by DAVID B. COE
“What?”
“Yes. Galdasten, Rennach, Eardley, Domnall, and Sussyn. And of course Kentigern, as well.”
“Surely they wouldn’t just stand by while the empire and the Aneirans carved up the realm.”
“He fears they’ll do just that.”
“Damn them!” Tavis said. “They’re fools.”
It all seemed to be coming together, like some terrible, fragmented dream. Even the little Grinsa had learned from the Qirsi he killed in Helke had convinced him that the Weaver was in Braedon. Why else would he have needed to send gold to his underlings through a merchant? “He can’t pay them directly,” the man had said. It had to be because he only had access to imperial qinde. Now the empire’s fleet was poised to attack Eibithar’s northern shores, and all the land teetered on the precipice of war.
“This is what the conspiracy has been waiting for,” he said. Both of the young nobles looked at him. “The Weaver will wait until the slaughter begins, and the armies begin to weaken one another. Then he’ll strike.”
“Where should we go, Grinsa?” Tavis asked.
“If it’s at all possible, we should be with the king when he rides.” He saw Kearney the Younger wince, as if the mere thought of accompanying his father pained him. “I think we should leave for Audun’s Castle immediately.” I want to see Cresenne. I want to hold my daughter.
Tavis nodded and faced the duke again. “We had thought to pass the night in your castle, Lord Glyndwr, to enjoy your hospitality and your company. It seems, though, that the time for such pleasures is past. If we can impose upon you for some food to take with us, and for water and grain for our mounts, we’ll be most grateful.”
Once more the gleaner was struck by the changes he saw in Tavis. A turn ago, he would have left it to Grinsa to speak for them both and make such requests, lacking the self-possession to do so himself.
“Of course, Lord Curgh. Come, and we’ll see to it immediately.”
The two young men started to walk away, but Grinsa lingered in the ward.
“Is something wrong?” Tavis asked.
“No, I . . .” His eyes flicked toward the duke for just an instant. “I’d like some time alone.”
Tavis seemed to understand immediately. “We’ll find you shortly, then,” he said, and walked away with Kearney.
Crossing to the far corner of the ward, where no one could see him, Grinsa closed his eyes and sent his mind soaring north and west, down off the steppe and into Audun’s Castle. He quickly found Cresenne, sleeping of course, though it was the middle of the day.
As soon as she appeared before him, whirling around in the middle of the plain, her pale eyes wide with fright, he called to her.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s only me.”
Seeing him, she ran to where he stood, falling into his arms. He kissed her forehead, and, when she turned her face up to his, kissed her deeply on the lips.
“Where are you?” she whispered.
“Glyndwr.”
“Are you coming here?”
He smiled. “Yes. We should be there in a few days.”
“Gods be praised,” she said, resting her head against his chest. After a moment she looked at him again.
“There’s talk of war.”
Grinsa nodded. “I know. Tavis and I won’t be able to stay long. When Kearney rides, we’ll go with him.”
She swallowed, dropping her gaze. “Of course.”
He looked down at her, pushed a strand of hair back from her brow. Her scars were fading, and she looked less weary than she had when he left for Wethyrn. “Tell me about Bryntelle.”
Cresenne fairly beamed. “She’s beautiful. She’s getting big, and she smiles all the time.” She lifted a slender hand to his cheek. “I think she misses her father, though.”
He gave a small laugh, looking away. “I doubt that.”
She touched him again, making him meet her gaze. She stood on her toes and kissed him. “I miss her father.”
“And I miss you.” He should have been happy; he was going to see them both in a matter of days. Yet already the thought of leaving them again made his chest ache, as if the Weaver had struck at his heart. “You know that I want to stay with you, that if all this—”
She held a finger to his lips and smiled, though suddenly there were tears on her face. “I know.”
“This is what he’s been waiting for, isn’t it? This war is his doing.”
“I think so. I don’t know for certain, but it fits with all that’s come before.”
“I agree.”
“If we’re right, then he must believe that he’s strong enough to prevail. He won’t allow the war to begin if he has any doubt.”
He saw so much fear in her eyes, as if she had foreseen in these final steps toward war the inevitability of her own death. “Maybe,” Grinsa said. “Or maybe knowing of me, knowing how much we’ve learned from you, he feels that he can’t afford to wait any longer. He couldn’t have anticipated all of this, Cresenne. He escaped our notice for a long time—too long—and he did great damage to so many of the courts. But we’ve hurt him, too. He hasn’t won yet. You see in this move toward war the confidence of a man who thinks himself on the verge of victory. I see in it the desperation of a man who sees success slipping through his hands.”
“I want to believe you.”
“Then do.”
She took a long breath, finally nodding and forcing a smile. “I’ll try.”
“How’s Keziah?”
“I don’t see her much. With war coming, she’s busier than ever. But I think she’s all right.”
“Good.” He touched her silken hair. “You should sleep,” he said. “And I have preparations to make. We’ll be leaving here soon.”
He kissed her once more, and was about to break his link to her mind, when she stopped him.
“The assassin?” she asked.
“Tavis killed him.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Tavis did?”
“Yes.”
She looked relieved.
“I love you, Cresenne. Kiss Bryntelle for me.”
“I will. I love you, too.”
The gleaner opened his eyes, blinked against the brightness of the day. Their conversation had tired him, but as he hurried to find Tavis and the duke of Glyndwr, that seemed the least of his concerns.
Within an hour, he and Tavis sat astride their mounts once more and were riding forth from the Glyndwr gates bearing two large leather pouches filled with cheeses, breads, smoked meats, dried fruits, and several skins of wine. The sun already hung low in the west. They wouldn’t get far this day before having to stop and sleep, but Grinsa was glad to be riding again, closing the distance between himself and his family.
“I think he wanted to come with us,” Tavis said after some time.
“Who?”
“Kearney. He fears for his father, and he wishes to have some role in this war.”
“Did he say as much?”
Tavis shrugged. “I could tell. He and I aren’t so different.”
Grinsa considered this, remembering how sad and lost and terribly young the boy had looked as they bid him farewell at the castle gate. He shuddered to think of how quickly the young duke would have been killed in battle.
“You make it sound as though you’re eager to fight.”
Tavis glanced his way, perhaps thinking that the gleaner was baiting him. After a moment he faced forward again.
“I suppose I am.”
Grinsa said nothing, and they rode in silence for several moments.
“The assassin had me, Grinsa,” Tavis said abruptly. “He was on the verge of killing me. He’d knocked my sword away and was holding my head underwater. I tried to get free, but he was too strong. All he had to do was keep me there for a few seconds more, and I would have died.”
Grinsa stared at him, not knowing what to say.
“Somehow the woman convinced him to let me go. And while they
were talking, I retrieved my sword and killed him.” He grimaced, looking like he might cry. But then he merely exhaled and went on. “He didn’t even try to defend himself. He just let me do it.”
“You couldn’t know that he wouldn’t fight back.”
“But I did. I sensed it from what he was telling her. And I killed him anyway.”
“Tavis—”
“It’s all right. Given the chance, I’d do the same thing again. I wanted him dead—I believe he deserved to die.” He looked at the gleaner. “But there was nothing heroic about it. I want you to know that.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure. You said a moment ago that I was eager to fight. I suppose I want you to understand the reason.”
“Wars and battles have nothing to do with heroism, Tavis. If that’s what you hope to find—”
“No, that’s not it either. I just want to prove to myself that I’m not a coward. I thought I could do that by avenging Brienne, but I was wrong.”
Grinsa smiled, which, judging from the look on Tavis’s face, was the last thing the boy had expected.
“You’re no coward, Tavis. That’s been clear to me since Kentigern. You shouldn’t need a war to make you believe it yourself.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do.”
“You can’t think that way, Tavis!” he said, surprising himself with his vehemence. “You have to see this conflict for what it is! When the time comes, we won’t be riding to Galdasten simply to kill the emperor’s soldiers, or even to repel his invasion, though we will do that. This war is a deception; it’s a feint. You must remember that. Harel isn’t the real foe and neither are the Aneirans. I know that you hate them, and I know better than to try to convince you that they could ever be friends of your realm. But you must put that hatred aside, for the good of all the Forelands. Our enemy is the Weaver and his conspiracy. Every arrow we aim at the soldiers of Braedon, every sword thrust that we level at the men of Aneira, strengthens the Qirsi. If I can prevent this war, I will. Failing that, we have to end the fighting as quickly as possible. The Weaver wants war, so we have to seek peace. He wants the Eandi courts divided, so we have to find some way to unite the armies of the seven realms against him. That’s our best hope of defeating him.”
“I thought you were our best hope.”
Grinsa nodded. He remembered saying as much to the young lord during the snows, as they made their way from Mertesse back into Eibithar. “My time is coming,” he said. He thought of Bryntelle; he pictured Cresenne in his mind, seeing once more the scars the Weaver had left upon her face. “I’m going to destroy the Weaver. I promise you that. But he’ll have an army, and it will fall to the rest of you to defeat them.”
“You’re asking a lot of the courts. You realize that, don’t you? None of these conflicts is new. Most of them date back a thousand years, to the time of the clan wars.”
“I know. But the clans managed to overcome their differences once before, during the war against the Qirsi.” Grinsa shivered. “The first one.”
Tavis eyed him for another moment, but offered no reply.
They rode on in silence, nearing the edge of the steppe just as the sun dipped toward the western horizon. And all the while, Grinsa turned over in his mind what he had said to the boy. The realms of the Forelands could unite. He was certain of it. What choice did they have?
But another matter occupied his thoughts. Without intending to, he had, in effect, compared the coming war with the Qirsi Wars fought in the Forelands nine centuries ago. And having done so, he couldn’t help wondering at his own role in the conflict. Hundreds of years before, when the clans faced invaders from the Southlands, there had been no Qirsi fighting alongside the Eandi, for there had been no Qirsi living in the Forelands. Ean’s children had fought Qirsar’s children; one could distinguish friend from foe by the color of their eyes. That is, until Carthach betrayed his people and helped the clans defeat the Qirsi army.
In this war, Grinsa’s war, there was no such clarity. Or was there? He had just told the boy that the Weaver and his movement were the real enemy. By standing against the Weaver, Grinsa allied himself with the Eandi. Was he Carthach, then? Was he the betrayer of his people, the white-hair whose heart was more Eandi than Qirsi? He wanted to believe that this looming conflict had no precedent in the history of the Forelands. Never before had Weavers waged war against each other. Never before had the nobles of the seven realms had so much difficulty discerning their enemies.
Still, try as he might, the gleaner could not rid himself of the feeling that history had turned back on itself, that the Forelands were crumbling under the weight of conflicts as ancient as the land itself. And though he had resolved long ago to vanquish the Weaver and his movement or die in the attempt, he wondered if his people would judge him as cruelly as they had the traitor Carthach.
“Was everything all right in the City of Kings?”
Grinsa looked at Tavis. “What?”
“With Cresenne and your daughter.”
He nodded, trying with little success to thrust thoughts of Carthach from his mind. “Yes, fine. Thank you.”
“You’re looking forward to seeing them.”
“Of course.” Grinsa smiled, though he felt as if his heart were being cleaved in two. How will I ever find the strength to leave them again?
“Then why do you sound like a man in mourning?”
The gleaner shook his head. “It’s hard to explain.”
Tavis regarded him for a moment before facing forward again. “Actually,” he said, “you don’t have to.” And Grinsa believed him.
“We owe you a great debt, Grinsa,” the young lord went on after a brief pause. “Few realize it, but they will before all of this is over. I’ll make certain of it.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“But it is. You could easily have decided to stay with Cresenne, and no one would have thought any the worse of you for it. Instead you’re risking your life and your family in defense of the Forelands. I know of few men who would make the same choice.”
He shrugged. “There are a good many among my people who wouldn’t see it as you do.”
Tavis frowned. “Like who? The Weaver? The man you killed in Helke?”
“Not just them. I’m a Weaver who fights to preserve the Eandi courts. Some would see that as a betrayal.”
The boy reined his mount to a halt and stared at Grinsa, forcing the gleaner to stop as well.
“I’m not sure which is more ridiculous: the suggestion that you’re doing all this to preserve the courts or the idea that you should care what such people might think of you.”
Grinsa looked away. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“What wouldn’t I understand, Grinsa? The pain of being judged unfairly? The shame of being hated by one’s own people? Who could understand those things better than I?”
Grinsa opened his mouth to argue, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to give voice to the doubts with which he’d been grappling for much of the day. Tavis was right—if he couldn’t understand, no one in the Forelands could. Perhaps that was the point. Tavis would think him a fool for comparing himself to Carthach, and just maybe he’d be right about that, too.
“You’re not fighting for the courts, Grinsa, and neither am I. We’re fighting to keep the Weaver from ruling the land. We’re fighting because, as flawed as some Eandi nobles may be, he’s worse. He’s arbitrary, and cruel, and given the chance, he’ll prove himself the most brutal despot the Forelands have ever known.”
“You and I know that. But others . . .” The gleaner shook his head.
“Do you remember Kearney’s investiture? You tried to tell me that I had to learn to live without the acceptance of the other nobles, that it was enough for me to believe in my own innocence, regardless of what they thought.”
“I remember.”
“This isn’t that different. You haven’t betrayed anyone. The Weaver claims to fight for a
ll Qirsi, yet he hurt your sister when she defied him, and he threatened to kill her if she failed to do as he commanded. He tortured Cresenne, and would have killed her if you hadn’t stopped him. That’s treachery, the worst kind. Even if no one else sees it that way, you know it to be true. That’s why you fight him, and that’s why you have to prevail.” The young lord turned his head, gazing northward, as if he could see the army of Braedon massing on the Moorlands. “You’re as honorable and as wise a man as I’ve ever known, Grinsa. For the last year you’ve been telling me that nothing matters more than defeating the conspiracy. And I’ve believed you, at first because I didn’t know any better, but more recently because I’ve seen the evil of this Weaver. I’ve seen how he treats those who serve him, and I’ve seen the lengths to which he’ll go to feed his ambition.” Tavis faced him again. “But I shouldn’t have to tell you any of this. You healed my wounds in Kentigern, and you healed Cresenne’s in Audun’s Castle. You shouldn’t need me to tell you that you’re fighting a worthy battle.”
Grinsa looked at the young noble for several moments, saying nothing, trying to discern in the man he saw before him some sign of the spoiled boy he met in the gleaning tent in Curgh city just over a year ago. “Thank you, Tavis,” he said at last. “I needed to hear that.”
The young lord’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Really? I expected you to be angry with me.”
The gleaner smiled and shook his head. “No. If you haven’t earned the right to speak to me so, I don’t know who has.” He glanced to the west. The sun stood balanced on the horizon, bathing the highlands in its golden glow. “We should ride. We haven’t much light left.”
They started northward once more, their shadows stretching across the grasses. His doubts lingered still, but perhaps that was as it should be. Only a fool rode to war without misgivings. He knew, though, that he was meant to fight this war, to stand against the Weaver, regardless of how history might remember him. And for better or worse, it was Tavis’s fate to fight beside him.
TOR BOOKS BY DAVID B. COE
THE LONTOBYN CHRONICLE
