by DAVID B. COE
A man from the King’s Guard approached them, his uniform of purple and gold torn and bloodstained.
“My pardon, Yer Majesty,” he said, bowing to the king. “But th’ archminister wanted me t’ tell ’er when th’ woman was awake.”
“What woman?”
“The one who attacked me,” Keziah said, drawing Kearney’s gaze. “She’s a shaper, which means that she’s a danger to all of us.”
“You can control her, can’t you, gleaner?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, I can.”
Keziah shook her head. “You’ve been hurt. It’s too soon for this.”
“It’s all right, Kezi. As you said, she’s a danger to everyone in this camp. We can hardly afford to wait.”
Kearney eyed him. “You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Very well,” the king said. “Bring her here. I want her escorted by four swordsmen and an equal number of archers.”
“Aye, Yer Majesty,” the man said. He bowed and hurried off.
“This is going to be a problem for some time to come,” Marston of Shanstead said to no one in particular. “Plenty of renegades survived this day and we have no idea what powers they possess. Shaping, fire, maybe worse. It’s going to take years to hunt down all of them.”
Grinsa and Fotir shared a look, but neither of them offered any response.
“The gleaner knows,” said Caius of Labruinn. “Don’t you? A Weaver can just look at other Qirsi and know what powers they possess. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, it is.”
Again, they lapsed into silence. Grinsa was troubled by what he had heard from Shanstead and Labruinn, but he kept his misgivings to himself, at least for the time being.
It wasn’t long before the guard returned leading a cluster of soldiers, all of them looking nervous. At their center, looking like a mere child beside them, walked an attractive Qirsi woman with shoulder-length hair that she wore loose, and bright, golden eyes. She wore a slight smirk on her full lips, but her gaze was watchful, her lean frame tense, as if at any moment she might attempt to escape. There was a dark, ugly bruise on her brow, and another one, flecked with blood, on the side of her head. When she was close enough, Grinsa reached into her mind and took hold of her magic. Immediately, her gaze snapped to his face.
“So you’re the other Weaver,” the woman said, as she and the soldiers drew near. She looked him over as if he were a blade for sale in a city marketplace. “I expected more.”
“Who are you?” Kearney demanded.
The woman glanced at him, then faced Grinsa once more. “Why would you choose these fools over your own people? Is the blood in your veins so weak that you truly consider yourself one of them?”
“I can make you answer the king’s questions,” Grinsa said placidly. “You know that.”
She paled, but the smirk lingered. “They have you on a short leash, don’t they?”
“Her name is Jastanne,” Keziah said.
“Yes, it is,” she said. “Why don’t you tell them how you know that, Archminister.”
Keziah glared at her, perhaps wishing that she had kept silent.
“No? Then I will. The duke of Kentigern knew it. He saved her life, but only because he knew enough to look for me. You see, he was a traitor. He hated you so much, Your Majesty, that he forged an alliance with our movement in an attempt to save his house and destroy your kingdom. You think he died a hero, but in fact he was a traitor.”
Caius pulled his sword free. “You lie, white-hair!” But there was doubt in his eyes and desperation in his voice. Marston of Shanstead looked appalled, as did the soldiers standing beside the woman. For his part, Grinsa believed her. Not only did he think Aindreas capable of such a thing—he had seen what the duke did to Tavis in the dungeons of Kentigern—but he sensed the truth in her words. The Weaver had succeeded all too well in dividing them.
“I can prove that I’m telling you the truth.”
“You mean the paper he signed?” Kearney asked.
The woman stared at him, her smirk gone, disbelief in her eyes. “How do you know about that?”
“Do you really believe that the duke of a major house would cast his lot with your conspiracy?”
“He did!”
“Yes, with my blessing.”
“That’s … No! You’re lying!”
Moving so quickly that his hand and steel were but a blur, Gershon Trasker pulled his sword free and laid its point at the base of her neck, just above her heart. “Tread lightly, white-hair,” he growled. “That’s the king of Eibithar you’re talking to.”
But she was right. Kearney was lying. Grinsa sensed that as well. For whatever reason, he had chosen to shield Aindreas and his house from this disgrace. It was an act of surpassing generosity, one of which few would ever know.
“He allied himself with our movement! He betrayed all of you!”
“No,” the king said, and now he was the one smirking. “He deceived all of you. And today he proved both his loyalty and his valor. Now I’ll ask you again: who are you?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it again, clenching her jaw.
“Gleaner?”
Grinsa touched her mind with his delusion magic. “Answer him.”
“My name is Jastanne ja Triln. I’m a merchant and sea captain.”
“What else?”
“I’m a chancellor in the Weaver’s movement.”
“What powers does she possess?” the king asked.
“In addition to shaping, she has mists and gleaning.”
Before the king could ask anything else, a voice called to him from a distance. A woman’s voice. A moment later, the duchess of Curlinte stepped into their circle, accompanied by several soldiers and a tall Qirsi man who was walking unsteadily and bleeding from a wound on the back of his head. This Qirsi also had shaping, as well as delusion magic, gleaning, and mists. No doubt he, too, was one of Dusaan’s chancellors.
Grinsa took hold of his magic.
“You!” the man said in a whisper, staring at him wide-eyed. “You’re the one who stopped me from killing them.”
“Yes.”
“He’s a minister, Your Majesty,” Diani said. “From Aneira, if his accent is any indication.”
“Actually,” Grinsa said, remembering descriptions of the man that he and Tavis had heard while journeying through the southern kingdom, “he’s more than that. If I’m not mistaken, this is Aneira’s archminister.”
“Is this true?” Kearney asked. “You’re Pronjed jal Drenthe?”
Grinsa expected the man to deny it, or at least to refuse to answer. But he merely nodded, hatred in his eyes as he looked sidelong at the gleaner.
Diani still had her dagger drawn. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the man. “He has shaping power,” she said. “And he used another magic on me, one that forced me to do things.”
Grinsa took a breath. He could see where this was going. “It’s called delusion. I’ve also heard it called mind-bending power.”
Marston had moved to stand beside the duchess and he was watching the minister warily. “Whatever it’s called, he’s clearly as dangerous as this woman, perhaps more so.”
“I agree,” the king said. “How do we guard Qirsi with such powers, gleaner? You can’t watch them all the time, and our weapons are of little use against them.”
The thane shook his head. “They shouldn’t be imprisoned. They should be executed. They’re traitors and murderers, and they deserve no less.”
“I agree,” Gershon said.
Keziah looked at him, but said nothing.
Caius was gripping his sword tightly, as if he would have liked to strike the killing blow himself. But he kept his distance from the two Qirsi. “How do you execute a shaper? Our weapons are useless against them.”
Marston nodded toward Grinsa. “The gleaner can kill them. He can use their own power against them.”
“I can,” Grinsa said. “But I won’t.”
>
“What?”
“I fought for the courts, and was glad to do so. But I won’t execute prisoners for you.”
“Not even if His Majesty orders you to?”
Grinsa held the thane’s gaze. “Not even then.”
“You know what they’ve done, what they’ll do again, if only we give them the chance. And still you refuse? All you white-hairs are the same!”
Xivled jal Viste stepped forward, glowering at Marston. “White-hairs?” he repeated. “You haven’t learned a damn thing from all this, have you?”
The thane’s eyes widened. “Xiv, I—”
“No, my lord. You need to hear this. We’ve just come through the most horrific war our land has known in centuries. I never thought I’d see so many killed in my lifetime, much less in a single day. And all of them died because our people—yours and mine—have paid more attention to the color of each other’s eyes and hair, than to all that binds us to one another. It has to stop, my lord. Your suspicion, your prejudice—we can’t afford them anymore. We need to find some way to trust one another, to put these ancient hatreds to rest finally and for good. If we can’t, we’re doomed to repeat this war.”
“Of course, I know that. But this gleaner—”
“This gleaner saved us all, my lord. He’s done enough. If you can’t see that, then I’m not certain that I wish to continue serving in your court.”
Before Marston could respond, his minister turned and walked away, leaving the thane looking perplexed.
For some time, none of them spoke.
“He’s right, of course,” Keziah said at last.
“Let it be, Kez,” the king said in a low voice.
“No, Your Majesty, I won’t! That’s what we’ve done for too long. We’ve refused to talk about it, hoping the problem would simply disappear, and as a result it nearly destroyed us. We can’t wait any longer.”
“All that may be true, but this is a discussion we can have later.”
“When? When the dead have been buried? When the rest of the renegades have been found? When the wounds of this war have healed? Or must we wait even longer than that? Shouldn’t we do this now, before your dukes return to their castles?”
“You’re wasting your breath, cousin,” Jastanne said, an insolent smile on her lips. “The Eandi will never change. They hate us, and do you know why? It’s because they fear us, they fear our magic.” She shook her head. “No, you can’t change them. Your only hope lay with the Weaver and his movement, and now you’ve destroyed that.”
Kearney stared at the woman, as if seeing her for the first time. At last he faced Keziah again. “We won’t wait long. Discussing this matter before we bid farewell to the dukes strikes me as a fine idea. I give you my word. For now though, we should deal with these two, and any other renegades we can find.”
“Your Majesty—”
“Have done, Marston. Please. I have no intention of ordering the gleaner to do anything that he does not choose to do voluntarily.”
Grinsa tipped his head. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Nevertheless, Grinsa, I do agree that this man and woman should be put to death, and I need to know if you intend to intervene on their behalf.”
Grinsa felt the others watching him, waiting. Gershon still held his weapon, as did the duchess, Caius, and several of the soldiers. He was quite certain that they were prepared to fight him if they thought it necessary.
“No, Your Majesty, I have no such intentions. If you think it best to execute them, you should do so.”
Kearney nodded.
Keziah glanced Grinsa’s way, then said, “You should blindfold them, Your Majesty. Keep their hands bound, and bind their ankles as well. You should also have several archers watching them at all times.”
“Thank you, Archminister.” The king turned to his soldiers. “You heard what she said. See to it right away, and have preparations made for their executions. I want them dead before nightfall.” He looked at Grinsa again, nodded once. “Gleaner.”
The king strode away, followed closely by Shanstead, Labruinn, and the others.
“I’m sorry,” Keziah said when they were gone.
“For what?”
“For telling Kearney how he should guard them. The truth is, I want them dead. I never thought I’d say it, but in spite of everything else, I agree with Marston: they deserve to die.”
“Actually, I agree with him, too.”
Her eyebrows went up.
“It’s true,” he said, feeling terribly weary. “I just didn’t want a hand in their deaths. Is that so difficult to fathom?”
His sister looked pained. “No, not at all. I should have understood.”
He shrugged. “It’s been a long day. For all of us.”
She summoned one of the soldiers with a gesture. “I’m going to get some food. Why don’t you join me? You must be famished.”
Grinsa made himself smile. “I’ll eat soon. First I want to speak with Cresenne.”
“Of course.”
The soldier helped Keziah to her feet and led her away, leaving Grinsa alone on the cool grass. He could have slept for hours, and he wasn’t certain how long he could keep himself in Cresenne’s dreams. But it was growing late; she would be waking soon to another lonely night, and he didn’t want to wait even one more day to tell her that Dusaan was dead.
Closing his eyes, he sent his mind southward to Audun’s Castle. He found her quickly and entered her mind. Immediately he felt the dull pain in her chest. Had she been attacked yet again?
“Cresenne!” he said as soon as he saw her.
She gazed toward him, then took a tentative step forward. It occurred to him that in her dream he would be sitting, just as he was in the waking world.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s me.”
“Grinsa?”
“Yes. I was hurt, but I’m fine now.”
She ran to him, dropped to her knees beside him. Despite the scars that he still saw on her face, he thought that she had never looked more beautiful. She kissed him lightly on the lips, then sat back meeting his gaze, fear and hope mingled in her eyes.
He reached out a hand and cupped her cheek. “He’s dead. It’s over.”
For a moment she merely stared back at him. Then tears flooded her eyes and she began to sob. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. He can’t hurt you anymore.” He found that he was crying as well, though he was also smiling.
“A woman attacked me today. I nearly died again, and she nearly took Bryntelle. I went to sleep thinking that this would never end, that I’d be fighting off his servants and living in fear of his dreams until he finally managed to kill me.”
“I don’t know how many more of his servants are out there,” Grinsa told her. “But Dusaan will never walk in your dreams again.”
She put her arms around him, still weeping, and for a long time they held each other.
“How bad was it?” she finally asked. She pulled back quickly. “Is Keziah all right?”
“She’s fine.”
“And Tavis?”
“He’s … it’s complicated. He survived the fighting, but his father was killed and his closest friend.”
“I’m sorry for him. Truly.”
“You said that Bryntelle was nearly taken from you. Is she—”
“She’s right here beside me. Trin saved her. He saved us both.”
Grinsa gaped at her. “Trin?”
She nodded.
“Trin,” he said again. After a moment he laughed. “What a day.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Not now,” he said, shaking his head. “I need to rest. But soon. I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”
“All right.” She kissed him again, deeply this time. Then she smiled, the dazzling smile he remembered from so long ago. He hadn’t seen her smile like that in more turns than he could count. “I love you.”
Grinsa brushed a strand of hair from her
face. “And I love you.”
He opened his eyes to the late-day sun, blinking against the brightness. He sat there a moment, then forced himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. His legs felt well enough, though—the healers had worked their craft well—and he turned gingerly to face the battle plain.
Dusaan’s body still lay amid the grasses. Other bodies, Eandi and Qirsi alike, had been moved. But no one had bothered with the Weaver. Or maybe none had dared go near him.
Grinsa reached out with his magic and tried to touch the Weaver’s mind, much as a soldier might prod a fallen enemy with the toe of his boot. Nothing. Dusaan was dead; his war was done. Over the next several turns, perhaps stretching to years, all the realms of the Forelands would continue to pay a price for what the man and his movement had done. Even now, Grinsa could hear Gershon Trasker in the distance, barking commands to the archers who would soon execute Jastanne and Pronjed. In the days to come, parents would weep for children lost in battle, sons and daughters would learn their first painful lessons about war and death, lovers would grieve at the realization of their worst fears.
But too, the land would begin to heal itself. At least Grinsa could hope as much. Throughout the Forelands, suspicions ran deep and in all directions, like fissures in dried earth. It would take time, he knew, for trust to take root again. Already though, he saw signs that the process was under way. Kearney had lied to preserve Kentigern’s honor. Soldiers in the king’s army were treating both Keziah and Tavis with the courtesy and respect that were their due.
These were trifles, to be sure. But they were a start. And on this day, when so much blood had been spilled and the Weaver had come so very close to defeating them all, Grinsa could hardly ask for more.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Curgh, Eibithar, Morna’s Moon waxing
They remained on the Moorlands for several days, collecting the dead, building pyres from the scant brush found among the grasses, and sending dark black clouds of smoke into the clear planting sky. At the insistence of Kearney and Sanbira’s queen, even the renegades were given the honor of a single vast pyre that for hours poured foul smoke into the air. Only the Weaver’s body was left to rot under the sun, its putrid remains picked at for days by crows and vultures.
