Weavers of War (47 page)

“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. There 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.

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.