“There are other healers, Grinsa. One of them…”
“I’m fine, Keziah. I’ll heal myself later. I promise.”
She nodded, pressing her lips in a tight line.
They soon reached Kearney, who was walking among the injured men of his guard, offering what comfort he could as the soldiers waited for healers to tend their wounds. Two of his captains stood nearby. Seeing Javan approach, the king came forward. He, too, had not yet had his own injuries healed.
“Well met, Lord Curgh. I’m glad to see you’re well.”
“Thank you, my liege. I could easily say the same, except it seems you’re hurt.”
Kearney glanced down at the bloody gash on his side. “It’s nothing of concern. We have more pressing matters to discuss.”
“Forgive me for saying so, my liege. But we can speak of these things while the Qirsi minister to you.” Javan caught the eye of one of the healers and beckoned him over.
“No!” Keziah said, a bit too quickly. The healer hesitated. “The … the matters we need to discuss are of a sensitive nature.”
Grinsa was eyeing her strangely. But after a moment he appeared to catch on. “She’s right, Your Majesty. I’m not a healer by trade, but perhaps I can help in this instance.”
Kearney seemed to understand as well. He even paled a bit. “Very well, gleaner.” He faced the healer and forced a smile. “Thank you anyway.”
The healer stood there a few seconds longer, then returned to the soldiers, appearing nonplussed by the exchange and leaving Keziah to wonder if she should have kept silent.
“What was that about?” Fotir asked.
“We have cause to think that the conspiracy will make an attempt on the king’s life,” Grinsa said. “We should be wary of allowing any Qirsi we don’t know to get near him.”
Javan narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think they want to kill the king? Did that woman you imprisoned tell you this as well?”
“I can’t say,” Grinsa told him.
“But surely-”
“Leave it, Father.” Tavis placed a hand on the duke’s shoulder. “Grinsa wouldn’t have said anything if he didn’t have good reason to believe it was true. Trust him as I do and let it be.”
Javan regarded his son briefly, as if seeing him anew. Then he nodded. “Very well.”
They found a pallet on which Kearney could sit, and Grinsa knelt before him, laying his hands over the wound on the king’s side.
“Tell me of your battles,” the king said, clearly uncomfortable with having Grinsa tending his wounds with the others nearby. His expression changed. “Where’s Welfyl?”
Javan took a long breath. “He’s dead, my liege.”
Kearney closed his eyes briefly. “Demons and fire. This is a black day for the House of the River.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“How severe were Heneagh’s losses?”
Curgh’s duke shook his head. “We don’t know for certain yet, my liege, but it appeared that they had lost nearly a third of their men. Perhaps more.”
“Damn. And yours, Lord Curgh?”
“Not quite as bad as that, though close.”
“Same for my guard. We’ve yet to make a count of the enemy dead and wounded, but I’m sure they fared better than we did.”
“I’m afraid so, my liege.”
Hagan MarCullet returned, accompanied by a lanky man with a shaved head and trim beard who Keziah assumed to be Rab Avkar.
“Swordmaster,” the king said, looking up at the man. “All of us are deeply saddened by the loss of your duke, none more so than I.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the swordmaster said, his voice thick, his eyes reddened. “I tried to reason with him, to keep him from joining the battle-a man his age…” He shook his head. “He insisted. He said he wanted to strike a blow for his son. And for some time he fought as a man possessed. But he wasn’t strong enough. I saw him go down-” His voice broke and he turned his head, swallowing hard.
“Songs will be written of his bravery, and of Dunfyl’s as well. The Underrealm will shine like Morna’s sky with their light.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the man whispered. “Thank you.”
Grinsa removed his hands from Kearney’s side and sat back on his knees, his face shining with sweat.
“Thank you, gleaner,” the king said, twisting his body tentatively and then lifting his arm. “That’s much better. You have a deft touch.”
“You have other wounds, Your Majesty. I can heal them as well.”
Kearney stood. “Thank you. Perhaps later.” He stepped to where Welfyl’s swordmaster stood. Immediately the man dropped to one knee, bowing his head. “Rise, Sir Avkar.” The man did as he was told. “I know that you grieve for Lord Heneagh,” the king went on, “but this is not the time for mourning. Braedon’s army will attack again, perhaps as soon as dawn. I need for you to command your duke’s army. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You’ve suffered terrible losses. I can offer you a few hundred men, but it won’t be enough to take the place of all those who have fallen.”
Rab straightened. “With all respect, Your Majesty. We don’t need any more men. We may not be as well trained as the soldiers of Curgh or the King’s Guard, but we fight now for the memories of our duke and lord. The empire’s army won’t get past us.”
For a moment it seemed that the king might insist, but then he appeared to think better of it. “Your duke would be proud, swordmaster. Very well. We’ll leave the armies as they are for now.”
It had grown dark. Throughout the camp, soldiers were lighting small fires. A few could be heard singing softly, their voices mingling with the low moan of the wind and the cries of the wounded. A short distance to the south a great fire burned, the pyre for Eibithar’s dead. Gazing up at the sky, Keziah saw stars beginning to emerge in the blackness, bright and clear. The moons weren’t up yet, but already she could see that it was going to be a glorious night.
“We need to be ready when they attack again,” Kearney was saying. “I want archers posted at the front of our lines at all times. Have them stand in three shifts.”
Javan, the swordmaster, and Kearney’s captains murmured their agreement.
Fotir glanced at Grinsa, who nodded. “Pardon me, Your Majesty,” the minister said. “But Grinsa, the archminister, and I all have magic of mists and winds. On your authority, we can summon a wind to aid our archers and hinder Braedon’s.”
“Yes, First Minister, that would be fine. But remember that the empire has Qirsi as well. Any wind you raise may well be countered before it can do much good.”
“Wait,” Javan broke in, staring at Grinsa. “You have mists and winds? I thought you were just a gleaner.”
Keziah felt her entire body growing tense, but her brother merely smiled.
“I’m somewhat more than I seem, my lord,” he said, “as your son will attest.” He gave the king a meaningful look. “And I assure you, Your Majesty, the wind we raise will be more than a match for that of Braedon’s Qirsi.”
Again the king blanched, appearing to remember in that moment that Grinsa was a Weaver. “Yes, of course, gleaner. Thank you.” He took a breath, as if to gather himself. Then he turned to the older of his captains. “What news of Shanstead?” he asked. “Do you still expect him to reach here tomorrow?”
“Last we heard, Your Majesty, he was approaching the far banks of Binthar’s Wash. But that was a day ago, and still we haven’t seen them on the moors.”
Kearney’s mouth twitched. “We may have to fight without them again.”
