Weavers of War (66 page)

“I should … He shouldn’t just be left there.”

“He’s already been borne back to the Curgh camp, my lord. So has Master MarCullet.”

They began to walk again. Tavis realized that he still held his blade in his hand, and he sheathed it.

“Should we send a messenger to my mother?” he asked.

“Truly, my lord, I don’t know. It might be easier for her to hear these tidings from you.”

Tavis looked up at that, meeting the minister’s gaze. He nearly told the man to send a messenger, for he had no stomach for that conversation. But something stopped him.

For too long he had considered himself a coward, seeing in his failures as a warrior and the craven manner in which he had killed the assassin in Wethyrn, all the evidence of this that he needed. And though ashamed of his weakness, he had chosen to accept it as part of who he was. Today, he had acquitted himself well in combat, only to realize now how poor a measure of bravery was one’s performance on a battlefield.

More to the point, on this day, he had become duke of Curgh. It was not a title he wanted, not so soon. But it was his nevertheless. The facile acceptance of his own limitations was a luxury he could no longer afford.

“You’re right,” he said. “I should be the one to tell her of Father’s death.” He straightened, even managed a small smile. “Thank you, Fotir. I know how much you cared for my father, and how much he valued your service to our house. I’m a poor substitute for him, but still I hope that you’ll continue to serve as Curgh’s first minister.”

“If you wish it, my lord, I’d be honored.”

“Thank you, Fotir.”

“Lord Curgh!”

They halted and turned. Kearney strode toward them, followed by Gershon Trasker and the thane of Shanstead.

Tavis knelt, as did the minister. “Your Majesty.”

“Please rise.”

They both stood again.

“I’m pleased to see that you’re all right, Tavis.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I was deeply saddened to hear that your father was lost. He was as fine and noble a man as I’ve ever known. The Underrealm will shine like Morna’s sky with his light. I can say the same of Master MarCullet. The House of Curgh has paid a dear price for the freedom of the Forelands. All in the land shall hear of the valor of her sons.”

Tavis looked away, his eyes stinging. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I take it you were on your way to see the gleaner.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I’d like to join you if I may. He’s earned our thanks and more.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

They began once more to walk, Tavis dabbing at his eyes, hoping Kearney wouldn’t notice. A few moments before, he couldn’t bring himself to shed even a single tear. Now he couldn’t stop his tears from flowing.

They found Grinsa sitting on the grass beside his sister. His face was the color of ash and his clothes were soaked dark with sweat. But he smiled when he spotted Tavis and even raised a hand in greeting.

Kearney hurried forward to the archminister, hesitated briefly, then stooped and kissed her quickly on the cheek.

“I feared for you,” he said, a bright smile on his lips.

Keziah’s cheeks colored. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“What happened?”

“The Weaver sent an assassin for me. I would have died had it not been for Lord Kentigern.”

“Aindreas?” the king said, clearly surprised. “Where is he now?”

“He’s dead, Your Majesty.”

The king’s smile vanished. “Damn. We lost too many today.”

“Tavis?” Grinsa was eyeing him grimly, as if readying himself for dark tidings. “Tell me.”

“My father,” Tavis said, his voice breaking. “And Xaver.”

The gleaner closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Tavis.”

They were all watching him, pity in their eyes, and though he knew that they meant well, Tavis couldn’t bear their stares or their sympathy. He turned abruptly and started away. “My pardon, Your Majesty,” he called over his shoulder.

Tavis knew just where he was going, or rather, who he was looking for: the one man on the Moorlands who understood what he was feeling, who fully shared his grief.

It took him some time to find Hagan MarCullet, but he spotted the swordmaster at last, sitting on the grass some distance to the south of the Eandi camps. He had his back to the armies, and as Tavis approached he suddenly found himself hesitating, wondering if he should leave the man to his solitude and his anguish. At last he halted, intending to turn back.

But at that moment, Hagan turned to look at him. There were tears on the swordmaster’s ruddy cheeks, and his eyes were swollen and red.

“I’m sorry, Hagan. I … I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

The man beckoned to him with an open hand. “It’s all right, lad. Come on, then. He’d want us to be together. Both of them would.”

Tavis nodded, walked to the swordmaster, and sat down beside him. Hagan held a sword across his lap. Xaver’s sword.

“All that I taught him,” Hagan said, his voice even despite the tears streaming down his face. “I thought that it would prepare him for any enemy, that it could save him from … from this.” He shook his head, sobbing. “It was all for nothing.”

“That’s not so, Hagan,” Tavis said, tearful once more. “There was nothing you could have done to prepare us for this war. But I wouldn’t have traded those days in the castle wards for anything, and neither would Xaver. The lessons themselves were what mattered most. Don’t you know how proud he was to be your son, to train with you, to hear the castle guards speak of you with such awe? Even as a boy, he loved being called Stinger, because it marked him as Hagan MarCullet’s son. You taught him well, swordmaster, just as you did me.”

Hagan nodded, though his sobbing continued. Tavis laid a hand on his broad shoulder and said nothing more. But the two of them sat there for some time, their backs to the armies, their faces warmed by the sun and brushed by a gentle wind, their tears somehow less bitter for being shed together.

*   *   *

“He’s suffered too much for a boy so young,” the king said, watching as Tavis hurried off.

Grinsa’s heart ached for the young lord, but he thought it important that the others begin to see Tavis as he did, especially now, with the dukedom thrust upon him. “He’s not as young as you think he is.”

Kearney looked at him, frowning. “He’s but a year past his Fating, gleaner. He may have matured, but he’s still a boy.”

“Yes, he is. But he’s strong, and wise beyond his years. And he has more mettle than even he knows.” Grinsa stared past the king, following Tavis’s progress as the young noble made his way through the camp. “I wouldn’t have said this when I met him, but I think he’ll make a fine duke.”

“I agree with you,” Kearney said. “Still, I lament that he’ll have to prove himself in the court at so tender an age.”

Keziah touched Grinsa’s arm, as if telling him to let the matter drop. She was right, of course.

For several moments, none of them spoke. Grinsa could hear warriors laughing and singing throughout the camp, which was as it should be. They had won a great victory today. But in this small circle, the king, his nobles, and their ministers were subdued. Too many soldiers had died, too many nobles had been lost. And though the Weaver was dead, the rift between Qirsi and Eandi remained, wider than it had been in centuries.

A man from the King’s Guard approached them, his uniform of purple and gold torn and bloodstained.

“My pardon, Yer Majesty,” he said, bowing to the king. “But th’ archminister wanted me t’ tell ’er when th’ woman was awake.”

“What woman?”

“The one who attacked me,” Keziah said, drawing Kearney’s gaze. “She’s a shaper, which means that she’s a danger to all of us.”

“You can control her, can’t you, gleaner?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I can.”

Keziah shook her head. “You’ve been hurt. It’s too soon for this.”

“It’s all right, Kezi. As you said, she’s a danger to everyone in this camp. We can hardly afford to wait.”

Kearney eyed him. “You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” the king said. “Bring her here. I want her escorted by four swordsmen and an equal number of archers.”

“Aye, Yer Majesty,” the man said. He bowed and hurried off.

“This is going to be a problem for some time to come,” Marston of Shanstead said to no one in particular. “Plenty of renegades survived this day and we have no idea what powers they possess. Shaping, fire, maybe worse. It’s going to take years to hunt down all of them.”

Grinsa and Fotir shared a look, but neither of them offered any response.

“The gleaner knows,” said Caius of Labruinn. “Don’t you? A Weaver can just look at other Qirsi and know what powers they possess. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, it is.”

Again, they lapsed into silence. Grinsa was troubled by what he had heard from Shanstead and Labruinn, but he kept his misgivings to himself, at least for the time being.

It wasn’t long before the guard returned leading a cluster of soldiers, all of them looking nervous. At their center, looking like a mere child beside them, walked an attractive Qirsi woman with shoulder-length hair that she wore loose, and bright, golden eyes. She wore a slight smirk on her full lips, but her gaze was watchful, her lean frame tense, as if at any moment she might attempt to escape. There was a dark, ugly bruise on her brow, and another one, flecked with blood, on the side of her head. When she was close enough, Grinsa reached into her mind and took hold of her magic. Immediately, her gaze snapped to his face.

“So you’re the other Weaver,” the woman said, as she and the soldiers drew near. She looked him over as if he were a blade for sale in a city marketplace. “I expected more.”

“Who are you?” Kearney demanded.

The woman glanced at him, then faced Grinsa once more. “Why would you choose these fools over your own people? Is the blood in your veins so weak that you truly consider yourself one of them?”

“I can make you answer the king’s questions,” Grinsa said placidly. “You know that.”

She paled, but the smirk lingered. “They have you on a short leash, don’t they?”

“Her name is Jastanne,” Keziah said.

“Yes, it is,” she said. “Why don’t you tell them how you know that, Archminister.”

Keziah glared at her, perhaps wishing that she had kept silent.

“No? Then I will. The duke of Kentigern knew it. He saved her life, but only because he knew enough to look for me. You see, he was a traitor. He hated you so much, Your Majesty, that he forged an alliance with our movement in an attempt to save his house and destroy your kingdom. You think he died a hero, but in fact he was a traitor.”

Caius pulled his sword free. “You lie, white-hair!” But there was doubt in his eyes and desperation in his voice. Marston of Shanstead looked appalled, as did the soldiers standing beside the woman. For his part, Grinsa believed her. Not only did he think Aindreas capable of such a thing—he had seen what the duke did to Tavis in the dungeons of Kentigern—but he sensed the truth in her words. The Weaver had succeeded all too well in dividing them.

“I can prove that I’m telling you the truth.”

“You mean the paper he signed?” Kearney asked.

The woman stared at him, her smirk gone, disbelief in her eyes. “How do you know about that?”

“Do you really believe that the duke of a major house would cast his lot with your conspiracy?”

“He did!”

“Yes, with my blessing.”

“That’s … No! You’re lying!”

Moving so quickly that his hand and steel were but a blur, Gershon Trasker pulled his sword free and laid its point at the base of her neck, just above her heart. “Tread lightly, white-hair,” he growled. “That’s the king of Eibithar you’re talking to.”

But she was right. Kearney was lying. Grinsa sensed that as well. For whatever reason, he had chosen to shield Aindreas and his house from this disgrace. It was an act of surpassing generosity, one of which few would ever know.

“He allied himself with our movement! He betrayed all of you!”

“No,” the king said, and now he was the one smirking. “He deceived all of you. And today he proved both his loyalty and his valor. Now I’ll ask you again: who are you?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again, clenching her jaw.

“Gleaner?”

Grinsa touched her mind with his delusion magic. “Answer him.”

“My name is Jastanne ja Triln. I’m a merchant and sea captain.”

“What else?”

“I’m a chancellor in the Weaver’s movement.”

“What powers does she possess?” the king asked.

“In addition to shaping, she has mists and gleaning.”

Before the king could ask anything else, a voice called to him from a distance. A woman’s voice. A moment later, the duchess of Curlinte stepped into their circle, accompanied by several soldiers and a tall Qirsi man who was walking unsteadily and bleeding from a wound on the back of his head. This Qirsi also had shaping, as well as delusion magic, gleaning, and mists. No doubt he, too, was one of Dusaan’s chancellors.

Grinsa took hold of his magic.

“You!” the man said in a whisper, staring at him wide-eyed. “You’re the one who stopped me from killing them.”

“Yes.”

“He’s a minister, Your Majesty,” Diani said. “From Aneira, if his accent is any indication.”

“Actually,” Grinsa said, remembering descriptions of the man that he and Tavis had heard while journeying through the southern kingdom, “he’s more than that. If I’m not mistaken, this is Aneira’s archminister.”

“Is this true?” Kearney asked. “You’re Pronjed jal Drenthe?”

Grinsa expected the man to deny it, or at least to refuse to answer. But he merely nodded, hatred in his eyes as he looked sidelong at the gleaner.

Diani still had her dagger drawn. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the man. “He has shaping power,” she said. “And he used another magic on me, one that forced me to do things.”

Grinsa took a breath. He could see where this was going. “It’s called delusion. I’ve also heard it called mind-bending power.”

Marston had moved to stand beside the duchess and he was watching the minister warily. “Whatever it’s called, he’s clearly as dangerous as this woman, perhaps more so.”