The Weaver rode at the head of the army, his mane of white hair flying behind him like a battle pennon, his face chiseled as from alabaster. Uestem jal Safhir, the merchant who first recruited Pillad into the movement, rode on one side of him. On the other rode a slight, pretty woman who looked to be no more than a year or two past Fating age. And behind the three of them came an army of his people, mounted as he was, armed as well. The force was a mere fraction of the size of Renald’s, yet they had the look of conquerors from some tale of old.
Seeing Pillad, the Weaver raised a hand and his army came to a halt. The minister slowed his mount, but didn’t stop until he was only a few paces from the Weaver. Then he dismounted and dropped to one knee.
“Weaver. I am Pillad jal Krenaar, first minister of Galdasten. I offer myself to your service.”
“Rise, Pillad.”
He straightened.
“Your duke’s army is near?”
“Yes, Weaver. Perhaps half a league ahead. No more.”
“Good. You’ve done well. You’ll ride with Uestem, who commands those with shaping and fire.”
The minister bowed again. “Yes, Weaver. Thank you.” He started to remount, but then hesitated. “My pardon, Weaver. I know that it’s not my place, but I’d ask that you use fire magic against my duke.”
“Why?”
“It’s the one magic I wield that can be used as a weapon. I want Renald to know that I was part of the army that destroyed him.”
The Weaver regarded him briefly, then nodded. “So be it.”
Pillad climbed onto his horse and fell in behind Uestem. The merchant nodded to him as he rode past, but kept silent. Once the minister would have been desperate for any word of greeting from the man, having harbored affection for him. But he cared now only for war and flame. There would be time for other considerations after their victory. For now, Pillad was just as glad to have the merchant treat him as merely another warrior.
They started southward and soon encountered the scouts. The woman riding beside the Weaver said something, but he shook his head.
“Let them go. They’re nothing.”
Not long after, they saw the army of Galdasten arrayed before them on the Moorlands in a great crescent.
“There will be archers on the flanks, Weaver!” Pillad cried out.
The Weaver looked back at him, and for a moment the minister worried that he had angered the man. But the Weaver simply nodded. “I know.” He swept the others with his gaze. “Mists and winds!” he called.
Immediately a wind started to blow, building swiftly to a gale that howled in the stones and flattened the moorland grasses. Pillad grinned. Let Renald’s archers contend with that!
The Weaver turned to Uestem and his warriors. “Fire!”
An instant later, Pillad felt something tugging at his mind. It took him only a moment to understand that it was the Weaver reaching for his magic and that of the others. He made no attempt to resist and abruptly felt power flowing through his body like sunlight through glass.
At the same time, a flame appeared just in front of the Qirsi army, brilliant blue at its center, bright yellow above that, and orange at its top. For a single heartbeat it remained where it was, seemingly suspended in midair. Then it began to move toward the Eandi soldiers, slowly at first, but building speed quickly. As it rushed forward, it grew larger as well, until it towered over the battle plain like a huge fiery cloud. It lit the faces of Galdasten’s warriors, so that all the Qirsi could see their fear and despair.
Pillad saw his duke then. The man’s mouth was open as if he were wailing, the killing blaze shining in his eyes. The minister almost hoped that Renald would look at him, so that he might know that Pillad had killed him, that he had contributed his magic to this spiraling storm of flame. But the duke seemed incapable of looking away from the fire. He was still staring up at it when the full force of the magic crashed down upon his army, swallowing him and the soldiers around him, blackening the ground, lighting the Moorlands as if a piece of Morna’s sun had fallen to the earth. Renald hadn’t even drawn his sword.
Pillad wanted to laugh aloud. Never before had he felt so strong, so alive. Never before had he been so free.
Chapter Eleven
Abeni ja Krenta, archminister of Sanbira, lay on the damp ground, staring up at the few pale stars that still lingered in the brightening blue sky. Around her, the camp was coming to life slowly, warriors awakening, horses nickering in anticipation of another day’s ride.
The archminister had been awake for some time. Her encounters with the Weaver always left her too unsettled to sleep, and on this past night he had come to her when the sky was still black, speaking to her only briefly before leaving her, no doubt to walk in the dreams of another of his servants. She had not entertained any hope of falling asleep again, but neither did she think it prudent to leave her sleeping roll and walk, as she often did back in Yserne after the Weaver came to her. So she lay where she was, trying to still her racing heart and slow her breathing, and turning over in her mind all that the man had told her.
Any doubts that might have lingered in her mind as to the purpose of this war in the north to which she and Sanbira’s army were riding had been dispelled tonight. Braedon’s invasion of Eibithar had been contrived by the Weaver’s movement-he had all but said so. The armies of the Eandi were destroying one another, so that when the Weaver and his army struck at them, they would be too weakened to defend themselves. That Sanbira’s queen had elected to join this war pleased him greatly.
“Your army should arrive at nearly the same time as the Solkarans,” he had said. “With so many of the Foreland’s powers there, making war on one another, our task grows simpler by the day. By convincing the queen to fight you’ve made our victory that much more certain. You’re to be commended.”
Abeni explained that she had little to do with the queen’s decision, but he continued to praise her, particularly after learning that the first ministers of Macharzo and Norinde, both of whom served his movement as well, rode with her.
“Three of you together,” he said. “Truly the gods must be with us.”
There was little she could say, except, “Yes, Weaver.”
“Don’t reveal yourselves yet. Do nothing to delay your queen’s arrival at the battle.” She could hear the excitement in his voice, and she found that she felt it, too. They were approaching the culmination of their efforts, the final battle for which they had been preparing these long years. Yet, even recognizing this, she hadn’t been prepared for what he said next.
“Look for me when you reach the battlefield.”
“What?”
“I’ll be there. I’m not going to reveal myself to you now, but you’ll know me, you’ll feel me as I reach for your power. Be prepared to give your magic to me so that I can wield it as my own against the enemy. Tell the other two to do the same. Our time is at hand. The Forelands will soon be ours.”
The archminister had nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.
“One more thing. There’s a man with Eibithar’s army, a Qirsi named Grinsa jal Arriet. He claims to be a mere gleaner, but he’s far more. This man is dangerous. Keep away from him. When the time comes, I’ll deal with him myself. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Weaver,” she whispered. “Do we also have allies among the Eibitharians?”
For a moment the Weaver said nothing, and Abeni wondered if she had angered him. When he did answer, however, his tone was mild. “Actually, yes. Usually, I don’t reveal such things, but it may be time that I started to bring together those who serve me in different realms. There is a woman-your counterpart actually.”
“The archminister?”
“Yes. But don’t approach her unless you absolutely must. The risks are far too great.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“The hour of our victory approaches. Until then.” An instant later, she was awake, shivering in the darkness,
