David Coe - Weavers of War

“Songs will be written of his bravery, and of Dunfyl’s as well. The Underrealm will shine like Morna’s sky with their light.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the man whispered. “Thank you.”

Grinsa removed his hands from Kearney’s side and sat back on his knees, his face shining with sweat.

“Thank you, gleaner,” the king said, twisting his body tentatively and then lifting his arm. “That’s much better. You have a deft touch.”

“You have other wounds, Your Majesty. I can heal them as well.”

Kearney stood. “Thank you. Perhaps later.” He stepped to where Welfyl’s swordmaster stood. Immediately the man dropped to one knee, bowing his head. “Rise, Sir Avkar.” The man did as he was told. “I know that you grieve for Lord Heneagh,” the king went on, “but this is not the time for mourning. Braedon’s army will attack again, perhaps as soon as dawn. I need for you to command your duke’s army. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You’ve suffered terrible losses. I can offer you a few hundred men, but it won’t be enough to take the place of all those who have fallen.”

Rab straightened. “With all respect, Your Majesty. We don’t need any more men. We may not be as well trained as the soldiers of Curgh or the King’s Guard, but we fight now for the memories of our duke and lord. The empire’s army won’t get past us.”

For a moment it seemed that the king might insist, but then he appeared to think better of it. “Your duke would be proud, swordmaster. Very well. We’ll leave the armies as they are for now.”

It had grown dark. Throughout the camp, soldiers were lighting small fires. A few could be heard singing softly, their voices mingling with the low moan of the wind and the cries of the wounded. A short distance to the south a great fire burned, the pyre for Eibithar’s dead. Gazing up at the sky, Keziah saw stars beginning to emerge in the blackness, bright and clear. The moons weren’t up yet, but already she could see that it was going to be a glorious night.

“We need to be ready when they attack again,” Kearney was saying. “I want archers posted at the front of our lines at all times. Have them stand in three shifts.”

Javan, the swordmaster, and Kearney’s captains murmured their agreement.

Fotir glanced at Grinsa, who nodded. “Pardon me, Your Majesty,” the minister said. “But Grinsa, the archminister, and I all have magic of mists and winds. On your authority, we can summon a wind to aid our archers and hinder Braedon’s.”

“Yes, First Minister, that would be fine. But remember that the empire has Qirsi as well. Any wind you raise may well be countered before it can do much good.”

“Wait,” Javan broke in, staring at Grinsa. “You have mists and winds? I thought you were just a gleaner.”

Keziah felt her entire body growing tense, but her brother merely smiled.

“I’m somewhat more than I seem, my lord,” he said, “as your son will attest.” He gave the king a meaningful look. “And I assure you, Your Majesty, the wind we raise will be more than a match for that of Braedon’s Qirsi.”

Again the king blanched, appearing to remember in that moment that Grinsa was a Weaver. “Yes, of course, gleaner. Thank you.” He took a breath, as if to gather himself. Then he turned to the older of his captains. “What news of Shanstead?” he asked. “Do you still expect him to reach here tomorrow?”

“Last we heard, Your Majesty, he was approaching the far banks of Binthar’s Wash. But that was a day ago, and still we haven’t seen them on the moors.”

Kearney’s mouth twitched. “We may have to fight without them again.”

“They won’t catch us unaware again, my liege.” Javan gave a thin smile. “The first battle went their way. But the dawn brings a new day, and it will be ours.”

The king’s smile was brittle and pained. “Of course, Lord Curgh. My thanks.”

They continued to speak of the day’s battle for some time, eating cold provisions just as did the men around them. Some of what they discussed would serve them in devising tactics for their next encounter with the empire’s forces, but much of it, Keziah could tell, was simply warriors exchanging tales of combat. She had little to add of course, but she remained with them, watching with pleasure how Kearney came alive when he spoke of wielding his blade and dancing his mount amidst a sea of enemy soldiers. Even Tavis, who usually seemed so withdrawn around anyone other than Grinsa and the MarCullet boy, offered a tale or two of his own and laughed with the others.

Grinsa said very little, though, like Keziah, he made no effort to excuse himself. After a time he moved so that he was beside her. Kearney eyed him as he did, but said nothing.

“Feeling left out?” Grinsa asked, his voice low, a small smile on his lips.

“A bit. I was wondering if I should ride to the North Wood, find something to kill, and then come back and tell all of you about it.”

He laughed. “You don’t have to go to such lengths. These are warrior tales. They don’t have to be accurate.”

“I heard that, gleaner,” Hagan MarCullet growled from nearby.

Her brother grinned at the man, then faced her again. “Earlier, when I asked if you were all right, you made it sound like you weren’t. I was wondering if there’s anything I can do.”

“I shouldn’t have said that. I had just seen some things, and then hearing that Welfyl was dead…” She shrugged. “I’m better now.”

“But this day took its toll on you, didn’t it?”

“No more than it did on others.”

“Kezi-”

“I’m fine, Grinsa.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Keziah almost got up and walked away. She was tired, and though Kearney’s soldier-her shadow-would follow her wherever she went, at that moment she would have preferred his silent stares to Grinsa’s questions.

During the lengthy silence that ensued, Grinsa seemed to sense how angry she was. “I’m sorry, Kezi,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Forgiveness came grudgingly. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. You don’t need me taking care of you anymore. I shouldn’t even try.”

She couldn’t help herself. For years he had treated her as though they were still children, as though she still needed the protection of an older brother. “No, you shouldn’t. You may be the older one, the more powerful one, but that doesn’t mean that I’m helpless.”

“I know that. Truly I do. But the ones who really need my protection are beyond my reach. And so I try to protect you instead.”

The ones who really need … Cresenne and Bryntelle. Sometimes her own capacity for selfishness and stupidity took her breath away. He had meant well. His questions had done no harm, except perhaps to her pride. But she was so absorbed with her own concerns that all she could see was the meddling of an older brother. She gazed at him now, marveling at how little he had changed over the years. He seemed ageless, save for his eyes. They were medium yellow, like the sun early on a harvest morning, and they appeared to carry within them the cares of all the land. For all the youth she still saw in Kearney’s face, her king had aged considerably in the last year. Tavis of Curgh had grown to manhood, it seemed, almost before her eyes. And when she looked in a mirror, she saw time marking its progress with small lines around her own mouth and eyes. But Grinsa remained as she remembered, the man who had loved and protected her all her life, who had always borne burdens the likes of which she could scarcely comprehend.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes stinging. “I didn’t think…” She trailed off, not knowing what to say, realizing that what she had said, though incomplete, was as true as anything else she might have offered. “You told me that she won,” she said a few moments later. “She shouldn’t have anything to fear from him anymore.”