something brush her mind as a stranger might brush one’s arm in a crowded marketplace.
For a single, horrifying instant, she thought it was the Weaver, reaching for her, attempting to read her thoughts or compel her to kill Kearney. In the next moment, however, she realized that there was something familiar in the touch, and something gentle as well. Turning to gaze toward the Curgh lines, she saw Grinsa atop a mount, looking back at her. She couldn’t understand why he would have reached for her now. Fotir, perhaps, but not her. She hadn’t any magic that would be of use to them. Certainly he couldn’t think that raising a mist would do any good. But after catching her eye ever so briefly, no longer than the span of a single heartbeat, he looked away, his touch gone from her mind. It almost seemed that he had only wished to reassure himself that she was all right. Or maybe he had sensed what she was about to do, and had wanted to stop her, if only for a moment, so that she might reconsider. Whatever the reason, she realized that she could do Kearney no good by rushing to his side. Her presence would only distract him, making it easier for agents of the conspiracy to strike at him.
Unable to do anything more than watch the battle, Keziah began what could only be called a vigil. She kept her gaze riveted on Kearney, straining to see him through the sun’s glare and the haze of dust and dirt kicked up by the warriors. So long as she could see his bright silver hair, and the gleaming blur of his sword slicing through the air, she knew that he was safe, or at least alive.
As the seething shadows of men and beasts and weapons lengthened across the bloodstained grass, the tide of the battle began to turn. Eibithar’s forces were not able to gain back much of the ground they had lost initially, but they managed to halt Braedon’s push forward. Even in the west, where it had seemed that Heneagh’s lines must surely be broken, Welfyl’s men rallied, aided by reinforcements from the Curgh army. When at last the sun dipped below the western horizon, leaving a fiery sky of yellow and orange and scarlet, the empire’s men broke off their attack and pulled back.
Raising a ragged cheer, some of Kearney’s soldiers began to give chase, only to be called back by their king. Kicking her mount to a gallop, Keziah rushed to Kearney’s side, resisting an urge to throw her arms around his neck. He had several gashes on his legs and a deep wound on his side, where blood oozed through his chain mail.
“You need a healer,” she said.
Kearney flashed a smile. One might have thought that he’d come through nothing more dangerous than a battle tournament. “I’m all right. I need to speak with my dukes.”
“Your Majesty-”
“Find them for me, Archminister. Bring them here as quickly as possible. Their ministers as well.”
Keziah frowned, but nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
She wheeled her horse and started toward the Curgh lines, only to halt after a few paces, her stomach heaving. The grass, once lush and green, had been trampled and soaked in blood, so that the earth itself seemed to be bleeding from some gaping wound. Scattered among the corpses of more soldiers than she could count were severed limbs, disembodied hands that still clung to swords and battle-axes, and heads that stared up at the darkening sky through sightless eyes, some of them with their mouths open in silent wails, as if with death cries still on their lips, waiting to be given voice. She should have been looking at their surcoats, trying to determine which side had gotten the better of the day’s fighting, but she couldn’t look away from those faces, those hands, that blood.
“Keziah.”
She flinched, looked toward the voice. Kearney gazed back at her, the smile gone, his brow furrowed with concern.
“Are you all right?”
“I…” She swallowed, fighting another wave of nausea. “I will be.”
“Don’t look. Just find Javan and Welfyl. Send them to me, and then ride away from the lines, away from all this. Do you understand?”
She nodded, but even as she did, her eyes dropped again. One of the dead seemed to be staring at her, a look of surprise on the young face that might have been amusing had it not been-
“Keziah.”
Her eyes snapped up again.
“Find the dukes.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
She started forward again, allowing her mount to navigate among the corpses as best he could, forcing herself to keep her eyes on the men ahead of her, the ones who lived still and who wore the brown and gold of Curgh. She spotted Grinsa and Fotir, and hurried toward them, knowing that the duke would be nearby. A moment later she saw Javan, standing with Tavis, Curgh’s swordmaster, and another young man who she had gathered from previous conversations was Tavis’s liege man and the swordmaster’s son. Like Kearney, Javan bore a number of wounds, but none of them appeared grave. Grinsa, too, was bleeding. Indeed, all of them were. Aside from the healers, she was probably the only person on the Moorlands who hadn’t been injured.
At her approach, the duke raised a hand in greeting. “Archminister. What news of the king?”
“He’s well, my lord. He wishes to speak with you and your minister.”
“Of course. We’ll go to him immediately. How fared the King’s Guard?”
“I’m not certain, my lord. I wasn’t in the fighting. I don’t … I don’t have the magics of a warrior.”
“Of course, Archminister. Forgive me.”
“Not at all, my lord. I’ll see you shortly. I must find the duke of Heneagh as well.”
Javan glanced quickly at Fotir before facing her again, and she knew from his expression what he would say. “The duke is dead, Archminister. He fell in battle.”
Her first thought was of Heneagh’s duchess, who had no idea that she had lost a husband and a son on this day. Keziah didn’t even know the woman’s name. As archminister to the king, she should have, but they had never met, and because Welfyl was duke of a minor house, he and the king had little contact before these last few turns.
“Archminister.”
She shook herself, as if waking from a bad dream. She was not cut out for war. “Yes, my lord. Who commands Heneagh’s army now?”
“Welfyl’s swordmaster, a man named Rab Avkar.”
Keziah looked westward to the Heneagh army. She didn’t relish the idea of entering the camp and searching for a warrior she’d never met before.
“I know him,” Hagan MarCullet said, sensing her unease. “With my lord’s permission, I’ll go and find him.”
“Of course, Hagan.”
“Thank you, swordmaster,” Keziah said.
He nodded to her and walked away, reminding her so much of Gershon Trasker, Kearney’s swordmaster, who was marching south to fight the Aneirans, that she had to smile.
Javan climbed onto his mount, moving stiffly, a rueful grin on his lips. “What I wouldn’t give to be ten years younger.”
“Only ten?” Tavis said, drawing laughs from all of them.
Within moments Keziah, the duke, Tavis, Grinsa, and Fotir were on their way back toward Kearney. The MarCullet boy followed as well; Keziah couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Tavis without the other young man nearby. Almost immediately, Grinsa steered his horse to Keziah’s side-the side nearest the battle plain, she noticed, as if he wished to shield her from the horrors there.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly.
“No.”
He turned and stared at her.
“Don’t look so surprised. After all that you’ve seen today, can you honestly tell me that you are?”
“It’s only going to get worse, Kezi.”
“I know.” She glanced at his wounds, deep cuts on his arms and hands, and a nasty bruise just below his right temple. “Do they hurt much?”
“No. If they did, I’d have healed them by now.”
“Why haven’t you?”
He shrugged. “I’m too weary.”
