“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“I should return to the armies.”
“May I have a moment with Grinsa, Your Majesty?”
“Of course.” He nodded to the gleaner, who bowed once more in return. Then he turned and started back toward the soldiers.
“You think I’m wrong to try,” Grinsa said.
“I think the risks are greater than you made them sound just now.”
“He can’t hurt me, Kezi.”
“Maybe not. But he can sense your thoughts, your fears. I know, because I’ve sensed his. Not enough to learn much, but I’m not a Weaver. You may give away as much as you learn. You could even reveal that I’m your sister.”
“I won’t.”
“But you could.”
“At the first sign of danger, I’ll break contact with him. You have my word.”
She looked like she might say more, but in the end she merely nodded and walked away, leaving Grinsa alone amid the grasses and stones.
The truth was, Grinsa didn’t have to enter the Weaver’s dreams at all. He had only to reach for him. He could search the land for the man without actually entering his mind. That would tell him where Dusaan jal Kania and his army could be found. But Grinsa wanted this confrontation. Twice before they had met, once when he pulled Cresenne out of her dream of the man, thus saving her life, and again when the Weaver came to him, and nearly managed to turn Grinsa’s own magic against him. Eventually they would face each other in battle, probably on this very moor. It seemed as inevitable as the new day. They were tied to one another, their strange bond forged of hatred and the powers they shared; of the Weaver’s ambition and Grinsa’s need to avenge all that Dusaan had done to Cresenne and Keziah. But during their previous encounter, when Braedon’s high chancellor entered his dreams, Grinsa had found himself overmatched. Before their final battle, he needed to prove to himself that he could defeat this man, that his powers ran as deep as those of the renegade Weaver.
After some time, as the sun finally began to dip toward the western horizon, Grinsa returned to the Curgh camp to look for Tavis. Before he reached the boy, though, he was accosted by Marston of Shanstead. The thane had two soldiers with him, as if he feared approaching a Qirsi unguarded. His grey eyes were watchful, scanning from side to side as he walked, and he rested a hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword.
“I know what you have in mind to do,” Shanstead said without preamble, his voice low and tense. “And I’d advise you against it.”
For just an instant, Grinsa wondered if the man really did know, if he had discovered Grinsa’s secret and learned of his intention to speak with the Weaver. In the next moment, he dismissed the idea. This man hated all Qirsi, save his own minister. No doubt he meant to accuse Grinsa of some foul crime against the king.
“What is it you think you know, my lord?”
“I know that the archminister is a traitor, and I see the two of you plotting together. I know as well that you’ve lied about your powers in the past. Aindreas and Javan, who can barely agree on the time of day, concur on that much.” He took a step closer, tightening his grip on his weapon. “I’m watching you, gleaner. And your friend as well. If one of you should so much as look askance at the king, I’ll crush you both. Do you understand?”
Shanstead, he realized in that moment, was precisely the sort of Eandi that drove Qirsi to the Weaver and his movement. This type of blind distrust and blustering animosity had done more to weaken the Forelands than had any white-haired traitor. Grinsa would have liked to shatter the man’s blade, or set his hair ablaze. Instead, he offered a thin smile. “I assure you, Lord Shanstead, the king has nothing to fear from his archminister or from me. What’s more, he knows this. It’s a pity you’re too much a fool to see it for yourself.”
“How dare you speak to me so!”
“I could say much the same thing, my lord.” And stepping around the man, Grinsa continued on toward the Curgh lines. He half expected Shanstead to follow, and a part of him wished the man would, so that he’d have an excuse to use his magic. But the thane merely stared after him as Grinsa wove his way through a maze of soldiers and past the wounded. When he found Tavis, his hands were still trembling with rage.
“There you are,” the young lord said as Grinsa approached him. “I’ve been hearing all sorts of stories about you.” He had been smiling, but seeing the gleaner’s expression he grew serious. “What’s happened?”
Grinsa shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me. I know you too well, Grinsa.”
“Nothing of importance. Really.” Knowing the boy wouldn’t be satisfied by this, he gestured vaguely at the battle plain. “Shanstead just accused Keziah and me of plotting against the king.”
“Shanstead’s an idiot.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you.”
“Do you want me to speak with the king?”
The gleaner had to smile. Tavis had grown a good deal in the past year. “No, thank you,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Shanstead’s suspicions will prove useful as long as Keziah is still maintaining her deception.”
“I suppose.”
“Tell me about these stories you’re hearing.”
“Actually most of them are coming from my father. He’s saying that along with Fotir and the archminister, you held off the entire Aneiran army.”
Grinsa laughed. “That’s not quite true.”
“Still, that’s what he’s saying. He also told me that Aindreas accused you of putting a hole in his castle so that I could escape. Now, he said as well that Fotir claimed to have shaped the hole himself, but my father doesn’t believe that for a moment.” He paused, eyeing the gleaner. “You do see where I’m going with all this.”
“I do,” the gleaner said, rubbing a hand over his face. It wasn’t as funny anymore.
“He wasn’t just telling stories, Grinsa. He took me aside and started asking questions about you, about your powers, about what I’ve seen you do during our journeys together. My father’s no fool. He may not know as much about Qirsi magic as I do at this point, but he’s going to figure this out. He might have already.”
“What will he do when he does?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need his support, Tavis. With Shanstead telling everyone who’ll listen that I’m a traitor, and Aindreas still bitter over your escape, I’ll need all the friends-”
“You’re going to tell them?”
“I haven’t much choice. Even now, the king is preparing for a final battle with the empire. I can’t allow that to happen. If these armies destroy one another, we’ve no hope of defeating the Weaver. As it is, we might have lost too many men already. I intend to reveal to the nobles that I’m a Weaver, to try to make them see what it is we face. I’m hoping that I can convince them to sue for peace with the Braedony army.”
“They won’t do it.”
“They have to.”
Tavis shrugged. “They won’t. You’ve taught me a good deal about your people and your magic during this past year. Now, let me tell you something about the Eandi courts of Eibithar. They don’t tolerate invasions. It amazes me that you convinced them to spare the lives of those Solkarans. You might get them to do the same with what’s left of the empire’s force, but you’ll never convince them to sue for peace, much less fight beside them. I do know what’s at stake, and I’ve half a mind to destroy their army anyway.”
“I understand what you’re telling me. But still, I have to try.”
“I know you do,” Tavis said, sighing. “I’ll do all I can to convince my father. He can be stubborn, although no more so than I.” A smile touched his lips and was gone. “After all you’ve done for me, he won’t be one of those calling for your execution. I can promise you that.”
“Thank you, Tavis.”
“Have you told Keziah what you intend to do?”
“Yes.” Grinsa faltered, but only briefly. Tavis should know all of it. He had earned that much. “You should also know that I intend to enter the Weaver’s dreams tonight.”
He expected the young lord to express amazement, or perhaps to tell him that he was a fool. Instead Tavis
