Weavers of War wotf-5

by DAVID B. COE

  At first she feared that the creature would refuse to heed her request. But she maintained her hold on the falcon’s mind, conveying to it all that Abeni had done to her, and after several moments she sensed the bird’s acquiescence. She saw it pull in its wings and begin a steep dive toward the circle of stones.

  Glancing at Fotir and Abeni again, Keziah saw that they were still staring at one another. Fotir was saying something, but Keziah could not hear him, so absorbed was she in the strange thoughts of the falcon-dizzying images of hunting on the wing, of tearing into the warm, bloody flesh of a ptarmigan, of the bird’s sickening descent toward the Qirsi woman standing over her. Keziah shook her head, trying to break free of the creature’s mind.

  In the next instant, she heard Abeni scream in shock and pain as the bird raked the back of her head with its outstretched talons. The falcon called out as well, a sharp, repetitive cry that echoed among the boulders as the bird climbed into the sky again.

  Releasing her hold on the falcon, Keziah found her sight momentarily clouded, her thoughts muddled. By the time she could see and think clearly again, Abeni lay prone on the grasses beside Craeffe, their heads jutting from their bodies at similar angles.

  “You killed her,” Keziah said, knowing that she sounded simple.

  “You didn’t want me to?”

  “No, I did. I just…” Abruptly she was sobbing, her body shaking so violently that she wondered if she would ever be able to stand. “Thank you,” she managed.

  Fotir crossed to where she lay and reached to untie her hands. When she gasped at his first touch, he stopped, wincing as if he too were in pain.

  “I’m sorry. Should I leave the bonds?”

  She shook her head, taking a long breath. “Please, untie them. I’ll bear it as best I can.”

  Keziah had to grit her teeth and bite back more than one cry as he struggled with Abeni’s knot, but in a few moments her maimed hands were free.

  “Thank you,” she whispered again.

  “Of course. Let’s get you to a healer.”

  “Take me to my brother.”

  Fotir frowned. “Your brother?”

  With all the secrets she had kept and revealed in recent turns, not only to this man, but to so many others, she found it hard to remember what remained hidden and what didn’t.

  “Grinsa,” she said. “Grinsa is my brother.”

  He stared at her a moment, shaking his head. “Your brother,” he whispered. “Yes, of course. I’ll take you to him.”

  He lifted her into his arms as if she were but a child and carried her out of the ring of boulders.

  “Is Kearney all right?” she asked suddenly, remembering all that happened before Abeni began to hurt her.

  “I don’t know,” Fotir said. “The gleaner asked me to keep watch on you. I left the battle before it ended.”

  “He asked you to watch me?”

  Fotir smiled, his eyes so golden they appeared almost orange in the evening light. “Does that surprise you?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Led by Grinsa, Kearney, and the queen of Sanbira, Qirsi and Eandi alike had begun a frantic search of the camp for Keziah and Olesya’s archminister. Tavis heard several of the king’s soldiers speaking of it as a hunt for traitors, but he didn’t bother to correct them, not knowing himself whether Grinsa and Keziah wanted it to seem just that. In fact, Tavis didn’t fully understand why Grinsa was so eager to find the archministers until Fotir walked into camp amid the commotion of the search carrying Keziah in his arms, her mangled hands livid and swollen in the twilight.

  Grinsa was at the minister’s side almost immediately, taking Keziah from him and laying her gently beside a fire.

  “What happened?” he asked, his brow deeply creased as he examined his sister’s hands.

  Fotir and Keziah exchanged a look, as if unsure as to which of them should speak. Other nobles and ministers began to gather around them, as did many soldiers from the various houses of Eibithar and Sanbira.

  “Three of them had taken her captive,” Fotir finally answered. “Sanbira’s archminister and two of her first ministers-Macharzo and Norinde, I believe.”

  The queen gaped at him, her face white as bone. “Demons and fire! Three of them, you say?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

  “Where are they now?” Grinsa demanded, murder in his eyes.

  “They’re dead, in that cluster of boulders back there.”

  The gleaner blinked. “You killed all three of them? By yourself?”

  At that, Fotir smiled, sharing another look with the archminister. “Not entirely, no.”

  Grinsa faced his sister again. “Keziah?”

  Before she could say anything, Tavis heard a voice shouting, “Where is she? Is she alive?”

  A moment later, Kearney reached Keziah’s side, relief plain on his face. “Gods be praised. Are you hurt?” His eyes fell to her hands and he grimaced. “Damn!”

  “I was just about to begin healing her, Your Majesty.”

  “Who did this to her?” the king asked.

  “I’m afraid it was my archminister, Your Majesty,” Olesya said. “And two more ministers from houses in my realm. It seems the conspiracy struck hard at Sanbira, and I brought its servants into your midst.”

  “These renegades have plagued all of us, Your Highness. A healer from my own castle nearly killed me today. None of us has been immune.” He looked at Grinsa again. “I take it the traitors have been dealt with.”

  “They have, Your Majesty, thanks to Curgh’s first minister.”

  Kearney turned to Fotir and placed a hand on the Qirsi’s shoulder. “Then I’m indebted to you, Minister.”

  “You honor me, Your Majesty.”

  “Were these ministers acting on the Weaver’s orders?”

  “Forgive me for saying so, Your Majesty,” Grinsa said. “But such questions can wait for a bit. I’d like to heal the archminister’s injuries.”

  “Yes, of course, gleaner. Forgive me.” This last Kearney said to Keziah. He gazed at her a moment, then caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, seemingly heedless of all who were around them. “I don’t know what I would have done had I lost you.”

  Keziah blushed. “You’re too kind, Your Majesty.”

  The king cleared his throat, standing once more and facing Grinsa. “If you need anything for her, anything at all…”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Kearney cast one last look at his archminister, then motioned to the others standing around her. “Come. Let’s leave the gleaner to his work.”

  Tavis and the others followed the king as he walked a short distance from Keziah and Grinsa.

  “Tell me what happened, First Minister,” Kearney said, looking at Fotir.

  “Grinsa asked me to keep watch on her, Your Majesty. He expected something like this might happen. I saw them taking her south from the camp and followed at a distance, afraid of alerting them to my presence.” He shrugged, then shook his head. “As it turns out, had I acted more quickly, I might have kept them from hurting her.”

  “You saved her life, Minister. I’m certain of it.” Kearney glanced at Javan and Tavis. “Indeed, this is a fine day for the House of Curgh. First Master MarCullet saved my life, and now the first minister has saved my archminister. The people of Glyndwr will remember your deeds for centuries to come.”

  Javan bowed. “You honor my people and my house, Your Majesty.”

  Xaver, who was standing nearby beside his father, turned bright red, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Tavis was pleased for his friend, though he also felt himself grappling with an unexpected surge of jealousy.

  “I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Your Highness,” Kearney said to Sanbira’s queen, “but do you have any reason to believe that the other Qirsi in your company are disloyal?”

  Olesya shook her head, but she looked uncertain. “I don’t, Your Majesty. But rest assured, I intend to speak with
all of them before this night is through.”

  “I think all of us would be well served to do the same. I’d like my nobles to speak with their ministers immediately. Gershon,” he said to his swordmaster, “I’d like you to speak with the healers.”

  “How can we be certain that they won’t simply lie to us, Your Majesty?” Marston of Shanstead’s eyes flicked nervously from face to face. “After today, how can we be certain of anything?”

  “Surely after today you no longer suspect Keziah of being a traitor, or Grinsa, or Fotir.”

  Marston lowered his gaze. “Of course not, Your Majesty.”

  “Even under these circumstances, Lord Shanstead, we must find it within ourselves to trust and be trusted. Without Grinsa and the other Qirsi we have no chance against the Weaver and his army. Speak with your Qirsi, discern what you can from your conversations, and trust in yourselves to find the truth. That’s all any of us can do.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “We’ll speak again later,” the king said, dismissing them. “Feed yourselves, see to the wounded among your men.”

  They began to disperse, and Tavis thought to return to Grinsa’s side, in case he needed any assistance.

  “Wait a moment, Tavis,” his father said, before he had even taken a step. “I’d like a word with you.”

  Tavis cringed, then turned. Javan was standing with Hagan and Xaver. The swordmaster and duke were regarding him with the same severe expressions, while his friend simply looked chagrined.

  “Walk with us,” Javan commanded, starting southward, away from the other soldiers and nobles.

  Tavis had little choice but to join them, falling in step beside his father and walking through the matted grasses in the gathering gloom. None of them spoke, until finally Javan halted, forcing the others to do the same.

  “Would one of you care to explain to me what happened today?” he asked looking from his son to Xaver, then back to Tavis.

  “Xaver saved the king’s life,” Tavis said, careful to keep both his voice and mien neutral.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hagan suppress a grin. But clearly the duke was not amused.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it! I did not give Xaver permission to fight, nor did I give you leave to take him into battle with you under the king’s banner! In fact, I don’t remember giving you leave to fight with the King’s Guard yourself! This is the second time in as many battles that something of this sort has happened, and I grow tired-”

  “Oh Father, please stop it.”

  Javan gaped at him, opening his mouth to say something, and then simply closing it again.

  “Xaver and I are a full year past our Fatings, and while I would never question your authority to command the Curgh army, I do believe that over the past year I’ve earned the right to make such decisions for myself.”

  “When you ride with my army, you submit yourself to my command!”

  “Yes, I do. But by law I remain under the king’s authority, or, more precisely, under the authority of his son, the duke of Glyndwr.”

  “Kearney the Younger?”

  Tavis shook his head. “That’s not the point. I’m not merely your son anymore. I’ve spent the last year fending for myself, and doing a passable job of it.”

  “You’re still a noble in the House of Curgh.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am. But I’m also more than that now. And perhaps less, as well. Whatever I am, I made a decision to fight, as I saw fit, and I don’t apologize for that. I also made a decision to take my liege man with me, and in that I erred.” He turned to the swordmaster. “I owe you an apology, Hagan. I put your son’s life at risk, and I shouldn’t have, not without speaking first with you. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not his fault, Father,” Xaver said quickly. He hesitated, then bowed to Javan. “Forgive me, my lord. I made Tavis take me with him.”

  “I doubt that, Master MarCullet. It seems that no one is capable of making my son do anything.”

  Glancing at Tavis, Xaver smiled. “Actually, I am.”

  In spite of all that had happened that day, the duke smiled, though only for an instant. “Someday you’ll have to explain to me how you do it.”

  “I begged him to let me fight,” Xaver said, looking once more at his own father. “I knew you’d keep me out of battles forever if I didn’t prove to you that I could defend myself. And I didn’t come all this way just to watch the rest of you defeat the empire’s army.”

  Hagan made a sour face. “You’re both fools,” he said, eyeing the two boys. “Wanting to fight.” He shook his head. “Didn’t I teach you anything?”

  “Apparently you did, Hagan. Your boy saved the king.”

  Xaver looked at the duke. “Tavis would have done the same thing, my lord.”

  “No,” Tavis said. “That was all you, Stinger. I didn’t even see the soldier until he was almost on Kearney.”

  “Well,” the duke said, “from this day on, you both fight under Curgh’s banner unless you have leave from me to do otherwise. Is that understood?”

  Both of them nodded.

  “Hagan, would you please see to the wounded? I’ll be along shortly. I’d just like another word with my son, in private.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  The swordmaster nodded toward Tavis, then placed an arm around Xaver’s shoulders and led him back toward the camp.

  Tavis expected his father to berate him once more, but this time the duke surprised him.

  “What did you mean before when you said that you might be less than a noble in our house?”

  Tavis shrugged, abruptly feeling uncomfortable. He had always been far more at ease with his father’s wrath than with his concern. “I don’t know. I … I’m not entirely convinced that the people of Curgh will ever accept me as their duke. Certainly I don’t believe that your soldiers will ever willingly take orders from me.”

  “They might surprise you. You should have heard them speaking of how you fought today beside the king. Not only Curgh’s men, mind you, but Kearney’s as well.”

  “It’s more than that. We nearly lost this war because Galdasten wouldn’t fight with us. Nor would Eardley or Rennach, or most of the other minor houses. The realm might still fall because they’re not here. And that’s all because of me.”

  “After all this time, you don’t really still believe that, do you?” Javan smiled again, a kinder smile than the duke had offered Tavis in many years. “It wasn’t you, Tavis. Your mother and I both know that, and so does anyone with even a bit of sense. It was the conspiracy all along. A man doesn’t succeed as a noble because of what others think of him. He succeeds with courage and wisdom, strength and compassion. You’re young still, you’ve much to learn. But I believe that someday you’ll make a fine duke.”

  Tavis nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Father,” he said, and meant it. It was as close as Javan had ever come to expressing pride in him. A part of Tavis wondered, though, if he still even wanted to be duke.

  * * *

  Fotir wandered about the camp as long as he could bear, giving aid to healers who were tending to the wounded from the most recent battle. He didn’t possess healing magic himself, but he knew something of herbs and tonics, poultices and splints. And he welcomed any opportunity to keep his thoughts from wandering to all that had happened this day.

  At that moment, most ministers in the camp were speaking with their nobles, so that the Eandi might determine if there were any other traitors among their Qirsi. Fotir had long been above such suspicions, for which he was grateful, and all that he had done in the past few hours had only served to enhance his reputation. Everywhere he went, soldiers cheered him, clapping him on the back and inviting him to sit and share their meager food. Always he declined, with a smile and a polite wave. Still, there could be no denying that he was a hero, his valor established beyond doubt by the three bodies he had left among the boulders and grasses.

  He had killed before-du
ring the siege of Kentigern, when he fought alongside his duke to repel the invasion from Mertesse, he killed more soldiers than he could remember. In the course of that fight, he had used his magic several times to shatter the blades of his opponents, so that he might dispatch them more quickly with his sword. In all his years of service to the House of Curgh, however, he had never actually used his power to take a life. On this day he had done it twice.

  He wasn’t fool enough to believe that he’d had any choice in the matter. Had he not killed the two women with his shaping magic, they would have killed him, and surely they would have killed the archminister. And that brought him to the core of the matter. For even as he struggled to justify the killings, he understood that he would kill again without hesitation if it was the only way to save her.

  Fotir had devoted his life to serving his duke and his house, and though he had sacrificed much for that service, he had never once regretted his choice. True, he had effectively ended his relationship with both of his parents, who saw service to an Eandi noble as a betrayal of the Qirsi people, and who probably would have joined the Weaver’s cause had they lived long enough to see this day. It was also true that he had never married or started a family. Still, serving the duke offered its own rewards-travel to the great cities of Eibithar, the opportunity to shape the future of the realm by offering counsel to a powerful duke and his fellow nobles, and an ever-deepening friendship with Javan, whom Fotir believed to be a truly great man, despite his faults.

  Perhaps because he was the most powerful minister in all the dukedom of Curgh, there had been no shortage of women, Qirsi and Eandi both, offering to warm his bed. Nor had Fotir been shy about encouraging their advances. None of these women, however, had ever managed to capture his heart the way Keziah had.

  It was not just that she was beautiful, and brilliant, and kind, though she was all of these things. She was also the bravest soul he had ever met. Anyone who was willing to risk the power and wrath of the Weaver so that she might destroy his movement deserved to be counted among the true heroes of the Forelands. It made laughable the celebrity he was enjoying this night. It humbled him. In all his life, no one had affected him so-certainly not a woman with eyes the color of sand on a quiet seashore, and hair as fine and lustrous as spun gold.