Weavers of War (20 page)

“Are you really a Weaver, like they say?”

“Yes, I am.”

“How can we know that for sure?”

“What’s your name, friend?”

He hesitated, but only for an instant. “Creved jal Winza.”

“And you’re a healer, aren’t you, Creved?”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“No. I sense that you have healing magic, and so I assumed.”

“You sensed—?”

“A Weaver can do that. You also have language of beasts. Those are two of the deeper magics. How is it that you never ended up in an Eandi court?”

At first the man gave no response. He merely stared back at Dusaan, without a trace of the skepticism he had exuded just moments before. “I … I never wished to serve, my … your…”

“Call me Weaver.”

“Yes, Weaver, thank you. And besides, Eandi nobles seek out gleaners. They want their ministers to be able to see the future.”

“Quite right, Creved. Isn’t it fascinating,” he went on, speaking to all of them now, “that the Eandi value us precisely for the magic we know to be the least potent. Don’t get me wrong. Gleaning is a talent, and gleaners will be as welcome as all other Qirsi in the new world we’re building. But the Eandi want gleaners for their courts and for their festival tents. Yet gleaning is not one of the deep magics—all of us know this. Perhaps they do as well. They fear our powers. They use what they can, but they fear the rest, which is why for nearly nine hundred years, they have made us their servants, their entertainers, objects of curiosity and contempt.” He smiled. “Well, those days are over.” He looked at the healer again. “You said something else that interested me, Creved. You said that you never wished to serve in their courts. Why not?”

The man shrugged, looking afraid, as if he thought that he had said something wrong. “I don’t know, Weaver. I just … I don’t know.”

“It’s all right, Creved. For too long, our people have willingly given ourselves over to the Eandi. We need more men and women like this fine healer, who can see the virtue of using magic simply because it is our gift, the source of our distinctiveness and our strength.”

Was it just his imagination, or were the others staring at this old healer with admiration and envy, wishing that they, too, might earn the Weaver’s praise? He eyed the men and women Nitara had brought him, divining their powers, searching for any who looked like they might betray him. Like Creved, most of them appeared so awed by the notion of serving a Weaver that Dusaan knew he had nothing to fear from them. One or two remained wary, but this was to be expected.

Nearly all of those standing before him possessed only one or two powers; a few wielded three. Many of the men and women were healers, and a good number of the others possessed fire magic. There were, of course, quite a few gleaners. And a small number wielded the greater magics. Several had mists and winds, a few, like Creved, had language of beasts, and seven were shapers.

“All of you will serve our cause in some capacity. For many of you that will mean helping to protect and maintain this palace. Others among you will accompany me across the Strait of Wantrae to Eibithar, where we will wield our powers as one and destroy the armies of the Eandi courts. Whatever your role in this struggle, I promise you that you will be paid in gold, that your lives will be better than you ever imagined possible under the emperor’s rule, and that someday your children will thank you for what you do now.” He smiled again. “Are you with me?”

“Yes, Weaver!” they answered as one, their voices resounding off the courtyard walls.

He turned to Nitara, B’Serre, and the other ministers. “Find quarters for these people and then assign them tasks. We need some in the kitchens,” he said, lowering his voice. “And others, those with fire power, should be stationed as guards at the gates and in the prison tower.”

Nitara nodded. “Yes, Weaver.” She often spoke for the others, almost as if he had made her one of his chancellors. He didn’t mind, but he found it somewhat curious, and he wondered if her fellow ministers and chancellors thought that she and Dusaan were lovers.

He pointed out the seven shapers. “Bring them to me. They’ll be sailing with us to Eibithar. Oh, and send a healer to Harel. He’s hurt himself again.”

Dusaan returned to the imperial chamber a short time later, and was joined soon after by Nitara and the seven shapers. Five of them were old for his people—thirty years old at least, as far as he could tell, and of the two who were younger, one struck him as being somewhat less than eager to pledge himself to the Weaver’s cause. This man was watching him now, a slight smirk on his oval face. He wore his white hair long and pulled back from his face, and his eyes were so pale as to be ghostlike.

“You,” Dusaan said, nodding toward him. “What’s your name?”

“B’Naer, High Chancellor.”

Nitara cast a quick look Dusaan’s way, seeming to gauge his response. The Weaver hadn’t explicitly instructed the other Qirsi not to use his old title, but he felt that they should have known. Normally he wouldn’t have tolerated such an indiscretion but in this case he decided to give the man a bit of latitude. A very little bit.

“That’s all? Just B’Naer?”

The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, an amused look on his face. “B’Naer jal Shenvesse.”

“And from the looks of you I’d say you’re a peddler.”

“Close enough.”

The Weaver raised an eyebrow. “A brigand then.”

The smile vanished from his face.

“It’s all right, B’Naer. Whatever laws you’ve broken were Eandi laws. That’s not to say that I won’t deal harshly with your kind now that I lead the realm, but consider this your one opportunity to change the course of your life, to choose a brighter path, if you will.” Dusaan crossed to the emperor’s throne and sat. “Tell me, B’Naer, why do you think you’re here? What do you think you have in common with these other six people?”

“I don’t know? Are they brigands, too?”

One of them, an older woman, actually laughed out loud.

“No,” the Weaver said with a smile. “They’re not brigands.” He eyed the man for a moment longer, and when he shook his head, Dusaan looked at the others. “Do any of you know?”

“You know what powers we possess,” the woman answered at last. “Are we all shapers?”

The Weaver smiled. “And your name?”

“Qidanne ja Qed, Weaver. I’m a healer in the city.”

This name he did know. She wasn’t just a healer—she was the most renowned healer in all of Curtell. On several occasions the emperor had asked her to serve in the palace. Each time she had refused him, claiming that her duties as a healer called her into the countryside too often, and that some of those to whom she ministered would not trust another healer. Dusaan had long wondered if these excuses had served to mask her dislike of the emperor. Now he felt certain that they had.

“We’re all honored to have you with us, Qidanne. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Thank you, Weaver.”

“You’re right, of course. All of you are shapers, and as such, will prove invaluable to our movement in battle.”

“In battle?” she said, frowning. “I’m no warrior, Weaver. Surely you understand that all to which I’ve devoted my life is at odds with the very notion of armed conflict.”

“I do understand that, healer. But I know as well that the fate of our people rests with our ability to defeat the combined might of the Eandi armies. I’ll need shapers to do that. The sooner I can destroy the enemy, the fewer of our people will need your talents.”

“I minister to Eandi as well as Qirsi, Weaver, and though I sympathize with your movement, I can’t bring myself to kill anyone, no matter the color of their eyes.”

Dusaan detested cowardice, and had he sensed in her words even a hint of pretense, he would have killed her where she stood. He could tell, however, that she spoke not out of fear of being killed herself, but rather out of a true aversion to killing others, and he knew that to force this woman to fight against her will would diminish him, not only in her eyes, but in those of the men and women around her.

“Will you accompany me to the battle plain as a healer, then?”

“I will, if you will allow me to tend to all who are wounded, no matter the color of their eyes.”

Dusaan gave a small laugh. “You’re a difficult woman.”

“Why is it, Weaver, that I’m called ‘difficult,’ while men who behave as I do are called ‘determined’ and ‘strong’?”

“A fair point, healer.” He nodded. “You can tend to all who are wounded, and I’ll enjoy having you with me, to keep my wit honed.” He eyed the others. “And what of the rest of you? Will you wield your shaping power on behalf of the Qirsi cause?”

“You mentioned gold before,” the brigand said, a sly look on his handsome face. “Just how much will our role in this battle—?”

Before he could finish, Dusaan had taken hold of his shaping power and used it to press on the man’s temples. B’Naer gasped at the pain, both hands gripping his head. The Weaver was willing to tolerate a good deal from a woman like Qidanne. But this man was another matter entirely.

“This is not a negotiation, cousin. The healer has earned some consideration, even from me. You haven’t. Push me too far, and you’ll learn what it is to face the wrath of a Weaver.”

He maintained his grip on the brigand’s magic for a moment longer, then released him. B’Naer toppled to the floor, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut. The other Qirsi were gaping at Dusaan, all of them looking awed and terrified. In a way, the brigand had done him a service. Qidanne had given him the opportunity to show his compassion, his willingness to accommodate those who served him well. B’Naer had allowed him to demonstrate what happened to those who defied him. He knew that it wouldn’t take long before all the Qirsi who had come to the palace that day heard of both the depth of his kindness and the power of his rage.

“Now, I’ll ask all of you again,” he said. “Will you join me in this fight against the Eandi?”

“Yes, Weaver.” They spoke as one, without the enthusiasm that all the Qirsi had shown in the courtyard, but with a tone of reverence that Dusaan found quite satisfying.

“Good. We leave for Ayvencalde in two or three days. Until then, you’re to do as Nitara commands. In my absence, in all matters of importance, she speaks with my authority.” He glanced at Nitara, who nodded in return. “You may go.” They began to file out of the chamber. “A word please, B’Naer.”

The brigand halted, glancing toward the door as if considering whether he might be better off fleeing. The others looked back at him, and judging from their expressions, they could well have been thinking the same thing.

B’Naer walked slowly back to the center of the chamber, stopping at last just before the Weaver’s throne and flinching slightly when the door clicked shut behind him.

“I hurt you,” Dusaan said.

“Yes, Weaver.”

“And now you think I’m going to kill you.”

“Aren’t you?”

“That depends in large part on you. Even as high chancellor to the fat oaf who used to sit in this chair, I grew accustomed to people heeding my commands and speaking to me with deference. If you can do so from this day forward, you’ll live. If not, your death will serve as a lesson to others foolish enough to defy me.”

“Of course, Weaver. I’ll do as you say.”

Dusaan reached for him so swiftly, wrapping a powerful hand around the man’s throat, that the brigand had no time to react. He grabbed for the Weaver’s hand, no doubt to try and break Dusaan’s grip. After a moment, however, he appeared to think better of this.

“You’ll find, B’Naer, that I don’t take kindly to being humored. I’m not some merchant ripe for being cheated, nor am I a simpleminded Eandi soldier to be mollified with a smile and a kind word. I’m the most powerful man you’ve ever met, and the most intelligent as well. Anger me again, and I will kill you. You have my word on that. Do I make myself clear?”

B’Naer nodded, his pale eyes wide.

Dusaan let go of the man’s neck, sitting back in his throne. “What did you do as a brigand?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you must have had a specialty. Men of your sort usually do. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, Weaver.” His face colored. “I … I began as a road thief. Later I turned to city thieving, first in Refte, then in Ayvencalde, and finally here.”

“I see. How does a man choose such a profession, B’Naer? Surely your Determining didn’t show you as a brigand.”

The man smiled—it almost seemed he couldn’t help himself. “No, Weaver, but my Fating did. I’m good with a blade, and I’m strong for a Qirsi. And having shaping power made it that much easier to take care of myself.”

“Yes, I’m sure it did,” the Weaver said, narrowing his eyes, staring intently at this man before him. He couldn’t deny that there was need in his army for men like this one. He had more than enough ministers and healers; shouldn’t he have a brigand or two as well, men who could be ruthless, perhaps even cruel? After all, soon they would be marching to war. “I think I’m glad you’re here, B’Naer. I sense that you may prove useful to me yet.”

The brigand grinned.

*   *   *

They rode from the palace three days later, seventy strong—a laughably small army by Eandi standards, but powerful enough to topple every fortress in the Forelands if victory demanded it. To her delight, Nitara rode with the Weaver at the head of their column. The other chancellors and ministers—Gorlan, Rov, B’Serre, and the rest—followed just behind them, and they, in turn, were trailed by those newly enlisted in the Weaver’s cause. All told, there were ten shapers in their ranks, as well as twenty who had language of beasts, nearly thirty who could summon mists and winds, dozens of others who could call forth a killing fire, and a good number of healers who would prove of great value when the fighting began.

And, of course, they had the Weaver, who could wield their power as a single weapon more fearsome than any that had been seen in the Forelands for nine centuries. The armies of Eibithar and Aneira and Sanbira had their kings and queens, but what were these sovereigns other than mere men and women? Perhaps they inspired their soldiers to fight and die with a bit more courage than the pathetic souls would muster otherwise. But beyond that, they were nothing; their crowns and thrones signified nothing. To Nitara and the other Qirsi, Dusaan jal Kania was their strength and their hope, their power and intelligence, the link to their past and the path to their future. He was everything—king, commander, god. Nitara would have followed him into Bian’s Underrealm to face hordes of demons and wraiths if only he asked it of her, and though others might not have loved him as she did, the minister sensed that many in their army had already devoted themselves wholly to him and his cause.