hung beyond his reach.
Then, without warning, the Weaver did something Grinsa hadn’t anticipated, hadn’t even thought possible. With one quick stride forward, he stretched out a hand, taking hold of the gleaner’s throat. Abruptly Grinsa couldn’t breathe. It shouldn’t have been possible. There was nothing in Grinsa’s knowledge of Qirsi magic to explain it. Yet there could be no denying the pressure on his neck, the sudden burning of his lungs.
“You thought to enter my dreams?” the Weaver demanded, his hot breath on Grinsa’s face. “You believed yourself powerful enough to use my magic against me? You’re nothing,
He struggled to free himself, then stopped, realizing that this was just what the Weaver wanted him to do, just what he had warned Cresenne and Keziah not to do. Instead, he took hold of his own magic again, breaking free of Dusaan’s control. An instant later, he drew breath again. Dusaan still stood just before him, his hand at Grinsa’s throat. But the gleaner no longer felt the man’s touch.
Dusaan gave a wry smile. “Very good, gleaner. You did that quite well. Of course a man of your power shouldn’t have allowed me access to your magic in the first place, but I’m sure that when you tell your king of this encounter, you’ll leave out that small detail.”
An instant later, everything went dark. Grinsa warded himself, grasping at his magic as if it were a battle shield. Only after a few moments did he understand that the Weaver had ended their conversation, waking himself with ease. The gleaner couldn’t help but remember how he had struggled to thrust the Weaver from his mind when Dusaan invaded his dreams.
He opened his eyes, bracing himself with his hand to keep from toppling over. The stars above him seemed to pitch and spin, as if he were a feather blown about by a harvest wind. He squeezed his eyes closed, opened them again. After some time, the stars began to slow.
When he could walk again, he made his way to Kearney’s tent. Most in the camp were asleep, but a candle still burned within the king’s shelter and after a word with Kearney, a guard allowed Grinsa to enter.
The king sat at a small table, a modest, half-eaten meal before him. He looked weary. Even in the candlelight, Grinsa could see the dark lines under his pale eyes. “Yes, gleaner. What is it?”
“I went to the Weaver, Your Majesty, as I told you I would.”
Kearney stood, nearly upsetting the table. “I had forgotten. Did you…? Were you able to hurt him?”
“No, Your Majesty. But I did learn something of his plans. He’s closer than we thought-no more than two or three days’ ride from here. He leads an army of some two hundred Qirsi.”
“Two hundred?” the king repeated, frowning.
“It’s more than it sounds, Your Majesty. With two hundred Qirsi he can destroy all of the armies on this plain.”
“But you’re a Weaver as well, with Qirsi on your side. Surely you can help us defeat him.”
“I’ll do my best, Your Majesty. He’s … he’s very powerful.”
“As are you.”
“Yes, but he has more Qirsi with him than I do. And he’s been using his power as a weapon far longer than I have.”
“Still, your presence here must mean something.”
“I hope it will, Your Majesty, but I’m not strong enough to do this on my own. You need to end this war with Braedon.”
“I intend to try. I’ve been trying.”
“No, Your Majesty, you don’t understand. I don’t mean defeat them. I’m asking you to sue for peace and end this conflict before others die.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“It’s the only way. We can’t afford to lose any more men.”
“The empire invaded this land! Harel seeks the conquest of Eibithar! And you want me to make peace with him?”
“Harel no longer rules Braedon, Your Majesty! Dusaan has defeated the part of his army that remained in Curtell. For all we know, the emperor is dead. The conspiracy is your enemy, just as it’s the enemy of every sovereign in the Forelands. Even if you defeat Braedon’s men, this war you’re fighting now will destroy you. I beg of you: end it while you can, and prepare for the true battle.”
Kearney sat again, looking confused and more than a bit frightened. “He defeated Harel? You’re certain?”
“Yes. He also took Ayvencalde, and though he didn’t say so, his presence on the Moorlands tells me that he defeated Galdasten as well.”
The king stared at the candle flame. “Demons and fire.”
“Please, Your Majesty. Make peace with the empire’s men. It may be our only hope.”
“I’ll think on it.” He looked up, meeting the gleaner’s gaze. “Truly, I will.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Grinsa bowed, then left the tent, wondering if even an alliance between Eibithar and her enemies would be enough to withstand the Weaver’s onslaught. The king, he realized, was depending upon him to win this war. So were Keziah and Fotir and Tavis. The others might revile him when first he revealed himself as a Weaver, but with time they would see him much the same way. He was their hope, and yet he had no hope himself. This, as much as anything, explained why Dusaan had been right, why Grinsa hadn’t mentioned to Kearney the ease with which the Weaver took hold of his magic.
Chapter Fifteen
Diani awoke before dawn, roused from her slumber by the voices of soldiers around her, the ring of steel as swords were drawn, checked for notches, and resheathed, the impatient snorting and stomping of the horses, and the jangling of saddles being fastened. She sat up, winced at the pain. Every muscle in her body was screaming. Her back and legs were so stiff that she wondered how she would ever manage to stand, much less fight. The previous day’s battle had been her first, and though she had come through it unscathed save for a few small cuts and bruises, she knew already that she was no warrior. Her ability to avoid injury was due far more to her skill as a rider than to any prowess with the blade. She had inflicted no more wounds than she had sustained. Mostly she had sought to stay alive and to keep out of the way of Sanbira’s real soldiers.
Much to Diani’s surprise, Naditia was one of them. The duchess of Macharzo, so painfully shy during audiences with the queen and in private conversations alike, was a skilled and powerful fighter. She wielded her blade aggressively and with uncommon agility, and she was as fearless in battle as she was shy at court. It seemed to Diani that the woman had been born for combat. More than once during the course of the previous day, Naditia had saved Diani’s life. Yet after the fighting ended, she instantly became again an awkward, tongue-tied young duchess.
Sweating and out of breath, too relieved by the end of combat to care how her army had fared, Diani thanked the woman for protecting her.
“You fight magnificently,” she said. “I wish I wielded a blade as you do.”
Naditia had given an embarrassed smile and ducked her head, swiping at the hair that clung to her damp brow. “My father taught me.”
“You almost seem to enjoy it.”
The tall woman shrugged. “I do. As long as I’m fighting, I don’t have to say anything.”
Struggling to get to her feet on this cool, dark morning, gasping at the pain of every movement, Diani wondered if Macharzo’s duchess was actually looking forward to another day of battle. Ean knew that Diani was not. She stood for a moment, stretching her back, then walked stiffly to where the queen and her master of arms were eating a small breakfast. Both were already dressed for battle. Abeni, the queen’s archminister, lurked nearby, ghostly pale in the dim light.
“Good morning, Lady Curlinte,” Olesya called as she approached. “Are you hungry?”
“No, thank you, Your Highness.”
