by DAVID B. COE
Pushing their mounts to the limits of the beasts’ endurance, the Weaver and his army were able to cross the moor in only two days, coming within sight of Ayvencalde Castle’s great towers a short time before dusk on the second day. There, on the plain, positioned just before the city walls, the lord was waiting for them, an army of more than a thousand men behind him, their weapons gleaming gold in the dying sunlight.
The Weaver led his Qirsi directly toward the lord and his men, only halting when he was well within range of Ayvencalde’s archers.
“Your advance ends here, High Chancellor,” the lord said, his square face ruddy, as if he had been sitting in the sun and wind for much of the day. “I will not allow you to set foot in my city, nor will I let you take your evil magic to any other lordship in the realm. You may have caught the emperor unawares, but that’s not likely to happen again.”
Dusaan glanced back at the sun, as if judging the hours left until nightfall. “I haven’t time for this, Lord Ayvencalde. Surrender now and let us pass, or you and your men will be destroyed.”
The lord actually laughed. “You don’t suffer for a lack of confidence, do you, High Chancellor?” His smile vanished and he raised a hand. “Bowmen!”
Several hundred archers stepped forward, readying their bows.
“You were warned,” the Weaver said, his voice even and devoid of regret. “We’ll use fire,” he said more quietly, glancing back at the other Qirsi.
For Nitara, who didn’t have fire magic, there was nothing to do but watch. The Weaver closed his eyes and stretched forth a rigid hand. The plain was eerily silent-even the Eandi seemed to be waiting, as if frightened of what would come next, but too fascinated to prevent it. Slowly, as if emerging from the sunlight, a gleaming sphere began to take shape just in front of the Weaver. It appeared to Nitara that he had summoned a bright yellow star from beyond the sky. As she watched, the ball gathered strength, brightening, growing larger, until it seethed and churned like a mighty river in flood.
Ayvencalde shouted to his archers again, and the minister saw them draw back the cords of their bows. Before they could loose their arrows, though, the ball of flame surged forward, flattening as it went, so that it struck the lord and his soldiers as might a great fiery sword. They didn’t even scream. Every man in the army was cut down and consumed in the storm of flame. Only the lord, who had been sitting atop his mount, was spared, and he lay sprawled on the ground, dazed, his leg bent beneath his body at an impossible angle. The horse was dead, its carcass blackened and smoking a short distance from the lord.
Slowly, the Weaver dismounted and walked to where the noble lay, drawing his sword as he went.
“You should have listened,” Dusaan said, resting the point of his sword on Ayvencalde’s chest.
“You’ll never prevail,” the lord said, glaring up at him. “You may have won today, but someone will stop you.”
Dusaan smiled. “You’re wrong.” And he thrust the blade into the noble’s heart. Pulling the sword free, he stooped to wipe the blood from the shining steel, then he sheathed his weapon and walked back to his horse. “Victory is ours again,” he said. “Do you see now that we can’t be beaten, that the might of Eandi armies is nothing against our power?”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“We’ll ride into the city and find as many Qirsi as we can. But we won’t tarry here long. I want to be sailing by morning.”
He swung himself into the saddle once more and they rode toward the city gates. As they drew near, a swarm of arrows rose into the sky and began to fall toward them. Instantly, Nitara felt something tugging at her mind and a moment later, she sensed the Weaver drawing upon her magic. A great wind stirred from the grasses, building rapidly until it howled in the stones of the city wall, though Nitara’s hair barely stirred. The arrows were beaten back, dropping harmlessly to the ground in front of them.
Nitara nearly laughed aloud. It seemed that their power knew no bounds. Never had she felt so close to her people, and glancing back at her companions she saw mirrored in their faces the same joy and wonder at what they had become. They continued to advance on the gate, and as they did, she heard a great rumbling, as from an approaching thunderstorm, and in a billowing cloud of dust, the city wall collapsed on either side of the gate, sending the Eandi archers stationed there tumbling to the ground.
Moments later the Qirsi army entered the city unopposed. They divided into smaller groups and navigated Ayvencalde’s narrow stone lanes in search of others to join their cause. Nitara remained with the Weaver, who sat straight-backed atop his horse like a conqueror. His face, though, was covered with a fine sheen of sweat, and she could see that he had tired himself.
“Shall we rest, Weaver?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
His eyes snapped toward her, blazing angrily. Then his gaze softened and he shook his head. “I’m fine. And in the next several days I’ll be taxed far beyond this. I need to be ready.”
More than anything she wanted to reach out and touch his face, to run her hands through his wild hair and feel the strength of his shoulders and chest. But she merely nodded. “Yes, Weaver.”
Word of what the Weaver’s army had done to Lord Ayvencalde and his men spread swiftly through the city. A few of the soldiers who remained chose to fight the Qirsi invaders, and all of them perished. Most fled, however, and with them many of Ayvencalde’s Eandi inhabitants. The city’s Qirsi-who numbered slightly over one hundred-greeted the Weaver and the others warily, but quickly pledged themselves to Dusaan’s cause. As with the Qirsi in the imperial city, most of them were healers and gleaners. A good number had fire magic and a few possessed one or more of the deeper magics.
After addressing them briefly, telling them of his coming battle with the armies of the Forelands and the fine future his victory would bring, he instructed almost all of them to remain in Ayvencalde and protect it from any attack that might come from other Eandi courts in Braedon. Four of the city’s Qirsi were shapers, and fourteen had mists and winds. These he added to his army.
He led his force to the Ayvencalde piers and quickly took control of one of the lord’s great war ships. A group of Qirsi went below into the hold and rowed the ship free of the docks, while others held flames aloft to light their way through Ayvencalde’s shallow harbor. Once free of the quays, they raised the vessel’s sails.
A breeze freshened from the west, and the ship started across the Scabbard toward the coast of Eibithar.
“Forgive me, Weaver,” Nitara said, approaching him, and lowering her gaze, “but I can summon a wind to take us across the Scabbard. So can any other Qirsi who has mists and winds. You should rest.”
He regarded her briefly, his expression mild. “You serve me well.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
The wind died away. “All right then. Share the burden with others. I don’t want any of you growing too weary. Steer us east of Cormorant Island, and then follow the Eibithar shore toward Falcon Bay. Wake me when we’re close enough to see Braedon’s war ships.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
He started to walk away, then paused, touching her cheek with a gentle hand. It seemed to Nitara that he summoned a soft flame, so great was the warmth that traveled through her body during that brief caress. A moment later he moved on, leaving her shivering in the cool night air as she gazed after him.
The ship sailed the glasslike waters of the Scabbard throughout what remained of the night, no doubt presenting a strange sight to those who saw her from the shores of Braedon and Eibithar. It was a windless night, still as death, and yet the vessel skimmed across the brine like a shearwater, her sails full, her bow carving the surface of the inlet. Nitara summoned the wind herself for some time, before giving over to Gorlan. He, in turn, passed the task to one of the men recruited in Curtell City, who then gave way to a woman from Ayvencalde. All told, seven summoned winds to propel the ship toward Falcon Bay. By the time morning broke and the Weaver returned to th
e deck, they were well past Cormorant Island. Wantrae Island loomed before them, pale blue in the early morning light. The waters remained calm, the sky clear. They would have no trouble with the weather.
“You’ve done well,” the Weaver said after looking about for some time, as if to determine their position. “But we have need of haste.” All of them were watching him. It seemed to Nitara that the others couldn’t help themselves. Certainly she couldn’t. He turned to her now, beckoning to her with a gesture. Crossing to where he stood, she bowed, then waited.
“Open yourself to me,” he commanded, his voice low.
A moment later, she felt him touch her mind, and there arose around her a gale the likes of which none of the Qirsi, herself included, had been able to raise alone. The ship leaped forward, leaning heavily alee, and the others scrambled to grab hold of something.
“I want others with winds to join us here,” Dusaan called over the rush of the wind he had summoned. Several stepped forward, and the gale began to strengthen, until it seemed that the ship would tear itself apart. The hull held, however, as did the sail, and the Weaver’s windstorm propelled them past Eibithar’s coastline and the islands of the upper Scabbard as if the ship were being pulled by a team of Sanbiri stallions.
Nitara knew that she should be tiring-a Qirsi’s powers were finite. To tax oneself beyond endurance was to risk utter exhaustion, even illness or death. Yet with the Weaver wielding her magic for her, blending it with his own and that of the other Qirsi, she hardly grew weary. She might have been doing gleanings in a festival tent for all the effort the Weaver required of her. Glancing at the others, she saw them smiling with wonder at the wind they had called forth. At midday they rested, taking a meal and speaking of how easy it had been to drive the ship toward Galdasten. Clearly the Weaver had been taxed far more than had they. As soon as they stopped, he went below deck, his face wan and damp. Nitara wanted to follow, but she knew that he didn’t want her with him. Instead she waited with the others, and before long Dusaan returned, looking refreshed.
“Shall we continue?” was all he said. Soon they were cutting through the tide once more, gliding beneath Curgh Castle, perched atop the rocky cliffs above them, and past the sheer cliffs of Eibithar’s northwest coast.
Late in the day, as they approached the mouth of Falcon Bay, Nitara saw the Braedony war ships, sails lowered and sweeps extended for combat, the red and gold painted on their bows glowing in the light of the setting sun. Beyond them, arrayed as if for battle, a second set of ships advanced, their sails lowered as well.
She glanced at the Weaver, wondering if he had expected this, afraid that perhaps he hadn’t.
“The Wethy fleet,” he said. “No doubt the men and women of Galdasten believe their salvation is at hand. If any ships can best those of the empire, Wethyrn’s can.” He smiled. “It doesn’t matter.”
They sailed on, steering toward the heart of the emperor’s navy, and as they drew close, the Weaver strengthened his gale still more, sending it beyond the sails of the Qirsi vessel so that it battered the ships of Braedon. At first the men of the emperor’s fleet ignored the Qirsi vessel. It was but one boat and the soldiers were far more concerned with the strange, powerful wind that had struck at them so suddenly. But as the Weaver’s ship bore down on them, the soldiers finally noticed. Rowing furiously, the oarsmen on several of the vessels managed to turn their boats toward the Qirsi ship, increasing their speed as if to ram. As the distance between the ships closed, one of the men on the lead vessel recognized Dusaan.
“High Chancellor!” he called, raising a hand in greeting, his face a mask of puzzlement.
“Shapers,” the Weaver said without raising his voice. Immediately the shapers stepped forward, and an instant later, the advancing ships crumpled, as if some unseen fist had hammered down upon them. Men tumbled into the cold waters of the bay, some of them screaming, others too shocked to make any sound at all.
Too late, the fleet captains tried to turn their vessels to meet this new challenge. The Weaver and his shapers destroyed these ships as easily as they had the others, spilling more bodies into the sea, turning Braedon’s vaunted navy into little more than jagged scraps of wood and shattered oars. Still the Qirsi ship sailed on, barely slowing as it passed by the ruins of the fleet.
“Fire,” Dusaan said, and more Qirsi moved to stand near him.
The men on the Wethy vessels, who had cheered upon seeing the Braedony ships smashed, now began to shout warnings to one another. A thin line of golden flame appeared on the surface of the water and began to roll toward Wethyrn’s navy, building like a wave as it went, until it towered above the vessels, menacing them like some demon sent by the fire goddess. The Wethy oarsmen tried to reverse course and outrun the wall of fire, but to no avail. The blaze crashed down upon them, blackening wood and flesh alike, making the water hiss and seethe, sending great clouds of steam into the sky.
The ship slowed and the wind around them diminished until it was but a faint breeze. The Weaver looked weary again, but he wore a grim smile as he surveyed the waters around them.
Eandi soldiers would have cheered after such a victory, but the Qirsi standing near the Weaver made not a sound. They seemed awed by what they had done, perhaps even a bit frightened, though Nitara felt certain that this would pass.
“What now, Weaver?” B’Serre asked, her voice barely carrying over the sound of water lapping at the sides of the ship.
“Now, I rest, and those of you with mists and winds steer us into the port of Galdasten. If you meet resistance, call for me. Otherwise, come for me when we’ve tied on to the pier. We’ll take Galdasten tonight. Two of my chancellors await us in the city, to join our assault on the castle and add their number to my army. Tomorrow we ride to the Moorlands. And there, we’ll destroy what’s left of the Eandi armies.”
Chapter Nine
Galdasten, Eibithar
It had been two days since Renald led his soldiers out of the castle in pursuit of Braedon’s army, four since he defied her, choosing to follow the counsel of his fool of a swordmaster and the first minister who, Elspeth was certain, had betrayed them all to the conspiracy. The duchess tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter, that Renald would have made a poor king whose reign would do more to sully the Galdasten name than glorify it. But it wasn’t her husband for whom she had harbored ambitions; the fact that none of her sons would ever wear the crown made her seethe like Amon’s Ocean on a stormy day. If only she had been born into the Matriarchy of Sanbira where her keen mind would have allowed her to do more than merely recognize her duke’s many flaws, and her path to power wouldn’t have been blocked by the man’s weakness and timidity.
Even if he returned from this battle to which he had ridden, she would never again allow him into her bed. Let him fill his court with bastards, he’d take no more pleasure in her flesh. She would gladly take a lover herself and bear him a child, announcing to all that the babe wasn’t Renald’s, if the punishment for such a thing were not so severe. A part of her wanted just to kill Renald and be done with it, and not for the first time she found herself hoping that he wouldn’t survive the war. She knew, however, that the man’s death would do little to enhance the station of her sons. Renald the Younger would become duke a bit sooner, but he’d never have more. And Adler and Rory would both still be tied to their paltry thaneships. They deserved better fates.
More to the point, Galdasten deserved to be led by a great man. Elspeth had lived in the dukedom all her life and was as devoted to the house as any soldier or noble could be. Her father, the thane of Prindyr, whose title Rory would one day inherit, had been a great friend of Kell, the duke before Renald. Indeed, her father had planned to attend the feast that Kell hosted in Galdasten Castle during Morna’s turn in 872. At the last moment, however, amid fears that Elspeth, at the time a young lady just past her Fating, had come down with the pestilence, he remained in Prindyr. Hers turned out to be an ordinary fever, one that saved h
er father’s life. For that was the feast to which a madman brought vermin infected with the pestilence, killing the duke and his family, and dooming Galdasten to four generations of inconsequence. The House of Eagles should have been leading this realm, its banner flying above Audun’s Castle along with the purple and gold of Eibithar. Instead, its people bowed to a false king from Glyndwr, the weakest of the five major houses, and its foolish duke rode to fight on behalf of that king, thus preserving the very laws that barred his sons from the throne.
It all made Elspeth want to scream. Of course the duchess of a great house didn’t resort to such displays, so she spent her days on the castle walls, staring out at Falcon Bay and the Braedony war ships that controlled its waters. The guards stationed atop the battlements usually ignored her, having learned that they invited a sharp rebuke if they chose to offer her even the mildest greeting. She had to admit that Galdasten’s soldiers seemed in far better spirits since retaking the city. They gave little indication that they minded the presence of the emperor’s ships off their shores, as if they expected that once the war on the moors had been won, driving off the Braedony navy would be but a small matter. Elspeth doubted it would be so simple, but she kept this to herself.
It was late in the day; sunlight slanted sharply across the castle walls, casting long shadows and making the stone glow like gold. Liked winged wraiths, gulls circled lazily over Galdasten’s port, their cries plaintive and haunting. The air was still and the surface of the bay looked as smooth as polished steel.
Which made the sudden appearance of the lone ship that much stranger.
It sailed into the mouth of the bay as if pushed by Morna’s hand, skimming lightly across the surface, its sails full, its hull leaning so steeply that the straining cloth nearly touched the water. The ship flew no colors, but it sailed directly at the Braedony ships, leading Elspeth to believe that it had been sent by the emperor. Perhaps it carried a message to his commanders, or provisions of some sort, or additional men for combat.
