The lord actually laughed. “You don’t suffer for a lack of confidence, do you, High Chancellor?” His smile vanished and he raised a hand. “Bowmen!”
Several hundred archers stepped forward, readying their bows.
“You were warned,” the Weaver said, his voice even and devoid of regret. “We’ll use fire,” he said more quietly, glancing back at the other Qirsi.
For Nitara, who didn’t have fire magic, there was nothing to do but watch. The Weaver closed his eyes and stretched forth a rigid hand. The plain was eerily silent-even the Eandi seemed to be waiting, as if frightened of what would come next, but too fascinated to prevent it. Slowly, as if emerging from the sunlight, a gleaming sphere began to take shape just in front of the Weaver. It appeared to Nitara that he had summoned a bright yellow star from beyond the sky. As she watched, the ball gathered strength, brightening, growing larger, until it seethed and churned like a mighty river in flood.
Ayvencalde shouted to his archers again, and the minister saw them draw back the cords of their bows. Before they could loose their arrows, though, the ball of flame surged forward, flattening as it went, so that it struck the lord and his soldiers as might a great fiery sword. They didn’t even scream. Every man in the army was cut down and consumed in the storm of flame. Only the lord, who had been sitting atop his mount, was spared, and he lay sprawled on the ground, dazed, his leg bent beneath his body at an impossible angle. The horse was dead, its carcass blackened and smoking a short distance from the lord.
Slowly, the Weaver dismounted and walked to where the noble lay, drawing his sword as he went.
“You should have listened,” Dusaan said, resting the point of his sword on Ayvencalde’s chest.
“You’ll never prevail,” the lord said, glaring up at him. “You may have won today, but someone will stop you.”
Dusaan smiled. “You’re wrong.” And he thrust the blade into the noble’s heart. Pulling the sword free, he stooped to wipe the blood from the shining steel, then he sheathed his weapon and walked back to his horse. “Victory is ours again,” he said. “Do you see now that we can’t be beaten, that the might of Eandi armies is nothing against our power?”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“We’ll ride into the city and find as many Qirsi as we can. But we won’t tarry here long. I want to be sailing by morning.”
He swung himself into the saddle once more and they rode toward the city gates. As they drew near, a swarm of arrows rose into the sky and began to fall toward them. Instantly, Nitara felt something tugging at her mind and a moment later, she sensed the Weaver drawing upon her magic. A great wind stirred from the grasses, building rapidly until it howled in the stones of the city wall, though Nitara’s hair barely stirred. The arrows were beaten back, dropping harmlessly to the ground in front of them.
Nitara nearly laughed aloud. It seemed that their power knew no bounds. Never had she felt so close to her people, and glancing back at her companions she saw mirrored in their faces the same joy and wonder at what they had become. They continued to advance on the gate, and as they did, she heard a great rumbling, as from an approaching thunderstorm, and in a billowing cloud of dust, the city wall collapsed on either side of the gate, sending the Eandi archers stationed there tumbling to the ground.
Moments later the Qirsi army entered the city unopposed. They divided into smaller groups and navigated Ayvencalde’s narrow stone lanes in search of others to join their cause. Nitara remained with the Weaver, who sat straight-backed atop his horse like a conqueror. His face, though, was covered with a fine sheen of sweat, and she could see that he had tired himself.
“Shall we rest, Weaver?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
His eyes snapped toward her, blazing angrily. Then his gaze softened and he shook his head. “I’m fine. And in the next several days I’ll be taxed far beyond this. I need to be ready.”
More than anything she wanted to reach out and touch his face, to run her hands through his wild hair and feel the strength of his shoulders and chest. But she merely nodded. “Yes, Weaver.”
Word of what the Weaver’s army had done to Lord Ayvencalde and his men spread swiftly through the city. A few of the soldiers who remained chose to fight the Qirsi invaders, and all of them perished. Most fled, however, and with them many of Ayvencalde’s Eandi inhabitants. The city’s Qirsi-who numbered slightly over one hundred- greeted the Weaver and the others warily, but quickly pledged themselves to Dusaan’s cause. As with the Qirsi in the imperial city, most of them were healers and gleaners. A good number had fire magic and a few possessed one or more of the deeper magics.
After addressing them briefly, telling them of his coming battle with the armies of the Forelands and the fine future his victory would bring, he instructed almost all of them to remain in Ayvencalde and protect it from any attack that might come from other Eandi courts in Braedon. Four of the city’s Qirsi were shapers, and fourteen had mists and winds. These he added to his army.
He led his force to the Ayvencalde piers and quickly took control of one of the lord’s great war ships. A group of Qirsi went below into the hold and rowed the ship free of the docks, while others held flames aloft to light their way through Ayvencalde’s shallow harbor. Once free of the quays, they raised the vessel’s sails.
A breeze freshened from the west, and the ship started across the Scabbard toward the coast of Eibithar.
“Forgive me, Weaver,” Nitara said, approaching him, and lowering her gaze, “but I can summon a wind to take us across the Scabbard. So can any other Qirsi who has mists and winds. You should rest.”
He regarded her briefly, his expression mild. “You serve me well.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
The wind died away. “All right then. Share the burden with others. I don’t want any of you growing too weary. Steer us east of Cormorant Island, and then follow the Eibithar shore toward Falcon Bay. Wake me when we’re close enough to see Braedon’s war ships.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
He started to walk away, then paused, touching her cheek with a gentle hand. It seemed to Nitara that he summoned a soft flame, so great was the warmth that traveled through her body during that brief caress. A moment later he moved on, leaving her shivering in the cool night air as she gazed after him.
The ship sailed the glasslike waters of the Scabbard throughout what remained of the night, no doubt presenting a strange sight to those who saw her from the shores of Braedon and Eibithar. It was a windless night, still as death, and yet the vessel skimmed across the brine like a shearwater, her sails full, her bow carving the surface of the inlet. Nitara summoned the wind herself for some time, before giving over to Gorlan. He, in turn, passed the task to one of the men recruited in Curtell City, who then gave way to a woman from Ayvencalde. All told, seven summoned winds to propel the ship toward Falcon Bay. By the time morning broke and the Weaver returned to the deck, they were well past Cormorant Island. Wantrae Island loomed before them, pale blue in the early morning light. The waters remained calm, the sky clear. They would have no trouble with the weather.
“You’ve done well,” the Weaver said after looking about for some time, as if to determine their position. “But we have need of haste.” All of them were watching him. It seemed to Nitara that the others couldn’t help themselves. Certainly she couldn’t. He turned to her now, beckoning to her with a gesture. Crossing to where he stood, she bowed, then waited.
“Open yourself to me,” he commanded, his voice low.
A moment later, she felt him touch her mind, and there arose around her a gale the likes of which none of the Qirsi, herself included, had been able to raise alone. The ship leaped forward, leaning heavily alee, and the others scrambled to grab hold of something.
“I want others with winds to join us here,” Dusaan called over the rush of the wind he had summoned. Several stepped forward, and the gale began to strengthen, until it seemed that the ship would tear itself apart. The hull held, however, as did the sail, and the Weaver’s windstorm propelled them past Eibithar’s coastline and the islands of the upper Scabbard as if the ship were being pulled by a team of Sanbiri stallions.
Nitara knew that she should be tiring-a Qirsi’s powers were finite. To tax oneself beyond endurance was to risk utter exhaustion, even illness or death. Yet with the Weaver wielding her magic for her, blending it with his own and that of the other Qirsi, she hardly grew weary. She might have been doing gleanings in a festival tent for all the effort the Weaver required of her. Glancing at the others, she saw them smiling with wonder at the wind they had called forth. At midday they rested, taking a meal and speaking of how easy it had been to drive the ship toward Galdasten. Clearly the Weaver had been taxed far more than had they. As soon as they stopped, he went below
