hold of Grinsa’s power of mists and winds-Grinsa hadn’t even thought to guard that magic.
A gale started to rise, and the gleaner struggled to regain control of his magic.
“Grinsa?” Tavis’s voice seemed to come to him from a great distance. He didn’t reply.
In the span of a single heartbeat, Dusaan released the one power, trying once more for shaping and then fire. Grinsa fought to ward himself, attempting to anticipate the Weaver’s attacks. But he was weary, and with each moment that passed it grew harder for him to keep the Weaver from taking hold of his shaping power, the one Dusaan seemed to want most of all.
How had the Weaver turned the tide of their battle so quickly? Just a few moments before Grinsa had Dusaan reeling, clinging desperately to his mount and laboring to maintain control of his magics. Now Grinsa was the one scrambling simply to stay alive.
He heard Tavis say something else, but he couldn’t make out what it was. Abruptly though, his battle with the Weaver ceased. He stared at the boy, astonished.
“What happened?”
“The archers finally managed to aim a salvo at the Weaver,” the boy said. “He had to raise a wind to protect himself.”
Grinsa nodded. His respite wouldn’t last long, but he was grateful for any rest at all.
“How are we doing?” he asked.
“Our archers aren’t having much effect on them,” Tavis said, “and they won’t come close to our swordsmen. But as long as you keep the Weaver occupied, they don’t seem capable of doing much damage to our lines.”
Right.
“I’ll keep after him as long as I can,” he said. “But you have to understand, Tavis: I’m merely delaying the inevitable. I can’t keep this up forever.”
“Neither can he. Just make certain that his strength fails first.”
“You don’t understand. With so many Qirsi on his side, the damage he’s done thus far demanded far less of him than what I’ve had to do. I’m already weary-wearier than he. I can’t win a battle on these terms.”
Tavis merely stared back at him, the look in his eyes asking the obvious question. What choice did they have?
Grinsa looked across the battle plain once more. Dusaan called to his warriors, then glanced back at the gleaner. No time to waste.
He reached for the Weaver’s magic again. Language of beasts, fire, shaping. Dusaan brushed him away as if he were no more than an irksome child. Before Grinsa could try a second time, the Weaver began to draw upon the vast power of his army. Shaping. Grinsa could see the magic shimmering before him, making the grasses and boulders of the moor waver, as if from the heat of a planting sun. He reached for the others again, wondering how much longer they could contend with the might of so many Qirsi.
But his allies were there-Fotir, Xivled, and the rest-and the stream of magic they sent back at the Weaver seemed stronger than any he had woven that day. It almost seemed that Fotir and the others, sensing his fatigue, had given more of themselves, offering their strength where his was failing. By the time the Weaver’s magic reached the Eandi lines, it had dwindled to nearly nothing. A few soldiers were wounded, crumpling to the ground, but not nearly as many as Grinsa had feared.
“We were fortunate that time,” he said.
Tavis eyed him, seeming at last to understand just how bleak was their situation. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
After a moment, Grinsa faced Dusaan again and tried once more to take control of the Weaver’s power. He had little hope of succeeding. But he didn’t know what else to do.
* * *
She felt useless, as she always did during these battles. A part of her had hoped that this day might be different, that despite the lingering pain in her hands she might prove herself as a warrior. Her brother was leading them to war. At last she had her chance to strike back against the Weaver, to repay the man for all he had done to her, and to Cresenne, and to everyone else who had suffered at the hands of his conspiracy. Finally, she could avenge the murder of Paegar jal Berget, who had once been her friend, despite his ties to the Weaver’s movement.
But Keziah found that she could be of no help at all, even in a war of magic, a war between Weavers. Grinsa did draw upon her magic once, when he used language of beasts against Dusaan’s horse, but little came of that effort, and almost immediately both Weavers turned back to the more menacing powers: shaping and fire. Ironically, had she truly been a part of the Weaver’s army, she would have been called upon to raise a wind, but as of yet, Grinsa hadn’t tried to raise an opposing gale.
She could only watch and wait, and hope that eventually, before all was lost, she would have her opportunity to strike at the enemy.
As Dusaan’s warriors drew nearer to the Eandi lines, Keziah began to push her way forward, past astonished Eandi soldiers. She wasn’t fool enough to fancy herself a skilled swordswoman, but possessing language of beasts, she thought that she ought to be where her magic would do Kearney’s army the most good. She might not be able to strike a killing blow either with steel or Qirsi power, but she could make a horse rear at an opportune time, or coax a falcon out of the sky as she had done when Fotir saved her. No matter what she managed to do, it would be better than standing behind Kearney’s men wondering how she might make herself useful.
Before she reached the front lines, however, she spied something that made her stop. It was a Qirsi woman riding in a wide arc around the eastern flank of the Eandi lines. Had there been more than this lone rider Keziah would have raised the alarm immediately. But it was just the one woman, and something in her manner gave the archminister pause. Keziah was watching her from some distance, but the rider appeared to be scanning the Eandi armies, as if searching for something, or someone. She was beautiful and so young in appearance, with golden eyes so much like those of the Weaver, that Keziah wondered for just a moment if she might be Dusaan’s daughter. She knew it was impossible, but she was equally sure that the woman was powerful in her own right, no matter the nature of her ties to the Weaver. She moved confidently, as if she had complete faith in her abilities and her magic.
“Probably a shaper,” Keziah muttered to herself, marking the woman’s progress. Her hands throbbed at the mere suggestion. For as she stood watching the rider, Keziah sensed that the woman was searching for her. The Weaver had vowed to punish her and somehow she knew that he had chosen this woman to mete out whatever retribution he had chosen.
Her first thought was to flee. Perhaps she had time to find her horse and ride away from the plain. Abeni had hurt her so badly; she would rather die instantly by a warrior’s blade than face such agony again. As quickly as the notion came to her, however, she dismissed it. If the Weaver wanted her dead, he would find a way to kill her. Better to face her doom now. Besides, she sensed that this woman would cut a swath through the ranks of Kearney’s men to reach her if forced to do so. If Keziah was to die this day, she didn’t want to face Bian the Deceiver with any more deaths on her head.
She made her way back through the soldiers to the rear of the lines and then walked a short distance from the battle plain, all the while watching the rider. The woman continued to scan the Eandi lines until at last her eyes fell on Keziah. As soon as the rider spotted the archminister, she kicked her mount to a gallop and rode directly toward her, white hair dancing in the wind.
The archminister kept her eyes locked on her attacker, readying herself to use language of beasts on the woman’s mount. It seemed, though, that the Weaver had warned this woman against her. Long before she was close enough for Keziah’s magic to have much effect on the creature, the woman halted and dismounted, continuing her approach on foot. Two soldiers charged her, but both collapsed to the ground before they were within ten fourspans of her. Keziah thought she heard the muffled snapping of bone as they fell.
This time fear got the better of her. Keziah turned, intending to run, but before she could take even a step, her leg gave way. She fell to the grass, pain clouding her vision. Her stomach heaved and she clenched her teeth to keep from being ill.
“Not so fast, Archminister,” the woman called to her, killing another soldier without so much as a glance. “The Weaver wanted me to convey a message to you.”
Keziah braced herself, knowing what was coming.
