“Yes. You’ve seen the Solkarans?”
The first minister nodded, glancing southward. “The duke ordered his archers to the rear to hold them off.”
“That might help, but Grinsa was hoping you and he might join that fight as well.”
The man’s bright eyes widened, owllike and eager. “Are you certain?”
“What can they do?” Xaver asked, brow creasing.
“Right away, First Minister. There isn’t much time. He’s at the rear of the king’s line.”
“Yes, my lord. The duke-”
“I’ll explain it to him as best I can.”
“I think you’d be better off telling him nothing, my lord. I’ll think of something later.”
Tavis nodded and watched as the minister ran off toward where Grinsa and Keziah awaited him.
“What’s going on, Tavis?”
“It’s best you don’t know, Stinger.”
“Why? Because I haven’t been through all that you have? Because I’ve just been in Curgh all this time, while you’ve been traveling the length and breadth of the Forelands?”
He faced his friend, who, despite his cuts and bruises, looked terribly young. “Grinsa is a Weaver, Xaver,” he said wearily. What did it matter anymore? With that army approaching, all was lost. “Do you know what that means?”
Xaver’s face paled, his green eyes widening much as had Fotir’s a few moments before. “A Weaver?”
“Yes.”
“The conspiracy…” He stopped, shaking his head.
“Grinsa has saved my life more times than I care to count. He’s no traitor. In fact, I believe he’s the only person in the Forelands who can defeat the Weaver who leads the renegades.”
“Then why not tell your father?”
“Because he’s not ready to understand all of this. He’ll hear the word ‘Weaver’ and nothing else.” He looked southward again, marking the progress of Solkara’s army. “Until the nobles in this land see for themselves what this other Weaver can do, they won’t be willing to put their trust in Grinsa.”
“Does Kearney know?”
“Yes. As I understand it, he’d pretty much figured it out for himself. Grinsa had no choice but to admit it.”
“A Weaver,” Xaver said again, as if the word were new to him. “I suppose I should be pleased. Having one on our side evens matters a bit, doesn’t it?”
Tavis looked to the south again. “It might. He’s still our only chance of defeating the Weaver. I hope he doesn’t get himself killed.”
“Should we go after him now?”
Tavis shook his head. “Fotir and the archminister are with him. They won’t let anything happen to him.”
“Wait a moment. How does Fotir know? Surely if your father-”
“You remember how I escaped from Kentigern?”
“The hole in the castle wall!” the liege man said, breathless, a look of wonder on his face. “Grinsa did that?”
“Grinsa and Fotir did it together.”
“Demons and fire!”
“He risked a great deal saving me from Aindreas.”
“How does the archminister know?”
Tavis hesitated, then shook his head. “Some secrets aren’t mine to tell. I’m sorry.”
Xaver dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. The resentment he had expressed just a short time before seemed to have vanished. “Thanks for telling me as much as you did.”
The young lord grimaced. “I suppose you feel that I’ve been keeping a lot from you.”
“I understand,” his friend said, shrugging.
“I’ve wanted to tell you more, Stinger. Really. But I couldn’t. I probably shouldn’t have even told you this, but you were bound to find out eventually, I expect sooner rather than later.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“I know. It’s never been a matter of my not trusting you. As I said before, they’re just not my secrets to tell.” He gazed southward once more. He couldn’t be certain, but it appeared that the Solkarans had halted their advance. “I never knew that so many people in this realm had so much to hide.”
“What’s going on back there?” Xaver asked, shielding his eyes from the sun as he gazed toward the Aneirans.
“I’m not sure. It looks like they’re fighting.”
“You’re right, but against who? Surely not Grinsa and the others.”
“No, there’s another army behind them.” They shared a look, the realization hitting both of them at once. “Come on!” Tavis said, breaking into a run. “We need to tell my father!”
* * *
It galled him to ride under Kearney’s banner and Gershon’s command. Aindreas knew that he deserved far worse, having defied the king at every opportunity, having betrayed the realm, though none of his companions knew this. Still, he led one of the realm’s leading houses. Surely he deserved to ride under his own colors, as did Tremain and Labruinn. But with all that he had done, with the prospect of admitting his treachery hanging over him like the black smoke of siege fires, he couldn’t bring himself to protest. Gershon, Lathrop, and Caius had saved his castle from Aneira’s siege before setting out after the Solkaran army, which had marched northward to join forces with Braedon’s warriors. And Aindreas, faced with the prospect of remaining behind with his wine and the ghost of his daughter, or riding to war with these men, had chosen the latter. He had sensed Gershon’s reluctance to let him join the king’s army, and truly, he could hardly blame the man. What choice did he have but to submit to the swordmaster’s authority? He ordered his men to march at the rear of the King’s Guard, and he rode beside Gershon and the other dukes, saying little, enduring their sidelong glances and strained courtesy as best he could. In the rush to leave Kentigern Tor, he hadn’t thought to bring any wine. A pity. Not a night went by when he wouldn’t have sold his dukedom for a cup of Sanbiri red.
He had no cause to resent Gershon. The swordmaster had treated him civilly since their departure from Kentigern, though clearly it pained him to do so. Nor did he have any right to hate the king. Hadn’t Kearney’s decision to grant asylum to the Curgh boy been vindicated long ago? Hadn’t the man given Aindreas every opportunity to redeem himself and his house? Hadn’t he saved Kentigern from the Aneirans twice now, despite Aindreas’s continued defiance? Kearney’s grace, his willingness to forgive, left Aindreas humbled and ashamed, which might well have been why he did it. No doubt it was the source of the duke’s bitterness. For when he asked himself if he would have been so generous being in the king’s place, he was forced to admit that he would not.
Despite his hostility toward the swordmaster, Aindreas could not help but admire the man’s qualities as a leader. He pushed the armies hard as they pursued the Aneirans northward, resting only when absolutely necessary, and marching well into the night. It was hard to say whether the enemy knew they were being followed-they set a punishing pace for themselves as well. Still Gershon and the dukes gained on them, slowly but steadily.
As demanding as Gershon was of the men under his command, his orders never provoked a single complaint, at least none that the duke heard. Perhaps it was because Caius and Lathrop and Aindreas himself deferred to the man. Perhaps the soldiers understood that the very survival of the realm was at stake. Or perhaps it was just that Gershon looked so formidable on his mount, with his clean-shaven head, blunt features, and icy blue eyes. Whatever the reason, Aindreas had seen few swordmasters who were as revered by their men as Gershon Trasker was by his.
By the end of the seventh day of their march, the Aneirans certainly knew that they were being followed. Gershon had brought his vast army within sight of the invaders, and though the enemy didn’t flag or turn to face the Eibitharians, neither could they increase the distance between the two forces. Like wild dogs snapping at the heels of a stag, the armies of the realm drove the enemy across the Moorlands. The Aneirans might reach the rest of the Eibitharian army first, but they would barely have time to raise their swords before Gershon’s force struck at them.
