by DAVID B. COE
Xaver laughed. “Oh, she is that.”
“Well, now I really want to hear.”
His friend was a bit sparing with details—her name was Jolyn, and she was the daughter of one of the ladies who served Tavis’s mother. Other than that, Xaver offered precious little information. But Tavis hardly cared. Long after he and Xaver had returned to the Curgh camp, they continued to talk, laughing and teasing one another as they had long ago, before their Fatings and all that followed. And for a brief time, as the day grew warm and the sun turned its slow arc over the Moorlands, Tavis gave little thought to Cadel or the conspiracy or the war that loomed over them like a dark cloud.
Later in the day, however, after they had talked themselves into a lengthy silence, Xaver eyed the young lord, suddenly appearing uneasy.
“I have a favor to ask of you,” he said, meeting Tavis’s gaze for but a moment before looking away.
“Of course. Anything.”
“Don’t say that until you’ve heard what it is.”
Tavis felt his stomach tighten.
“I’m not certain that my father’s going to let me fight,” said the liege man. “And if he asks your father to keep me out of the battle, your father will do just that.”
“I really don’t think—”
“Please, let me finish. You’re my lord—I swore an oath to serve you. And since we’re both past our Fatings, you have the authority to overrule my father.”
“Xaver, the last thing I want to do is get between you and Hagan. Besides, if my father decides to keep you out of combat, there’s nothing I can do.”
His friend scowled at him.
“Why are you so eager to fight, anyway?”
“You have to ask? You’re just as avid for it as I am.”
Tavis shook his head. “That’s different. I have reasons that have nothing to do with this war and everything to do with Cadel and Brienne and all the rest.”
“Well, I have reasons, too, Tavis! You’re not the only one who wants to strike back at the Aneirans and the Qirsi and the empire, and everyone else who’s been attacking us for the past year. You’re not the only one whose father…” He shook his head. “I know it’s hard between you and your father, but it’s not easy being the son of Hagan MarCullet either. He’s been the best swordsman in the land for just about all my life. And everyone expects me to be just like him.” Including me.
Xaver didn’t have to say this last aloud. As his friend spoke Tavis found himself remembering what Xaver had told him of the siege at Kentigern, which was the first and only time the young man had fought in a battle of any sort. He said at the time that he had acquitted himself poorly, that he had embarrassed himself in front of Javan. For his part, the duke never had anything but praise for Xaver’s courage as a warrior, but that wouldn’t have kept Xaver from feeling that he had something to prove to himself, to his duke, and to his father in this newest war.
“I’m sorry, Stinger. You’re right, I’m not the only one. As I said before, I have no desire to put myself between you and Hagan, but I’ll do what I can.”
Xaver nodded, still looking displeased.
“Personally, I’d be honored to march into battle beside you.”
He smiled at that. “We’ve been talking about it since we were five.”
“Longer than that, if my mother is to be believed.”
“Thanks, Tavis.”
“I’m not promising anything. You understand that.”
“I know. But I’m grateful anyway.”
“Just promise me that you’ll watch my back, and I’ll do the same for you.”
Xaver grinned. “Done.”
* * *
After Javan and Tavis rode away, Keziah turned her attention back to Kearney, who was still giving comfort to the duke of Heneagh. There was a pained expression in her pale eyes. She held a hand to her mouth, as if afraid that she might weep at any moment.
“Perhaps we should find someplace where we can speak,” Fotir suggested.
She nodded, but her gaze never left the king.
“Keziah.”
She looked at Grinsa, seeming to rouse herself from a dream. “Yes, of course.”
It looked to the gleaner that she hadn’t slept in days. There were circles under her eyes, and her skin was so wan that she almost looked gray. He wondered how many times in the past few nights she had dreamed of the Weaver.
The three Qirsi walked away from the king toward the rear of the Curgh camp where there were fewer soldiers. After a few moments, Grinsa realized that one of Kearney’s men was following a short distance behind them.
“My shadow,” Keziah said, seeing him glance back.
“Kearney’s having you watched?”
“It’s necessary. We still need for everyone to believe that he doesn’t trust me.”
Fotir looked from one of them to the other. “Am I to understand that the king knows of your attempt to join the conspiracy?”
Keziah gave a rueful smile. “That was necessary as well. He was preparing to send me away from his court.”
“This seems to be growing more perilous by the moment.”
Grinsa said nothing, though it occurred to him that it had all been far too dangerous from the very beginning. Keziah had contrived to join the Qirsi conspiracy, making it seem to the Weaver that she served his cause, and convincing all those around her that she had betrayed her king and her land. Kearney knew the truth now, but that seemed small consolation to Grinsa. If the Weaver learned that Keziah had been deceiving him, he would make her suffer terribly before killing her.
“Can we speak frankly with that soldier hovering at our shoulders?” Fotir asked.
“We haven’t much choice, First Minister,” Keziah said, impatience creeping into her voice. “Believe me when I tell you that these inconveniences mean little to me at this point. I have far greater matters weighing on my mind.”
The gleaner thought that Fotir might respond in anger—the minister was no more accustomed than was Keziah to having people speak to him so. To his credit, however, the man gave a small smile and inclined his head. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me, Archminister.”
Keziah frowned, as if she had expected more of a fight.
“Have you heard from the Weaver again?” Grinsa asked in a whisper.
“I last heard from him about a half turn ago,” she answered, whispering as well, “just after we marched from Audun’s Castle. He was angry with me for failing to kill Cresenne.”
“Did he hurt you?”
His sister tried to smile, failed. After a moment she looked away. “It wasn’t too bad.”
Grinsa didn’t believe her, but he let it pass, his heart aching for her.
“He told me that he would find another way to kill her. Don’t worry,” she said, seeming to believe that she was anticipating Grinsa’s next question. “I sent word back to the castle. She knows to expect an attack.”
The gleaner looked away. “The attack’s already come.”
She gaped at him.
“Is she—?”
“She’s all right.” Actually, the gleaner couldn’t say with any certainty that she would ever truly recover from all her encounters with the man. The Weaver had tortured her, leaving scars on her face that might have looked like those Tavis bore had Grinsa not been able to heal her so soon after the assault. One of the Weaver’s servants had poisoned her, very nearly taking her life. And the last time he entered her dreams, the Weaver had raped her, or come as close to rape as a man could without actually touching her physically.
“What did he do to her?”
“It’s not important. What matters is that Cresenne drove him from her dreams. She won.” Though at what cost?
Keziah still stared at him, but the horror on her face had given way to a look of wonder.
“Did she really?”
“Yes. And as I’ve been telling you all along, you have the power to do the same.”
After his own unsuccessful encounter w
ith the Weaver half a turn before, as he and Tavis were riding across the southern Moorlands, Grinsa had come to doubt that anyone could prevail against the man. But despite all that she had endured during her dreams of the Weaver, Cresenne had given him hope, not only for himself, but for Keziah as well. He still feared for his sister—for all of them, really—but he had to believe that Dusaan could be beaten.
“She did it,” Keziah whispered, sounding awed and shaking her head slowly.
“You were telling us of your own encounter with the Weaver,” Fotir prompted gently.
She ran a hand through her hair, smiling self-consciously. An instant later, though, she had grown deadly serious. “Yes, of course. He gave me a new task to complete. He wants me to kill Kearney.”
“What?” Fotir said, far too loudly, his eyes widening. He glanced back at the soldier. “How?” he asked a moment later, his voice lowered once more.
“He left that to me. He wants it to happen in battle, so that no one suspects the Qirsi.”
“Does Kearney know?”
She looked at Grinsa. “I’ve warned him, yes.”
“Why bother?” Fotir asked. “It’s not as though you intend to go through with it, right?”
“Of course she doesn’t. But if the Weaver really wants Kearney dead, and if her failure to kill Cresenne has made him question Keziah’s commitment to the conspiracy, then he’ll have given the same order to others who serve him.”
Fotir shook his head slowly. “You both seem to understand him so well. I’m out of my depth.”
“We have an advantage, First Minister,” Grinsa told him. “If you care to call it that. We’ve both spoken with the man. He’s walked in our dreams.”
Keziah gaped at him. “You dreamed of him, too?”
“Yes, not long after you did, it seems. He tried to attack me, and he threatened Cresenne.”
“But he couldn’t hurt you, right? You’re too strong for him.”
Grinsa’s stomach turned at the memory of what the Weaver had done to him, of the pain in his temple as the man tried to crush his skull. Seeing how Keziah looked at him, begging him with her eyes to say that his magic had been a match for that of the Weaver, he almost lied. Qirsar knew that he wanted to.
Instead he shook his head. “I wasn’t strong enough.”
“He did hurt you.” Her voice shook and terror was written plainly on her face.
“I was able to wake myself before he could do any real harm. And I managed to summon a flame that lit his face and the plain on which we stood. I know for certain who he is.”
“Were we right about him?” Fotir asked. “Is it the emperor’s high chancellor?”
“Yes. Dusaan jal Kania. He was on Ayvencalde Moor. He tried to keep me from using my fire magic, but I have to say that once I’d seen him, he didn’t seem overly concerned.”
“Still,” the first minister said, “we know who he is. That has to count for something.”
“Does this mean that he’s more powerful than you are?” Keziah asked, sounding so young, so scared.
“I don’t know, Keziah. Truly I don’t. As Tavis pointed out to me, we were hardly on equal footing. He was in my dream, so he could hurt me, but I couldn’t hurt him. The most I could do was illuminate his face and the moor, and I managed that.”
She nodded, but he read the despair in her expression, and he knew its source. If he, a Weaver, couldn’t keep this man from hurting him, how was she to protect herself? Any hope she had drawn from Cresenne’s success was already gone.
For a long time, Keziah didn’t speak. She just stood there, staring off in the distance, until Grinsa began to wonder if he and the first minister should leave her. But after several moments, she seemed to gather herself. Looking first at Grinsa and then at Fotir, she said, “There’s another matter we need to discuss, before the empire strikes at us again.” She cast a quick look at Kearney’s soldier, as if to assure herself that he wasn’t close enough to hear. “When the fighting begins, how far will we go with our magic to aid Kearney and the dukes?”
“Do you mean will I weave your powers with mine?”
She nodded.
“I think the risk is too great,” Fotir said. “The emperor sent Qirsi with his army—quite a few really. And they’ll be watching us closely. I don’t know what powers you possess, archminister, but I’m a shaper and I have mists and winds. If the gleaner and I raise a mist together, Harel’s Qirsi are likely to know it. Word of a Weaver would spread across this battlefield in no time.”
“But what if it’s the only way to keep them from breaking through our lines?” Keziah demanded. “Kearney already knows that Grinsa’s a Weaver, and if Eibithar’s other nobles find out because he used his powers to save the realm, they can hardly turn around and have him executed.”
“It would be foolish of them, I agree. But that doesn’t mean they won’t do it.”
“Careful, First Minister,” Grinsa said with a smile. “That’s something one of the renegades might say.”
Fotir’s expression didn’t change. “Well, in this case they may be right. This is no time for us to underestimate Eandi fear of Qirsi magic. With all that the conspiracy has wrought in the last few years, I’m afraid our nobles will be more inclined than ever to put a Weaver to death, even one who uses his magic to protect their realm.”
“Is that what you think?” Keziah asked.
Grinsa shrugged. “I suppose it is.”
She nodded, though clearly unhappy with his answer.
“But I can’t see allowing the empire to prevail in this fight, no matter the danger to me.”
“The danger isn’t yours alone,” Fotir said. “They’ll kill Cresenne and your child as well.”
“They may try, First Minister, just as they may try to execute me. I assure you that they’ll fail. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. We have a number of Qirsi on our side; I may not need to weave at all. And if it does come to that, I believe I can join our powers without anyone realizing it.” He looked at Keziah again, wanting to brush a strand of hair away from his sister’s face. But he didn’t dare, not with the soldier so close. Even Fotir, who knew so much about him, didn’t know that Keziah was his sister. The danger was still too great to reveal that to anyone. Fear of Weavers ran deep among the Eandi, and for centuries, when Weavers were executed, so were all those in their families. Add to that the fact that Dusaan might have spies on the battle plain ready to report back to him any strange behavior on Keziah’s part, and they were risking her life merely by standing and talking to one another. “I won’t let them get past us. You have my word on that.”
“Shouldn’t the three of us be together then, fighting in the same place?”
“The first minister and I will be together on the Curgh lines, and if I need your power too, I can find you.”
She nodded again, but appeared tense and uncertain.
“I should return to my duke,” Fotir said, his gaze wandering northward, to the Braedon army. “And I’d suggest, Archminister, that you find Kearney. I expect that we’ll be raising mists and summoning winds before long.”
Chapter Six
That Fotir was right shouldn’t have surprised Keziah at all. She had spent enough time with Curgh’s first minister to realize that he was every bit as brilliant as he was reputed to be. When he warned that Braedon’s attack would come before the day was out, she should have believed him.
Nor should she have been taken aback by the ferocity of the empire’s assault. She had seen combat before, only a year earlier. The fight to end the siege at Kentigern had not lacked for violence or blood, and though she had been horrified by what she witnessed, she had also believed that the experience had hardened her, preparing her for the day when once again she would have to follow her king into battle. Nothing, though, could have readied her for the storm of steel and flesh and blood that raged before her now.
It seemed as well that she was not the only one. Even with scouts from Heneagh, Cur
gh, and the King’s Guard keeping watch on the Braedon army, the enemy’s attack caught the Eibitharians off guard. The empire’s army gave no warning at all. Among the houses of Eibithar it was tradition to loose a single arrow into the sky over the battle plain before commencing an attack. Braedon offered no such gesture. Nor did their Qirsi raise a mist to conceal their numbers. Keziah did not even hear an order shouted to the empire’s archers before their first volley. One moment all seemed as it had for the past several days, the next a thousand arrows were carving across the sky and pelting down on Eibithar’s warriors.
Even before the first of the darts struck, Braedon’s soldiers had begun their charge across the moor, sunlight glinting off their blades and helms, the earth seeming to tremble with the roar of their war cries. Kearney and his dukes barely had time to call their men to arms, much less marshal an ordered defense. They had thought that the attack would be concentrated on Heneagh’s lines—clearly Welfyl’s army was no match for Javan’s or Kearney’s.
But Braedon’s commanders, rather than striking at the weakest point in Eibithar’s defenses, aimed their assault on the King’s Guard itself, the strongest of the three armies. Curgh and Heneagh weren’t spared. Far from it. Within moments of that first volley of arrows, all three armies were under attack, but Kearney’s guard bore the brunt of the onslaught. Poorly prepared for the intensity of Braedon’s attack, Eibithar’s men were forced to fall back. Kearney and Javan had managed to get their archers in place soon enough to loose one barrage of arrows at the charging Braedony soldiers, but after that, their bowmen had little choice but to draw swords and fight with the rest. Heneagh’s archers didn’t loose a single arrow before the empire’s men crashed into their lines.
“Why would they attack this way?” Keziah called over the din of battle, as she rode beside Kearney, who was rallying his men as best he could.
“Because it’s working!” he shouted back, green eyes blazing, his face damp with sweat.
She nodded, wishing she hadn’t asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said a moment later. “None of us expected this. But I think they wanted to keep our armies from working together. Had they focused their attack on Welfyl, Javan and I would have banded together to try to flank them. This way we have no chance to combine our forces.”
