David Coe - Weavers of War

“Don’t look. Just find Javan and Welfyl. Send them to me, and then ride away from the lines, away from all this. Do you understand?”

She nodded, but even as she did, her eyes dropped again. One of the dead seemed to be staring at her, a look of surprise on the young face that might have been amusing had it not been-

“Keziah.”

Her eyes snapped up again.

“Find the dukes.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

She started forward again, allowing her mount to navigate among the corpses as best he could, forcing herself to keep her eyes on the men ahead of her, the ones who lived still and who wore the brown and gold of Curgh. She spotted Grinsa and Fotir, and hurried toward them, knowing that the duke would be nearby. A moment later she saw Javan, standing with Tavis, Curgh’s swordmaster, and another young man who she had gathered from previous conversations was Tavis’s liege man and the swordmaster’s son. Like Kearney, Javan bore a number of wounds, but none of them appeared grave. Grinsa, too, was bleeding. Indeed, all of them were. Aside from the healers, she was probably the only person on the Moorlands who hadn’t been injured.

At her approach, the duke raised a hand in greeting. “Archminister. What news of the king?”

“He’s well, my lord. He wishes to speak with you and your minister.”

“Of course. We’ll go to him immediately. How fared the King’s Guard?”

“I’m not certain, my lord. I wasn’t in the fighting. I don’t … I don’t have the magics of a warrior.”

“Of course, Archminister. Forgive me.”

“Not at all, my lord. I’ll see you shortly. I must find the duke of Heneagh as well.”

Javan glanced quickly at Fotir before facing her again, and she knew from his expression what he would say. “The duke is dead, Archminister. He fell in battle.”

Her first thought was of Heneagh’s duchess, who had no idea that she had lost a husband and a son on this day. Keziah didn’t even know the woman’s name. As archminister to the king, she should have, but they had never met, and because Welfyl was duke of a minor house, he and the king had little contact before these last few turns.

“Archminister.”

She shook herself, as if waking from a bad dream. She was not cut out for war. “Yes, my lord. Who commands Heneagh’s army now?”

“Welfyl’s swordmaster, a man named Rab Avkar.”

Keziah looked westward to the Heneagh army. She didn’t relish the idea of entering the camp and searching for a warrior she’d never met before.

“I know him,” Hagan MarCullet said, sensing her unease. “With my lord’s permission, I’ll go and find him.”

“Of course, Hagan.”

“Thank you, swordmaster,” Keziah said.

He nodded to her and walked away, reminding her so much of Gershon Trasker, Kearney’s swordmaster, who was marching south to fight the Aneirans, that she had to smile.

Javan climbed onto his mount, moving stiffly, a rueful grin on his lips. “What I wouldn’t give to be ten years younger.”

“Only ten?” Tavis said, drawing laughs from all of them.

Within moments Keziah, the duke, Tavis, Grinsa, and Fotir were on their way back toward Kearney. The MarCullet boy followed as well; Keziah couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Tavis without the other young man nearby. Almost immediately, Grinsa steered his horse to Keziah’s side-the side nearest the battle plain, she noticed, as if he wished to shield her from the horrors there.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

“No.”

He turned and stared at her.

“Don’t look so surprised. After all that you’ve seen today, can you honestly tell me that you are?”

“It’s only going to get worse, Kezi.”

“I know.” She glanced at his wounds, deep cuts on his arms and hands, and a nasty bruise just below his right temple. “Do they hurt much?”

“No. If they did, I’d have healed them by now.”

“Why haven’t you?”

He shrugged. “I’m too weary.”

“There are other healers, Grinsa. One of them…”

“I’m fine, Keziah. I’ll heal myself later. I promise.”

She nodded, pressing her lips in a tight line.

They soon reached Kearney, who was walking among the injured men of his guard, offering what comfort he could as the soldiers waited for healers to tend their wounds. Two of his captains stood nearby. Seeing Javan approach, the king came forward. He, too, had not yet had his own injuries healed.

“Well met, Lord Curgh. I’m glad to see you’re well.”

“Thank you, my liege. I could easily say the same, except it seems you’re hurt.”

Kearney glanced down at the bloody gash on his side. “It’s nothing of concern. We have more pressing matters to discuss.”

“Forgive me for saying so, my liege. But we can speak of these things while the Qirsi minister to you.” Javan caught the eye of one of the healers and beckoned him over.

A healer could do much damage under the guise of trying to help him. An herbmaster could easily exchange poison for a tonic.…

“No!” Keziah said, a bit too quickly. The healer hesitated. “The … the matters we need to discuss are of a sensitive nature.”

Grinsa was eyeing her strangely. But after a moment he appeared to catch on. “She’s right, Your Majesty. I’m not a healer by trade, but perhaps I can help in this instance.”

Kearney seemed to understand as well. He even paled a bit. “Very well, gleaner.” He faced the healer and forced a smile. “Thank you anyway.”

The healer stood there a few seconds longer, then returned to the soldiers, appearing nonplussed by the exchange and leaving Keziah to wonder if she should have kept silent.

“What was that about?” Fotir asked.

“We have cause to think that the conspiracy will make an attempt on the king’s life,” Grinsa said. “We should be wary of allowing any Qirsi we don’t know to get near him.”

Javan narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think they want to kill the king? Did that woman you imprisoned tell you this as well?”

“I can’t say,” Grinsa told him.

“But surely-”

“Leave it, Father.” Tavis placed a hand on the duke’s shoulder. “Grinsa wouldn’t have said anything if he didn’t have good reason to believe it was true. Trust him as I do and let it be.”

Javan regarded his son briefly, as if seeing him anew. Then he nodded. “Very well.”

They found a pallet on which Kearney could sit, and Grinsa knelt before him, laying his hands over the wound on the king’s side.

“Tell me of your battles,” the king said, clearly uncomfortable with having Grinsa tending his wounds with the others nearby. His expression changed. “Where’s Welfyl?”

Javan took a long breath. “He’s dead, my liege.”

Kearney closed his eyes briefly. “Demons and fire. This is a black day for the House of the River.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“How severe were Heneagh’s losses?”

Curgh’s duke shook his head. “We don’t know for certain yet, my liege, but it appeared that they had lost nearly a third of their men. Perhaps more.”

“Damn. And yours, Lord Curgh?”

“Not quite as bad as that, though close.”

“Same for my guard. We’ve yet to make a count of the enemy dead and wounded, but I’m sure they fared better than we did.”

“I’m afraid so, my liege.”

Hagan MarCullet returned, accompanied by a lanky man with a shaved head and trim beard who Keziah assumed to be Rab Avkar.

“Swordmaster,” the king said, looking up at the man. “All of us are deeply saddened by the loss of your duke, none more so than I.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the swordmaster said, his voice thick, his eyes reddened. “I tried to reason with him, to keep him from joining the battle-a man his age…” He shook his head. “He insisted. He said he wanted to strike a blow for his son. And for some time he fought as a man possessed. But he wasn’t strong enough. I saw him go down-” His voice broke and he turned his head, swallowing hard.