by DAVID B. COE
“Yes. Neither magic offers much in the way of defense, and language of beasts, at least, is better suited to close fighting.”
“He was wise to divide us so,” Yedeg said, as if glimpsing the Weaver’s purpose for the first time.
“Did you have any doubt as to his wisdom, Commander?”
Yedeg’s face colored. “No, Chancellor, of course not. I just … It took me some time to grasp the intricacies of his plan.”
“He’s as brilliant as he is powerful, Commander. That’s why we’re destined to prevail.”
“Yes, Chancellor.”
“You’re not to use your magic on your own,” she went on, speaking to all of them again, “unless it’s the only way to save your life or that of one of your fellow warriors. You must make certain that those under your command understand this. The Weaver will be wielding power from over two hundred of us, and if all of us are using magic on our own, particularly if we’re using powers other than those to which we’ve been assigned, it will only make matters more difficult for him. Discipline and precision will win this war. The one exception is those with language of beasts. They may have to use their power individually. It’s simply the nature of the magic and I’ve explained as much to Nitara.”
As if responding to the mention of her name, Nitara came into view, striding back toward the fire. The chancellors and commanders had heard the Weaver call out a short time before, and the minister had gone to see whether he had been summoning one of them. As the woman drew nearer, Jastanne saw that her cheeks were ashen, her eyes wide with fright. This in itself was not cause for concern-the minister was young, and, of course, she remained quite taken with the Weaver, though as far as Jastanne could see, he had done nothing to encourage her in this regard. Still something in the woman’s manner troubled her.
“Commander? Is everything all right?”
Nitara met her gaze for a moment, then glanced nervously at the others. “I’m not certain.”
Jastanne cast a quick look at Uestem, who nodded to her.
“Why don’t you and I speak in private,” she said, standing and taking Nitara gently by the arm. They walked a short distance, until they were beyond the hearing of anyone in the Qirsi camp. “Now,” the chancellor said, “why don’t you tell me what happened.”
“I think the Weaver was hurt.”
“Hurt?” Jastanne frowned at the very notion. “By whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“What makes you think-?”
“There was blood on his face, and I think on his clothes also, but I couldn’t see very well. He refused to look at me.”
Jastanne just stared at her. Surely the woman had to be mistaken. “Blood? Are you certain?”
“Yes, at least about the blood on his face.”
“There must be some explanation.” Blood! On the Weaver!
“I tried to help him, but he sent me away.”
Of course he would. “As I say, there must be a reason for all this, and he probably didn’t want to alarm the rest of us.” She paused a moment, wondering what to do. “Whatever the truth of this, Nitara, we can’t risk allowing word of it to spread through the camp. Don’t mention what you saw to the others, not even your closest friends. I won’t say a word either. Agreed?”
The woman nodded. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll speak to him,” she said, making herself smile. “As I say, I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
Usually, Nitara would have bristled at the notion of Jastanne speaking with the Weaver in private. She had been slow to overcome her jealousy of the chancellor. But now she merely nodded.
They returned to where Uestem and the other commanders were sitting. Uestem looked up expectantly as they approached, but Jastanne shook her head, as if to say that there was nothing of substance to Nitara’s concerns. She and the merchant had told the commanders all they needed to know for the next day’s battle, so they dismissed them and watched them walk off.
Only then did Uestem ask about Nitara. “What was troubling the woman?”
“It was nothing.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
Jastanne smiled thinly. “Very well. I don’t know what to make of it, but I intend to handle it on my own.”
He opened his hands and shrugged. “That’s all you had to say.”
She laughed. She still wasn’t certain that she trusted the merchant, but she had begun to like him. “Good night, Uestem.”
He nodded and walked away.
Jastanne took a breath, then walked toward the south edge of the camp, where the Weaver usually ate his meals and slept in solitude. Chances were he would send her away, just as he had the commander. But if he really was wounded and their cause was threatened, someone needed to know. Best it be her.
When she reached his small fire, however, he was nowhere to be seen. For the first time, Jastanne found herself growing truly apprehensive.
“Weaver?” she called, pitching her voice to carry, but keeping it low enough that she wouldn’t draw the attention of the other Qirsi.
“Who is that?” he answered from the shadows.
“Your chancellor, Jastanne.”
He stepped into the firelight, and Jastanne’s breath caught at the sight of him. He was shirtless, his broad chest and shoulders gleaming like polished marble. His face appeared clean and unmarked, his golden eyes shining.
“Forgive me, Weaver. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was … I’ll leave you.”
“You came because of Nitara, because of what she saw.”
“She told me there was blood.”
He inhaled, straightening. “There was. But I’m fine. You’ve no cause for concern.”
She heard no anger in his tone, yet she felt compelled to apologize once more for her presence there, the doubts that it implied.
“I’m sorry.” She thought to say more, then decided against it, turning to go.
“Wait,” he said.
Jastanne faced him once more, gazing at his body, his hair, his eyes, wanting to touch him, wanting to feel him touching her.
“I won’t speak of this with anyone, Weaver. Neither will Nitara-I’ve sworn her to silence.”
“Good. But that’s not why I stopped you.”
She felt her pulse quicken.
“We ride to war with the dawn. Tomorrow we’ll remake the world. I don’t know yet who I’ll choose to be my queen, but I do know that of all who serve me, none has done more for this cause than you.”
Her skin seemed to burn with the anticipation of his caress. Her throat ached with desire of him. But she managed to say, “You honor me, Weaver.”
“This is not a night for either of us to be alone.”
He held out a hand to her then, and when she took it, he pulled her to him, taking her in his arms and lifting her off the ground to kiss her, long and deep.
After that, Jastanne lost all sense of time, surrendering utterly to his touch and the cadence of their movements in the cool grasses and the soft glow of the fire. His hunger seemed a match for hers, their passion bringing them together again and again, until at last they lay together beneath the star-filled sky, sated and exhausted.
Jastanne felt herself drifting toward slumber, happier than she had been in many years. She felt him beside her, restless and alert, and knew that he wasn’t ready for sleep. But she couldn’t help herself.
Just as she was about to give in to her weariness, he sat up.
Jastanne forced her eyes open. “Forgive me, Weaver,” she said. “But I’m so tired.”
He shook his head, his face somber in the dim light. “It’s all right,” he said. “You should sleep.” He smiled, though it seemed to take some effort. “Thank you for this night. My … my need was great.”
“As was mine.”
“I have one thing more to ask of you.”
“Of course, Weaver. Anything.”
“Tomorrow, when the fighting begins, I’ll be matched agai
nst another Weaver. You’ve heard me speak of him before, though others haven’t.”
She nodded. “Grinsa jal Arriet.”
“Yes. Defeating him will take much of my attention. But there’s another who has to die, and I want you to kill her for me. She deceived me and she seeks to destroy all for which we’ve toiled these last several years.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Keziah ja Dafydd. She’s the archminister of Eibithar. Her powers are considerable, and they include language of beasts, but she possesses neither shaping nor fire. You shouldn’t have trouble killing her.”
Jastanne nodded. “She won’t survive the day, Weaver. You have my word.”
Again he smiled, easily this time. “You serve me well,” he said, brushing her cheek with his fingers. He stood, naked, glorious, and began to dress. And Jastanne closed her eyes, allowing sleep to take her, hoping that she would dream of him and of what they had shared this night.
* * *
She sat alone by the small fire, staring into the darkness, waiting for Jastanne to return. Silence settled over the camp like a warm blanket-all around her, Qirsi slept, horses stomped and snorted, a gentle wind rustled the grasses and hummed as it moved among the boulders. And still Jastanne didn’t come back from her conversation with the Weaver.
Finally, Nitara realized that the chancellor wouldn’t return, at least not until dawn, and she feared that her heart would simply stop beating. She had expected this since the first time she saw Jastanne, with her exquisite face and lithe form, and her golden eyes, so like Dusaan’s that it seemed Qirsar had marked them for each other.
It would have been easier had she still hated the woman as she did that first day. But Nitara had come to respect her, even to like her. And how could she blame Jastanne for desiring the Weaver, when she herself had imagined a thousand times what it would be like to lie with him?
“The movement is everything,” he had said to her once, before they took the palace from Harel, as he was explaining why he couldn’t love her. “Devote yourself to our cause, and you devote yourself to me; give it your passion, and you give that passion to me.”
“But that’s not enough,” she said at the time.
And he replied plainly, though not without sympathy, “It will have to be.”
As far as she knew, he hadn’t loved any woman since then. That is, until tonight.
Wasn’t it possible then, that with victory within reach, with the Forelands about to be his, he was ready to take a wife? Or perhaps several. Just after joining the Weaver’s army Jastanne sensed Nitara’s jealousy and spoke to her of the possibility that Dusaan would have as many women as had Braedon’s emperor. “Do you really think that a man like that-a Qirsi king-will take but one wife?” Jastanne had asked her that day. Maybe, she suggested, he would choose to love both of them. In which case, didn’t the fact that he was with Jastanne tonight suggest that some time soon he might call Nitara to his bed?
It wasn’t exactly what she would have chosen-if she could claim Dusaan as her own, she would. But Jastanne was right. A man like the Weaver could never belong to but one love. Better she should be one lover among many than never know what it was to give herself to him. That would be too great a loss to contemplate.
So at last, reluctant to give up her vigil, but knowing that she needed to rest before the morrow’s battle, Nitara lay down on her sleeping roll and closed her eyes. She quickly fell asleep, and almost immediately found herself in a dream.
The minister was on a plain and a Qirsi man stood before her, wind whipping his hair around his face. She had heard some of the other Qirsi-the chancellors and a minister from Galdasten-speaking of dreams in which the Weaver came to them, walking in their sleep to give them instructions, and for one disorienting moment, she wondered if this was what was happening to her.
Then she recognized the man, and knew this wasn’t so. His eyes were brighter than Dusaan’s, his face leaner, more youthful. He was neither as tall nor as broad as the Weaver, though he did have a muscular build. She still remembered the smooth, solid feel of his back and chest from the nights they had spent in each other’s arms.
“I’m dreaming,” she said aloud, as if hoping to wake herself.
“Yes,” Kayiv jal Yivanne answered, walking toward her. As he drew near, she saw bloodstains on his ministerial robes and the dagger jutting from his chest. Her dagger.
“What do you want of me?”
He stopped just in front of her, so close that the hilt of the killing blade nearly touched her breasts. “You ride to war. There’s to be a great battle tomorrow.”
“What of it?”
“You expect to win. You think that your victory will justify what you did to me, what your Weaver has done to the Eandi in Curtell and Ayvencalde and Galdasten, what all of you will do to the armies of Eibithar and Braedon.”
“It does justify it. We’re going to change the world. You never understood that.”
“I understood. I just chose not to be a part of it.” He smiled, a dark, terrible smile. “And for that, I died by your hand.”
“I won’t listen to this.”
“Then send me away, if you can.”
She tried to wake herself, or she thought she did. It was so hard to know what she was dreaming and what was real.
“Do you remember what I said to you?”
“When?” she asked. But she knew. Gods, she knew. His last words, whispered on a dying breath.
The smile faded, chased away by a single tear, which was far worse. “I loved you so.”
Nitara closed her eyes. Or did she? Wasn’t she already asleep?
“That’s what I said. ‘I loved you so.’”
“I remember,” she said, shuddering.
“And now your Weaver loves another.”
“No!”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have killed me after all.”
“I had to!”
“For him,” Kayiv said.
“Yes, for him.”
“Then I have to do this for all the others, all who would die if I didn’t.”
He pulled the dagger free from his chest, the blade emerging as clean and brilliant as the day she bought it. And raising it high, so that it gleamed in the morning sun, he plunged it into her neck.
Nitara screamed. Yet somehow she still heard him say, his voice so sad that it made her want to weep, “I loved you so.”
She opened her eyes to starlight and the dim glow of the moons. Her heart was pounding so hard that her chest hurt, and her clothes were soaked with sweat. She raised herself up on one elbow and looked around the camp. No one else appeared to be awake. Jastanne was nowhere to be seen.
“Damn,” she whispered, running a hand through her hair.
After a few moments she lay back down, staring up at the stars, knowing she should sleep, but afraid to close her eyes again.
“We’re going to change the world,” she said to the darkness, as if Kayiv might hear her. “That’s why I had to do it.”
Chapter Twenty-one
The Moorlands, Eibithar
Keziah awoke as soon as the Weaver left her dream, opening her eyes to find Grinsa still sitting beside her, concern etched on his face.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. As encounters with the Weaver went, this one had been relatively easy for her. “Are you?”
He shrugged, glowering at the fire that burned a short distance away. “I had him. Twice, really. And both times he managed to fight me off.”
“You hurt him, Grinsa. And maybe more important than that, you frightened him. He won’t be so confident tomorrow, and that has to be to our advantage.”
“Maybe. I fear he was right though. Any victory I might have won just now will be meaningless in the end. In order to defeat him I needed to kill him, and I couldn’t.” He swung his gaze back to her. “You’ll have to be especially watchful tomorrow, Kezi. He’s vengeful-we know that-and now he has ample reason
to want to punish you.”
She sat up, her head spinning, though not as it had after previous dreams of the Weaver. Could it be that she was getting used to this?
“I’ll be careful,” she said, “although I imagine he’ll be most intent on killing you. Every time he thinks he’s added a woman to his movement, you seem to take her away. I can’t imagine that he likes that.”
Her brother grinned. “No, probably not.”
“We should tell Kearney what’s happened. He’ll want to know.”
Grinsa nodded, standing and helping Keziah to her feet. They crossed the camp and found the king sitting outside his tent with Gershon Trasker.
Keziah and Gershon had hardly spoken since the swordmaster’s arrival on the battle plain. Once they had been fierce rivals for the king’s ear and had disliked and distrusted each other. Later, when Keziah began trying to join the conspiracy, she was forced to rely on Gershon as a confidant, and they came to an understanding of sorts. More than once during the march north from the City of Kings, Keziah had been surprised to find that she missed his company. She thought about seeking him out upon his arrival, but at the time she was still posing as a traitor, and she couldn’t risk being seen with him.
Both Gershon and the king stood as Keziah and Grinsa approached.
“Are you all right?” Kearney asked, looking the archminister up and down as if he expected to see wounds on her.
“I’m fine. Both of us are.”
“Did it work?”
“No, Your Majesty,” Grinsa said. “I’m sorry.”
“Damn. What happened?”
“Grinsa tried!” Keziah said.
Kearney cast a dark look her way. “I don’t doubt that he did, Archminister. I’m merely asking that he tell me what happened.”
Grinsa laid a hand on her shoulder, as he briefly described for Kearney their encounter with the Weaver.
“I’m certain that you did all you could, gleaner,” the king said when he had finished. “I’m grateful to you for making the effort. And I’m grateful to you, Archminister. I have some idea of how much you risked.”
“You honor me, Your Majesty,” she said, her gaze lowered.
