.

  Uestem jal Safhir, solid like the great boulders on Ayvencalde Moor, had proved himself intelligent as well, if somewhat unimaginative. He was already in Galdasten. And Pronjed jal Drenthe had managed to escape the prison tower of Dantrielle and was already making his way northward. As always, the archminister was eager to please and, after his questionable decision to kill Carden the Third, king of Aneira, frightened of incurring Dusaan’s wrath again.

  There were others—men and women who served in courts or sailed ships or journeyed the realms with festivals. And on this night, Dusaan spoke with all of them, telling each the same thing.

  The time has come. I will reveal myself within the day and will begin to fight the Eandi courts in earnest. Prepare yourselves and make your way to Galdasten as quickly as possible. I intend to form an army the likes of which has not been seen in the Forelands for nearly nine centuries.

  The sky had already begun to brighten when he ended the last of these conversations. He hadn’t slept at all. He should have been too weary to stand. Instead, he felt invigorated. The sky over the Imperial Palace glowed indigo and the moons hung low to the west. What a glorious day to begin his reign.

  He had a servant bring him his morning meal, and this time he ate, like a newly robed cleric breaking his fast. When he had finished, he sat by the window and dozed until the first of the ministers arrived for the day’s discussion. He watched them file into the chamber, singly and in pairs, their hair as white as bone, their eyes a dozen different shades of gold and yellow. He had heard it said among the Eandi that all Qirsi looked the same. Dusaan couldn’t have disagreed more. There was as much variety in the Qirsi face as in the Eandi, and far more beauty. Their skin was as pure as new snow, their features as fine as Sanbiri metalwork. He would challenge any man in the Forelands to show him an Eandi woman as beautiful as Jastanne, or Cresenne for that matter.

  His mood darkened at the thought of Cresenne. Had she not betrayed him for Grinsa, she would have been one of those whose dreams he entered this past night. She could have had a hand in this momentous day, she could have been his queen and shared with him the glorious future he had conceived and would soon create. Instead, she would die an enemy of the new Qirsi court. A pity. But she had brought this fate upon herself.

  “We’re all here, High Chancellor.”

  He looked up to find Nitara standing before him, lovely in her own way, her face flushed with desire for him, and, just perhaps, her anticipation of what was about to happen in this chamber.

  Dusaan gazed past her to find that all of them were watching him: Gorlan looking younger than the Weaver had ever seen him, a smile on his lips; Stavel looking old and scared, as well he should. The others appeared oblivious, some even bored. That wouldn’t last long.

  He smiled at Nitara and gestured for her to sit. “Thank you, Minister.”

  How many times had he envisioned the scene unfolding before him? For how long had he been composing what he was about to say? It seemed to Dusaan that his entire life had been leading to this very moment.

  “Have you any further word from Pinthrel, High Chancellor?”

  The Weaver glared at Stavel, causing the old man to shrink back into his chair.

  “All of you have heard rumors of the Qirsi movement, the so-called conspiracy that threatens the Eandi courts, that strikes fear into the hearts of nobles throughout the Forelands, that unmans Braedon’s emperor. For many turns now, we’ve denounced this movement, just as the emperor would expect. We’ve done so to keep ourselves from being branded as traitors, we’ve done so because as servants of an Eandi lord we could do no less.”

  “High Chancellor,” Stavel said meekly, “what does this have to do with the pestilence and Pinth—?”

  Dusaan pounded his fist on the writing table. “Will you be silent?” He closed his eyes briefly, trying to compose himself, trying to remember exactly where he’d been in his oration. “As I say, we’ve denounced this so-called conspiracy because that’s what was expected of us. But how many of us have wished for the freedom promised by this movement? How many of us have dreamed of a day when Qirsi ruled in the great cities of the Forelands? I know that I have.”

  “What are you saying?”

  It wasn’t Stavel this time, but rather one of the young ministers. He looked nearly as frightened as Stavel. Indeed, with the exception of Nitara and Gorlan, all of them appeared scared, like children caught in a sudden storm.

  “I’m saying just what you think I am. I believe the time has come to put an end to Eandi rule in the Forelands. Our people have served inferior men for too long. We possess great powers. Qirsar has given us the gift of his magic. He has allowed us to glimpse the future, to heal flesh and shape matter, to turn the elements to our will. And yet we are expected to humble ourselves before Eandi nobles who possess neither our powers nor our wisdom. Why should this be?”

  “Because they defeated us.” Stavel again, bolder this time. He was trembling—Dusaan could see his hands shaking—but he held his chin high, defiant and proud. The Weaver hadn’t known that he possessed such nerve. “We fought this war nine centuries ag
o, High Chancellor, and we were beaten back. The Eandi rule the Forelands because we weren’t strong enough to take it from them. We failed then, and this conspiracy will fail now.”

  Not long ago, he would have responded to such words with rage. But he was too close now to care what this one man said, weak and inconsequential as he was. He merely shook his head, grinning fiercely. “No, Stavel, you’re wrong. We failed then because we defeated ourselves, through the treachery of a single man.” Even now, on the verge of undoing all that this traitor had wrought, Dusaan found it difficult to speak his name. “Carthach ruined us, he doomed our people to nine centuries of servitude and humiliation. But all that is about to end.”

  “You can’t really think to defeat them. Their armies—”

  “Their armies are already destroying one another. By the time we strike at them they will have so weakened themselves that our victory will be assured.”

  “How long have you been with the conspiracy, High Chancellor?” Rov asked, her tone betraying little.

  “I prefer to call it a movement, Minister. And I’ve been with it from the beginning. The movement is me, and I am the movement.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s very simple. I lead the movement.”

  The woman blinked, wide-eyed.

  “I don’t believe you.” Stavel, of course.

  “Don’t you, Chancellor? Look into your heart. You know that it’s true.” He smiled again. “But there’s more.” He looked around the chamber. “Who here knows what powers I possess?”

  No one spoke.

  With only the merest effort, he called forth a wind, allowing it to sweep through the chamber, then die away. He held forth his hand and conjured a flame. Then he held his other hand over the fire, wincing at the pain. Several of the Qirsi gasped, including Nitara. He let the fire go out and held up his burned hand so that all could see the wound. And then he healed it. He picked up a wine goblet from his writing table, balanced it in his palm, and shattered it with a thought.