by DAVID B. COE
The king offered a hand to Xaver, who stared up at him for a moment before taking it and allowing Kearney to pull him to his feet.
“I’m in your debt, Master MarCullet.”
“N-not at all, Your Majesty.”
The king smiled, glancing at Tavis and then Hagan, both of whom had stopped a short distance off.
“He’s quite a warrior, swordmaster. You should be very proud.”
Hagan bowed his head, his color rising. “You honor us, Your Majesty.”
“I thought you were fighting with your father’s army today, Lord Curgh.”
It was Tavis’s turn to feel his face redden. “Yes, Your Majesty. Xaver and I … we…”
“I asked them to convey a message to you, my liege,” Tavis’s father broke in. “The fighting must have started before they could return to the Curgh lines.”
“Indeed,” the king said, raising an eyebrow. “And what message was that?”
Javan allowed himself a small smile. “I’m afraid that in the excitement of the battle, I’ve forgotten.”
Kearney nodded. “I see. Well, it’s fortunate for me that they were here, no matter how that came to pass.”
“Fortunate for all of us, my liege.”
“Thank you, Javan. How goes the rest of the battle?”
The duke’s expression sobered instantly. “The enemy has been driven back, my liege. They lost a good many men. To be honest, I don’t see how they can continue this war.”
“And what of our losses?”
“Not nearly as bad as the empire’s, my liege, but still more than I would have hoped.”
“Damn.”
Before either man could say more, Grinsa joined them, looking grim.
“Your Majesty,” the gleaner said, dropping briefly to one knee. “I’m glad to see you’re unhurt. I feared the worst.”
“Thank you, gleaner.” Kearney narrowed his eyes, as if the full import of the gleaner’s presence there on the battlefield had finally reached him. “Was it magic that made my horse rear?”
“Yes, it was. I tried to stop him, but couldn’t act quickly enough.”
“Who was responsible?”
“One of your healers, Your Majesty. A man named Lenvyd jal Qosten.”
The king frowned, seeming to search his memory. “The name is vaguely familiar. An older man, isn’t he?”
“Yes. He was left behind when you marched from the City of Kings. He followed you here, later, though only after making an attempt on Cresenne’s life.”
“It seems the gods were with me today.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Where is this man now? I want to speak with him.”
Grinsa looked away. “He’s dead.”
“Dead? You killed him?”
The gleaner’s mouth twitched, and he didn’t meet the king’s gaze. “Yes, I did.”
Kearney started to say something, then he glanced at the others standing with them and appeared to think better of it. In the end, he merely said, “We’ll speak of this again, gleaner.”
Grinsa inclined his head slightly. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
Kearney began to lead his men and the other nobles back toward the camp. Hagan put an arm around Xaver’s shoulder and steered him after the king, his anger seemingly overmastered by his relief, at least for the moment.
“You and I will speak a bit later, as well,” Javan told Tavis, sounding cross, and fixing him with an icy glare.
“Yes, Father.”
The duke turned and walked away, leaving Tavis alone with Grinsa.
“Sounds like we’re both in a bit of trouble,” the young lord said.
“I suppose.”
“Why did you kill that man, Grinsa?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He started away, but Tavis grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop and face him.
“That’s too bad. I want an answer.”
Grinsa shrugged off his hand, just as Tavis would have had their roles been reversed. “You want…” the gleaner repeated, shaking his head. “What business is this of yours?”
“I’m your friend, Grinsa. It’s as much my business as everything else that’s happened in the past year. And if that’s not enough, it’s my business because I’m depending on you to defeat the Weaver. So is everyone else on this plain. I need to know if you’re able to do that, or if your feelings for Cresenne are going to get in the way.”
“How dare you!” The gleaner spun away again.
“You killed him for vengeance, didn’t you?” Tavis called after him. “You once accused me of pursuing Cadel just to get revenge, but you just did the same thing. Isn’t that so?”
The gleaner halted, his hands balled into fists. After a moment, he turned, and stalked back to where Tavis still stood, looking so angry that for a moment the boy thought Grinsa was going to hit him.
“This wasn’t the same,” he said. “The man was Qirsi. He had language of beasts. He was still a threat to the king and everyone else with a mount.”
“Cadel was still an assassin. Wasn’t he a threat?”
“The Weaver could have contacted this man. He could have learned a great deal from him.”
“How much more does the Weaver need to know, Grinsa? He knows where we are, how many men we have.”
Grinsa looked off to the side, his lips pressed thin. It was, Tavis realized, the first time he had ever seen the gleaner truly ashamed of something he had done.
“I don’t blame you for doing it,” the young lord said, as gently as he could. “I would have done the same thing.”
Grinsa’s eyes flicked in his direction for just a second.
“Of course, that might only make you feel worse.”
The gleaner smiled, shaking his head again. After a moment he began to laugh quietly. “Well, it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Tavis laughed in turn.
“The truth is, I’m not sure why I killed him,” Grinsa admitted, turning serious once more. “I did it without thinking. He told me that he had poisoned her, and I killed him. It wasn’t out of vengeance. It was just rage.”
The young lord nodded. “I understand. But it’s one thing to act on your rage with a healer. It’s quite another to do it with the Weaver.”
“I don’t need you telling me that. Truly, Tavis, I don’t.”
Tavis shrugged. “Then I won’t speak of it again.”
They returned to the camp, where they found the king speaking with Sanbira’s queen and the rest of the nobles. A few of the Qirsi were there as well, but not many.
“Gleaner,” Kearney called as they approached. “Have you seen the archminister?”
Grinsa faltered in midstride. “Demons and fire! Keziah!”
“What is it?” Tavis asked.
“I’ve no time to explain. We have to find them!”
“Them?”
“The archministers.”
* * *
Her hand still throbbed, but Keziah’s tears had stopped. She refused to grieve any more. Either Kearney had died, or he hadn’t. Either Grinsa would find a way to overcome the betrayals of the Qirsi around her, or he wouldn’t. She couldn’t help her beloved king, nor could she fight her brother’s battles for him. All she could do was fight for herself, and she had every intention of doing that.
Abeni was still with her, as was the first minister of Macharzo, whose name, it seemed, was Craeffe. A third traitor, a man who served as first minister of Norinde, was nearby, apparently watching for any sign that others were headed this way, though Keziah couldn’t see him. They were in a tight circle of hulking boulders, sheltered from the wind and the failing sunlight, and hidden from view.
“They’re going to be missing her,” Craeffe was saying now, her thin face looking grey in the shadows. “We should kill her and be done with it.”
Abeni looked bored. “We gain nothing by killing her. If she turns up dead, suspicion will fall on us and we’ll have gained nothing. Alive, she
’s a valuable tool, and a way of controlling Grinsa.”
“She betrayed the Weaver. Don’t you think he’d want her dead?”
“Actually, I expect he’d want to kill her himself.” She looked at Keziah. “Don’t you agree, Archminister?”
“Craeffe is right,” Keziah said, through clenched teeth. “You should kill me and be done with it. I’ll never help you, and-”
The rest of the thought was lost in a paroxysm of agony as yet another bone in her hand shattered. That made four now. Only her thumb remained whole. And, of course, the other hand. Better just to die than endure this.
“Don’t be so certain that you won’t help us,” Abeni said. “Torture does strange things to people.”
“We can’t keep her hidden forever.”
“We don’t have to, Craeffe. It will be nightfall soon, and the Weaver should be near. Once it’s dark, we’ll strike out westward until we’re clear of the camps. Then we’ll turn toward the north and find the Weaver’s army.”
“They’ll be looking for us, for her. We’ll be killed before we ever get near the Weaver.”
“What was it the Weaver told you to do?” Abeni asked her again, bringing her face close to Keziah’s.
She closed her eyes and looked away, bracing herself for what she knew would come. Even so, when the bone in her thumb broke, she collapsed to the ground, crying out in pain and cradling her hand.
“It’s a simple question, Keziah,” the archminister said, standing over her. “Surely it can’t be worth all this. Besides, I think I know. He wanted you to kill the king, didn’t he? That was why that other man was doing it, and you were watching, looking so horrified it was almost amusing.” Abeni kicked Keziah’s hand. The bones within her discolored flesh felt as if they were aflame. “Am I right?”
Keziah merely whimpered, unable to say more.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere. Just kill her already. We can claim that she was a traitor to her realm, that we saw her flee after the king fell.”
“Her brother won’t believe that. Besides, we really have no choice but to keep her alive. If I’m not mistaken, she’s already told Grinsa that we’re with the movement. Haven’t you, Keziah?”
At that, Keziah opened her eyes, glaring up at the woman. “Yes, I did. He knows about all three of you, and he’ll never give you the opportunity to get away. You’re going to die on this plain, Abeni. You might as well kill me, too. That’s the best you can hope for.”
Abeni’s brow creased, and she crouched down beside her. “Why are you so anxious for me to kill you? Is it fear of the Weaver? Is it that you know what he’ll do to you when next you sleep?”
She looked away again.
“Yes,” Abeni said, standing once more. “I thought so. You’re right to be afraid. The pain in your hand will be nothing next to his punishment.” She turned back to Craeffe. “The gleaner knows that we’re with the movement. Keziah here is our only hope of getting away alive. If we kill her, Grinsa won’t hesitate to kill us. But so long as she lives, he’ll try to find some way to save her. Won’t he, Keziah?”
Before she could think of a response, the other Qirsi stepped into their small shelter.
“What is it, Filtem?”
“Someone’s coming. A Qirsi. I couldn’t make out his face.”
“Did he see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good. Be silent, both of you.” An instant later Abeni was beside her again, hurriedly binding her hands and tying a gag over her mouth. “Not a sound,” she whispered, her mouth almost touching Keziah’s ear. She pulled her dagger free and held the hilt of it just over Keziah’s hand, as if ready to strike her. “You’ll suffer mightily for any noise you make, and whoever he is will die if he comes near us.”
Keziah eyed the woman, wishing she could kill her, cursing Qirsar for giving her magics that could not avail her in such times. But in the end she just nodded, drawing a dark smile from the archminister.
She strained to hear, desperate for any sign that someone had come to rescue her, but she heard nothing, save the breathing of the three traitors. At one point, she thought she heard a light footfall just beyond the stones that surrounded them, and she knew a moment of hope that almost made her forget her anguish. But no one entered the circle, and after hearing nothing more, she felt her despair return, and with it the brutal pulsing in her hand.
Abeni made a small motion, catching Filtem’s eye. She pointed at him, then gestured toward the narrow entrance to the circle and pulled her dagger free.
Filtem appeared to understand. Drawing his own blade, he crept to the entrance and slipped out, as silent and graceful as a cat.
This time she definitely heard something, or someone. It sounded like a brief struggle, just beyond the stones, and then a quick, sharp intake of breath. A moment later, a thick mist began to seep into the circle. It built quickly, until Keziah could see nothing of her captors or the boulders surrounding them. She heard footsteps within the circle, though they seemed unsteady. One of the women shouted something and there was a dry cracking sound followed by the thud of a body falling to the ground.
A sudden wind swept through the stones, clearing away the mist. And there, in the center of the circle, lay Filtem, a dagger jutting from his chest, his eyes open but sightless, his legs bent at improbable angles.
“Filtem!” Craeffe shrieked, flying to his side and cradling his head in her lap.
“Damn,” Abeni muttered.
Craeffe glowered at the archminister, her face streaked with tears. “You fool! Look what you’ve gotten us into!”
“Shut up and let me think.”
“What’s there to think about? The gleaner’s out there! We’re dead!”
“Don’t be an idiot. If it was Grinsa, he wouldn’t be playing these games. He’d simply take hold of our magic and destroy us.” Abeni shook her head. “No, it’s someone else.” After a moment’s consideration she roughly pulled Keziah to her feet and held her dagger to the woman’s throat.
“Show yourself,” she called out, “or the archminister dies!”
There was no response.
With her free hand, Abeni pulled off Keziah’s gag. “Tell him,” she commanded.
“She’s a shaper!” Keziah shouted immediately. “And she has mists-” Agony. A terrible pain in her ear and hot blood running down the side of her head and neck.
Abeni pressed the bloodied blade against her throat again. “Damn you! I should kill you now!”
“You can’t, and you know it.”
White-hot pain exploded in her other hand.
“Get up, Craeffe. I need your help.”
The other woman gazed down at Filtem for another moment, crying still.
“He’s dead, Craeffe. There’s nothing more you can do for him. But we can still save ourselves.”
“How?”
“We’ve still got the advantage. That’s but one man out there. If there were two they’d have attacked by now.”
Craeffe climbed to her feet, wiping the tears from her face. “What do you suggest?”
“We need to remain together. I should never have sent Filtem out there alone-that was my mistake. But as long as we stay together and keep the archminister with us, there’s nothing he can do. We’re both shapers, after all.”
As Abeni spoke, she relaxed her grip on Keziah slightly. Not much-the woman probably didn’t even notice that she had done so. But Keziah did, and now she did the only thing she could. Moving as quickly as she ever had, she stamped her foot on Abeni’s and at the same time threw back her elbow, catching the woman full in the breast.
Abeni gasped, then cursed, but Keziah had already flung herself away from the woman, falling to the ground and rolling until she reached the edge of the ring.
The pain in her hands was nearly more than she could bear, but she managed to shout out, “I’m free!”
Immediately, mist began to fill the circle again, driven by a strong wind. Ther
e were footsteps, the sudden rustling of cloth, and then that awful, familiar sound of snapping bone. A moment later a second body fell to the earth.
Keziah felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach.
Yet another wind whipped through the circle, and when the mist had cleared, Keziah nearly cried out with joy.
Craeffe was lying on the grass, utterly motionless. And standing over her was Fotir jal Salene, his brilliant yellow eyes fixed on Abeni.
“It seems you and I wield the same powers, Archminister,” he said to her. He glanced at Keziah for just an instant. “Are you all right?”
“Well enough.”
He nodded, facing the traitor again.
“Take even a single step toward me, and I’ll break her neck,” Abeni said. “If you’re a shaper, you know that I can.”
“And you know that I can do the same to you.”
“Then it seems neither of us has the advantage.”
How many times had Keziah found herself in such a circumstance: helpless to defend herself, depending on another-Grinsa, or Kearney, or Gershon Trasker, or Fotir-to guard her life? She was tired of feeling helpless, of living in fear of the Weaver and his servants, of accepting the suspicions of others as the price of her decision to join the conspiracy. She ached to strike out at any one of her many enemies. And here was Abeni.
Fotir and Sanbira’s archminister were too intent on each other to take notice of her, or to see what she did as she looked up at the two of them.
High over the ring of stones, black as night against the deepening blue of the twilight sky, a lone falcon was gliding in slow circles. It was a long way, and Keziah was weary with grief and pain. But still she cast her thoughts upward, reaching for the bird’s mind, and touching it with her magic. Language of beasts. Many times she had used this power to calm an anxious horse, and once, years before, she had escaped uninjured from an encounter with a wild dog in the Glyndwr Highlands. But never before had she attempted to communicate anything to a wild bird, much less one as fierce as this hawk.
