by DAVID B. COE
Kearney’s archminister cleared her throat. “If I may offer a suggestion, Your Majesty: you’ve also given five hundred men to Lord Shanstead. If we wait until nightfall to move the men from Curgh’s army to Heneagh’s, the enemy might not notice. And tomorrow, when the Thorald army arrives, Lord Shanstead can send half of those five hundred men to Lord Curgh.”
The king smiled again, more convincingly this time. “A fine idea, Archminister.”
“It is, Your Majesty,” Fotir said. “But I don’t think we should wait until dark. As the archminister just said, Lord Shanstead should reach here tomorrow. If Braedon’s scouts learn of his approach, the empire will attack today. Certainly that’s what I’d advise them to do. We should move half the men immediately.”
“You make a good point, First Minister.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“What do you think, Hagan?”
The swordmaster smiled as well, though clearly it was forced. “Very well, Your Majesty. We’ll send two hundred and fifty men to the Heneagh lines. I’ll see to it right away.”
The king nodded. “Good.” He glanced at Welfyl, his smile fading. The old duke was weeping, and though his son’s chest still rose and fell, the healer had stopped working on him. It was but a matter of time.
“Excuse me,” Kearney said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. He stepped to where Lord Heneagh still knelt and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. Welfyl seemed to collapse at the king’s touch, falling against Kearney’s leg and sobbing.
“Two hundred and fifty men is nothing,” Hagan said, pitching his voice so that Javan could hear but Kearney could not.
“I know. But it’s all we have. Half of the King’s Guard is in Kentigern, and half of Eibithar’s houses have chosen not to fight at all. We’re fortunate to have as many men as we do.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“There’s nothing for us to do here,” the duke said, looking once more at Welfyl and wincing, as if the man’s grief pained him. Tavis couldn’t help but wonder if Javan was thinking about how close he had come to losing his own son the previous year. “We should return to the Curgh lines.”
Tavis saw Grinsa and Keziah exchange a look.
“I’ll be along shortly, Tavis,” the gleaner said. Then, facing Fotir, he raised an eyebrow. “Will you join us for a moment, First Minister?”
“My lord?” the minister said, seeking Javan’s permission.
“Yes, of course.”
The duke had climbed onto his mount again, as had Hagan. They started away to the east, and Tavis and Xaver followed, scrambling onto their horses and following some distance behind the duke and his swordmaster.
For a time the two young men rode in silence, Tavis enduring the stares of his father’s soldiers as best he could.
“I wonder if they’ll even let us fight now,” Xaver finally said, his voice so low that Tavis wasn’t certain he had heard correctly.
“Let us fight?”
His liege man nodded, then glanced toward their fathers so that Tavis would know who he meant.
“Why wouldn’t they let us fight?”
“Dunfyl, of course. My father didn’t even want to bring me along from Curgh; he made up some nonsense about how he needed me to take command of the castle guard while he was gone. After seeing Dunfyl killed he’ll have me standing watch over the provisions or some such thing. You watch, your father will be the same way.”
“I doubt that.”
“Tavis, you and your father might not always see eye-to-eye-”
“No, it’s nothing to do with all that. I’ve been gone for a year now, evading Aindreas’s guards, journeying through Aneira, tracking down Cadel. He doesn’t get to choose anymore whether or not I fight. I know he’s my father, but the fact is that I’ve been taking care of myself for some time now. I don’t need his permission to pick up a sword.” He looked over at Xaver, who was regarding him as if they’d never met before. “I guess to you I sound pretty full of myself, eh?”
“Not really. Somebody else saying all that, maybe. But not you. Not after what you’ve been through.”
He continued to stare at Tavis, until the young lord began to feel awkward, the way he did when the soldiers cheered for him.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
Xaver dropped his gaze, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his light curls stirring in the wind. “Sorry.”
“What are you staring at, anyway?”
“You look different.”
“Yes, well, Aindreas saw to that with his blade, didn’t he?”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m used to the scars now. In a way, I find it hard to imagine you without them.”
Tavis looked away. Grinsa had said much the same thing to him not long ago. For his part, Tavis still imagined himself without them all the time. Indeed, even now, whenever he saw his reflection, he found the lattice of scars on his face jarring. He wondered if he’d ever get used to them.
“You look older, Tavis,” Xaver said, drawing the boy’s gaze once more. “Older even than you did when I saw you in the City of Kings.”
“A lot’s happened since then.”
Xaver hesistated. “You still haven’t told me about … about the assassin.”
He shook his head, staring straight ahead. “I’m not sure I can. I killed him. That’s really all that matters.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He could see it all again. The storm that had battered the Wethy Crown that day, the serene expression on the assassin’s face just before he died, the way his own sword cleaved the man’s neck. And he could remember as well being held under water, with Cadel kneeling on his back, the man’s hands clamped on his neck and head. He could feel his lungs burning for air, the frigid waters of the gulf making his head ache.
“I almost died, Xaver. He had me, and he let me go. When I killed him, he wasn’t even trying to protect himself anymore.”
His friend was watching him, seemingly at a loss for words.
“I thought that I’d find peace once I’d killed Cadel, that avenging Brienne would make up for everything that’s happened since she died. But I was wrong.”
“It’s too soon to know that. You may find peace yet, but it can’t be easy when everyone around you is preparing for war.”
A smile touched his lips and was gone. “I suppose.”
“Maybe once this war with the empire is over, and you’ve-”
“You know what, Stinger,” he broke in, “I understand that you’re trying to help, but I just don’t want to talk about any of this.”
Xaver’s jaw tightened and he lowered his gaze. “Fine.”
“Why don’t we talk about you for a while?”
The boy looked up again, a slight frown on his lean face. “About me?”
“Yes. You haven’t told me anything about home.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“There has to be something. Tell me about your studies, or your training. I don’t even know if you have a girl.”
That, of all things, made Xaver’s face shade to scarlet.
“You do! I knew it!”
The boy shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “She’s not really…”
“What? She’s not really a girl?”
Xaver laughed. “Oh, she is that.”
“Well, now I really want to hear.”
His friend was a bit sparing with details-her name was Jolyn, and she was the daughter of one of the ladies who served Tavis’s mother. Other than that, Xaver offered precious little information. But Tavis hardly cared. Long after he and Xaver had returned to the Curgh camp, they continued to talk, laughing and teasing one another as they had long ago, before their Fatings and all that followed. And for a brief time, as the day grew warm and the sun turned its slow arc over the Moorlands, Tavis gave little thought to Cadel or the conspiracy or the war that loomed over them like a dark cloud.
Later in the day, however, a
fter they had talked themselves into a lengthy silence, Xaver eyed the young lord, suddenly appearing uneasy.
“I have a favor to ask of you,” he said, meeting Tavis’s gaze for but a moment before looking away.
“Of course. Anything.”
“Don’t say that until you’ve heard what it is.”
Tavis felt his stomach tighten.
“I’m not certain that my father’s going to let me fight,” said the liege man. “And if he asks your father to keep me out of the battle, your father will do just that.”
“I really don’t think-”
“Please, let me finish. You’re my lord-I swore an oath to serve you. And since we’re both past our Fatings, you have the authority to overrule my father.”
“Xaver, the last thing I want to do is get between you and Hagan. Besides, if my father decides to keep you out of combat, there’s nothing I can do.”
His friend scowled at him.
“Why are you so eager to fight, anyway?”
“You have to ask? You’re just as avid for it as I am.”
Tavis shook his head. “That’s different. I have reasons that have nothing to do with this war and everything to do with Cadel and Brienne and all the rest.”
“Well, I have reasons, too, Tavis! You’re not the only one who wants to strike back at the Aneirans and the Qirsi and the empire, and everyone else who’s been attacking us for the past year. You’re not the only one whose father…” He shook his head. “I know it’s hard between you and your father, but it’s not easy being the son of Hagan MarCullet either. He’s been the best swordsman in the land for just about all my life. And everyone expects me to be just like him.” Including me.
Xaver didn’t have to say this last aloud. As his friend spoke Tavis found himself remembering what Xaver had told him of the siege at Kentigern, which was the first and only time the young man had fought in a battle of any sort. He said at the time that he had acquitted himself poorly, that he had embarrassed himself in front of Javan. For his part, the duke never had anything but praise for Xaver’s courage as a warrior, but that wouldn’t have kept Xaver from feeling that he had something to prove to himself, to his duke, and to his father in this newest war.
“I’m sorry, Stinger. You’re right, I’m not the only one. As I said before, I have no desire to put myself between you and Hagan, but I’ll do what I can.”
Xaver nodded, still looking displeased.
“Personally, I’d be honored to march into battle beside you.”
He smiled at that. “We’ve been talking about it since we were five.”
“Longer than that, if my mother is to be believed.”
“Thanks, Tavis.”
“I’m not promising anything. You understand that.”
“I know. But I’m grateful anyway.”
“Just promise me that you’ll watch my back, and I’ll do the same for you.”
Xaver grinned. “Done.”
* * *
After Javan and Tavis rode away, Keziah turned her attention back to Kearney, who was still giving comfort to the duke of Heneagh. There was a pained expression in her pale eyes. She held a hand to her mouth, as if afraid that she might weep at any moment.
“Perhaps we should find someplace where we can speak,” Fotir suggested.
She nodded, but her gaze never left the king.
“Keziah.”
She looked at Grinsa, seeming to rouse herself from a dream. “Yes, of course.”
It looked to the gleaner that she hadn’t slept in days. There were circles under her eyes, and her skin was so wan that she almost looked gray. He wondered how many times in the past few nights she had dreamed of the Weaver.
The three Qirsi walked away from the king toward the rear of the Curgh camp where there were fewer soldiers. After a few moments, Grinsa realized that one of Kearney’s men was following a short distance behind them.
“My shadow,” Keziah said, seeing him glance back.
“Kearney’s having you watched?”
“It’s necessary. We still need for everyone to believe that he doesn’t trust me.”
Fotir looked from one of them to the other. “Am I to understand that the king knows of your attempt to join the conspiracy?”
Keziah gave a rueful smile. “That was necessary as well. He was preparing to send me away from his court.”
“This seems to be growing more perilous by the moment.”
Grinsa said nothing, though it occurred to him that it had all been far too dangerous from the very beginning. Keziah had contrived to join the Qirsi conspiracy, making it seem to the Weaver that she served his cause, and convincing all those around her that she had betrayed her king and her land. Kearney knew the truth now, but that seemed small consolation to Grinsa. If the Weaver learned that Keziah had been deceiving him, he would make her suffer terribly before killing her.
“Can we speak frankly with that soldier hovering at our shoulders?” Fotir asked.
“We haven’t much choice, First Minister,” Keziah said, impatience creeping into her voice. “Believe me when I tell you that these inconveniences mean little to me at this point. I have far greater matters weighing on my mind.”
The gleaner thought that Fotir might respond in anger-the minister was no more accustomed than was Keziah to having people speak to him so. To his credit, however, the man gave a small smile and inclined his head. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me, Archminister.”
Keziah frowned, as if she had expected more of a fight.
“Have you heard from the Weaver again?” Grinsa asked in a whisper.
“I last heard from him about a half turn ago,” she answered, whispering as well, “just after we marched from Audun’s Castle. He was angry with me for failing to kill Cresenne.”
“Did he hurt you?”
His sister tried to smile, failed. After a moment she looked away. “It wasn’t too bad.”
Grinsa didn’t believe her, but he let it pass, his heart aching for her.
“He told me that he would find another way to kill her. Don’t worry,” she said, seeming to believe that she was anticipating Grinsa’s next question. “I sent word back to the castle. She knows to expect an attack.”
The gleaner looked away. “The attack’s already come.”
She gaped at him.
“Is she-?”
“She’s all right.” Actually, the gleaner couldn’t say with any certainty that she would ever truly recover from all her encounters with the man. The Weaver had tortured her, leaving scars on her face that might have looked like those Tavis bore had Grinsa not been able to heal her so soon after the assault. One of the Weaver’s servants had poisoned her, very nearly taking her life. And the last time he entered her dreams, the Weaver had raped her, or come as close to rape as a man could without actually touching her physically.
“What did he do to her?”
“It’s not important. What matters is that Cresenne drove him from her dreams. She won.” Though at what cost?
Keziah still stared at him, but the horror on her face had given way to a look of wonder.
“Did she really?”
“Yes. And as I’ve been telling you all along, you have the power to do the same.”
After his own unsuccessful encounter with the Weaver half a turn before, as he and Tavis were riding across the southern Moorlands, Grinsa had come to doubt that anyone could prevail against the man. But despite all that she had endured during her dreams of the Weaver, Cresenne had given him hope, not only for himself, but for Keziah as well. He still feared for his sister-for all of them, really-but he had to believe that Dusaan could be beaten.
“She did it,” Keziah whispered, sounding awed and shaking her head slowly.
“You were telling us of your own encounter with the Weaver,” Fotir prompted gently.
She ran a hand through her hair, smiling self-consciously. An instant later, though, she had grown deadly serious. “Yes, of course. H
e gave me a new task to complete. He wants me to kill Kearney.”
“What?” Fotir said, far too loudly, his eyes widening. He glanced back at the soldier. “How?” he asked a moment later, his voice lowered once more.
“He left that to me. He wants it to happen in battle, so that no one suspects the Qirsi.”
“Does Kearney know?”
She looked at Grinsa. “I’ve warned him, yes.”
“Why bother?” Fotir asked. “It’s not as though you intend to go through with it, right?”
“Of course she doesn’t. But if the Weaver really wants Kearney dead, and if her failure to kill Cresenne has made him question Keziah’s commitment to the conspiracy, then he’ll have given the same order to others who serve him.”
Fotir shook his head slowly. “You both seem to understand him so well. I’m out of my depth.”
“We have an advantage, First Minister,” Grinsa told him. “If you care to call it that. We’ve both spoken with the man. He’s walked in our dreams.”
Keziah gaped at him. “You dreamed of him, too?”
“Yes, not long after you did, it seems. He tried to attack me, and he threatened Cresenne.”
“But he couldn’t hurt you, right? You’re too strong for him.”
Grinsa’s stomach turned at the memory of what the Weaver had done to him, of the pain in his temple as the man tried to crush his skull. Seeing how Keziah looked at him, begging him with her eyes to say that his magic had been a match for that of the Weaver, he almost lied. Qirsar knew that he wanted to.
Instead he shook his head. “I wasn’t strong enough.”
“He did hurt you.” Her voice shook and terror was written plainly on her face.
“I was able to wake myself before he could do any real harm. And I managed to summon a flame that lit his face and the plain on which we stood. I know for certain who he is.”
“Were we right about him?” Fotir asked. “Is it the emperor’s high chancellor?”
“Yes. Dusaan jal Kania. He was on Ayvencalde Moor. He tried to keep me from using my fire magic, but I have to say that once I’d seen him, he didn’t seem overly concerned.”
