by DAVID B. COE
“Welfyl’s swordmaster, a man named Rab Avkar.”
Keziah looked westward to the Heneagh army. She didn’t relish the idea of entering the camp and searching for a warrior she’d never met before.
“I know him,” Hagan MarCullet said, sensing her unease. “With my lord’s permission, I’ll go and find him.”
“Of course, Hagan.”
“Thank you, swordmaster,” Keziah said.
He nodded to her and walked away, reminding her so much of Gershon Trasker, Kearney’s swordmaster, who was marching south to fight the Aneirans, that she had to smile.
Javan climbed onto his mount, moving stiffly, a rueful grin on his lips. “What I wouldn’t give to be ten years younger.”
“Only ten?” Tavis said, drawing laughs from all of them.
Within moments Keziah, the duke, Tavis, Grinsa, and Fotir were on their way back toward Kearney. The MarCullet boy followed as well; Keziah couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Tavis without the other young man nearby. Almost immediately, Grinsa steered his horse to Keziah’s side-the side nearest the battle plain, she noticed, as if he wished to shield her from the horrors there.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly.
“No.”
He turned and stared at her.
“Don’t look so surprised. After all that you’ve seen today, can you honestly tell me that you are?”
“It’s only going to get worse, Kezi.”
“I know.” She glanced at his wounds, deep cuts on his arms and hands, and a nasty bruise just below his right temple. “Do they hurt much?”
“No. If they did, I’d have healed them by now.”
“Why haven’t you?”
He shrugged. “I’m too weary.”
“There are other healers, Grinsa. One of them…”
“I’m fine, Keziah. I’ll heal myself later. I promise.”
She nodded, pressing her lips in a tight line.
They soon reached Kearney, who was walking among the injured men of his guard, offering what comfort he could as the soldiers waited for healers to tend their wounds. Two of his captains stood nearby. Seeing Javan approach, the king came forward. He, too, had not yet had his own injuries healed.
“Well met, Lord Curgh. I’m glad to see you’re well.”
“Thank you, my liege. I could easily say the same, except it seems you’re hurt.”
Kearney glanced down at the bloody gash on his side. “It’s nothing of concern. We have more pressing matters to discuss.”
“Forgive me for saying so, my liege. But we can speak of these things while the Qirsi minister to you.” Javan caught the eye of one of the healers and beckoned him over.
A healer could do much damage under the guise of trying to help him. An herbmaster could easily exchange poison for a tonic.…
“No!” Keziah said, a bit too quickly. The healer hesitated. “The … the matters we need to discuss are of a sensitive nature.”
Grinsa was eyeing her strangely. But after a moment he appeared to catch on. “She’s right, Your Majesty. I’m not a healer by trade, but perhaps I can help in this instance.”
Kearney seemed to understand as well. He even paled a bit. “Very well, gleaner.” He faced the healer and forced a smile. “Thank you anyway.”
The healer stood there a few seconds longer, then returned to the soldiers, appearing nonplussed by the exchange and leaving Keziah to wonder if she should have kept silent.
“What was that about?” Fotir asked.
“We have cause to think that the conspiracy will make an attempt on the king’s life,” Grinsa said. “We should be wary of allowing any Qirsi we don’t know to get near him.”
Javan narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think they want to kill the king? Did that woman you imprisoned tell you this as well?”
“I can’t say,” Grinsa told him.
“But surely-”
“Leave it, Father.” Tavis placed a hand on the duke’s shoulder. “Grinsa wouldn’t have said anything if he didn’t have good reason to believe it was true. Trust him as I do and let it be.”
Javan regarded his son briefly, as if seeing him anew. Then he nodded. “Very well.”
They found a pallet on which Kearney could sit, and Grinsa knelt before him, laying his hands over the wound on the king’s side.
“Tell me of your battles,” the king said, clearly uncomfortable with having Grinsa tending his wounds with the others nearby. His expression changed. “Where’s Welfyl?”
Javan took a long breath. “He’s dead, my liege.”
Kearney closed his eyes briefly. “Demons and fire. This is a black day for the House of the River.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“How severe were Heneagh’s losses?”
Curgh’s duke shook his head. “We don’t know for certain yet, my liege, but it appeared that they had lost nearly a third of their men. Perhaps more.”
“Damn. And yours, Lord Curgh?”
“Not quite as bad as that, though close.”
“Same for my guard. We’ve yet to make a count of the enemy dead and wounded, but I’m sure they fared better than we did.”
“I’m afraid so, my liege.”
Hagan MarCullet returned, accompanied by a lanky man with a shaved head and trim beard who Keziah assumed to be Rab Avkar.
“Swordmaster,” the king said, looking up at the man. “All of us are deeply saddened by the loss of your duke, none more so than I.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the swordmaster said, his voice thick, his eyes reddened. “I tried to reason with him, to keep him from joining the battle-a man his age…” He shook his head. “He insisted. He said he wanted to strike a blow for his son. And for some time he fought as a man possessed. But he wasn’t strong enough. I saw him go down-” His voice broke and he turned his head, swallowing hard.
“Songs will be written of his bravery, and of Dunfyl’s as well. The Underrealm will shine like Morna’s sky with their light.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the man whispered. “Thank you.”
Grinsa removed his hands from Kearney’s side and sat back on his knees, his face shining with sweat.
“Thank you, gleaner,” the king said, twisting his body tentatively and then lifting his arm. “That’s much better. You have a deft touch.”
“You have other wounds, Your Majesty. I can heal them as well.”
Kearney stood. “Thank you. Perhaps later.” He stepped to where Welfyl’s swordmaster stood. Immediately the man dropped to one knee, bowing his head. “Rise, Sir Avkar.” The man did as he was told. “I know that you grieve for Lord Heneagh,” the king went on, “but this is not the time for mourning. Braedon’s army will attack again, perhaps as soon as dawn. I need for you to command your duke’s army. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You’ve suffered terrible losses. I can offer you a few hundred men, but it won’t be enough to take the place of all those who have fallen.”
Rab straightened. “With all respect, Your Majesty. We don’t need any more men. We may not be as well trained as the soldiers of Curgh or the King’s Guard, but we fight now for the memories of our duke and lord. The empire’s army won’t get past us.”
For a moment it seemed that the king might insist, but then he appeared to think better of it. “Your duke would be proud, swordmaster. Very well. We’ll leave the armies as they are for now.”
It had grown dark. Throughout the camp, soldiers were lighting small fires. A few could be heard singing softly, their voices mingling with the low moan of the wind and the cries of the wounded. A short distance to the south a great fire burned, the pyre for Eibithar’s dead. Gazing up at the sky, Keziah saw stars beginning to emerge in the blackness, bright and clear. The moons weren’t up yet, but already she could see that it was going to be a glorious night.
“We need to be ready when they attack again,” Kearney was saying. “I want archer
s posted at the front of our lines at all times. Have them stand in three shifts.”
Javan, the swordmaster, and Kearney’s captains murmured their agreement.
Fotir glanced at Grinsa, who nodded. “Pardon me, Your Majesty,” the minister said. “But Grinsa, the archminister, and I all have magic of mists and winds. On your authority, we can summon a wind to aid our archers and hinder Braedon’s.”
“Yes, First Minister, that would be fine. But remember that the empire has Qirsi as well. Any wind you raise may well be countered before it can do much good.”
“Wait,” Javan broke in, staring at Grinsa. “You have mists and winds? I thought you were just a gleaner.”
Keziah felt her entire body growing tense, but her brother merely smiled.
“I’m somewhat more than I seem, my lord,” he said, “as your son will attest.” He gave the king a meaningful look. “And I assure you, Your Majesty, the wind we raise will be more than a match for that of Braedon’s Qirsi.”
Again the king blanched, appearing to remember in that moment that Grinsa was a Weaver. “Yes, of course, gleaner. Thank you.” He took a breath, as if to gather himself. Then he turned to the older of his captains. “What news of Shanstead?” he asked. “Do you still expect him to reach here tomorrow?”
“Last we heard, Your Majesty, he was approaching the far banks of Binthar’s Wash. But that was a day ago, and still we haven’t seen them on the moors.”
Kearney’s mouth twitched. “We may have to fight without them again.”
“They won’t catch us unaware again, my liege.” Javan gave a thin smile. “The first battle went their way. But the dawn brings a new day, and it will be ours.”
The king’s smile was brittle and pained. “Of course, Lord Curgh. My thanks.”
They continued to speak of the day’s battle for some time, eating cold provisions just as did the men around them. Some of what they discussed would serve them in devising tactics for their next encounter with the empire’s forces, but much of it, Keziah could tell, was simply warriors exchanging tales of combat. She had little to add of course, but she remained with them, watching with pleasure how Kearney came alive when he spoke of wielding his blade and dancing his mount amidst a sea of enemy soldiers. Even Tavis, who usually seemed so withdrawn around anyone other than Grinsa and the MarCullet boy, offered a tale or two of his own and laughed with the others.
Grinsa said very little, though, like Keziah, he made no effort to excuse himself. After a time he moved so that he was beside her. Kearney eyed him as he did, but said nothing.
“Feeling left out?” Grinsa asked, his voice low, a small smile on his lips.
“A bit. I was wondering if I should ride to the North Wood, find something to kill, and then come back and tell all of you about it.”
He laughed. “You don’t have to go to such lengths. These are warrior tales. They don’t have to be accurate.”
“I heard that, gleaner,” Hagan MarCullet growled from nearby.
Her brother grinned at the man, then faced her again. “Earlier, when I asked if you were all right, you made it sound like you weren’t. I was wondering if there’s anything I can do.”
“I shouldn’t have said that. I had just seen some things, and then hearing that Welfyl was dead…” She shrugged. “I’m better now.”
“But this day took its toll on you, didn’t it?”
“No more than it did on others.”
“Kezi-”
“I’m fine, Grinsa.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Keziah almost got up and walked away. She was tired, and though Kearney’s soldier-her shadow-would follow her wherever she went, at that moment she would have preferred his silent stares to Grinsa’s questions.
During the lengthy silence that ensued, Grinsa seemed to sense how angry she was. “I’m sorry, Kezi,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Forgiveness came grudgingly. “It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. You don’t need me taking care of you anymore. I shouldn’t even try.”
She couldn’t help herself. For years he had treated her as though they were still children, as though she still needed the protection of an older brother. “No, you shouldn’t. You may be the older one, the more powerful one, but that doesn’t mean that I’m helpless.”
“I know that. Truly I do. But the ones who really need my protection are beyond my reach. And so I try to protect you instead.”
The ones who really need … Cresenne and Bryntelle. Sometimes her own capacity for selfishness and stupidity took her breath away. He had meant well. His questions had done no harm, except perhaps to her pride. But she was so absorbed with her own concerns that all she could see was the meddling of an older brother. She gazed at him now, marveling at how little he had changed over the years. He seemed ageless, save for his eyes. They were medium yellow, like the sun early on a harvest morning, and they appeared to carry within them the cares of all the land. For all the youth she still saw in Kearney’s face, her king had aged considerably in the last year. Tavis of Curgh had grown to manhood, it seemed, almost before her eyes. And when she looked in a mirror, she saw time marking its progress with small lines around her own mouth and eyes. But Grinsa remained as she remembered, the man who had loved and protected her all her life, who had always borne burdens the likes of which she could scarcely comprehend.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes stinging. “I didn’t think…” She trailed off, not knowing what to say, realizing that what she had said, though incomplete, was as true as anything else she might have offered. “You told me that she won,” she said a few moments later. “She shouldn’t have anything to fear from him anymore.”
Grinsa just nodded. They both knew all too well that the Weaver wouldn’t give up so easily.
“I’ll trust you to watch out for yourself,” he said, staring at the fires burning throughout the camp. “But let me give one last caution. If he has eyes watching this war, keeping him apprised of its ebbs and flows-and I’m certain he does-he’ll know that the fighting began in earnest today. If I were you, I’d be prepared to dream of him tonight, and tell him why your king still lives.”
Keziah didn’t need to feel the familiar dread washing over her, like the waters of Amon’s Ocean during the snows, to tell her that he was right. She knew the Weaver better than he did. She should have thought of this hours ago. Despite all her claims that she didn’t need her brother caring for her anymore, she found herself struggling to keep up with the speed and clarity of his thinking. Yet, once she looked past her chagrin, she realized as well that she was ready for the Weaver, that she knew just what she would tell him. The time was fast approaching when her lies wouldn’t serve her anymore, when she’d either take control of her own magic and banish the Weaver from her mind, or she’d die, a victim of her dreams. But this was not that night.
“I’ll be ready for him,” she said.
Grinsa actually smiled. “I believe you will.”
Pride demanded that she not let him see just how much this pleased her, but she couldn’t keep the grin from springing to her lips, or the blood from rushing to her cheeks.
A short time later, Kearney stood, announcing that he intended to retire for the night. Though he said no more than this, all understood that he expected them to do the same. None among them doubted that the fighting would resume with first light. Grinsa smiled at her one last time before walking off toward the Curgh camp, and Keziah turned to follow her king.
“He loves you, you know,” she heard behind her before she could take a step.
Looking back, she saw Tavis standing nearby, his face in shadows. He looked taller than she remembered, and broader as well.
“Aside from the woman and his daughter, there’s no one who matters more to him than you do.”
It seemed a strange comment coming from this young noble whom she had long considered a spoiled court boy. She sensed though that he was trying
to help, that he had taken note of the anger she directed at Grinsa.
“I know that,” she said. “But I’m grateful to you just the same.”
“Well, if you know it, you should show some gratitude. He’s sacrificed more than any of us and he deserves better than your anger and your jealousy.”
She felt her anger flare, and opened her mouth to lash out at the boy. But as she did, the breeze shifted slightly and a torch sputtered nearby. The light didn’t change much, but it was enough to illuminate the scars on his cheek and jaw. If this boy, who had suffered so much, could speak of Grinsa’s sacrifice, how could she not? Which of them was the spoiled child?
“You’re right,” she said at last, and walked away, gratified by the look of surprise on the young lord’s face.
It didn’t take her long to find her sleeping roll, or for her shadow to find her, lowering himself to the ground only a few strides from where she lay. She worried that he might hear her if she cried out in her sleep, but there was nothing to be done. If she tried to move away from him, he would only follow, positioning himself even closer to her than he was now.
Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, bracing herself for the coming encounter with the Weaver.
But sleep did not come easily this night. She found herself haunted by images of the battle and its aftermath, and troubled by her conversation with Grinsa and her brief exchange with the Curgh boy. Horror and fear, anger and remorse warred within her, making her toss and turn, keeping her mind racing until she wondered if she’d ever sleep again.
So it was that despite Grinsa’s warning and her meager preparations, she was unprepared for the dream when finally it began. One moment she was staring up at the stars over the battle plain, watching as Panya and Ilias climbed into the night, and the next, the sky had turned purest black and the familiar grasses and boulders of the Weaver’s plain surrounded her.
Before she understood entirely what she was doing, she had begun to walk, trudging up the hill toward the spot where the Weaver awaited her. By the time she reached the top, and the Weaver’s brilliant white sun stabbed into her eyes, she had gathered herself, remembering all that she had intended to tell him.
