Shapers of Darkness (44 page)

“If that’s what it takes to change the world, then yes, I do.”

“And just how are you different from the worst Eandi tyrants of Aneira and Braedon? You’re no better than a Solkaran or a Curtell. Your eyes may be yellow, but your blood runs Eandi.”

He had known the assault would come if he pushed the
Weaver far enough, and so was able to defend himself with ease, despite the man’s fury. As the Weaver hammered at his mind, struggling once more to gain control of Grinsa’s shaping power, the gleaner raised his hand and called forth a bright golden flame.

The Weaver’s eyes snapped wide and a low growl escaped his throat. Grinsa felt him try to snuff out the flame, but the gleaner held fast to his magic. Beyond the Weaver, across the rocky moorland on which they stood, Grinsa saw the gentle curve of a coastline and the pale glitter of water. And beyond that, more land. He saw an island to the north—Wantrae Island. The body of water had to be the Strait of Wantrae. Which made this plain . . .

“Ayvencalde Moor,” he said aloud. “I’ve never been here, but I know this place.”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter.”

“I beg to differ. You must be the High Chancellor of Braedon. Dusaan jal Kania.” He had first heard the name a few turns before, in the City of Kings. After the Weaver tried to kill Cresenne, she told Grinsa of having been a chancellor in the Weaver’s movement. Since the emperor of Braedon was the only noble in the Forelands who referred to his Qirsi advisors as chancellors, the gleaner had begun to wonder if the Weaver served in the emperor’s court. After his fight with Tihod, his suspicions deepened. Now, seeing the way this man’s face shaded to crimson, he was certain. “You say it doesn’t matter, Dusaan. Your expression tells me otherwise.”

“So you know who I am. How will you explain this to your Eandi allies? Only a Weaver could have learned such a thing. Are you ready to admit to them what you are? Are you ready to die at the hands of your so-called friends?”

“You think them fools. They’re not. When they understand that I can defeat you, that I’m their only hope, they’ll accept who and what I am.”

“You’d let them use you that way? You disgust me.”

Grinsa sensed that the Weaver was about to leave him. “I can find you now, Dusaan. The next time we meet, it will be in your dreams. You’d best be ready.”

“You can’t hurt me, gleaner. And it may be that I can’t hurt you. But I can still reach Cresenne, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

It was only for an instant, a lapse brought on by fear for his love and for his daughter, by his fatigue, and by his belief, wrong though it was, that the Weaver intended to end their conversation. And like a wolf waiting for his prey to show any sign of weakness, Dusaan pounced. Grinsa felt a lancing pain in his temple and then an unbearable pressure on his skull. Fear seized his heart, as if the Weaver himself had reached into his chest and was squeezing his life away. It seemed that his head was being crushed beneath boulders.

Wake up
, he heard someone say. Whose voice was that?

Wake up, gleaner. Wake up
.

Tavis. Grinsa opened his eyes and felt his world heave and spin. He rolled onto his stomach, pushed himself off the ground and vomited until his gut was empty and his throat was raw.

“You’re bleeding,” Tavis said, as the gleaner sat back on his knees.

Grinsa raised a hand to his temple. His fingers came away damp and sticky.

“You were dreaming of the Weaver.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“For a long time?”

“A shade too long, it would seem.” He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, as if to will away his dizziness. “Do you have any idea of the time?”

“If I had to guess I’d say it was almost dawn.”

Grinsa nodded. He felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. Now he knew why Keziah complained of their conversations disrupting her sleep.

“Can you heal yourself?” the boy asked. “Or do you want me to dress that for you?”

“I’ll take care of it. Thanks.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“I know who he is.”

Tavis sat up. “What?”

“His name is Dusaan jal Kania. He’s the high chancellor of Braedon.”

“You’re certain?”

He nodded.

“That’s just what we’ve been hoping for!”

“I suppose it could be helpful.”

He could barely see the young lord, but he knew that Tavis was frowning. “We’ve been trying to find out something—anything—about this man since early in the snows. And now you know his name and his title. Why aren’t you pleased?”

“You mean aside from the fact that he nearly succeeded in killing me just now?” He winced at what he heard in his own voice. “I’m sorry, Tavis. I’m just not sure that it matters anymore. I don’t think he wanted me to see his face again or to learn his name. But once I had, he didn’t act overly concerned. He thinks he’s won already, and after tonight, I fear that he may be right.”

“As long as you’re still fighting him, he hasn’t won.”

“He beat me just now. I held my own for a time, but in the end he beat me. And he threatened Cresenne’s life again. I’m powerless to protect her. Do you know what that’s like?”

“No. I suppose I don’t. I mean, I’m powerless to do lots of things, but it must be strange for a Weaver to feel that way.”

In spite of everything, Grinsa gave a small laugh. “Yes, it is.”

“I don’t know what to say, Grinsa. We can still go back to the City of Kings. It’s a longer ride now, but we can do it. That way you can protect them both.”

The gleaner gazed southward, though he could see nothing for the darkness and the low clouds. He was sorely tempted to ready the horses immediately and ride back to Audun’s castle. “I can make the journey alone.” He faced Tavis again. “I know how anxious you are to join your father and Hagan and Xaver in the north.”

“All right,” the boy said. There could be no mistaking the hurt in his voice. “But think about it, gleaner. The Weaver may have threatened Cresenne hoping that you would do just this. You’ve said yourself that it won’t be long until he shows himself. He’s just waiting for the court armies to weaken themselves
enough that he’ll have nothing to fear from them. What if this is part of his plan as well? What if he doesn’t want you there? He can defeat the armies, but he doesn’t want to face you as well. And what better way to ensure that he won’t have to than to threaten the woman you love.”

“I don’t think he fears me that much, not after this night.”

“You didn’t hurt him at all?”

“I couldn’t. He entered my dream. I couldn’t attack him; I could only hope to keep him from harming me. And I failed at that.”

“But you’re saying that he had nothing to fear from you.”

“Only that I might raise a fire and see his face.”

“And you did that.”

“Yes.”

Tavis opened his arms wide. “Then tonight proves nothing. It would be as if I had entered a battle tournament unarmed and then assumed because I lost that I was a poor swordsman.”

Again, Grinsa had to smile. It was crude analogy, but the boy raised a valid point.

“I can’t tell you what to do about Cresenne,” Tavis went on. “And if you feel that you have to be with her and Bryntelle, I’ll understand. But if the Weaver wasn’t afraid of you, he wouldn’t have entered your dreams, and he wouldn’t have said anything about Cresenne. If he merely wanted her dead, he’d kill her and gloat about it afterward. He’s trying to confuse you, to give you pause before you reach Galdasten. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense.”

He knew Tavis was right. The Weaver’s strength lay in his ability to sense the weakness in his opponent and turn it to his own advantage. He had done this time and again in his efforts to bring down the courts, and he had done it just now to Grinsa. The pain in his head, the gash on his temple—these were nothing. The true wound had been inflicted on Grinsa’s mind. Dusaan had struck at the gleaner’s courage, at his resolve, at the love he shared with Cresenne and their daughter. These were the flaws in his armor, the places where the Weaver could draw blood. A paradox, for they were also the sources of Grinsa’s strength.

He closed his eyes and again raised a hand to his temple,
drawing upon his magic. After a moment, he felt the skin beginning to heal.

When the pain had subsided, he opened his eyes once more. The sky to the east was starting to brighten. One of the horses nickered and an owl called in the distance.

“I’m ready to ride when you are,” Grinsa said.

Tavis merely nodded, and together they broke camp.

Chapter
Seventeen

The Moorlands, near Domnall, Eibithar

he rode well back in the column, speaking to no one, her eyes fixed on the path before her, her face a mask of indifference. Keziah and Kearney had agreed that it made more sense for them to ride apart from one another, that if they spent too much time in each other’s company it might invite speculation among the soldiers that they had reconciled. More to the point, it might convince the other Qirsi riding with them of the same thing. And since Keziah couldn’t be certain that the others weren’t traitors allied with the Weaver and his conspiracy, she had to continue behaving as if she, too, was a renegade.

Kearney had assigned a man to her, to keep her safe, but also to make it seem that he still doubted her motives. So she was never truly alone. The soldier rode just behind her, as silent and seemingly withdrawn as she. Kearney knew now of her efforts to join the conspiracy, of her hope that she might learn something of the Weaver that would aid the Eandi courts in their coming battle with the Qirsi movement. But of course he had not shared this with anyone, least of all her guard, who treated her as he might the defeated leader of an invading
army, with a cold courtesy that did nothing to hide his contempt for her.

Within only a few days of their departure from Audun’s Castle, Keziah had found herself longing for the company of Gershon Trasker. A year ago she would never have imagined that she and Gershon might become friends, but as with so much else, the Weaver and his movement had changed their relationship, forcing them both to see beyond their mutual distrust. Even if the swordmaster had been here, rather than leading the balance of the king’s army to Kentigern to fight the Aneirans, he couldn’t have spent any more time in her company than could Kearney. But still, she would have drawn comfort just from his presence.

She had no cause to complain. The men around her were all on foot. Only she, the king and his other ministers, and a few of Kearney’s captains were on horseback. With the passing of a storm two nights before, the air had turned cool for so late in the planting; high clouds covered the sky over Eibithar’s Moorlands, and a soft wind blew across the grasses and hillocks. From all she had learned over the years about Eibithar’s history, she knew that armies marching to war often endured terrible hardships. Thus far, they had encountered none of these. Yet, as always seemed to happen to the archminister when she accompanied Kearney and his men, she found herself alone, isolated in a sea of Eandi warriors. She was ashamed of her self-pity, yet she could not help herself.

Late in the morning, just after the last soldiers of the king’s army had started up a gentle rise, the column halted abruptly. Keziah looked up, hearing shouts in the distance and feeling her stomach tighten.

She glanced back at her guard. “What is it?”

He shrugged, looking as confused as she felt, his stony belligerence gone at least for the moment.

One of the captains was riding toward them, looking young and slightly afraid. Keziah wondered if Kearney missed Gershon as much as she did.

“What’s happening?” she asked as the man approached.

“His Majesty would like you to join him, Archminister. We’re nearing the gates of Domnall.”

Keziah nodded, kicking at the flanks of Greystar, her mount. Freed suddenly from the tedium of the soldiers’ slow pace, the horse practically leaped forward. The archminister sensed that the guard and captain were just behind her, but she didn’t look back. As she rode she felt Kearney’s men watching her, row after row of them, wary of her, wondering, no doubt, if she would raise her mists on their behalf when the battle was joined, or if, instead, she would betray them. She wanted to stop and yell at them all, to tell them that she remained loyal to Kearney and the realm, to tell them how much she had risked to learn what she could of the Weaver, to make them see how she suffered for the choices she had made. But she merely stared straight ahead, heedless of the burning of her cheeks.