Keziah and Fotir rode after him, and together the three Qirsi plunged into the fighting, Grinsa drawing on their magic once more to summon a staggering wind. He made it build swiftly, so that to the soldiers it would seem that it had risen without warning. As he and Kezi had hoped, it did force many of the men to break off their combat, including Gershon Trasker, who sat on his horse, his sword still poised to strike, his hot glare directed at Grinsa and the others. Already many warriors had fallen, most of them Solkaran. Only a few hundred Aneirans remained alive, and the gleaner guessed that they would not survive long if the fighting resumed.
“Break off your attack, swordmaster!” Grinsa called as he drew nearer.
“I will not! These men are invaders. Their lives were forfeit as soon as they crossed the Tarbin.”
The soldiers around them were eyeing each other warily, their weapons ready. The merest twitch by one of them would launch all into combat once more, no matter the wind that raged about them.
“We’ve a more dangerous foe, swordmaster,” Keziah said, drawing the man’s eye. “You know that as well as anyone. We’ll need these men before all is done.”
Gershon said nothing, the expression on his blunt features and in his hard blue eyes offering little promise that he would relent.
“Men of Aneira!” Grinsa called. “Lower your weapons! Surrender now, or all of you will die!”
“Never!” came a reply. Others echoed the sentiment, and Eibithar’s men began shouting for their deaths. They were a heartbeat away from bedlam.
“Fotir, their swords. Quickly.”
The minister nodded. A moment later an Aneiran blade shattered, and then another. Grinsa broke several as well.
“We’ll break them all if we have to! Now put them down, and perhaps you’ll survive this day!”
Reluctantly, the nearest of the Aneiran captains dropped his blade to the ground. Slowly, other men began to follow his example.
After several moments, Gershon nodded to his captains, who began ordering their men to lower their weapons.
“I do this against my better judgment, Archminister.”
From what Keziah had told him, Grinsa gathered that she and the swordmaster had feigned many conflicts recently in order to maintain the illusion that her fealty to the king had wavered. Now, however, he sensed no trickery in the man’s tone. He was deadly serious.
“I understand,” Keziah said. “I had to be convinced as well.”
Gershon’s eyes flicked toward the gleaner, then back to her.
“You spoke a moment ago of another foe, Archminister. Of whom do you speak?”
Grinsa turned toward the voice. A stout man with yellow hair and a trim beard was leaning forward in his saddle, regarding the gleaner with obvious distrust. It took Grinsa a moment to recognize him as the duke of Labruinn. But his eye was drawn beyond this young duke to the towering figure who sat just behind him on the largest stallion Grinsa had ever seen. Aindreas of Kentigern, his ruddy face flushed to crimson, and his jaw clenched tight.
“You need to ask, my lord?” Fotir answered.
“The conspiracy.”
“Yes, my lord. Many of us believe that this war-”
“Yes, I know. You think the Qirsi have, through treachery and deception, led us to this conflict so that we’ll weaken ourselves.” Labruinn looked at Grinsa again. “I just wonder if keeping the Aneirans alive is intended to strengthen us, or weaken us.”
“Why would I want to weaken us, my lord?”
“He’s not questioning your motives, First Minister,” Grinsa said. “He’s questioning mine.”
“I don’t know you, sir,” the duke said. “I have no reason to question the first minister’s loyalty, but in these times all strange Qirsi are suspect. And for many turns I’ve been hearing of odd behavior on the part of the archminister.”
Gershon started to say something, but a glance from Keziah silenced him.
“I know this man,” Aindreas said, murder in his voice. “I know all three of them.”
“This is Grinsa jal Arriet, Lord Labruinn,” Fotir said, with the merest of glances toward Aindreas. “And I assure you, he’s no stranger to me. If it wasn’t for Grinsa, Lord Tavis might still be a prisoner in Kentigern’s dungeon. He has as much reason to hate the conspiracy as any man in the Forelands. For that matter, so does the archminister, and I have every reason to believe that she serves our king loyally and always has.”
“I’d like to believe you,” Caius said. “But I’m afraid even your word on the matter isn’t enough.”
“Nor should it be,” Aindreas said. “The Qirsi can’t be trusted.”
Grinsa met the duke’s glare, their eyes locking. “Last I heard, my lord, you were saying much the same thing about all men of Curgh and Glyndwr. Yet here you are fighting in the service of the king. Isn’t it possible that you’re as wrong about me as you were about them?”
Aindreas pulled his sword free. “You white-hair bastard!”
“That’s enough from both of you,” Gershon said, eyeing one of them and then the other. “It doesn’t matter now. The Aneirans have surrendered.” He faced his captain again. “Collect their weapons, see to their wounds, and prepare them for review by the king. I don’t want them mistreated, but neither will I tolerate any resistance on their part.” He cast a look at Keziah as he said this last, but she offered no response. As the king’s men began to herd the Solkarans into a tight cluster, Gershon regarded Caius and Lathrop. “Take your armies forward to the king,” he said. “I don’t know how his soldiers are faring, but I’m certain he’ll welcome your aid.”
“There’s no need,” Fotir said. “The empire’s men have broken off their attack. At least for the moment.”
They all turned to look northward. Indeed, it did seem that Braedon’s warriors were in retreat.
“Then perhaps we should find His Majesty, and ask him how he wants us to proceed.”
The others agreed and after leaving their captains with instructions to make camp and watch over the prisoners, Gershon, the dukes, and the three Qirsi rode to the front lines. They found Kearney with Javan of Curgh, Marston of Shanstead, and Rab Avkar, Heneagh’s swordmaster. The queen of Sanbira was there as well, with four of her nobles, including a dark-haired young woman who the night before had eyed Grinsa and the other Qirsi with manifest distrust.
Reaching the king, Gershon dismounted and dropped to one knee, as did all the others, including Aindreas.
Kearney, limping slightly, strode to his swordsmaster, ordered Gershon to rise, and gathered him in a fierce embrace. “Well met, Gershon! Well met!” he said. “All this time I’ve felt like I’ve been fighting with one hand.” He released the man and looked him up and down. “I take it you’re well.”
Trasker was grinning. “I am, Your Majesty. Thank you. And you?”
“Well enough.” He looked past Gershon to the dukes. “Lord Tremain, Lord Labruinn, I’m deeply grateful to both of you. I’ve no doubt that your counsel and your men were of tremendous value to the swordmaster. I believe it’s time the people of this realm stopped referring to the ‘minor houses.’ As far as I can tell, there’s no such thing.”
Lathrop and Caius bowed.
“Thank you, my liege,” Tremain said. “We did only what any man of the realm would have done for his king.” As soon as he spoke the words, Lathrop paled, casting a furtive look at Aindreas.
“What do you think of that, Lord Kentigern?” Kearney asked.
Aindreas glowered at the king, but after a moment he nodded, as if compelled to do so by some unseen hand. “I’m sure my lord duke is correct, my liege.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
Neither man had moved, though it seemed that both had weapons drawn.
“I’m here to defend Eibithar, and to strike back at the men who attacked Kentigern.”
“No other reason?”
“None that I can think of, my liege.”
“I see.” The king held Aindreas’s gaze for another moment, then turned to Keziah, as if dismissing the duke. “How did you end up with Gershon and the others, Archminister? I thought you were behind our lines. When you weren’t there, I…” His face colored briefly. “I grew concerned.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. Grinsa suggested that the three of us ride back to stop the Aneirans’ advance.
