by DAVID B. COE
Through all these long years, however, he had kept his strength and his hardships hidden, out of necessity to be sure, but also, she had always believed, by choice. His was a private life. The role of Revel gleaner suited him. He could travel the land, seeing all, prowling the edges of spectacle, his duties with the gleaning stone demanding an endless stream of intimate conversations. Keziah, on the other hand, had long enjoyed the company of many and her life’s path reflected that. She was the minister, the one who felt at ease attending court functions, speaking pleasantly of the weather or the harvest with Eibithar’s most powerful dukes and nobles from other realms.
Only now, having revealed to all that he was a Weaver, did Grinsa find himself at the center of weighty discussions among sovereigns, parleys of war, and today, a gathering of Qirsi. Keziah shouldn’t have been surprised to find that he appeared comfortable in his new role, or that he could match wits with any noble and any minister in the Forelands. Still, it was hard for her to accept the changes she saw in her brother. They seemed to her undeniable proof of how swiftly and profoundly the world itself was being transformed.
Soon after returning with Kearney and Sanbira’s queen from the parley with Braedon’s captains, Grinsa sent word to Keziah that she was to join him south of the soldiers’ camps. She thought that he wished to discuss something with her alone. Only when she found him speaking with several other ministers and a number of Kearney’s battlefield healers did she realize that her brother had summoned all the Qirsi in the Eibitharian and Sanbiri armies.
“Archminister,” he said crisply as she approached. “Thank you for coming.” Some secrets it seemed were not to be revealed, even under these extraordinary circumstances.
“Of course…” She frowned. “Forgive me, but I’m not certain what we should call you now.”
He smiled at that. “Gleaner is fine. It’s what I’m used to. Or you can call me by my name.”
“Thank you, gleaner.”
Fotir joined them, accompanied by Xivled jal Viste, Marston of Shanstead’s young minister, who had accused Keziah of being a traitor the first time they met. Several moments later the Sanbiri ministers arrived as well.
“I believe that’s everyone,” Grinsa said, as the rest of them fell silent. There were seventeen Qirsi in their small circle, and it seemed to Keziah that one or two of Kearney’s healers hadn’t joined them yet, or had chosen not to come at all. “I thank you for coming. I know how unusual this must seem to you. All your lives you’ve been told that Weavers were little more than legend, or else that we’re demons, the worst kind of Qirsi, men and women to be feared and shunned. Yet now you find that there are two Weavers in your world, that one of them intends to lead you to war against the other. In your position, I’d be a bit bewildered.”
It struck Keziah as an odd way to begin their discussion until she saw how his eyes moved from face to face. He wasn’t saying this for them. He was saying it for himself, gauging their responses, trying to determine which of the Qirsi before him were loyal, and which had pledged themselves to the Weaver’s movement. Abruptly, Keziah found herself glancing about as well, as if she could divine the thoughts of her companions.
“As most of you have heard by now, a Qirsi army rides this way, led by a Weaver. This Weaver commands two hundred men and women. It’s not a large force—it hasn’t been enough to impress our Eandi friends—but you and I know how powerful two hundred of our people can be, particularly when their powers are woven as one. I’ve convinced the king and queen that we’d be wise to create a Qirsi army of our own. Obviously we won’t be a match for the Weaver’s army, but perhaps with the Eandi warriors fighting beside us, we’ll be enough.”
“I take it,” Fotir said, “that the parley with Braedon’s men went poorly.”
“Yes. They weren’t ready to ally themselves with Eibithar or Sanbira, much less with a Weaver.”
“So am I to understand,” said Sanbira’s archminister, “that the Eandi have given you permission to form a separate army of Qirsi that will fight alongside the Eandi warriors?”
“Essentially, yes.” Grinsa continued to watch her, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t approve?”
“I neither approve nor disapprove. I’m just surprised. I didn’t think they trusted us enough to allow such a thing.”
Labruinn’s first minister gave her a quick glance. “They’re scared. Trust has nothing to do with it.”
Several others nodded their agreement.
“How can seventeen Qirsi hope to stand against an army of two hundred?” asked one of the healers, an older woman. “I mean no disrespect, gleaner, but even the most powerful Weaver can’t overcome those numbers.”
“It won’t be easy. As I said already, I’m hoping that the armies of Sanbira and Eibithar will give us an advantage, or at least lessen the Weaver’s advantages. The renegades fight alone, without archers or swordsmen. These thousands of warriors fighting beside us must count for something. And we may be a small force, but we have with us some of the most powerful Qirsi in the seven realms. Five of you are shapers, eight of you have mists and winds, and nine of you have fire magic. All are valuable powers in—”
“How can you know that?” Xivled asked.
Grinsa gave a small shrug. “A Weaver can sense the magics wielded by other Qirsi.”
“I’d never heard that,” the young man said, shaking his head, and sounding awed.
“There are a few of you who also have language of beasts, and since the Weaver’s army is mounted, that could be of great help to us.”
“They’ll have these powers as well,” the healer said. “And in far greater numbers.”
“Probably. But this is what we have. Let’s keep our attention fixed on that.”
The woman nodded, though her mouth twisted sourly.
“So do we answer to you now?”
The woman who asked this, another of the Sanbiri ministers, was slight, with a lean face and overlarge yellow eyes. There was a note of challenge in her voice, as if she were more interested in starting a fight with Grinsa than she was in hearing the answer to her question. Sanbira’s archminister gave her a dark look, but kept silent.
“You answer to your duke, as always, First Minister.”
“Actually I answer to a duchess, but I take your point.”
“When the fighting begins, however, you’ll report to me immediately. The king and queen have both instructed me to say that any order I give is to be considered a royal command.”
The minister raised an eyebrow. “They must be quite impressed with you.”
Grinsa smiled thinly. “They merely understand, Minister, that I represent their best hope of defeating the conspiracy. Now it may be that you see that as a reason to despise me. They don’t.”
What little color that woman had in her cheeks drained away, leaving her pale as a wraith. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“You’ll have to forgive Craeffe, Weaver,” the archminister said, an easy smile on her lips. “She often speaks without thinking. I assure you, though. When the time comes to fight this war, she’ll be ready.”
“Thank you, Archminister. I’ve no doubt that this is true.” Grinsa smiled again; this time it appeared genuine. “And you weren’t here when I told the others to call me ‘gleaner’ or ‘Grinsa.’”
It was the archminister’s turn to blanch. “Of course,” she said, recovering quickly. “Thank you, gleaner.”
Grinsa’s eyes flicked toward Keziah for just an instant. She had noticed as well. Calling him “Weaver” had come to the woman quite naturally.
“There’s not much more for us to discuss just now. The last thing I’d like to do is draw upon your powers as I will when we go to battle.”
“Why?” Craeffe asked.
“It can be a bit disorienting the first time a Weaver takes hold of your magic. I want to make certain that all of you are ready when the time comes to battle the Weaver, and I don’t want my use of your power to come as a sho
ck.” He regarded the woman briefly. “Of course, if you object I can draw upon the magic of the others, without troubling you.”
She shook her head. “I just wanted to understand.”
“Very well. Between fire and mists, I can try this with all of you. Why don’t we begin with a wind? If you have mists and winds, open your mind to me. Allow me to take hold of your magic.”
Keziah did as she was told, feeling Grinsa’s familiar touch on her mind. Within moments a great gale was whipping across the moor, flattening the grasses and keening like a great demon as it passed over the stones. After a time, Grinsa allowed the wind to subside, leaving the other Qirsi speechless and wide-eyed.
“Very good,” he said. “Shall we try it with fire now?”
Soon he had conjured a ball of flame that rose into the sky like a great yellow sun, then streaked downward to the grasses, crashing into the ground with a mighty roar and scorching black an enormous circle of earth.
By this time all of the healers and many of the ministers were gaping at Grinsa as if he were Qirsar himself, a god standing among mortals. Glancing back toward the armies, Keziah saw that the Eandi were watching them, no doubt impressed by what they had seen, and fearful as well.
“I expect the Weaver and his army will reach here in the next day or two,” Grinsa said. “Do what you can to ready yourself for battle. I’ll try not to tax any of you for too long, but we are outnumbered. All of us will be pushed beyond what we believe we can endure.” He bowed to them and started to walk off, sixteen pairs of eyes fixed on him as he went. Keziah thought to go after him. She was anxious to know what he had learned from their discussion and from touching their minds briefly to draw upon their power.
Before she could call to him, however, she heard a soft footfall just behind her.
“Excuse me, Archminister.”
Keziah turned to find herself face-to-face with Sanbira’s archminister. “Archminister. What can I do for you?”
“I thought we might speak privately for a moment. It occurs to me that we have a good deal in common, more even than is immediately apparent. I believe we have much to discuss.”
Puzzled, Keziah made herself smile. “Of course. Shall we walk?”
“That would be fine.”
They started southward, separating themselves from the other Qirsi and increasing their distance from the Eandi camps. For a time neither of them spoke, and Keziah found herself stealing quick glances at the woman. She was uncommonly pretty, with a lean, oval face, medium yellow eyes, and long silken white hair which she wore pulled back from her face. Like Keziah, she was petite, even for a Qirsi woman, though there was a strength to her that seemed to belie her size.
“Would it be all right if I called you Keziah?” the woman asked at last, a disarming smile on her lips.
“Yes, of course.”
“Thank you. My name is Abeni.”
Keziah nodded, uncertain of what the woman expected her to say.
“You seem to know this gleaner rather well.”
She felt her stomach tightening. “What makes you say that?”
“You and he raised that wind yesterday to fight off the Aneirans. It seems you knew already that he was a Weaver.”
Again, she wasn’t certain how to respond. Her first impulse was to deny that she knew anything about Grinsa, but something stopped her. Instinct, perhaps, or her suspicions about the archminister. Somehow she knew that it would be dangerous to lie to the woman. “The gleaner and I met in the City of Kings and rode to war together. I don’t know him well, but he knew that I had mists and winds, and that the first minister of Curgh did also. I assume that’s why he chose us when he decided to oppose the Solkarans.”
“I see,” the woman said, a note of skepticism in her voice. “I fear I’ve gone about this the wrong way. I’ve put you on the defensive. Forgive me.” She halted, holding out a hand so that Keziah would stop as well. “I know that you’re with the conspiracy.”
“Don’t be—”
Abeni raised a finger, silencing her. “I know it because the Weaver told me. Our Weaver.” A smile spread across her face. “Don’t you see? We’re allies in this war. And there are others who are also with us. Three of the four ministers who rode from Sanbira with the queen are loyal to the movement.”
Keziah’s mind was racing, trying to keep up with all of this. True, she had been suspicious of the woman. But she had never expected Abeni to approach her this way. Nor had she thought it possible that so many in Grinsa’s army could be traitors. Three of the four.… Had her brother sensed this? “Did the Weaver instruct you to approach me?” she asked at last, stalling, though for what purpose she couldn’t say.
“No. He told me you served his cause, but he said that I wasn’t to approach you unless it was absolutely necessary. When the gleaner revealed himself as a Weaver, I decided that I had no other choice.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You don’t believe me.”
Keziah licked her lips, which had gone dry. “I’m not sure what to believe.”
“I understand. I assure you, this is no trick. I’m one of his chancellors. The others who serve him are the first ministers of Norinde and Macharzo.”
Keziah nodded. “All right.”
“Now I need to ask you again: how well do you know this gleaner? Does he trust you?”
What had she told the Weaver the last time he entered her dreams? “He’s starting to trust me. There’s a woman in Audun’s Castle. She was the gleaner’s lover, and she was once a chancellor like you. But she betrayed the movement. I befriended her, and so won a modicum of the gleaner’s trust. But he’s wary of everyone.”
Abeni’s eyes had grown wide. “I knew nothing of this,” she whispered. “But I’ve no doubt that you’re right. A man like the gleaner, who had hidden his true powers for so long, would have to be distrustful.” She paused, gazing off into the distance, as if lost in thought. Finally looking at Keziah again, she asked, “What is it the Weaver has asked you to do?”
She hesitated, afraid to answer. It was bad enough knowing that the Weaver might come to her any night, demanding to know why Kearney still lived. “I’m not certain the Weaver would want me to tell you.”
She feared that she had made the woman angry. If Abeni truly was a chancellor in the movement, she was not one with whom to trifle. But after a moment, the archminister began to nod.
“You’re probably right. Can you at least tell me if it has anything to do with the gleaner?”
“It doesn’t.”
“I thought not. He told me that he would deal with the gleaner himself, though he never told me exactly why. I don’t think he expected this man to reveal himself so soon, nor would he have guessed that your king and my queen would be so willing to embrace a Weaver as an ally.” She took a breath. “I think we may have to take matters into our own hands.”
“But … but he’s a Weaver. What can we do?”
“There are four of us. Together we may be able to overpower him.”
“Wouldn’t we be better off making him believe that he commands a loyal army of sixteen? Let him ride into battle thinking that he’s surrounded by allies. By the time he realizes his error, the Weaver will be attacking him, and it will be too late.”
Abeni’s eyebrows went up. “I’m impressed. That’s a fine idea, Keziah.”
“Thank you, Chancellor.”
“It’s a shame we come from different realms. I have a feeling you and I could be wonderful friends.”
Her stomach felt hollow and sour. “I’m sure that’s true. Shall I keep away from the gleaner then?”
“Whatever for?”
“He scares me. I’m afraid he might manage to read my thoughts.”
“I understand, but if he hasn’t yet, he won’t now. Just act normally. Continue to win his trust. I’d do so myself, but were I to try, he might grow suspicious.”
“All right.”
“We should return to the camps,
lest we draw any more attention to ourselves.” She gave a rueful grin. “Diani of Curlinte has been trying to prove me a traitor for several turns now. And I’ve seen her speaking with that thane of yours.”
“You mean Shanstead?”
“Yes. He seems to have little more affection for our people than does Lady Curlinte.”
Keziah nodded as they began to walk back toward the armies. “You’re right. He thinks me a traitor, and he’s accused Grinsa, too.”
“Grinsa?”
“The gleaner.” She felt her cheeks burning.
“Careful, Keziah. If I didn’t know better I might think you were taken with the man. Not that I’d blame you, but I don’t think our Weaver would be so understanding.”
“Of course, Chancellor. I’m sorry.”
“Think nothing of it.” They were near the Sanbiri camp now, and she slowed. “We’ll speak again later.”
Keziah nodded and continued on toward Kearney and the others. Her hands were trembling so badly that she had to cross her arms over her chest. At least the archminister had encouraged her to cultivate a friendship with Grinsa. She had a good deal to tell him.
* * *
“Look at them,” Marston of Shanstead said, glaring at the Qirsi who had gathered in a small cluster south of the camps. “Any of them could be traitors. And our sovereigns allow them to meet without any Eandi present. They even encourage them to form their own army! It’s madness!”
“Surely they’re not all traitors,” Diani said, surprising herself. “And it seems to me that those who are will have to conceal their betrayal from those who remain loyal.”
“But what if this gleaner is one of them? We could be giving him the means to destroy us all.”
The duchess shook her head. “Honestly, Lord Shanstead, I don’t believe he’d betray us.”
He said nothing, just stared at the white-hairs, dismay furrowing his brow.
Marston appeared to be about her age, perhaps a year or two older, though he seemed younger at times like these. Diani thought him handsome, in a somewhat plain way. He looked like so many of the nobles of the northern realms—straight brown hair, grey eyes, square chin. But she admired his passion, the ferocity with which he fought for all that he believed, even as she occasionally found herself disagreeing with him.
