Weavers of War: Book Five of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  “We don’t know that he can!”

  Keziah placed her healed hand on the gleaner’s arm. “Let him finish, Grinsa.”

  “If he can be,” Fotir went on, “and this war can be prevented, it might be worth the risk.”

  “And what if I fail? What if I’m not strong enough to defeat him or even to protect her?”

  “If you can’t defeat him,” Keziah said, drawing Grinsa’s gaze once more, “he’s going to kill me anyway. Maybe not tonight, but soon.” Grinsa looked at her with such tenderness that the archminister actually smiled. “You can’t protect me forever, Grinsa.” She glanced at Kearney, the expression in her eyes almost seeming to ask the king’s permission. “None of you can.”

  “So you mean to go through with it.”

  Before any of them could speak, a voice called to the king.

  “What now?” Kearney muttered.

  A moment later the thane of Shanstead joined them in the firelight, the young duchess of Curlinte beside him. “Pardon me for interrupting, Your Majesty.”

  “This really isn’t a good time, Lord Shanstead. Can it wait until later?”

  “Actually, Your Majesty, I wished to see how the archminister is faring, and to have a word with her.”

  The king bristled. “To what end?”

  “It’s all right, Your Majesty,” Keziah said. Looking past him, she went on, “I’m feeling much better, Lord Shanstead. You’re kind to ask.”

  “Not at all, Archminister.” He hesitated. “I wanted … well, I felt that I owed you an apology. And you, too, gleaner. It seems I misjudged you both.”

  Kearney glanced at his archminister, and she at him. “That can’t have been easy for you to say, Lord Shanstead.”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “It takes an honorable man to admit his errors. Your father would be very proud.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “How fares your queen, Lady Curlinte?”

  “Abeni’s betrayal was a blow, Your Majesty, as was her death. But Her Highness is known as the Lioness of the Hills for good reason. She’ll be ready to do battle come morning.”

  “I’ve no doubt.”

  There was a brief, awkward silence. Then Marston bowed, forcing a smile. “Well, I’ll let you return to your conversation. Forgive the interruption.”

  “Not at all, Lord Shanstead,” the king said. “We’ll speak again later.”

  The thane nodded, and he and the duchess walked away.

  Kearney stared after them. “It seems you’ve won them over.”

  Keziah smiled grimly. “And all it took was two broken hands and quite nearly my death.”

  “Eandi suspicions won’t vanish overnight, Archminister.”

  “No, Your Majesty. Indeed, I expect they’ll outlive us all, even should we defeat the renegades.”

  “We can deal with that later,” Grinsa said. “Right now, all that matters is the Weaver.”

  Keziah could still see Shanstead and the duchess making their way through the camp. “I will say this: they make a fine couple.”

  “A couple?” Kearney said, frowning. “Are you certain?”

  Keziah turned to Fotir. “Don’t you think so?”

  The minister shrugged. “I can’t say that I noticed.”

  She rolled her eyes. “How can men who see so much on the battlefield be so blind when it comes to matters of the heart?” She cast a look at her brother. “I suppose you didn’t notice either.”

  “I don’t think I want to answer.”

  Kearney and Fotir laughed. Keziah merely arched an eyebrow.

  “When would you do this?” the king asked at length, growing somber once more. “When would you confront the Weaver? Tonight, obviously. But when?”

  “It will be a few hours still before he tries to reach for me,” Keziah said. “Perhaps when Panya rises.”

  Grinsa shook his head. “I’ve lost track of the days. I don’t even know how deep into the waning we are or when the moons will be rising.”

  “We’ve five days left until Pitch Night,” Fotir told him.

  “Then, yes. We should wait for Panya’s rise.”

  “Very well,” Kearney said heavily.

  “We have your permission, Your Majesty?” Keziah asked.

  “Would it matter if you didn’t?”

  “Of course it would. You’re my king. If you command me not to do this, I won’t.”

  “As your friend, I’d gladly give such a command. But as your king, I know that I can’t.” He paused, still looking at her, but then turned to Grinsa and said quietly, “Guard her well, gleaner.”

  “You know I will, Your Majesty.”

  Kearney nodded to Fotir, then strode away, as if suddenly eager to be as far as possible from the three Qirsi.

  “He’s frightened for you,” Grinsa said.

  Keziah shrugged. “He’s an Eandi king who’s being forced to rely on magic that he doesn’t fully understand. That’s what frightens him.”

  “It’s more than that, and you know it.”

  Keziah eyed Fotir briefly, appearing uncomfortable. “I suppose,” was all she said.

  “I should leave you,” Grinsa said. “Rest. Just don’t sleep.”

  She grinned. “I won’t. Thank you for healing me, Grinsa.”

  He started away. “Of course.”

  “Wait, gleaner,” Fotir called, stopping him. “I’ll walk with you. Will you be all right alone?” he asked the archminister.

  “It hardly seems that I have a choice.” Fotir wasn’t certain how to respond, and clearly Keziah sensed this. “I meant it as a joke, First Minister. I’ll be fine.”

  He nodded and smiled. Then he joined the gleaner and they made their way through the camp toward Javan and the Curgh army.

  “You fear what you’re about to do,” Fotir said, eyeing Grinsa as they walked.

  “Very much.”

  “I had the sense a moment ago that you’re unsure of whether you can defeat the Weaver.”

  Grinsa looked at him sharply, then faced forward again. “You saw that?”

  “A minister learns to judge much from a person’s expression and tone of voice.”

  “Well, you’re right. What Keziah wants to do is terribly dangerous. Yes, we may be able to strike at the Weaver, but he’ll have an opportunity to strike at us as well. We’ll be on equal footing. I’ll have to protect Keziah and myself.” He shook his head. “I think it’s a grave mistake.”

  “I understand your reluctance, truly I do. But I also believe that the archminister’s idea has much to recommend it. It seems that the Weaver is always a step ahead of us, but I can’t imagine he’ll be expecting this.”

  Grinsa nodded once, as if conceding the point. “Probably not, no. I suppose that’s worth something.” He eyed Fotir briefly, a small smile on his face. “You’re quite taken with her, aren’t you?”

  Fotir faltered in midstride. “What makes you say that?”

  “I may be slow to fathom matters of the heart as my sister says, but not when it comes to her.”

  For several moments, the first minister offered no reply. “Please don’t say anything to her,” he said at last. “It would only make matters worse. Besides, her heart belongs to another.”

  “It did once. I don’t know that it still does.”

  Fotir shook his head. “Nevertheless, I’d rather she didn’t know.”

  “Your secret is safe, First Minister.”

  “I’m in your debt. I should return to my duke. No doubt he’s wondering where I am. But if you need my help, you know where to find me. I may wish to keep my feelings for Keziah hidden, but I’d do anything to keep her alive, and you as well.”

  “You’ve already done much today, First Minister. But I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Fotir gripped his arm briefly, then went to join his duke. He was embarrassed by the ease with which the gleaner had divined his thoughts, but he was certain that Grinsa would keep what he knew to himself
. Who kept a secret better than a Weaver?

  * * *

  Grinsa found Tavis on the fringe of the Curgh camp, sitting alone, of course, eating a small meal of roast fowl and bread. The young lord looked up at the sound of Grinsa’s approach, regarding the gleaner with a slight smile, his brow creased.

  “Why are you looking so pleased?” he asked.

  Grinsa did nothing to conceal his surprise. “Am I?”

  “More than I’ve seen you in some time.”

  “Well, I’ve just come from Keziah, and…” He paused. He had been thinking about his sister and Fotir. For too long she had mourned the end of her love affair with the king. Perhaps, with time, Fotir could help her heart to heal. Still, the first minister served in the court of Tavis’s father, and Grinsa had given his word that he would say nothing of this to anyone. “And I’m pleased by how well she’s healed from her injuries,” he said, for that also was true.

  “I’m glad to hear it. You must be tired.” Tavis gestured at his plate. “Do you want some of this?”

  “Aren’t you going to eat it?”

  “I’ve had plenty.”

  Grinsa sat and took the offered food. “Thank you.” He bit into the fowl. “It’s good. Where did you get it?”

  “Actually some of my father’s men gave it to me.” He grinned. “So I suppose there’s a chance it’s poisoned.”

  “I doubt that. Hungry soldiers wouldn’t waste good fowl to poison a noble. Careful with the wine, though.”

  Tavis grinned. “It seems I’ve won back a bit of their respect.”

  “You fought bravely today. Kearney told me so himself.”

  “Xaver was the brave one.”

  “Is that why you’re here alone?”

  The boy scowled. “No!” A moment later his expression softened. “Maybe. I’m happy for Xaver, really I am. What he did today showed great courage. I’ve no doubt that he saved Kearney’s life. And he’s my best friend.” He glanced at the gleaner. “Or at least one of them. I’m glad that he’s getting so much attention.”

  “But?”

  He smiled for just an instant. “But just once I’d like it if someone thought of me as a hero.”

  “That might not be your fate, Tavis.”

  “Are you saying that as a gleaner or a friend?”

  “Both. That doesn’t mean it’s true—as I’ve told you before, our fates are constantly shifting, changing. But I’m afraid your future will always be dogged by shadows from your past.”

  He nodded, gazing across the camp, the bright fires and torchlight sparkling in his eyes. “I think you may be right.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t be happy, nor does it mean that you won’t reclaim your place among Eibithar’s nobility.”

  “I understand.”

  Grinsa started to say more, then stopped himself, sensing that the young lord really did grasp the import of what he was saying.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said instead. “Something Keziah and I are going to try later tonight. It doesn’t involve you, but I wanted you to know.” He explained briefly what his sister and he had in mind to attempt.

  “That sounds like it could be dangerous for both of you.”

  “For her more than for me.”

  “Knowing the two of you as I do, I’m not certain that you can separate one from the other.”

  Grinsa hadn’t thought of it in those terms. “Perhaps not.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I’m afraid there isn’t. But if I fail, and … and I’m lost, I want you to ride south from here tonight—”

  “What?”

  “Please, just listen.” Grinsa paused, finding that there were suddenly tears in his eyes. “If I die, no one will survive the Weaver’s assault—he’ll kill all of you. One sword more or less won’t make any difference at all. I want you to ride to the City of Kings as quickly as you can. Take Cresenne and Bryntelle away from here. I don’t know where. I’ll leave that to you and Cresenne to decide.”

  “Grinsa—”

  “Let me finish. I know that you can’t protect them with magic. But you can watch over them, guard them with your blade, make certain that Cresenne isn’t attacked in her sleep.”

  “You’d trust me with this?”

  At that the gleaner smiled, though tears still rolled down his cheeks. “Whom else would I turn to, Tavis? Aside from Cresenne and Keziah, there’s no one in this world who knows me better than you do, or who I know to be a more faithful friend.”

  Tavis stared at Grinsa, seemingly struck dumb by the gleaner’s words. But at last, he gave a small nod. “I swear to you that I’ll keep them safe,” he said. “So long as I draw breath.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Qirsi camp, north of the battle plain, the Moorlands, Eibithar

  He had only to wait one last night. Dusaan had led his army to within just a league of where the Eandi forces had been doing battle, weakening themselves, spilling one another’s blood as if at his behest. Tomorrow, he and his warriors would sweep across the Moorlands, their white hair flying like battle flags, their pale eyes shining in the light of a new day. And drawing upon the vast power of those around him, Dusaan would destroy his enemies, his shaping magic cutting through their ranks like a scythe, his conjured fires eradicating them from the face of Elined’s earth.

  All his life, he had waited for this moment, anticipating his victory and all that would come after it. One might have expected that this night he would be crazed with anticipation, unable to sit still, his mind tormented with worries about the soundness of his plans.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth. Never had he felt so confident. The Eandi were nothing. Cresenne ja Terba, whose betrayal had plagued him for too long, would soon be dead, if she wasn’t already. Even Grinsa jal Arriet could not stop him from extending his rule over all the Forelands. Though the gleaner didn’t know it, he was surrounded by servants of the movement, and he faced a force that would easily overwhelm the few who remained loyal to the courts.

  On this night, on the eve of war, Dusaan was more at peace than he could ever remember being—an irony that he would savor for the balance of the night.

  This was not to say that he had nothing left to do. Jastanne and Uestem would continue well into the night to work with the Qirsi commanders, and before dawn, Dusaan would join them, so that he might make certain that his warriors were ready. And before then, there were conversations he needed to have with his other chancellors.

  He reached for Abeni first, knowing that she was near, and that she would expect to speak with him this night. Twice he combed the Moorlands, seeking her mind, growing more agitated by the moment. When at last he was forced to conclude that she was dead or had left the battle plain for some reason—impossible!—he reached for the other Sanbiran woman. She wasn’t there either, nor was her lover, Norinde’s first minister. Then he tasted fear, acrid, like bile. How long had it been since he had truly been afraid, since he had doubted that he would win this war? He searched for the healer, but even he had vanished. He gritted his teeth, his apprehension now mingled with rage. Grinsa. It had to have been the gleaner.

  Among his servants on the Moorlands, the only one he sensed was Keziah ja Dafydd, Eibithar’s archminister. Dusaan started to reach for her, then stopped. He still had doubts about this one. She had pledged herself to his cause, but what had she done on his behalf? He had ordered her to kill Cresenne, but she had failed, claiming that the opportunity never presented itself. He had commanded that she kill her king, the man who had spurned her, the man she now professed to hate. Yet as of their last encounter, Kearney still lived. And now, all those who served him and awaited his arrival on the Moorlands were dead, save this woman.

  Had she betrayed him? Dusaan remembered now that she had not been surprised the first time he entered her dreams. Her father, she told him at the time, had been a Weaver and she had often communicated with him in that way. An
d the Weaver had believed her; he had been eager to do so. Fool! Had she joined his movement as an agent of the courts? Had she been deceiving him all this time?

  Fear was gone now. He still had an army of more than two hundred. No one could stand against him, certainly not Grinsa and his paltry collection of faithless Qirsi. The Weaver had no cause for concern. But fury. Yes, he had ample justification for that.

  He thrust himself into Keziah’s mind, intending to exact a measure of vengeance before he slaughtered her.

  For a single disorienting moment, Dusaan thought that he had opened his eyes to daylight, that he had fallen asleep and dreamed it all—Abeni’s death, Keziah’s betrayal. But then he realized that there were two suns shining on the plain, his brilliant white one, and a second—golden, dazzling, oddly familiar.

  All of these thoughts crossed through his mind in the time it took him to step into the woman’s mind—less than the span of a single heartbeat. Abruptly he felt someone grappling with him for control of his magic. His defenses failed him for just an instant, and suddenly he was on the ground, his head aching, blood flowing from a wound on his temple.

  It’s the gleaner. Fighting Grinsa’s assault, staving off panic as best he could, Dusaan gathered his magic to him, wresting his powers from the gleaner’s control, grappling first for those that could be used against him. Fire, shaping, delusion—

  He shrieked in pain, feeling the bone in his arm splinter, not as it would from an attack by shaping magic, but more insidiously, as if the bone were breaking apart from the inside. Healing.

  “That’s how you attacked Cresenne, isn’t it?”

  His first mistake, and the one that probably saved Dusaan’s life. In the time it took Grinsa to speak the words, the Weaver was able to wrest the last of his powers from the man. His arm was screaming, his head throbbed. But he was safe. In just a few moments he was able to heal his arm and the gash on his head.

  He climbed to his feet, sensing Keziah. She was afraid. She knew how angry he was, how much he wanted to hurt her. But there could be no doubt as to where her loyalty lay. Probably there never had been.

  “I’ll enjoy killing you, Archminister. When the time comes.”