David Coe - Weavers of War

“I want Galdasten to be at war when I do,” he went on. “I want Renald and his army on the Moorlands, fighting the empire’s invaders. Can you convince your duke to ride to war?”

“I can, Weaver,” he said, knowing it was true. “Renald wants to fight. Every day that goes by with Braedon’s men in his city and the realm at risk, pains him. His swordmaster is much the same and will support me.”

“Good. Then I expect this will prove quite easy for you.”

“Not entirely. The duchess will oppose me.”

“The duchess?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Yes, Weaver. She holds sway in Renald’s court. If she can’t be convinced, Renald may resist.”

“See that he doesn’t.”

He knew better than to argue. If he failed the Weaver in this, his punishment would make their last encounter seem pleasant by comparison. “Of course, Weaver.”

“You possess healing and fire magics.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“They’ll prove useful when our war begins. I’ll weave your fire with that of a hundred other Qirsi. Entire armies of Eandi soldiers will fall before you.”

Pillad had never considered himself a warrior, but he couldn’t deny that the idea of this thrilled him. “My magic is yours, Weaver.”

The following morning, the eighth of Adriel’s waxing, the minister made his way to the duke’s presence chamber intending to raise the matter immediately. When he arrived there, however, he found the duchess with Renald and Ewan.

“What is he doing here?” Elspeth asked, eyeing the minister warily as he stepped into the chamber.

Renald winced, but quickly gathered himself, saying, in a reasonably steady voice, “I asked him here.”

The duchess started to say something, then stopped herself, a thin smile flitting across her exquisite face. “I’m not certain that was wise, my lord. We don’t know yet that we can trust him.”

“I believe we can.”

Pillad could not remember ever hearing the duke speak so to his wife, and it made him all the more certain that he could be persuaded to march to war. By the same token, though, the minister decided then that he would not broach the matter that day, in Elspeth’s presence. Renald could only be expected to stand up to her so often before falling back into his usual submissiveness. In some respects Pillad and his duke were quite similar.

The minister sat near the chamber door, far from the duchess and from the duke as well. He merely listened as their discussion began slowly and soon foundered. Ewan spoke of his own frustration and that of his men, their eagerness to fight, and the suffering of Galdasten’s people under the authority of the empire.

Renald wore a pained expression and nodded his agreement several times, but he said little more than did Pillad. It fell to the duchess to answer the swordmaster’s plea for action, and she did so with no apology.

“There’s more at stake here than a warrior’s pride, swordmaster,” she said, sounding like a parent scolding a thoughtless child. “I’d have thought that you understood that by now. How long has it been since a man from Galdasten sat on the throne, Renald?”

She didn’t even look at him, and still the duke quailed, his normally ruddy face turning pale. “Nearly a century.”

“Nearly a century,” she repeated. “And it’s been more than three hundred and fifty years since anyone challenged Thorald’s supremacy under the Rules of Ascension. We seek to change the course of history. We cannot rush this.”

“And what of the people, my lady?”

There could be no denying Ewan’s nerve.

“That they suffer is regrettable,” she said, without any trace of regret. “But always there is a price for such momentous change.”

That ended their discussion. The duke asked his swordmaster a few questions about the castle’s stores and readiness of the army should the time to march come soon, but within a few moments Ewan had stood and crossed to the door, clearly troubled by what the duchess had said.

Pillad stood as well, intending to leave with him. Perhaps if they worked together, they might more easily convince the duke to oppose his wife.

“Stay a moment, won’t you, First Minister?”

He turned. Elspeth was eyeing him as a spider might regard a newly caught fly. “Of course, my lady.”

She stood and began to pace as Ewan left the chamber. “You disagree with me,” she said.

“I do, my lady.”

“Why?”

“Because I believe that the conspiracy was responsible for Lady Brienne’s death, and I fear that the duke is mistaken in opposing the king. I fear for the realm, indeed for all the Forelands.”

She raised an eyebrow. Apparently she hadn’t expected him to speak against the conspiracy so forcefully. “So you believe that the Qirsi plot is connected in some way to the empire’s invasion?”

“I believe it’s possible. The barkeep in Galdasten City saw me in his establishment every day for more than a turn, but he didn’t offer me gold or speak to me of the conspiracy until after Braedon’s ships had appeared in Falcon Bay.” He shrugged, pleased with himself. “That isn’t proof, of course, but it does make me wonder.”

“I see.” She continued to circle the chamber, as if lost in thought. After a time, she glanced at Pillad again. “That’s all, First Minister. You may go.”

He cast a look at the duke, who gave a small nod and, Pillad thought, the barest hint of a smile. Offering a quick bow, he left them.

Over the course of the next few days, Pillad met with the duke several times, but always with Elspeth present. It almost seemed that she was afraid to allow them to speak in private. Their discussions covered little that was new, while avoiding any mention of the war being fought on the Moorlands. For all Pillad knew, the duke was receiving daily reports on the fighting to the south, but Renald didn’t speak of them.

Finally, on this, the thirteenth day of the waxing, Pillad arrived at Renald’s chamber to find that the duchess was not yet there. While still in the corridor he had heard Ewan’s voice, though he had been unable to make out any of what the swordmaster said, and with two guards standing by the door, he didn’t dare try to listen. Once he saw that the two men were alone, he had a good idea of what the swordmaster had been saying.

“Come in, First Minister,” Renald said, waving him into the chamber and then pointing to an empty chair.

“Are you certain I’m not interrupting, my lord?”

“Not at all. The swordmaster has been telling me once more that it’s time we joined the fighting.”

He didn’t even have to raise the subject himself. The gods were with him.

“You know where I stand on the matter, my lord.”

“Yes, I believe I do. You weren’t swayed by what the duchess said the other day?”

“I’m certain you would make a fine king, my lord,” he said, speaking carefully. “And I think it possible that the situation on the Moorlands is already desperate enough that your arrival there will save the realm, placing you in a position to demand the crown. But I fear that if you wait too long in the hope of positioning yourself to be king, there will be no realm left for you to rule.”

“Exactly!” Ewan said, sitting forward so suddenly that he nearly propelled himself out of his chair.

“We always knew that I would have to strike a fine balance,” the duke said. “Els- The duchess merely wishes to make certain that we succeed.”

“If I may, my lord,” Pillad said. “Such considerations ought to be secondary. Your people are suffering. The city of your forebears is overrun with the emperor’s soldiers. You should strike at them, drive them back to their ships. If you take the crown, so be it. But the time has come to act like a king.”