by DAVID B. COE
“Is that why you turned on him?”
She wasn’t certain how much longer she could maintain the conjured fire, or even remain on her feet. “Give her to me.”
Cresenne saw the woman waver, her eyes flicking toward the dagger in Trin’s chest, as if she were gauging the distance she would have to cover to retrieve it.
“Please,” Cresenne said, her voice breaking, tears stinging her eyes. “I just want my baby back. Put her down and I’ll let you go.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll kill me.”
“I hope she does,” Trin muttered, glaring up at the woman and pulling the blade free. “You deserve no less.” He flung the dagger toward Cresenne so that it clattered across the stone floor, stopping at her feet. “There you go, cousin. End this.”
Cresenne stooped to pick it up, then decided against it, straightening again. “No. Put down my child, and you’re free to go.”
Before the woman could respond, Cresenne heard shouts coming from beyond the flames. It had to be Kearney’s guards. She let the fires die away, hoping that she was right about the soldiers, knowing that she would never find the strength to raise the flames again if she were wrong.
Two soldiers stepped into the corridor, swords drawn. Cresenne knew one of them; he had guarded her chamber during her time in the prison tower.
“What’s all this?” he demanded, eyeing the three Qirsi with manifest distrust.
“This woman tried to kill me,” Cresenne said, leaning against the wall. “She attacked my friend as well, and she’s trying to take my child.”
The woman raised Bryntelle over her head, as if intending to dash the child against the floor.
“Not another step,” she said, facing the guards.
Cresenne cried out, taking an unsteady step forward. But she needn’t have worried.
No sooner had the woman lifted Bryntelle than she lowered her again, tears on her face. “What am I doing?” she whispered. She held out the child to the guards, shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”
One of the guards took Bryntelle and the other grabbed the woman, turning her so that she had to face Cresenne.
Cresenne staggered forward until she reached the man who held her child. Taking Bryntelle from him, she began to sob, fussing over the babe, kissing the bruise on her head.
“Are ye all right, m’lady?” the guard asked. Maybe it was the sight of her, bloodied and unsteady on her feet, or the piteous cries coming from Bryntelle. Perhaps the soldier finally realized that there were Qirsi in the Forelands who were worse by far than she. Whatever the reason, this was as much courtesy as any Eandi warrior had ever shown her.
“I need a healer,” she said. Then she nodded toward Trin. “So does my friend there. And my child.”
The man nodded and left them at a run.
“Wha’ should we do with ’er?” the other guard asked, still holding the woman, one hand pinning her arm to her body, the other gripping her hair.
Cresenne looked at him and then at the woman. After a moment she started walking to where her attacker stood. She nearly fell, but then managed to steady herself against the wall and make it the rest of the way.
“Who are you?” Cresenne asked, stopping just in front of her.
The woman just stared at her for several moments, looking like a waif beside the guard.
At last she dropped her gaze. “I was once first minister of Mertesse.”
“Mertesse?” the guard repeated, glowering at her, hatred in his eyes. An Aneiran as well as a Qirsi traitor. It was a wonder the man didn’t kill her where she stood.
“What’s your name?”
“Yaella. Yaella ja Banvel.”
The other guard returned, and with him came Nurle jal Danteffe, the healer who had saved Cresenne’s life after she was poisoned by yet another servant of the Weaver.
“Are you all right?” Nurle asked, frowning with concern.
“I’m well enough,” she said. “Help Trin.”
He nodded once and went to the gleaner.
“She deserves t’ die,” said the soldier who held Cresenne’s attacker. “With wha’ she’s done t’ ye and th’ child. Say th’ word an’ we’ll take care o’ her. No one need be th’ wiser.”
“Let them do it, Cresenne,” Trin called to her. “He’s right: she’s earned this death.”
Nurle cast a look her way, but said nothing.
Cresenne shook her head. “There were those who would have done the same with me when I first came here,” she said. “And it may be that the queen will put her to death before long. But I don’t want any more blood on my hands.”
The woman laughed. “You think yourself noble, compassionate. Let them kill me. That would be an act of mercy.”
“Certainly it would be an easy end for you.”
“Easy? You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m old. Nothing is easy anymore. A year or two ago, this brute holding me would be afire already, this corridor filled with a concealing mist as I made my escape. But I’ve nothing left. No magic, no strength. Nothing.”
“You had a dagger, and that was nearly enough,” Cresenne said, and started to turn away.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I tried to kill you?”
“I don’t have to ask. You’re here because the Weaver wanted me dead.”
“So did I. Your Grinsa jal Arriet was responsible for the death of the man I loved. I came here to avenge him.”
“What man? What was his name?”
“Shurik jal Marcine.”
Cresenne nodded. “I know that name. Kentigern’s first minister.”
“Another traitor,” the guard muttered.
The woman scowled at him. “Betrayal wears many faces, Eandi. He devoted himself to a great cause, just as I have.” She faced Cresenne again. “He’s the reason I came. I failed him today even more than I did the Weaver.”
Cresenne regarded her a moment, then laughed, short and sharp. “You’re a fool. You belong to the Weaver’s movement; nothing else matters. He wanted you to kill me and so you made the attempt. You’re deceiving yourself if you believe anything different. He controls those who serve him as a master controls a slave. It’s been half a year since I renounced him and still he governs my life, forcing me to live like some wretched creature of the night.” She gestured at the bloodstains on her clothes and the scars on her face. “Look at me. I’ve never truly met him, and yet he’s left scars all over my body.” She shook her head. “No, your thirst for vengeance had nothing to do with what happened today. All of this was the Weaver’s doing.”
The woman glared at her, her color high. “He hates you, you know. He’ll never stop trying to kill you. You might have survived today, but you’ll be dead soon enough.”
“That remains to be seen,” Cresenne said. “I’ve made it this far. And he hasn’t won yet.”
With that, she turned her back on the woman, listening as the guards led her away. There were tears on her face again, but she brushed them off with her sleeve and smiled down at Bryntelle, who had finally stopped crying.
“You need healing,” Nurle said.
Cresenne nodded. “Yes. And then we need to sleep. Already the day’s nearly half gone.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The Moorlands, Eibithar
The morning dawned bright and clear, the eastern sky aglow with fiery shades of red and gold, the western sky gradually lightening from black, to indigo, and finally to azure. The air was utterly still and the moons still hung overhead, white and red, bone and blood, as if awaiting the coming battle.
Nitara was awake at first light, as were the Weaver’s other warriors. Jastanne returned to her side of the camp soon after the minister awoke, but she would not meet Nitara’s gaze. It was all the confirmation Nitara needed that the chancellor had spent the previous night in the Weaver’s arms.
She had expected to be enraged and aggrieved, to feel jealousy gnawing like wood ants at her mind. But on this day no such emotions
could reach her. Today, she rode to war, a soldier in the Weaver’s army, a servant of his movement, an apostle of his vision. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would lament that he had chosen to love Jastanne rather than her. Or maybe their victory today would purge her of envy and resentment.
The vision of Kayiv that had darkened her sleep remained fresh in her mind, but even this memory could not distract Nitara from her purpose. Jastanne had chosen to make her a commander in the Weaver’s force, a decision to which Dusaan himself had assented. She intended to justify the faith they had shown in her. The Weaver’s army might yet be defeated-although she could not imagine how or by what force-but it would not be through any failure on her part.
In many respects hers was the most dangerous command of all. The other powers-fire, shaping, mists and winds-could all be wielded to good effect from afar. Language of beasts worked best at close distance. The other magics lent themselves naturally to the Weaver’s power; the greater the number being woven into a single force, the more devastating the magic. But language of beasts had to be wielded with precision and usually was most effective when used individually, one Qirsi whispering to one animal. That was why Nitara and the Qirsi under her command would be positioned close to the center, as far as possible from the Eandi archers. Bowmen would not be on horseback, and Nitara and her soldiers could do little to block the enemy’s arrows. They would be at the heart of this battle, facing down Eandi riders, doing all they could to evade the steel of Eibithar and Sanbira’s warriors.
It was a role she relished and as she called her soldiers to her, she saw the same eagerness on many of their faces. She saw fear as well, but this was to be expected.
“You know what the Weaver expects of us,” she said. Several of them nodded, but most of them merely stared at her, waiting.
“Ours is a unique mission in this war. We cannot depend upon the Weaver’s magic to bolster our own, nor can we watch this battle unfold from a safe distance. We may not wield the deepest magic in the Weaver’s army, but we will stand at the core of his force and keep the riders of the Eandi at bay.”
A murmur of agreement and more nods. A few of them smiled, the fierce, courageous smiles of warriors.
“It will be dangerous work,” she said, feeling more and more like a commander with every word she spoke. “Some of us may not live to see the end. No doubt that frightens many of you. I’d be scared as well, were it not for one simple truth: I’d rather die in the service of our Weaver, wielding my powers on his behalf, than live out the rest of my days in a world ruled by the Eandi.”
She expected more nods and mumbled assent. Instead, these last words were greeted by a deafening cheer that startled Nitara and made her horse whinny and rear.
The minister glanced about and saw that the other commanders were watching her. So was Jastanne, an amused grin on her pretty face.
“That’s all,” Nitara said, abruptly feeling self-conscious. “Go ready your mounts. We ride at my signal.”
The others turned away, their expressions grim but determined. Whatever fear she had seen in them before seemed to have vanished.
“What in Qirsar’s name did you say to them?”
Nitara turned. Jastanne was approaching, still grinning.
She shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I just told them that I’d rather die for the Weaver than grow old in a land ruled by the Eandi.”
The chancellor nodded. “I like that. Do you mind if I use it, too?”
“Not at all.”
Jastanne stopped in front of her, but then stared down at her feet, seemingly unsure of what she wanted to say. For the first time since the day they met, Nitara felt that she had the woman at a disadvantage, and though she had already resolved not to give in to her jealousy, she couldn’t help but be pleased. “Was there something you wanted, Chancellor?”
Jastanne nodded, meeting her gaze for a moment before looking off to the south. “Yes. I’ll be leading our half of the army into war, just as we planned, but once we reach the battle plain, I may have to leave you and the others for a time.”
“What?”
“The Weaver has asked me to see to a matter of some importance, and it may require that I relinquish command. Just for a short while. I want you to be ready to assume command in my place.”
Nitara gaped at her. “I’m … I’m not sure I can. Leading a part of this army is one thing, but leading all the Qirsi under your command is another entirely.”
“No, it’s not. There’s really very little difference.”
“Can’t the other chancellor-?”
“He has his own force to command, Nitara. Besides, as powerful as he is, he doesn’t possess both mists and language of beasts, as you do.” She smiled, though only for an instant. “For that matter, neither do I. No, you’re the logical choice.”
Nitara nodded, taking a breath. “All right.”
“Just follow the Weaver, as always. And allow your instincts to guide you.”
Another cheer went up from the far side of the camp. Both women turned toward the sound, and Nitara saw that several Qirsi were already on their mounts.
“You’ll be fine,” Jastanne said, facing her again.
“What is it the Weaver’s asked you to do?”
The chancellor hesitated. “He wants me to kill a woman who betrayed the movement. It shouldn’t take me long.”
“Very well,” Nitara said. “Qirsar guard you, Chancellor.”
“And you, Nitara.”
Jastanne started away.
“Did you and he-?” She stopped, ashamed of herself for blurting out anything at all.
The chancellor turned slowly, her brow knitted. “Nitara-”
“Forget that I said anything. Please. I’m happy for you. For both of you.”
“It was one night, Nitara. That’s all. Who knows what today is going to bring?” She turned again and walked away, leaving Nitara feeling alone and terribly young.
After a moment, the minister glanced about to see if any of the others were watching her, or had heard their exchange. No one appeared to be paying her any attention at all.
She strapped on her sword, saddled her mount, and swung herself onto the stallion’s back. Surveying the camp again, she saw the Weaver on his horse, sitting motionless, his hair gleaming in the early morning light, his eyes fixed on the southern sky. He said nothing, but all of them seemed to sense that he wanted them to gather around him. Within just a few moments a tight cluster of Qirsi had surrounded him, their gazes fixed on his regal face. Nitara wished that she could be next to him, but she made no effort to press forward. She merely waited for him to speak.
“This is the day we’ve been planning for,” he said at last, his voice even, but loud enough to be heard by all. “This is the day we fulfill our destiny. Nine centuries ago our people came to the Forelands as would-be conquerors. Like you, they were willing to die for their cause. Like you, they lent their power to a Weaver. They were the greatest army ever to ride on these moors, and they scattered Eandi armies before them in their march toward dominion. They nearly succeeded; they would have had it not been for the betrayal of one man.” He regarded them all. “Carthach,” he said, echoing the name that resounded in Nitara’s mind, no doubt in the minds of all who had assembled around him.
“I speak his name not to open old wounds, but to remind you of how close we once came to victory, and of how long we have waited for redemption. For nine hundred years we have suffered for his treachery. For nine hundred years we have waited to fulfill the promise of that first Qirsi army. Today our long wait finally ends. Today we cleanse our history, we wipe away the stain of Carthach’s treason. Today, we begin anew. From this day forward we will rule the Forelands, just as we should have so long ago. Together, you and I will remake the world.” He raised himself out of his saddle, standing in his stirrups. “We fight for the glory of Qirsar!” he shouted, drawing a mighty roar from his warriors.
“Our magic is yours, Weaver,” Jastanne
said, after the din had subsided. “Weave us well.”
Dusaan nodded once. “Into your units,” he said. “It’s time to ride.”
The Qirsi quickly returned to their brigades, and were soon thundering southward across the Moorlands. Nitara and Yedeg, Jastanne’s other commander, rode just behind the chancellor; Rov and Gorlan followed Uestem. Two more Qirsi had joined them during the night. One, a tall, thin man with an angular face, Nitara understood to be the archminister of Aneira. The other was a lanky woman with a haunted look in her pale eyes. Both of them were shapers; they took positions in Gorlan’s force.
At the head of the army rode the Weaver, his white hair flowing in the wind like the great mane of a god. From all that Nitara had ever heard about war and armies, she knew that the morn of a battle was the most difficult time for a warrior. This was when thoughts of death entered a soldier’s mind, when fear took hold of the heart. But none of the men or women around her seemed frightened. With the Weaver leading them, they appeared confident, at ease. It was as if he was already using his magic to impart to them his courage. Nitara doubted that the Eandi soldiers awaiting them on the plain felt so certain of their fates.
After only a brief ride the Qirsi encountered a small force of Eandi soldiers, all of them wearing the white, gold, and red of Braedon. One of the men, a captain no doubt, rode forward from the others, most of whom were on foot. He had his hand raised in greeting, as if calling for a parley.
“The remnants of the emperor’s army!” the Weaver called, a grin on his face. “Shapers!” he said, turning toward Uestem’s force. The captain reined in his horse, a puzzled look on his face.
“High Chancellor?” he called to Dusaan.
The Weaver offered no reply, and an instant later, the Eandi fell, his body appearing to break like a child’s toy. The Qirsi rode on, bearing down on the other soldiers who now tried to flee. Many of them died without drawing their weapons. The Weaver and his warriors didn’t even bother to slow their charge.
A short time later, the Qirsi army topped a small rise, and Nitara saw before them the armies of the enemy. Confident as she was, the minister couldn’t help but be daunted by the size of the Eandi force. There were thousands of them, their helms and armor glittering in the sunlight. They were spread wide across the plain, in a vast crescent, so that they appeared ready to block a Qirsi advance in any direction. Already, the Weaver and his warriors had defeated armies far bigger than their own, but never had they faced anything like this.
