by David B. Coe
Since returning from the Wethy Crown, where Tavis finally avenged Brienne’s murder, Grinsa had been determined to prevent this war between the empire and Eibithar. After leaving Glyndwr a second time, the wound to his head healed, he and Tavis had ridden north at a punishing pace. If he could only reach the king before the fighting started, he had thought, he could find a way to dissuade Kearney from making war on the empire’s army. Yes, Eibithar had been attacked, and yes, these men of Braedon were an invading force. But Kearney knew of the Weaver. He had seen what the man could do, how brutal he could be in pursuit of his ambitions. Surely so wise a leader would understand that anything he did to weaken the Eandi armies would aid the Weaver’s cause.
But though Kearney had welcomed Tavis and the gleaner to his force, inviting them to ride with him at the head of his army, he would not listen when Grinsa argued for peace.
“My realm is under attack, gleaner,” he had said more than once. “Harel started this war, not I. But war he will have.”
Still Grinsa argued, until Kearney finally told his guards that the gleaner was to be kept at a distance. It wouldn’t be long until men of both realms were killing one another, every sword stroke and loosed arrow weakening the courts, making the Weaver’s victory that much more certain. Grinsa felt helpless to stop it, and he despaired at what it would mean for the coming war—not this one, between the Eandi armies, but the real conflict, between the renegade Qirsi and all the realms of the Forelands.
The memory of his last encounter with Dusaan jal Kania still preyed on Grinsa’s mind, robbing him of his confidence, weakening his resolve. How many times had he told Tavis that he was the only man in the Forelands who could defeat the Weaver? Hadn’t he said much the same thing to Kearney during the snows, when he revealed to the king that he, too, was a Weaver? Hadn’t he told Keziah and Cresenne that they had the power to drive the Weaver from their dreams, that they had only to take control of their magic and the man couldn’t hurt them? And yet, when Dusaan entered his dreams hadn’t Grinsa allowed the man to best him, to turn the gleaner’s own power to his purposes? If Tavis hadn’t called to him, waking him from his slumber, Grinsa would have died, his skull crushed by his own shaping power.
Not so long ago he had wondered if he might be betraying his people by fighting the Weaver’s movement. He had imagined himself being remembered as the Carthach of his time, the Qirsi who fought beside Eandi nobles, destroying his people’s best hope of escaping the prejudice that still burdened their entire race. But wasn’t it just as likely that he wouldn’t be remembered at all? If Dusaan could defeat him with such ease once, what was to stop him from doing so again on the battle plains of Galdasten?
He realized now that he had raced northward and argued with the king as he did to keep the Eandi armies from destroying themselves, not because he needed their aid in fighting the Qirsi renegades, but rather because he wanted to keep them strong, so that they could take up the battle when he failed.
He didn’t dare give voice to his doubts. Tavis still had faith in Grinsa’s ability to defeat the Weaver, and had shown little patience for the gleaner’s self-doubt. Keziah was finally taking to heart his insistence that she could guard herself from the Weaver’s attacks, should it become necessary. And despite the king’s impatience with his arguments for peace, Kearney had made it clear that he still expected Grinsa to lead their fight against the Qirsi. How could he tell any of them that he expected Dusaan to prevail in their battle, that he didn’t even believe the Weaver would have much difficulty killing him?
The gleaner had wrestled with these fears for so long that he was starting to lose patience with himself. Perhaps Tavis was justified in showing him so little sympathy the few times Grinsa did broach the subject. Tavis rode to war having no more assurance than did Grinsa that he would survive. So did the king and his dukes, Keziah, Fotir, and the other ministers. So, too, did every soldier in the King’s Guard and the ducal armies. As a Weaver, Grinsa rarely had to fear for his life. Tavis had known such fears nearly every day since Brienne’s death. Yet the boy thought of himself as a coward and looked to Grinsa as if he were some sort of hero. Perhaps the time had come for the gleaner to emulate the young lord. He wouldn’t have considered such a thing a year ago, but today he saw much to admire in Lord Tavis of Curgh.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” the boy asked.
They were readying their mounts. With the arrival of Javan and Welfyl, Kearney had issued orders for the armies to march at midday. Tavis had spent much of the morning with Xaver MarCullet, his pledged liege man and closest friend, and the companionship seemed to have done him much good. Grinsa and the boy had been living off the land for many turns now, and Tavis’s face had become tanned in the sun of the planting season, his hair a lighter shade of brown. His dark scars still showed—they always would—but they seemed to stand out less than once they had, particularly when he smiled.
“I find myself wishing that I had your courage, Tavis,” the gleaner told him.
A frown creased the young lord’s brow, then was replaced almost immediately by a self-conscious grin. “My courage?” he repeated, turning his attention back to his mount. “You must be confusing me with your horse.”
The gleaner laughed. “Not at all. You think too poorly of yourself.”
“You’re the one wishing for my bravery, gleaner. If either of us needs a better opinion of himself, it’s you.”
Grinsa shook his head, his smile lingering. “Forget I mentioned it.”
They stood in silence for a few moments.
“You’re thinking about the Weaver again, aren’t you?”
I certainly wish I had your insight. “Yes,” Grinsa admitted. “I have been all morning.”
“That’s good,” Tavis said, surprising him. “You should be. You should spend every waking hour thinking about how you’re going to defeat him, imagining how your war might go, anticipating his tactics. Hagan always used to say that a strong mind and a shrewd battle plan were the most powerful weapons any swordsman could carry into battle. I find it hard to believe that this is any less true for sorcerers.”
“Hagan MarCullet is a wise man. Unfortunately, that’s hardly the direction my thoughts have taken.”
“You’re frightened.”
Grinsa looked at him. “Yes.”
“I think that’s probably a good thing, too.” Seeing the expression on the gleaner’s face, the young lord said, “I’m serious, Grinsa. I was terrified before my fight with the assassin. Both fights, really,” he added with a quick smile. “And I’m sure that helped me survive. Fear makes us wary, it makes us think. If you weren’t afraid riding to this war, I’d be worried for all of us.”
For some time Grinsa said nothing, until eventually Tavis glanced his way.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” the boy said. “Probably I am. I was lucky to live through my second encounter with Cadel. It’s possible I was too scared. Or just too weak.”
“I don’t think you’re wrong, Tavis. I’m just thinking that maybe I should be wishing for your wisdom, rather than your courage.”
“I think you should stop wishing at all, and just accept your strengths and your limitations for what they are.” Tavis cast a quick look at the gleaner, smiling once more. “I learned that from you.”
“And here I thought you weren’t even listening.”
When they had finished readying their horses, Tavis climbed into his saddle.
“Do you mind if we ride with my father? I’d like more time with Xaver.”
Actually, Grinsa had also been looking forward to riding with the men of Curgh. Keziah rode at the rear of Kearney’s army, still trying to convince all who saw her that she had fallen out of favor with the king. It would have been inappropriate for Grinsa to ride with her. Instead, he wished to speak with Fotir jal Salene, Javan’s first minister. First, though, there was something else he needed to do.
“That’s fine,” said. “But before we ride, I want t
o reach for Cresenne. It’s been some time now.”
Tavis nodded. “Of course. Catch up with us when you can.”
The young lord rode off toward the banners of his house, leaving Grinsa alone, or as close to alone as a man could be amid six thousand Eandi soldiers. Still, he led his mount even farther from the warriors, stopping by the banks of a small stream that flowed past the army camp. There, he sat on the grasses beside the glimmering waters, closed his eyes, and sent his mind southward toward the City of Kings. He quickly found Cresenne and stepped into her dreams, summoning the familiar vision of the plain near Eardley.
An instant later, she stood before him, though some distance away. He sensed immediately that she was warding herself, expecting at any moment to be attacked.
“Cresenne?”
“Grinsa!” She ran to him, throwing her arms around him and pressing her face to his chest, her body racked by sobs.
“What’s happened?” he asked, his throat so tight he could barely breathe. When she didn’t answer, he tried to look at her face. “Cresenne?”
“Just hold me.”
“Let me see you.”
“Not yet.”
He found that he was shaking, though whether from apprehension at what she might tell him, or rage at the Weaver for whatever new atrocity the man had committed, he couldn’t say for certain. At last, unable to wait any longer, he put his hands on her shoulders and gently forced her to take a step back.
One side of her face bore a newly healed burn and he could see the faint remnants of several bruises. Whoever had tended her wounds had done so with great skill and care. Yet even the touch of healing magic couldn’t hide the gauntness of her cheeks, or the unhealthy sallow color of her skin, which made her old scars appear more stark than Grinsa remembered from the last time he walked in her dreams.
I should never have left you. I should be by your side now.
“Tell me what happened,” the gleaner said, struggling to keep from being overwhelmed by his grief.
“I was poisoned.”
Grinsa frowned. “Poisoned?” That was the last thing he had expected her to say.
“Yes. One of the castle’s healers gave me a tonic that had nightshade in it.”
“A Qirsi healer?”
She nodded. “A man named Lenvyd jal Qosten.”
The name meant nothing to him. “Have they questioned him? Do they know what else he’s done for the Weaver?”
“He got away. By the time the master healer learned what had happened, Lenvyd had long since fled.”
He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, feeling a tear roll down his face. “How bad was it?”
Cresenne shrugged, looking away. “I was unconscious for three days.”
“Three days!” he whispered, pulling her to him again. “Damn him!”
They stood that way for some time until at last, Cresenne stepped back, her face damp with fresh tears.
“Is Bryntelle all right?”
She nodded, smiling faintly. “Yes, she’s fine. She’s beautiful. I wish you could see her.”
“So do I. I’m so sorry I’m not there with you. I’m so sorry I let this—”
She held a finger to his lips, shaking her head. “Don’t. None of this is your doing.”
“Wait,” Grinsa said narrowing his eyes. How could it have taken him so long to realize what she had told him? He felt addled, as if he were the one dreaming. “You said a healer did this to you. Why did you need a healer?” He examined her wounds a second time. “Did he also heal that burn and the bruises?”
She averted her gaze. “No. That was another healer.”
“The Weaver attacked you again?”
Cresenne nodded, crying once more.
“He burned you?”
“Yes,” she said, so softly it might have been the wind.
“And he hit you?”
“Please don’t ask me anymore, Grinsa.”
“He tortured you, didn’t he?”
“He did nothing to me that I couldn’t heal.”
“That you couldn’t heal . . .” He swallowed, feeling ill. “Cresenne, did he—”
She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “Please don’t,” she whispered.
I’m going to kill him. He didn’t say it aloud, knowing how fatuous it would sound, how much like the empty, vengeful oath of a man consumed with his own vanity. But those were the words that repeated themselves again and again in his mind. I’m going to kill him.
Once again, he took her in his arms, his hands shaking with fury and bloodlust.
“He called me your whore,” she said quietly. “And then he said he was going to make me his whore, too.”
“But you’re alive.”
She looked at him, pride in her pale eyes. “Yes. I finally grasped what you’d been trying to tell me about taking control of my own magic. I couldn’t do it in time to . . . to stop him. But I managed to wake myself before he could kill me.”
Grinsa smiled. “That’s very nearly more than I did.”
“What?” she said, frowning.
“It’s not important. What matters is, you defeated him.”
“Hardly.”
“You did, Cresenne. He wants you dead. Whatever else he took from you, he couldn’t kill you. And that means that you won.”
“I saw him strike at me with a dagger. I felt the blade in my heart. But when I looked at the wound, the skin healed itself.”
“You see?” the gleaner said, so proud of her that he thought he might weep. “He must have been horrified.”
“He was.”
Grinsa kissed her brow. “You’ve nothing to fear from him anymore. He may send others to kill you, men like the healer. But you can sleep in peace.”
“I’ve tried. I can’t.”
“But—”
“I know that I should be able to. As you say, if I can drive him from my dreams, I have no reason to fear him. I could even go back to sleeping at night again. I’m still afraid, though. I think of . . . of what he did to me, of how close Bryntelle came to losing me forever, and it’s all I can do to close my eyes at midmorning.”
“It’ll take some time, Cresenne. But eventually you’ll find peace.”
“Not until he’s dead. You have to kill him, Grinsa. I know that you want to—more than ever, no doubt, having heard all of this. And I’m telling you, that’s what you have to do. For me, for Bryntelle, for Keziah. I don’t know how I ever could have been so blind as to follow him, to do all those terrible things on his behalf. But I realize now that the Forelands won’t be safe until he’s dead.”
“The Forelands will be safe,” he said. “You have my word.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “You should sleep. And when you wake, you need to eat something. You look so thin.”
Cresenne twisted her mouth sourly. “I haven’t been able to eat since I was poisoned.”
“You have to. Bryntelle needs you to be strong.”
“I know. I’ll try.”
He gazed at her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Even drawn and weary she remained beautiful.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing. I love you.”
“And I you. Are you well? Have you recovered from your fall in the highlands?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Where are you?”
“On the Moorlands, north of Domnall. We’re with Kearney.”
She nodded, crossing her arms, as if suddenly cold. “Has the Braedon army landed yet?”
“Yes. They march toward us even as we speak.”
“Gods keep you safe.”
“And you.” He kissed her one last time, then opened his eyes to the hazy brightness of the moors.
Taking a long, shuddering breath, he stood and started leading his mount back to where the armies were gathering in formation. He should have been relieved. Despite being brutalized, despite the fact that she had very nearly died, Cresenne had found the strength to defend her
self from the Weaver’s attacks. But any comfort he drew from this was overmastered by his lingering fears and his remorse. If only he hadn’t left her. . . .
“How is she?” Tavis asked, when Grinsa found him.
The gleaner shrugged. “Considering all she’s been through, she’s doing well.” Seeing the puzzlement on the young lord’s face, he explained, “The Weaver attacked her again, and then she was poisoned by one of the healers in Audun’s Castle.”
“Demons and fire! She survived all that?”
“I find it hard to believe, too.”
“Is Bryntelle all right?”
Grinsa smiled. “Yes, thank you. She’s fine.”
“Gods be praised for that.”
“Indeed.”
The gleaner glanced southward, grappling with a sudden urge to ride back to the City of Kings.
“You can do more for her by fighting this war than you ever could in Audun’s Castle.”
He looked at the boy, nodded. “I know. So does she.”
A short time later, the armies resumed their march toward Galdasten. Tavis and Xaver rode just ahead of him, speaking in quiet voices and laughing occasionally. Fotir rode beside him, but Grinsa couldn’t bring himself to start a conversation, and the minister seemed content to ride in silence.
During what remained of the day, the armies marched without rest past villages and farms. And at every cluster of homes, every lone farmhouse that rose from the earth, people came out to stare at the warriors, with their shining weapons and dull grey coats of mail. Some of the children cheered, no doubt thinking it all a grand game. But their parents just watched, apprehensive and silent.
Sitting atop his mount at the head of such a vast force, Grinsa couldn’t help but wonder if the people he saw knew of the storm that menaced their land. Surely they had heard of the threats from Braedon and Aneira, but did they understand the greater danger they faced? A part of him wanted to stop and warn them of this Weaver, this Dusaan jal Kania, who was poised to make himself sovereign over all the Forelands. Everyone in the seven realms needed to know, Eandi and Qirsi alike.
