“Is he dead?” one of the men asked, his gaze fixed on the duke.
Keziah didn’t answer. Aindreas coughed again, weakly this time. His breathing had slowed, his skin was the color of high clouds on a warm harvest morning.
“Brienne,” he whispered. “Forgive … me.”
His mouth opened slightly, as if he intended to take another breath. But his chest was still, and what little life had remained in his eyes faded to nothing.
Keziah reached out and closed his eyes for him, wincing as she did. She couldn’t bring herself to shed tears for the man, not after all that he had done. But she grieved for his family and his house.
“Thank you,” she said softly, “for saving my life.”
“Archminister?”
“He died a hero,” she said. “He saved me from certain death.” She glanced up at the man. “Make certain that your comrades know that.”
“I will, Archminister.” He hesitated. “Are you hurt badly?”
“My leg is broken, and my ribs. But I’ll be all right once the healers arrive.”
He nodded, then looked at the other soldiers, some of whom yet lived. At last his gaze came to rest on Jastanne, whose chest rose and fell, despite the darkening bruises on her head.
“What about her?” the man asked.
“Bind her hands and feet,” Keziah said, ignoring Aindreas’s words and the warning that echoed in her own mind. “Use silk if you can find it. Otherwise cord will have to do. And have her watched by at least four men.”
“Four?”
“She’s a shaper. I only hope that four will be enough.”
Chapter Twenty-five
It was a disconcerting way to fight a war. Fotir had no idea from one moment to the next whether he should be advising his duke and the king or lending his magic to Grinsa. Several times already this day, the gleaner had entered his mind without warning, taking hold of his shaping magic to counter one of the Weaver’s attacks. It was disorienting enough having the man in his mind wielding his power. But to have this happen seemingly at random, with no time to prepare himself, left the minister dazed, his thoughts addled as if from a sharp blow. He could hardly follow the course of the battle unfolding on the plain before him. He knew only that it was going poorly.
Grinsa’s attempts to use the magic of the enemy to his own advantage-apparently a tactic suggested by Tavis-had worked at first, disrupting the Weaver’s initial attacks and costing the man a good number of his warriors. But the enemy had recovered quickly, reforming his lines and using the awesome power he wielded to devastating effect. The Eandi archers had inflicted some damage on the Qirsi army, but their ranks had been decimated by the Weaver’s shaping and fire power; fewer than a hundred remained alive and uninjured. Thus far Grinsa had managed to keep the enemy from doing the same to the Eandi swordsmen, but Fotir sensed that the gleaner’s strength was failing. Each new Qirsi assault exacted a greater toll than the previous one, and every time Grinsa reached for the minister’s power to defend the Eandi lines the effort seemed more desperate.
Grinsa stood quite close to where Fotir and his duke were watching the battle progress, but it might as well have been forty leagues. Having rid themselves of most of the archers, the Weaver and his servants had closed the distance between themselves and the Eandi lines. The Qirsi remained far enough away so that any advance by Kearney’s swordsmen would leave the Eandi soldiers exposed to the Weaver’s lethal power, but they were close enough to give the gleaner precious little time to respond to each new attack that Dusaan unleashed. All of Grinsa’s attention was directed forward, his gaze never straying from the Weaver.
“Damn them!” Hagan MarCullet growled, standing near Javan and Fotir. “Why won’t they just fight us and be done with it?” He cupped a hand to his mouth. “Fight, ye cowards!” he shouted.
Fotir glanced at the duke, who was already eyeing him, his expression bleak.
“Perhaps it is time we took the battle to them,” Javan said. “This doesn’t seem to be working.”
Hagan nodded. “Couldn’t the gleaner and the rest of you raise a mist? With the proper cover, we might be able to attack.”
The minister started to respond, but before he could say a word, Grinsa was in his mind again, drawing on his shaping power. Fotir could see nothing of the Weaver’s magic, of course, nor could he sense it, as Grinsa apparently could. But there could be no mistaking the panic in the gleaner’s thoughts.
“Get behind your shields!” Fotir called to all who could hear. “This is going to be bad.”
It was.
Even with Grinsa wielding the magic of so many, Fotir felt the collision of the gleaner’s power with that of the Weaver as if it were a body blow. He staggered, reaching out to steady himself on whatever was nearest, which turned out to be his duke’s shoulder. Grinsa touched his mind a second time, sending out another pulse of power. Nevertheless, when the Weaver’s magic hit the Eandi lines, it was like a storm tide rushing over castles of sand. The Qirsi attack shattered the bodies of hundreds of warriors, crashing through the King’s Guard, the soldiers of Sanbira, and the forces of Kentigern, Thorald, Heneagh, Labruinn, Tremain, and even Curgh. No army was spared.
Those who were able to raise their shields in time found themselves holding mangled pieces of wood and steel. But at least they were alive.
“The gleaner’s weakening, isn’t he?” the duke said.
“There are just too many of them,” Fotir answered, feeling that he needed to defend his friend.
“I’m not finding fault, First Minister, I’m merely making an observation.”
Reluctantly, Fotir nodded. “I can feel his weariness.”
“We should attack them,” Hagan said, echoing the duke’s words from a moment before. “Standing here waiting to die is not my idea of waging war.”
Javan cast a hard look at the Qirsi army. “We should at least suggest as much to the gleaner and the king, while there’s still time.”
Fotir nodded his agreement, and they hurried to where Grinsa and Kearney stood.
Grinsa’s face was as white as Panya’s glow, and sweat ran like tears down his cheeks.
“Please pardon the intrusion, Your Majesty,” the duke said, “but we’ve been wondering if it might not be time to alter our tactics.”
Kearney wore a pained expression, as if hope had long since abandoned him. “To what end, Javan?”
“We should take the fight to them. Have the gleaner raise a mist to conceal an assault on the Qirsi lines.”
“Any mist I raise the Weaver will defeat with a wind. I haven’t enough Qirsi to sustain both a mist and an opposing gale. It would be a slaughter.”
“It’s becoming that already,” the duke said.
Fotir thought the gleaner would argue, but he merely shrugged.
Kearney looked at Grinsa. “Can you keep the Weaver occupied for a time? Give us an opportunity to advance on him unseen?”
“Not without-” He faltered, his eyes widening slightly, though they never left the Weaver. “Actually there may be a way to give you that opportunity and perhaps win one for me, as well. Fotir, gather the Qirsi as quickly as you can. Bring them all to me. We haven’t much time before the Weaver attacks again.”
The minister glanced at his duke, who nodded immediately.
He sprinted off, running first to the west and then back to the east before returning to the gleaner. At one point he had to stop so that Grinsa could draw upon his power again and ward off another attack. Somehow, the gleaner was able to project more magic this time, and the Weaver’s assault had little effect. It seemed that whatever hope Grinsa had glimpsed had strengthened him, at least for the moment.
By the time he returned, there were a dozen Qirsi gathered around the king and gleaner.
Still, Grinsa frowned when he saw the minister had returned.
“Where’s Keziah?”
Fotir felt the blood drain from his face. “I don’t know. I didn’t see her.”
