by DAVID B. COE
“You,” Dusaan said, nodding toward him. “What’s your name?”
“B’Naer, High Chancellor.”
Nitara cast a quick look Dusaan’s way, seeming to gauge his response. The Weaver hadn’t explicitly instructed the other Qirsi not to use his old title, but he felt that they should have known. Normally he wouldn’t have tolerated such an indiscretion but in this case he decided to give the man a bit of latitude. A very little bit.
“That’s all? Just B’Naer?”
The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, an amused look on his face. “B’Naer jal Shenvesse.”
“And from the looks of you I’d say you’re a peddler.”
“Close enough.”
The Weaver raised an eyebrow. “A brigand then.”
The smile vanished from his face.
“It’s all right, B’Naer. Whatever laws you’ve broken were Eandi laws. That’s not to say that I won’t deal harshly with your kind now that I lead the realm, but consider this your one opportunity to change the course of your life, to choose a brighter path, if you will.” Dusaan crossed to the emperor’s throne and sat. “Tell me, B’Naer, why do you think you’re here? What do you think you have in common with these other six people?”
“I don’t know? Are they brigands, too?”
One of them, an older woman, actually laughed out loud.
“No,” the Weaver said with a smile. “They’re not brigands.” He eyed the man for a moment longer, and when he shook his head, Dusaan looked at the others. “Do any of you know?”
“You know what powers we possess,” the woman answered at last. “Are we all shapers?”
The Weaver smiled. “And your name?”
“Qidanne ja Qed, Weaver. I’m a healer in the city.”
This name he did know. She wasn’t just a healer—she was the most renowned healer in all of Curtell. On several occasions the emperor had asked her to serve in the palace. Each time she had refused him, claiming that her duties as a healer called her into the countryside too often, and that some of those to whom she ministered would not trust another healer. Dusaan had long wondered if these excuses had served to mask her dislike of the emperor. Now he felt certain that they had.
“We’re all honored to have you with us, Qidanne. Your reputation precedes you.”
“Thank you, Weaver.”
“You’re right, of course. All of you are shapers, and as such, will prove invaluable to our movement in battle.”
“In battle?” she said, frowning. “I’m no warrior, Weaver. Surely you understand that all to which I’ve devoted my life is at odds with the very notion of armed conflict.”
“I do understand that, healer. But I know as well that the fate of our people rests with our ability to defeat the combined might of the Eandi armies. I’ll need shapers to do that. The sooner I can destroy the enemy, the fewer of our people will need your talents.”
“I minister to Eandi as well as Qirsi, Weaver, and though I sympathize with your movement, I can’t bring myself to kill anyone, no matter the color of their eyes.”
Dusaan detested cowardice, and had he sensed in her words even a hint of pretense, he would have killed her where she stood. He could tell, however, that she spoke not out of fear of being killed herself, but rather out of a true aversion to killing others, and he knew that to force this woman to fight against her will would diminish him, not only in her eyes, but in those of the men and women around her.
“Will you accompany me to the battle plain as a healer, then?”
“I will, if you will allow me to tend to all who are wounded, no matter the color of their eyes.”
Dusaan gave a small laugh. “You’re a difficult woman.”
“Why is it, Weaver, that I’m called ‘difficult,’ while men who behave as I do are called ‘determined’ and ‘strong’?”
“A fair point, healer.” He nodded. “You can tend to all who are wounded, and I’ll enjoy having you with me, to keep my wit honed.” He eyed the others. “And what of the rest of you? Will you wield your shaping power on behalf of the Qirsi cause?”
“You mentioned gold before,” the brigand said, a sly look on his handsome face. “Just how much will our role in this battle—?”
Before he could finish, Dusaan had taken hold of his shaping power and used it to press on the man’s temples. B’Naer gasped at the pain, both hands gripping his head. The Weaver was willing to tolerate a good deal from a woman like Qidanne. But this man was another matter entirely.
“This is not a negotiation, cousin. The healer has earned some consideration, even from me. You haven’t. Push me too far, and you’ll learn what it is to face the wrath of a Weaver.”
He maintained his grip on the brigand’s magic for a moment longer, then released him. B’Naer toppled to the floor, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut. The other Qirsi were gaping at Dusaan, all of them looking awed and terrified. In a way, the brigand had done him a service. Qidanne had given him the opportunity to show his compassion, his willingness to accommodate those who served him well. B’Naer had allowed him to demonstrate what happened to those who defied him. He knew that it wouldn’t take long before all the Qirsi who had come to the palace that day heard of both the depth of his kindness and the power of his rage.
“Now, I’ll ask all of you again,” he said. “Will you join me in this fight against the Eandi?”
“Yes, Weaver.” They spoke as one, without the enthusiasm that all the Qirsi had shown in the courtyard, but with a tone of reverence that Dusaan found quite satisfying.
“Good. We leave for Ayvencalde in two or three days. Until then, you’re to do as Nitara commands. In my absence, in all matters of importance, she speaks with my authority.” He glanced at Nitara, who nodded in return. “You may go.” They began to file out of the chamber. “A word please, B’Naer.”
The brigand halted, glancing toward the door as if considering whether he might be better off fleeing. The others looked back at him, and judging from their expressions, they could well have been thinking the same thing.
B’Naer walked slowly back to the center of the chamber, stopping at last just before the Weaver’s throne and flinching slightly when the door clicked shut behind him.
“I hurt you,” Dusaan said.
“Yes, Weaver.”
“And now you think I’m going to kill you.”
“Aren’t you?”
“That depends in large part on you. Even as high chancellor to the fat oaf who used to sit in this chair, I grew accustomed to people heeding my commands and speaking to me with deference. If you can do so from this day forward, you’ll live. If not, your death will serve as a lesson to others foolish enough to defy me.”
“Of course, Weaver. I’ll do as you say.”
Dusaan reached for him so swiftly, wrapping a powerful hand around the man’s throat, that the brigand had no time to react. He grabbed for the Weaver’s hand, no doubt to try and break Dusaan’s grip. After a moment, however, he appeared to think better of this.
“You’ll find, B’Naer, that I don’t take kindly to being humored. I’m not some merchant ripe for being cheated, nor am I a simpleminded Eandi soldier to be mollified with a smile and a kind word. I’m the most powerful man you’ve ever met, and the most intelligent as well. Anger me again, and I will kill you. You have my word on that. Do I make myself clear?”
B’Naer nodded, his pale eyes wide.
Dusaan let go of the man’s neck, sitting back in his throne. “What did you do as a brigand?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you must have had a specialty. Men of your sort usually do. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, Weaver.” His face colored. “I … I began as a road thief. Later I turned to city thieving, first in Refte, then in Ayvencalde, and finally here.”
“I see. How does a man choose such a profession, B’Naer? Surely your Determining didn’t show you as a brigand.”
The man
smiled—it almost seemed he couldn’t help himself. “No, Weaver, but my Fating did. I’m good with a blade, and I’m strong for a Qirsi. And having shaping power made it that much easier to take care of myself.”
“Yes, I’m sure it did,” the Weaver said, narrowing his eyes, staring intently at this man before him. He couldn’t deny that there was need in his army for men like this one. He had more than enough ministers and healers; shouldn’t he have a brigand or two as well, men who could be ruthless, perhaps even cruel? After all, soon they would be marching to war. “I think I’m glad you’re here, B’Naer. I sense that you may prove useful to me yet.”
The brigand grinned.
* * *
They rode from the palace three days later, seventy strong—a laughably small army by Eandi standards, but powerful enough to topple every fortress in the Forelands if victory demanded it. To her delight, Nitara rode with the Weaver at the head of their column. The other chancellors and ministers—Gorlan, Rov, B’Serre, and the rest—followed just behind them, and they, in turn, were trailed by those newly enlisted in the Weaver’s cause. All told, there were ten shapers in their ranks, as well as twenty who had language of beasts, nearly thirty who could summon mists and winds, dozens of others who could call forth a killing fire, and a good number of healers who would prove of great value when the fighting began.
And, of course, they had the Weaver, who could wield their power as a single weapon more fearsome than any that had been seen in the Forelands for nine centuries. The armies of Eibithar and Aneira and Sanbira had their kings and queens, but what were these sovereigns other than mere men and women? Perhaps they inspired their soldiers to fight and die with a bit more courage than the pathetic souls would muster otherwise. But beyond that, they were nothing; their crowns and thrones signified nothing. To Nitara and the other Qirsi, Dusaan jal Kania was their strength and their hope, their power and intelligence, the link to their past and the path to their future. He was everything—king, commander, god. Nitara would have followed him into Bian’s Underrealm to face hordes of demons and wraiths if only he asked it of her, and though others might not have loved him as she did, the minister sensed that many in their army had already devoted themselves wholly to him and his cause.
They thundered across the moor toward the city of Ayvencalde, knowing that they might meet resistance there from the Eandi lord, who had been a close ally of the emperor. They needed only to reach the pier and seize a ship, but the Weaver made it clear that they would not shy away from a battle if the lord decided to challenge them.
“No doubt he’s heard of what happened in Curtell,” Dusaan told them before they left the palace. “He’ll think this no more than a rebellion, easily beaten back by a show of force. I intend to prove him wrong and then add the willing among Ayvencalde’s Qirsi to our army.”
Pushing their mounts to the limits of the beasts’ endurance, the Weaver and his army were able to cross the moor in only two days, coming within sight of Ayvencalde Castle’s great towers a short time before dusk on the second day. There, on the plain, positioned just before the city walls, the lord was waiting for them, an army of more than a thousand men behind him, their weapons gleaming gold in the dying sunlight.
The Weaver led his Qirsi directly toward the lord and his men, only halting when he was well within range of Ayvencalde’s archers.
“Your advance ends here, High Chancellor,” the lord said, his square face ruddy, as if he had been sitting in the sun and wind for much of the day. “I will not allow you to set foot in my city, nor will I let you take your evil magic to any other lordship in the realm. You may have caught the emperor unawares, but that’s not likely to happen again.”
Dusaan glanced back at the sun, as if judging the hours left until nightfall. “I haven’t time for this, Lord Ayvencalde. Surrender now and let us pass, or you and your men will be destroyed.”
The lord actually laughed. “You don’t suffer for a lack of confidence, do you, High Chancellor?” His smile vanished and he raised a hand. “Bowmen!”
Several hundred archers stepped forward, readying their bows.
“You were warned,” the Weaver said, his voice even and devoid of regret. “We’ll use fire,” he said more quietly, glancing back at the other Qirsi.
For Nitara, who didn’t have fire magic, there was nothing to do but watch. The Weaver closed his eyes and stretched forth a rigid hand. The plain was eerily silent—even the Eandi seemed to be waiting, as if frightened of what would come next, but too fascinated to prevent it. Slowly, as if emerging from the sunlight, a gleaming sphere began to take shape just in front of the Weaver. It appeared to Nitara that he had summoned a bright yellow star from beyond the sky. As she watched, the ball gathered strength, brightening, growing larger, until it seethed and churned like a mighty river in flood.
Ayvencalde shouted to his archers again, and the minister saw them draw back the cords of their bows. Before they could loose their arrows, though, the ball of flame surged forward, flattening as it went, so that it struck the lord and his soldiers as might a great fiery sword. They didn’t even scream. Every man in the army was cut down and consumed in the storm of flame. Only the lord, who had been sitting atop his mount, was spared, and he lay sprawled on the ground, dazed, his leg bent beneath his body at an impossible angle. The horse was dead, its carcass blackened and smoking a short distance from the lord.
Slowly, the Weaver dismounted and walked to where the noble lay, drawing his sword as he went.
“You should have listened,” Dusaan said, resting the point of his sword on Ayvencalde’s chest.
“You’ll never prevail,” the lord said, glaring up at him. “You may have won today, but someone will stop you.”
Dusaan smiled. “You’re wrong.” And he thrust the blade into the noble’s heart. Pulling the sword free, he stooped to wipe the blood from the shining steel, then he sheathed his weapon and walked back to his horse. “Victory is ours again,” he said. “Do you see now that we can’t be beaten, that the might of Eandi armies is nothing against our power?”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“We’ll ride into the city and find as many Qirsi as we can. But we won’t tarry here long. I want to be sailing by morning.”
He swung himself into the saddle once more and they rode toward the city gates. As they drew near, a swarm of arrows rose into the sky and began to fall toward them. Instantly, Nitara felt something tugging at her mind and a moment later, she sensed the Weaver drawing upon her magic. A great wind stirred from the grasses, building rapidly until it howled in the stones of the city wall, though Nitara’s hair barely stirred. The arrows were beaten back, dropping harmlessly to the ground in front of them.
Nitara nearly laughed aloud. It seemed that their power knew no bounds. Never had she felt so close to her people, and glancing back at her companions she saw mirrored in their faces the same joy and wonder at what they had become. They continued to advance on the gate, and as they did, she heard a great rumbling, as from an approaching thunderstorm, and in a billowing cloud of dust, the city wall collapsed on either side of the gate, sending the Eandi archers stationed there tumbling to the ground.
Moments later the Qirsi army entered the city unopposed. They divided into smaller groups and navigated Ayvencalde’s narrow stone lanes in search of others to join their cause. Nitara remained with the Weaver, who sat straight-backed atop his horse like a conqueror. His face, though, was covered with a fine sheen of sweat, and she could see that he had tired himself.
“Shall we rest, Weaver?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
His eyes snapped toward her, blazing angrily. Then his gaze softened and he shook his head. “I’m fine. And in the next several days I’ll be taxed far beyond this. I need to be ready.”
More than anything she wanted to reach out and touch his face, to run her hands through his wild hair and feel the strength of his shoulders and chest. But she merely nodded. “Yes, Weaver.”<
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Word of what the Weaver’s army had done to Lord Ayvencalde and his men spread swiftly through the city. A few of the soldiers who remained chose to fight the Qirsi invaders, and all of them perished. Most fled, however, and with them many of Ayvencalde’s Eandi inhabitants. The city’s Qirsi—who numbered slightly over one hundred—greeted the Weaver and the others warily, but quickly pledged themselves to Dusaan’s cause. As with the Qirsi in the imperial city, most of them were healers and gleaners. A good number had fire magic and a few possessed one or more of the deeper magics.
After addressing them briefly, telling them of his coming battle with the armies of the Forelands and the fine future his victory would bring, he instructed almost all of them to remain in Ayvencalde and protect it from any attack that might come from other Eandi courts in Braedon. Four of the city’s Qirsi were shapers, and fourteen had mists and winds. These he added to his army.
He led his force to the Ayvencalde piers and quickly took control of one of the lord’s great war ships. A group of Qirsi went below into the hold and rowed the ship free of the docks, while others held flames aloft to light their way through Ayvencalde’s shallow harbor. Once free of the quays, they raised the vessel’s sails.
A breeze freshened from the west, and the ship started across the Scabbard toward the coast of Eibithar.
“Forgive me, Weaver,” Nitara said, approaching him, and lowering her gaze, “but I can summon a wind to take us across the Scabbard. So can any other Qirsi who has mists and winds. You should rest.”
He regarded her briefly, his expression mild. “You serve me well.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
The wind died away. “All right then. Share the burden with others. I don’t want any of you growing too weary. Steer us east of Cormorant Island, and then follow the Eibithar shore toward Falcon Bay. Wake me when we’re close enough to see Braedon’s war ships.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
He started to walk away, then paused, touching her cheek with a gentle hand. It seemed to Nitara that he summoned a soft flame, so great was the warmth that traveled through her body during that brief caress. A moment later he moved on, leaving her shivering in the cool night air as she gazed after him.
