Weavers of War

“Actually, Your Eminence, I believe so.”

He sensed the emperor’s surprise. “You can? Where?”

“I think it will be easier to explain when the master of arms arrives with the fee accountings.”

“Damn you, Dusaan! Stop weaving mists and tell me what’s happened to my gold!”

Before the Weaver could respond, there came a knock at the door.

“Enter!” Harel shouted.

A guard stepped into the chamber to announce the master of arms, but the emperor cut him off and called for Uriad, who stepped past the man and knelt. The guard remained by the door, which Dusaan had expected. Four guards in all, the emperor, and Uriad.

“You asked for this, Your Eminence?” said the master of arms, apparently referring to the fee accountings.

“Yes. According to the high chancellor, some of my gold has been lost.”

He sensed Uriad turning to face him. “Before or after I took control of the accounts?”

“Before. The fault is mine, armsmaster, not yours.”

“I’ve been trying to get him to tell me where the gold has gone, but he won’t answer me.”

“It’s not that I won’t answer, but rather that I wanted Uriad to hear what I had to say.” He reached up and began to untie the cords that held his hood in place.

“What are you doing?” Harel demanded.

“I’m removing this damned hood.”

“Don’t you dare!”

Dusaan continued to work the knot loose.

“Stop him!” the emperor said, his voice rising.

The guards converged on him. The two who had been nearest the throne were closer, and so he struck at them first, hammering at them with his shaping power. He heard the muffled snapping of bone and the clattering of swords and mail as they fell to the floor. He didn’t even turn to kill the other two. His magic was as precise and lethal as a war hammer; it was as effortless to wield as an Uulranni blade.

The two guards from the corridor burst into the chamber. Dusaan whirled and conjured a great killing flame that enveloped them like a mist. Within seconds he heard their blades fall to the floor.

He sensed that Uriad was gathering himself for an assault.

“Don’t do it, armsmaster,” Dusaan warned, turning once more toward Harel and his master of arms. “The emperor would be dead before you took your first step. And neither of you had better call for help. I’ll kill you for that as well.” Without even looking back he summoned a wind that blew the doors closed.

“But you can’t see!” the emperor whispered.

The Weaver laughed. “You’re a fool, Harel. You collect Qirsi the way other men collect fine blades or Sanbiri mounts, but you’ve never bothered to learn anything about us or our magic. I don’t need to see you to use my power against you. I can sense your every movement.” He pulled off the hood to find Harel staring at him as if the high chancellor had grown into some beast from a child’s darkest dream. Uriad stood near the emperor, his sword drawn, as if that might protect them. Just for amusement, Dusaan shattered the blade.

“What is it you want?” Harel asked, his voice quavering.

“It’s not a matter of what I want, Your Eminence. You’re the one who asked me what happened to your gold. I can tell you exactly what happened to every qinde, every silver that was diverted from your treasury. It has been given to the Qirsi movement.”

It took Harel a moment. “The Qirsi movement? You mean the conspiracy?”

“No, you fat fool, I mean the Qirsi movement. That’s what we call it. What I call it.”

“So you’re a traitor.” Uriad sounded calm, as a warrior should. Perhaps Kayiv had prepared him for this before his death.

“I’m more than that, armsmaster. I’m the traitor. I created what you call the conspiracy, and I’m its leader. And still, I’m even more than that. I’m the most powerful Qirsi either of you has ever known.” He smiled. “I’m a Weaver.”

That morning, when he revealed his powers to the emperor’s other Qirsi, he had reveled in their awe. This, he had thought at the time, is how Qirsi across the Forelands will receive me. With wonder and reverence. But that was nothing compared with the fear he now sensed from both the emperor and his master of arms. While his own people would exalt him, the Eandi would tremble before him. His people would see in him the embodiment of a glorious future; the Eandi would see in his powers the promise of their own doom. Harel’s terror strengthened Dusaan, until he felt that he was invincible, that entire armies were not enough to quell his power.

“A Weaver,” the emperor repeated, as if he had never heard the word before.

“By law, Weavers are to be executed.”

Dusaan regarded the master of arms, noting the fighter’s stance, the way his hand wandered toward the hilt of his dagger. “I respect you, Uriad. I want you to know that. I have nothing but contempt for our emperor here, for most Eandi really, particularly those one finds in the courts. But I’ve always thought that you were an uncommonly thoughtful man for one of your race.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Really? I’ve always thought you an arrogant bastard, who was more smug than he was intelligent.”

Dusaan blinked. After a moment, he tried to laugh away the remark, but he felt as though he’d been slapped. And perhaps sensing that he had caught the Weaver off guard, Uriad chose that moment to launch himself forward, his dagger in hand, his arm cocked to strike at Dusaan’s heart. Recovering quickly, the Weaver battered the man with his shaping power, fracturing not only the blade, but also Uriad’s wrist and forearm.

The master of arms staggered back, clutching his arm to his belly and gritting his teeth against the pain.

“You’re a fool, Uriad. You could have escaped with a quick, painless death.”

The man glared at him. Then he opened his mouth, taking a breath as if he intended to shout for help. Dusaan never gave him the chance. He lashed out with his foot, catching Uriad full in the face. The master of arms sprawled backward onto the floor, bleeding from his nose and mouth. And as he lay there, Dusaan reached once more for his shaping power, applying pressure slowly to the man’s head. Uriad clawed at his temple with his good hand, a moan escaping him. Still pushing with his magic, Dusaan stepped forward and put his foot on the armsmaster’s throat to keep him from screaming. Uriad’s mouth was stretched open in a silent wail, his eyes were squeezed shut, his fist was closed tight around a handful of hair. After a time Uriad began to flail with his feet.

“Stop it!” the emperor cried. “Let him go.”

Dusaan eyed him briefly. “No. But I will end his pain.” With a final push, he crushed the man’s skull. Uriad’s struggles ceased abruptly, a thin trickle of blood seeping from his ear and staining the floor.

The Weaver removed his foot from Uriad’s neck and strode toward the emperor. “Now it’s your turn, Your Eminence.”

Harel dropped to his knees, tears streaking his face. “No, please! I beg you!”

Dusaan grabbed him by the hair and hauled him to his feet. “Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of killing you?”

“Why? Haven’t I always treated you well? Haven’t I paid you more than any noble in the Forelands pays his Qirsi?”

The Weaver slapped him, leaving a bright imprint of his hand on Harel’s corpulent face. “You don’t understand, do you? I don’t aspire to being the wealthiest minister in the land, nor am I willing to have myself hooded, like some sort of common brigand, so that I can continue to earn your gold. I intend to rule the Forelands myself.”

“You what?”

“Before the snows return to Braedon, every Eandi noble in the land will bow before me, or they’ll suffer the same fate as poor Uriad.”

“You can’t be serious!”

He slapped Harel a second time. “Do you think I jest?”

“What is it you want from me?”

“Your empire, Harel. Isn’t that clear? You’ve given me everything else I could want. A position of authority from which to make my preparations, gold for my movement, an invasion that is destined to weaken the fleets and