“I wish I knew, Archminister.”
“You’re the chancellor,” Craeffe said, all bitterness and wounded pride. “Why don’t you think of something?”
“Craeffe-”
“It’s all right, Minister. She’s right. I will think of something.” Abeni glanced toward Brugaosa’s army. Vanjad, Edamo’s loyal minister, was returning. “We’ll talk more later.”
“Forgive me, Archminister,” Vanjad said, rejoining them. “My duke wished to know what I think of this Weaver in our midst.”
“Of course, Minister. What did you tell him?”
“Well, I don’t really know the man, but if he truly is a Weaver, and, if the threat we face is as grave as he says, we’re quite fortunate to have him on our side.” He glanced at the others, looking nervous and old. “Wouldn’t you agree? No doubt you’ve been speaking of him, as well.”
“Of course we agree, cousin,” Craeffe said. Her eyes flicked toward Abeni. “A Weaver. Who would have thought it possible?”
The archminister frowned. “Indeed.” She needed to end this conversation now, before Craeffe said something foolish. “You should return to your dukes. I intend to seek out the master of arms. With the queen occupied, he may need my help.”
“Yes, of course,” Vanjad said, always so eager to serve. “Thank you, Archminister.”
Craeffe eyed her briefly, as if she wanted to say more. In the end, though, she and Filtem walked off together without a word.
Intending to return to the queen’s army, the archminister turned, then froze. The duchess of Curlinte stood nearby, staring at her. How long had she been watching? And how had Abeni been so careless as to not notice her sooner? After a moment she nodded to the woman and continued as if nothing unusual had happened. But she still felt the duchess’s eyes upon her, and she cursed her own stupidity.
Diani of Curlinte, though, was the least of her concerns. Filtem was right. Her Weaver might have known of Grinsa jal Arriet’s powers, but he couldn’t have anticipated that he would reveal himself so soon, or that the sovereigns of both Eibithar and Sanbira would be so willing to embrace him as an ally.
What choice did Abeni have now? The time had come to forge an alliance of her own, with Kearney’s archminister.
* * *
“It’s about time,” Kearney mumbled, when at last they saw the four Braedony captains riding out to join them.
By the gleaner’s reckoning they had been waiting on horseback for the better part of an hour, watching for some sign that the empire’s army would respond to their flag of truce. They heard a few jeers as they sat, and they noticed the Braedony archers positioning themselves to the west, where the slow winds blowing that morning would be of most aid should it come to an attack.
“You can protect us, can’t you, gleaner?” Kearney asked at the time, eyeing the bowmen.
“I certainly hope so, Your Majesty,” Grinsa said drily.
Kearney had given him a sharp look. Olesya laughed aloud.
Now, watching the captains approach, the king shook his head. “This isn’t going to work,” he muttered.
“We don’t know that yet, Your Majesty.”
“Actually, gleaner, we do. These men are soldiers-battle commanders. There’s no one here from the court. Either they’re dead, or Harel never sent anyone. These captains haven’t the authority to do what we ask.”
Grinsa glanced at the king. “So, what do we do?”
“We talk. We try anyway. We’ve offered the flag. There’s no sense in turning back now. But stay alert. This could end badly.”
The captains reined to a halt a short distance away. It took Grinsa but a moment to understand that the gap they had left would be enough to ensure their safety should the archers loose their arrows.
One of the captains, a bald man, clearly several years older than the other three, raised a hand in greeting. “Your Majesty, Your Highness. What is it you want?”
“To discuss terms of peace, Captain. Isn’t that clear?”
“So you’re ready to surrender?”
Kearney laughed, though his eyes were hard as emeralds. “With the men who arrived yesterday, we have the larger force by far. Why would we surrender to you?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty. But you fly the truce flag, you call us out here to discuss peace. Surely you don’t expect us to surrender.”
“I don’t seek surrender on either side, Captain. I wish for a truce. Indeed, I wish to forge an alliance.”
The man’s eyebrows went up. “An alliance?” He cast a quick look at the other men, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “An alliance against whom, Your Majesty?”
“Has word of the Qirsi conspiracy reached Braedon?”
“Of course it has. You’re not speaking of Uulrann, Your Majesty. We are the Braedon empire.”
“Then you understand the danger posed by these renegades.”
“Yes. But I don’t see what any of this has to do with the war we’re fighting.”
“Even as we speak, Captain, a Qirsi army rides toward us, led by a Weaver and composed of enough sorcerers to destroy either of our armies. But if we unite, if we fight the traitors together, we may yet prevail.”
The captain’s eyes had narrowed, and he stared warily at the king and then at Grinsa. “Trickery. I don’t believe any of this.”
“It’s true, Captain,” the gleaner said. “I’ve seen it. And the Weaver is none other than your high chancellor.”
“What?”
“Dusaan jal Kania leads the conspiracy and rides at the head of this army of which His Majesty speaks.”
“I don’t know you, white-hair. Why should I trust you? Why should I trust any of you?”
“Because,” the king answered, “we have nothing to gain from ending this war. As I said: we outnumber you. We can drive you from our shores, or we can simply crush you. But we share a common enemy, you and I. And I need your help defeating him.”
Grinsa winced at what he heard in Kearney’s voice. He would have handled this more delicately, but he didn’t dare try to soften what the king had said.
“You and I both know it wouldn’t be as easy as all that to drive us off, Eibithar. But I want to hear more from the white-hair. You say you’ve seen the high chancellor leading this Qirsi army. How could you see any of that? It’s just sorcery, right?”
“I suppose you could say that. But it is true.”
“What’s your name? Are you a minister?”
“I’m no minister. My name is Grinsa jal Arriet.” He glanced at Kearney, who gave a small nod. “I’m a Weaver as well,” the gleaner said, facing the man again. “That’s how I saw your high chancellor.”
“You’re a Weaver.”
“Yes.”
“Well, now I know this is trickery. How many Weavers do you want me to believe there are in the Forelands?”
Grinsa had done this once before, at a small inn on the Moors of Durril, when he tried to impress upon Tavis what it meant to face a Weaver. He drew upon his power of mists and winds, summoning a gale that made the truce flag snap like a harvest blaze, and raising a mist that hung heavy all around them, as if in defiance of his wind. He then raised a hand and called forth a brilliant golden flame. With a whisper to the horses of the four captains, he made the beasts rear and whinny. As an afterthought, he drew upon his shaping power as well. When the older captain heard the faint chiming of steel, his eyes grew wide. He grabbed for the hilt of his blade and pulled the weapon free of its sheath. Only half the sword emerged, the break clean and almost perfectly straight.
The man glared at him, rage and fear in his eyes. “Damn you!”
“Believe what you will, Captain,” Grinsa said, as he allowed his gale to die away. “You’ve just seen me use
