David Coe - Weavers of War

“I’m sorry, Stinger. You’re right, I’m not the only one. As I said before, I have no desire to put myself between you and Hagan, but I’ll do what I can.”

Xaver nodded, still looking displeased.

“Personally, I’d be honored to march into battle beside you.”

He smiled at that. “We’ve been talking about it since we were five.”

“Longer than that, if my mother is to be believed.”

“Thanks, Tavis.”

“I’m not promising anything. You understand that.”

“I know. But I’m grateful anyway.”

“Just promise me that you’ll watch my back, and I’ll do the same for you.”

Xaver grinned. “Done.”

* * *

After Javan and Tavis rode away, Keziah turned her attention back to Kearney, who was still giving comfort to the duke of Heneagh. There was a pained expression in her pale eyes. She held a hand to her mouth, as if afraid that she might weep at any moment.

“Perhaps we should find someplace where we can speak,” Fotir suggested.

She nodded, but her gaze never left the king.

“Keziah.”

She looked at Grinsa, seeming to rouse herself from a dream. “Yes, of course.”

It looked to the gleaner that she hadn’t slept in days. There were circles under her eyes, and her skin was so wan that she almost looked gray. He wondered how many times in the past few nights she had dreamed of the Weaver.

The three Qirsi walked away from the king toward the rear of the Curgh camp where there were fewer soldiers. After a few moments, Grinsa realized that one of Kearney’s men was following a short distance behind them.

“My shadow,” Keziah said, seeing him glance back.

“Kearney’s having you watched?”

“It’s necessary. We still need for everyone to believe that he doesn’t trust me.”

Fotir looked from one of them to the other. “Am I to understand that the king knows of your attempt to join the conspiracy?”

Keziah gave a rueful smile. “That was necessary as well. He was preparing to send me away from his court.”

“This seems to be growing more perilous by the moment.”

Grinsa said nothing, though it occurred to him that it had all been far too dangerous from the very beginning. Keziah had contrived to join the Qirsi conspiracy, making it seem to the Weaver that she served his cause, and convincing all those around her that she had betrayed her king and her land. Kearney knew the truth now, but that seemed small consolation to Grinsa. If the Weaver learned that Keziah had been deceiving him, he would make her suffer terribly before killing her.

“Can we speak frankly with that soldier hovering at our shoulders?” Fotir asked.

“We haven’t much choice, First Minister,” Keziah said, impatience creeping into her voice. “Believe me when I tell you that these inconveniences mean little to me at this point. I have far greater matters weighing on my mind.”

The gleaner thought that Fotir might respond in anger-the minister was no more accustomed than was Keziah to having people speak to him so. To his credit, however, the man gave a small smile and inclined his head. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me, Archminister.”

Keziah frowned, as if she had expected more of a fight.

“Have you heard from the Weaver again?” Grinsa asked in a whisper.

“I last heard from him about a half turn ago,” she answered, whispering as well, “just after we marched from Audun’s Castle. He was angry with me for failing to kill Cresenne.”

“Did he hurt you?”

His sister tried to smile, failed. After a moment she looked away. “It wasn’t too bad.”

Grinsa didn’t believe her, but he let it pass, his heart aching for her.

“He told me that he would find another way to kill her. Don’t worry,” she said, seeming to believe that she was anticipating Grinsa’s next question. “I sent word back to the castle. She knows to expect an attack.”

The gleaner looked away. “The attack’s already come.”

She gaped at him.

“Is she-?”

“She’s all right.” Actually, the gleaner couldn’t say with any certainty that she would ever truly recover from all her encounters with the man. The Weaver had tortured her, leaving scars on her face that might have looked like those Tavis bore had Grinsa not been able to heal her so soon after the assault. One of the Weaver’s servants had poisoned her, very nearly taking her life. And the last time he entered her dreams, the Weaver had raped her, or come as close to rape as a man could without actually touching her physically.

“What did he do to her?”

“It’s not important. What matters is that Cresenne drove him from her dreams. She won.” Though at what cost?

Keziah still stared at him, but the horror on her face had given way to a look of wonder.

“Did she really?”

“Yes. And as I’ve been telling you all along, you have the power to do the same.”

After his own unsuccessful encounter with the Weaver half a turn before, as he and Tavis were riding across the southern Moorlands, Grinsa had come to doubt that anyone could prevail against the man. But despite all that she had endured during her dreams of the Weaver, Cresenne had given him hope, not only for himself, but for Keziah as well. He still feared for his sister-for all of them, really-but he had to believe that Dusaan could be beaten.

“She did it,” Keziah whispered, sounding awed and shaking her head slowly.

“You were telling us of your own encounter with the Weaver,” Fotir prompted gently.

She ran a hand through her hair, smiling self-consciously. An instant later, though, she had grown deadly serious. “Yes, of course. He gave me a new task to complete. He wants me to kill Kearney.”

“What?” Fotir said, far too loudly, his eyes widening. He glanced back at the soldier. “How?” he asked a moment later, his voice lowered once more.

“He left that to me. He wants it to happen in battle, so that no one suspects the Qirsi.”

“Does Kearney know?”

She looked at Grinsa. “I’ve warned him, yes.”

“Why bother?” Fotir asked. “It’s not as though you intend to go through with it, right?”

“Of course she doesn’t. But if the Weaver really wants Kearney dead, and if her failure to kill Cresenne has made him question Keziah’s commitment to the conspiracy, then he’ll have given the same order to others who serve him.”

Fotir shook his head slowly. “You both seem to understand him so well. I’m out of my depth.”

“We have an advantage, First Minister,” Grinsa told him. “If you care to call it that. We’ve both spoken with the man. He’s walked in our dreams.”

Keziah gaped at him. “You dreamed of him, too?”

“Yes, not long after you did, it seems. He tried to attack me, and he threatened Cresenne.”

“But he couldn’t hurt you, right? You’re too strong for him.”

Grinsa’s stomach turned at the memory of what the Weaver had done to him, of the pain in his temple as the man tried to crush his skull. Seeing how Keziah looked at him, begging him with her eyes to say that his magic had been a match for that of the Weaver, he almost lied. Qirsar knew that he wanted to.

Instead he shook his head. “I wasn’t strong enough.”

“He did hurt you.” Her voice shook and terror was written plainly on her face.

“I was able to wake myself before he could do any real harm. And I managed to summon a flame that lit his face and the plain on which we stood. I know for certain who he is.”

“Were we right about him?” Fotir asked. “Is it the emperor’s high chancellor?”

“Yes. Dusaan jal Kania. He was on Ayvencalde Moor. He tried to keep me from using my fire magic, but I have to say that once I’d seen him, he didn’t seem overly concerned.”