by DAVID B. COE
“The day you told me you were a Weaver, you listed those who knew-Keziah, Tavis, Cresenne, and another you wouldn’t name. It was Fotir, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And how much longer can our circle remain so small?”
Grinsa shook his head. “Not much, I fear.”
“Aindreas will call for your head. So will Shanstead. I don’t know about the others, but I can’t imagine they’ll be willing to embrace you as an ally.”
“They have to!” Keziah said. “Who else among us can fight the Weaver?”
“I don’t disagree with you, Kez. I’m just telling you what I know to be true.”
“The question is, Your Majesty, what will you do? If you support me, the others may follow. Perhaps not Kentigern, nor even Shanstead, but the rest. Certainly Javan will. He knows what I’ve done for Tavis, and the boy will speak to him on my behalf. I sense that the queen might support me as well, though some of her nobles might speak against it. Ultimately, though, this is up to you.”
Kearney looked back across the battle plain, then stared up at the crows and vultures circling overhead. “My father used to say that we don’t choose our allies so much as find them. The hardest part, he said, was recognizing them in time.” He met Grinsa’s gaze. “I’ll support you, gleaner. I haven’t much choice in the matter, and even if I did, you’ve proved your good faith time and again. I’d be a fool not to stand with you.”
Grinsa bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Shall we speak to them now?”
“Not yet. There’s something I want to do first. With your permission, I’d wait until morning.”
“All right. May I ask what it is you intend to do?”
“I’m going to try to enter the Weaver’s dreams.”
“What?” Keziah whispered.
“We need to know where he is, and, if possible, what he’s planning. This is the only way I can think of to learn both.”
“Is there any danger to you?” the king asked.
“No. I’ll be in his mind. The worst he can do is drive me out. But it may be that I can hurt him.”
“Very well.” The king halted, as did Keziah and Grinsa. “I’ll be eager to hear how you fare.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“I should return to the armies.”
“May I have a moment with Grinsa, Your Majesty?”
“Of course.” He nodded to the gleaner, who bowed once more in return. Then he turned and started back toward the soldiers.
“You think I’m wrong to try,” Grinsa said.
“I think the risks are greater than you made them sound just now.”
“He can’t hurt me, Kezi.”
“Maybe not. But he can sense your thoughts, your fears. I know, because I’ve sensed his. Not enough to learn much, but I’m not a Weaver. You may give away as much as you learn. You could even reveal that I’m your sister.”
“I won’t.”
“But you could.”
“At the first sign of danger, I’ll break contact with him. You have my word.”
She looked like she might say more, but in the end she merely nodded and walked away, leaving Grinsa alone amid the grasses and stones.
The truth was, Grinsa didn’t have to enter the Weaver’s dreams at all. He had only to reach for him. He could search the land for the man without actually entering his mind. That would tell him where Dusaan jal Kania and his army could be found. But Grinsa wanted this confrontation. Twice before they had met, once when he pulled Cresenne out of her dream of the man, thus saving her life, and again when the Weaver came to him, and nearly managed to turn Grinsa’s own magic against him. Eventually they would face each other in battle, probably on this very moor. It seemed as inevitable as the new day. They were tied to one another, their strange bond forged of hatred and the powers they shared; of the Weaver’s ambition and Grinsa’s need to avenge all that Dusaan had done to Cresenne and Keziah. But during their previous encounter, when Braedon’s high chancellor entered his dreams, Grinsa had found himself overmatched. Before their final battle, he needed to prove to himself that he could defeat this man, that his powers ran as deep as those of the renegade Weaver.
After some time, as the sun finally began to dip toward the western horizon, Grinsa returned to the Curgh camp to look for Tavis. Before he reached the boy, though, he was accosted by Marston of Shanstead. The thane had two soldiers with him, as if he feared approaching a Qirsi unguarded. His grey eyes were watchful, scanning from side to side as he walked, and he rested a hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword.
“I know what you have in mind to do,” Shanstead said without preamble, his voice low and tense. “And I’d advise you against it.”
For just an instant, Grinsa wondered if the man really did know, if he had discovered Grinsa’s secret and learned of his intention to speak with the Weaver. In the next moment, he dismissed the idea. This man hated all Qirsi, save his own minister. No doubt he meant to accuse Grinsa of some foul crime against the king.
“What is it you think you know, my lord?”
“I know that the archminister is a traitor, and I see the two of you plotting together. I know as well that you’ve lied about your powers in the past. Aindreas and Javan, who can barely agree on the time of day, concur on that much.” He took a step closer, tightening his grip on his weapon. “I’m watching you, gleaner. And your friend as well. If one of you should so much as look askance at the king, I’ll crush you both. Do you understand?”
Shanstead, he realized in that moment, was precisely the sort of Eandi that drove Qirsi to the Weaver and his movement. This type of blind distrust and blustering animosity had done more to weaken the Forelands than had any white-haired traitor. Grinsa would have liked to shatter the man’s blade, or set his hair ablaze. Instead, he offered a thin smile. “I assure you, Lord Shanstead, the king has nothing to fear from his archminister or from me. What’s more, he knows this. It’s a pity you’re too much a fool to see it for yourself.”
“How dare you speak to me so!”
“I could say much the same thing, my lord.” And stepping around the man, Grinsa continued on toward the Curgh lines. He half expected Shanstead to follow, and a part of him wished the man would, so that he’d have an excuse to use his magic. But the thane merely stared after him as Grinsa wove his way through a maze of soldiers and past the wounded. When he found Tavis, his hands were still trembling with rage.
“There you are,” the young lord said as Grinsa approached him. “I’ve been hearing all sorts of stories about you.” He had been smiling, but seeing the gleaner’s expression he grew serious. “What’s happened?”
Grinsa shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me. I know you too well, Grinsa.”
“Nothing of importance. Really.” Knowing the boy wouldn’t be satisfied by this, he gestured vaguely at the battle plain. “Shanstead just accused Keziah and me of plotting against the king.”
“Shanstead’s an idiot.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you.”
“Do you want me to speak with the king?”
The gleaner had to smile. Tavis had grown a good deal in the past year. “No, thank you,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Shanstead’s suspicions will prove useful as long as Keziah is still maintaining her deception.”
“I suppose.”
“Tell me about these stories you’re hearing.”
“Actually most of them are coming from my father. He’s saying that along with Fotir and the archminister, you held off the entire Aneiran army.”
Grinsa laughed. “That’s not quite true.”
“Still, that’s what he’s saying. He also told me that Aindreas accused you of putting a hole in his castle so that I could escape. Now, he said as well that Fotir claimed to have shaped the hole himself, but my father doesn’t believe that for a moment.” He paused, eyeing the gleaner. “You do see where I’m going with
all this.”
“I do,” the gleaner said, rubbing a hand over his face. It wasn’t as funny anymore.
“He wasn’t just telling stories, Grinsa. He took me aside and started asking questions about you, about your powers, about what I’ve seen you do during our journeys together. My father’s no fool. He may not know as much about Qirsi magic as I do at this point, but he’s going to figure this out. He might have already.”
“What will he do when he does?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need his support, Tavis. With Shanstead telling everyone who’ll listen that I’m a traitor, and Aindreas still bitter over your escape, I’ll need all the friends-”
“You’re going to tell them?”
“I haven’t much choice. Even now, the king is preparing for a final battle with the empire. I can’t allow that to happen. If these armies destroy one another, we’ve no hope of defeating the Weaver. As it is, we might have lost too many men already. I intend to reveal to the nobles that I’m a Weaver, to try to make them see what it is we face. I’m hoping that I can convince them to sue for peace with the Braedony army.”
“They won’t do it.”
“They have to.”
Tavis shrugged. “They won’t. You’ve taught me a good deal about your people and your magic during this past year. Now, let me tell you something about the Eandi courts of Eibithar. They don’t tolerate invasions. It amazes me that you convinced them to spare the lives of those Solkarans. You might get them to do the same with what’s left of the empire’s force, but you’ll never convince them to sue for peace, much less fight beside them. I do know what’s at stake, and I’ve half a mind to destroy their army anyway.”
“I understand what you’re telling me. But still, I have to try.”
“I know you do,” Tavis said, sighing. “I’ll do all I can to convince my father. He can be stubborn, although no more so than I.” A smile touched his lips and was gone. “After all you’ve done for me, he won’t be one of those calling for your execution. I can promise you that.”
“Thank you, Tavis.”
“Have you told Keziah what you intend to do?”
“Yes.” Grinsa faltered, but only briefly. Tavis should know all of it. He had earned that much. “You should also know that I intend to enter the Weaver’s dreams tonight.”
He expected the young lord to express amazement, or perhaps to tell him that he was a fool. Instead Tavis just nodded, and said, “Be careful.”
“I will.”
They stood in awkward silence for several moments. It seemed to Grinsa that they had reached some sort of ending, as if all that they had shared since Tavis’s escape from Kentigern was drawing to a close. And strangely, the gleaner found himself saddened by this.
“I suppose everything is going to be different once others know,” the boy said. The smile sprang to his lips again, looking forced and bitter among the scars Aindreas had left on his face. Once Grinsa had thought that the scars fit the boy, giving him a hardened look that was a match for his difficult manner. That was when they first began to journey together. Over the course of the past year, however, as they searched for Brienne’s assassin and prepared for this war, their relationship changed. Tavis changed. Where once he had been a selfish, undisciplined child, he now stood before Grinsa a man, still with his faults to be sure, but more mature than the gleaner would have thought possible. With time, perhaps, as Tavis’s face aged, adding other lines, and softening the effect of the old wounds, he’d look wise and strong. That struck Grinsa as more apt now.
“I won’t be the notorious one anymore,” Tavis said after a moment. “They’ll all be looking at you.”
“I’d think that you’d welcome that.”
“I guess I should.”
“But?”
Tavis shrugged, then shook his head. “But nothing.” The smile lingered, grew warmer. “What a pair we make.”
Before Grinsa could answer, Tavis stepped forward and gathered him in a rough embrace.
“Thank you, Grinsa,” he whispered. Then he pulled back, turned away, and hurried off.
The gleaner wandered off in a different direction, eventually taking a seat on a large grey stone and watching the sun set. As darkness gathered around the armies, the soldiers lit fires and the faint smell of roasting fowl reached him. He hadn’t eaten since morning, but he wasn’t hungry. He remained where he was, watching as stars began to spread across the night sky. Fragments of conversations reached him, occasionally he heard a burst of laughter, or the sound of rough voices singing some Eibitharian or Sanbiri folk song. After some time, Keziah came to him and sat as well. He thought that she would resume her argument against what he was planning, but she said nothing, just rested her head on his shoulder, and stared up at the stars. Eventually she began to nod off, jerking herself awake more than once. At last she stood, yawning deeply. Gazing at him in the darkness, she smiled sadly. Then she kissed his cheek, gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and moved off, leaving him alone with the soft wind and the distant, mournful cry of an owl.
Still he waited, watching for the moons. Only when both were up, did he finally close his eyes and stretch his mind forth, searching for the Weaver. He had known to look northward, expecting that Dusaan would be on the waters beyond Galdasten. Instead, he found the Weaver in the company of nearly two hundred Qirsi on the moors south of the castle, only a few days’ ride from the battle plain. Fear gripped him and he nearly opened his eyes once more and went immediately to Kearney. But such a warning could wait a short while-Dusaan and his army weren’t on the move just now. And the truth was, Grinsa wanted to face this man again. He wanted to prove to himself, and to the Weaver, that he could stand against the high chancellor’s power. He wasn’t proud of this-it was something he would have expected of Tavis, not himself-but there could be no denying the strength of the impulse. It was more than he could resist.
Taking one long, final breath, he entered Dusaan’s mind.
He had chosen the moors near Eardley for their encounter-the same place he usually spoke to Keziah when he entered her dreams. It was where he felt most comfortable; he wanted to keep all his attention on the Weaver and what he said, without having to give a thought to their surroundings. Still, he made certain that the sun was high overhead. Dusaan liked to hide his face during such encounters. Grinsa wouldn’t allow him that luxury.
An instant later, Dusaan stood before him, dressed in warrior’s garb, an amused grin on his square face.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said.
Without bothering to respond, Grinsa reached for the man’s power-shaping first, then fire, then healing. Dusaan blocked his efforts with ease.
“You disappoint me, gleaner. You didn’t really think that you’d best me with such a predictable attack.”
“It was worth trying.”
Dusaan shrugged indifferently. “I suppose, though it seems to me that you do our relationship a disservice.”
“We have no relationship.”
“No? I walk in your dreams, you walk in mine.” He smiled. “People will talk.”
Again Grinsa tried to take hold of the Weaver’s healing power, but Dusaan had an iron grip on all his magic. The gleaner sensed no fear in the man. Only confidence, an unshakable faith in his own strength and the inevitability of his victory.
“Be honest with me, Grinsa. You’ve never known another Weaver, have you?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Nor have I. We share something unique. Before this moment, no one had ever entered my dreams as you’ve done. Just as I was the first to walk in your dreams. You can protest all you like, but we share a kinship, even if it is based solely on our desire to kill one another.”
“We’re both Weavers, but beyond that we have nothing at all in common. I’ve seen the things you do-you’re cruel, arbitrary, ambitious beyond reason.”
The Weaver shook his head, making a clicking noise with his tongue. “All this beca
use I hurt your love? You judge me too harshly.”
Grinsa didn’t answer immediately. He needed to be more careful. As Keziah had told him, the Weaver could sense his emotions, and the last thing Grinsa wanted was to betray his sister’s secret.
“I know what I’ve seen,” he said at last.
“Cresenne betrayed me. Can you honestly say that an Eandi lord wouldn’t do the same to a traitor?”
“That’s a strange defense of your actions. You speak of a new future for the Qirsi people, and yet you look to the Eandi courts to justify torture.”
“Don’t try to goad me, Grinsa. It won’t work, nor is it necessary. No doubt you wish to know my plans, to divine the ploys I intend to use against your Eandi friends. The truth is, there are no ploys. I plan to lead my army onto the Moorlands and defeat the armies of the Forelands in battle. You found me, so you know where we are and how many I command. I don’t care. I’m sure you count it a victory that you can see my face, but at this point that doesn’t concern me, either. I’ve nothing to fear from Kearney and his allies, or from you for that matter. I defeated the emperor’s army with but a handful of Qirsi. I took Ayvencalde with less than half the number of Qirsi I have now. My army is the most powerful force to travel the Forelands in nine hundred years. There isn’t an army you could assemble that would stand against us.”
“That army of nine centuries ago was defeated, and yours will be as well.”
A bright angry grin lit the Weaver’s face. “No, Grinsa. You’re wrong. The Qirsi army of old was betrayed. But I know these Qirsi-my Qirsi. There’s no Carthach here.”
“How can you be so certain?”
Dusaan’s grin deepened. “Because you’re the only Carthach in the Forelands. You’ve already betrayed your people, and we’re going to prevail in spite of you.”
Now who was doing the goading? Grinsa shouldn’t have been bothered, but this talk of Carthach-why had he even mentioned the ancient traitor in the first place? — hewed too closely to his own deepest fears to be ignored. He knew that this man before him was not fit to lead his people, much less all the realms of the Forelands. But he knew as well that his people deserved to be treated better than they were by Eandi nobility, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he would be remembered as the Weaver who betrayed his people by fighting to save their oppressors.
