by DAVID B. COE
“You saved her life, Minister. I’m certain of it.” Kearney glanced at Javan and Tavis. “Indeed, this is a fine day for the House of Curgh. First Master MarCullet saved my life, and now the first minister has saved my archminister. The people of Glyndwr will remember your deeds for centuries to come.”
Javan bowed. “You honor my people and my house, Your Majesty.”
Xaver, who was standing nearby beside his father, turned bright red, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Tavis was pleased for his friend, though he also felt himself grappling with an unexpected surge of jealousy.
“I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Your Highness,” Kearney said to Sanbira’s queen, “but do you have any reason to believe that the other Qirsi in your company are disloyal?”
Olesya shook her head, but she looked uncertain. “I don’t, Your Majesty. But rest assured, I intend to speak with all of them before this night is through.”
“I think all of us would be well served to do the same. I’d like my nobles to speak with their ministers immediately. Gershon,” he said to his swordmaster, “I’d like you to speak with the healers.”
“How can we be certain that they won’t simply lie to us, Your Majesty?” Marston of Shanstead’s eyes flicked nervously from face to face. “After today, how can we be certain of anything?”
“Surely after today you no longer suspect Keziah of being a traitor, or Grinsa, or Fotir.”
Marston lowered his gaze. “Of course not, Your Majesty.”
“Even under these circumstances, Lord Shanstead, we must find it within ourselves to trust and be trusted. Without Grinsa and the other Qirsi we have no chance against the Weaver and his army. Speak with your Qirsi, discern what you can from your conversations, and trust in yourselves to find the truth. That’s all any of us can do.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“We’ll speak again later,” the king said, dismissing them. “Feed yourselves, see to the wounded among your men.”
They began to disperse, and Tavis thought to return to Grinsa’s side, in case he needed any assistance.
“Wait a moment, Tavis,” his father said, before he had even taken a step. “I’d like a word with you.”
Tavis cringed, then turned. Javan was standing with Hagan and Xaver. The swordmaster and duke were regarding him with the same severe expressions, while his friend simply looked chagrined.
“Walk with us,” Javan commanded, starting southward, away from the other soldiers and nobles.
Tavis had little choice but to join them, falling in step beside his father and walking through the matted grasses in the gathering gloom. None of them spoke, until finally Javan halted, forcing the others to do the same.
“Would one of you care to explain to me what happened today?” he asked looking from his son to Xaver, then back to Tavis.
“Xaver saved the king’s life,” Tavis said, careful to keep both his voice and mien neutral.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hagan suppress a grin. But clearly the duke was not amused.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it! I did not give Xaver permission to fight, nor did I give you leave to take him into battle with you under the king’s banner! In fact, I don’t remember giving you leave to fight with the King’s Guard yourself! This is the second time in as many battles that something of this sort has happened, and I grow tired—”
“Oh Father, please stop it.”
Javan gaped at him, opening his mouth to say something, and then simply closing it again.
“Xaver and I are a full year past our Fatings, and while I would never question your authority to command the Curgh army, I do believe that over the past year I’ve earned the right to make such decisions for myself.”
“When you ride with my army, you submit yourself to my command!”
“Yes, I do. But by law I remain under the king’s authority, or, more precisely, under the authority of his son, the duke of Glyndwr.”
“Kearney the Younger?”
Tavis shook his head. “That’s not the point. I’m not merely your son anymore. I’ve spent the last year fending for myself, and doing a passable job of it.”
“You’re still a noble in the House of Curgh.”
“Yes, I suppose I am. But I’m also more than that now. And perhaps less, as well. Whatever I am, I made a decision to fight, as I saw fit, and I don’t apologize for that. I also made a decision to take my liege man with me, and in that I erred.” He turned to the swordmaster. “I owe you an apology, Hagan. I put your son’s life at risk, and I shouldn’t have, not without speaking first with you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not his fault, Father,” Xaver said quickly. He hesitated, then bowed to Javan. “Forgive me, my lord. I made Tavis take me with him.”
“I doubt that, Master MarCullet. It seems that no one is capable of making my son do anything.”
Glancing at Tavis, Xaver smiled. “Actually, I am.”
In spite of all that had happened that day, the duke smiled, though only for an instant. “Someday you’ll have to explain to me how you do it.”
“I begged him to let me fight,” Xaver said, looking once more at his own father. “I knew you’d keep me out of battles forever if I didn’t prove to you that I could defend myself. And I didn’t come all this way just to watch the rest of you defeat the empire’s army.”
Hagan made a sour face. “You’re both fools,” he said, eyeing the two boys. “Wanting to fight.” He shook his head. “Didn’t I teach you anything?”
“Apparently you did, Hagan. Your boy saved the king.”
Xaver looked at the duke. “Tavis would have done the same thing, my lord.”
“No,” Tavis said. “That was all you, Stinger. I didn’t even see the soldier until he was almost on Kearney.”
“Well,” the duke said, “from this day on, you both fight under Curgh’s banner unless you have leave from me to do otherwise. Is that understood?”
Both of them nodded.
“Hagan, would you please see to the wounded? I’ll be along shortly. I’d just like another word with my son, in private.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The swordmaster nodded toward Tavis, then placed an arm around Xaver’s shoulders and led him back toward the camp.
Tavis expected his father to berate him once more, but this time the duke surprised him.
“What did you mean before when you said that you might be less than a noble in our house?”
Tavis shrugged, abruptly feeling uncomfortable. He had always been far more at ease with his father’s wrath than with his concern. “I don’t know. I … I’m not entirely convinced that the people of Curgh will ever accept me as their duke. Certainly I don’t believe that your soldiers will ever willingly take orders from me.”
“They might surprise you. You should have heard them speaking of how you fought today beside the king. Not only Curgh’s men, mind you, but Kearney’s as well.”
“It’s more than that. We nearly lost this war because Galdasten wouldn’t fight with us. Nor would Eardley or Rennach, or most of the other minor houses. The realm might still fall because they’re not here. And that’s all because of me.”
“After all this time, you don’t really still believe that, do you?” Javan smiled again, a kinder smile than the duke had offered Tavis in many years. “It wasn’t you, Tavis. Your mother and I both know that, and so does anyone with even a bit of sense. It was the conspiracy all along. A man doesn’t succeed as a noble because of what others think of him. He succeeds with courage and wisdom, strength and compassion. You’re young still, you’ve much to learn. But I believe that someday you’ll make a fine duke.”
Tavis nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Father,” he said, and meant it. It was as close as Javan had ever come to expressing pride in him. A part of Tavis wondered, though, if he still even wanted to be duke.
* * *
Fotir wandered about the camp as long as he co
uld bear, giving aid to healers who were tending to the wounded from the most recent battle. He didn’t possess healing magic himself, but he knew something of herbs and tonics, poultices and splints. And he welcomed any opportunity to keep his thoughts from wandering to all that had happened this day.
At that moment, most ministers in the camp were speaking with their nobles, so that the Eandi might determine if there were any other traitors among their Qirsi. Fotir had long been above such suspicions, for which he was grateful, and all that he had done in the past few hours had only served to enhance his reputation. Everywhere he went, soldiers cheered him, clapping him on the back and inviting him to sit and share their meager food. Always he declined, with a smile and a polite wave. Still, there could be no denying that he was a hero, his valor established beyond doubt by the three bodies he had left among the boulders and grasses.
He had killed before—during the siege of Kentigern, when he fought alongside his duke to repel the invasion from Mertesse, he killed more soldiers than he could remember. In the course of that fight, he had used his magic several times to shatter the blades of his opponents, so that he might dispatch them more quickly with his sword. In all his years of service to the House of Curgh, however, he had never actually used his power to take a life. On this day he had done it twice.
He wasn’t fool enough to believe that he’d had any choice in the matter. Had he not killed the two women with his shaping magic, they would have killed him, and surely they would have killed the archminister. And that brought him to the core of the matter. For even as he struggled to justify the killings, he understood that he would kill again without hesitation if it was the only way to save her.
Fotir had devoted his life to serving his duke and his house, and though he had sacrificed much for that service, he had never once regretted his choice. True, he had effectively ended his relationship with both of his parents, who saw service to an Eandi noble as a betrayal of the Qirsi people, and who probably would have joined the Weaver’s cause had they lived long enough to see this day. It was also true that he had never married or started a family. Still, serving the duke offered its own rewards—travel to the great cities of Eibithar, the opportunity to shape the future of the realm by offering counsel to a powerful duke and his fellow nobles, and an ever-deepening friendship with Javan, whom Fotir believed to be a truly great man, despite his faults.
Perhaps because he was the most powerful minister in all the dukedom of Curgh, there had been no shortage of women, Qirsi and Eandi both, offering to warm his bed. Nor had Fotir been shy about encouraging their advances. None of these women, however, had ever managed to capture his heart the way Keziah had.
It was not just that she was beautiful, and brilliant, and kind, though she was all of these things. She was also the bravest soul he had ever met. Anyone who was willing to risk the power and wrath of the Weaver so that she might destroy his movement deserved to be counted among the true heroes of the Forelands. It made laughable the celebrity he was enjoying this night. It humbled him. In all his life, no one had affected him so—certainly not a woman with eyes the color of sand on a quiet seashore, and hair as fine and lustrous as spun gold.
For years he had heard rumors of a forbidden love affair between Kearney of Glyndwr and his exquisite first minister, but always he had chosen not to give credence to what he heard, believing such talk unseemly. But since Kearney’s ascension to the throne he had spent a good deal of time in the company of the king and archminister, and it seemed clear to him that there was more to their rapport than met the eye. Only today, though, seeing how the king looked at her, did he know for certain that the rumors had been true. Kearney had been horrified by her wounds, and so relieved to find her still alive that he could barely speak. And Fotir had also seen how she looked at the king, her breath catching at the mere sight of him, her skin seemingly aflame with his caress.
How could a mere minister compete with a king, particularly one as noble and strong as Kearney? Why would he even try?
So Fotir wandered the camp, helping as he could, avoiding Grinsa and the archminister. Until at last his need to see her again overwhelmed his good sense.
The king was there when he reached them, and Fotir tried to turn away without being noticed. Kearney saw him before he could flee.
“First Minister!” the king called. “Please join us for a moment.”
How had he come to this? He hardly recognized himself. Fotir was renowned throughout the land for his formidable intellect and powerful magic. And here he was wishing he could run and hide, like some lovelorn schoolboy. It would have been laughable if … Actually, it was laughable.
“Yes, Your Majesty?” he said as he drew near the others.
Grinsa was still intent on Keziah’s injured hand, but the king was grinning at him, still grateful no doubt, for Keziah’s rescue. For her part, the archminister favored him with a smile, but said nothing.
“We were just discussing something, and it seems from what I’ve been told that you’re one of the few others in all the Forelands who can offer an informed opinion on the matter.”
Now that he was closer to the man, Fotir realized that the king’s smile a moment before had been forced. Kearney didn’t look at all pleased, and Grinsa seemed to be concentrating on Keziah’s hand so that he wouldn’t have to meet the king’s gaze.
“How can I help, Your Majesty?” Fotir asked, all other considerations forgotten for the moment.
To his surprise, it was Keziah who answered. “I believe, First Minister, that both my king and my brother would like you to convince me that I’m a fool.”
“That’s not fair,” Grinsa said, his eyes snapping up to meet hers.
Once again, Fotir found that he had been wrong. It seemed that Grinsa wasn’t angry with the king, but rather with Keziah.
“The gleaner’s right, Archminister. Neither of us thinks you a fool, nor do any of us question your courage. But what you propose is lunacy.”
“So now you think me mad?” She laughed, though it sounded forced and, Fotir had to admit, just a bit crazed. “That’s hardly more flattering, Your Majesty.”
“Keziah, if you’d just listen for a moment—”
“No. The king asked Fotir to join us so that he might render an opinion. We should let him.”
“I’m not certain that I want to get in the middle of this.”
Grinsa glanced at him, shaking his head. “I’m certain that you don’t.”
“Come now, First Minister. You were brave enough to rescue me once. Surely you won’t hesitate to do so again.”
Fotir felt his face redden. It was far too close to what he himself had been thinking not long ago. “I don’t wish to put myself between you and the king, Archminister,” he said, and immediately regretted his choice of words.
Keziah regarded him for a moment, then turned to her brother.
“That feels much better, Grinsa. I’m grateful.”
The gleaner nodded, still looking grim.
“Let me tell you what it is I want to do,” she said, facing the first minister again. “And if you truly feel that I’m foolish—” She cast a quick look at Kearney. “Or mad—then I’ll relent.”
“All right.”
“You know that I’ve joined the Weaver’s movement, or at least feigned doing so in order to win his trust. You also know what he did to Cresenne when she betrayed him, and so you have some idea of what he’ll do to me when he learns that I’ve been deceiving him all this time.”
Fotir nodded, shuddering at the memory of Cresenne’s scars.
“Now that the other, true traitors among us are dead, I’m apparently the only one of his servants remaining on this plain. He’ll be suspicious of this, of me, especially since he ordered me to kill the king, and the king still lives.”
“You expect him to enter your dreams tonight?”
“We expect him and his army to reach us tomorrow. I’d be very surprised if he didn’t come to me before
morning.”
“Which is why you shouldn’t sleep at all tonight,” Grinsa said. “By this time tomorrow, all of this will be over, for good or bad. Why risk dreaming of him at all?”
Fotir had to admit that the gleaner made a good point.
“You agree with him,” Keziah said, eyeing the minister, a pained expression on her face.
“I don’t know yet what you propose, Archminister. I’ll make no judgments until I do.”
She looked relieved. “Thank you. I think we should let him enter my dreams, and I think Grinsa should be there as well.”
“Is that possible?” Fotir asked, looking from Keziah to the gleaner.
“She wants me to use her mind to strike at him, to make her dreams into a battlefield.”
“He asked if it was possible, Grinsa, and you know that it is. We both do.”
Fotir sensed that there was far more at work here than there appeared, but he didn’t presume to ask questions. What Keziah suggested struck him as extraordinarily dangerous, but also cunning. If Grinsa managed to hurt the Weaver in this way, or—dare he think it?—kill the man, it might save thousands of lives.
“Can you fight him as she says?” Fotir asked.
Grinsa nodded reluctantly. “I believe it’s possible, but only at terrible risk to her.”
Fotir could tell from the look in the gleaner’s eyes and the tone of his voice that there was more at work here than just concern for his sister. Grinsa feared the Weaver. He didn’t believe fully in his ability to defeat the man, be it in Keziah’s mind or on the battle plain.
“If it seems the battle isn’t going your way, can you wake her in time?”
“You would actually consider this, First Minister?”
Fotir faced the king. “I share your concern, Your Majesty.” I love her, too. “But I see much promise in Keziah’s idea. If the Weaver can be defeated in this way—”
