looked at him strangely, as if wondering how he had gotten there, but most seemed to take for granted that he had been with them all along. Old Lenvyd, whom no one ever noticed.
For a few days he tended to the wounded, saying little, trying only not to be noticed. But finally last night, the Weaver entered his dreams again.
“You’re with Kearney’s army,” the man said to him, as Lenvyd shielded his eyes from the brilliant light that shone behind him.
“Yes, Weaver.”
“And the king still lives?”
“He does, Weaver.”
For several moments the Weaver didn’t speak. Lenvyd sensed his fury and lowered his gaze, afraid that he might be punished, though he knew he’d done nothing wrong.
“I would have preferred that another see to this task, but she has failed me, so it falls to you. You know what it is I want?”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“Good. My army and I are but a day’s ride away from your battle plain. I want this done tomorrow, so that when we arrive the soldiers of Eibithar will be grieving for their king and blaming the empire for his death.”
“Kearney doesn’t allow his healers to venture so close to the fighting. It will be difficult for me to do this in the midst of a battle. Were I a younger man, my magic still strong and new, I could do it from some distance. But now…” He shrugged, again fearing the Weaver’s wrath.
But the man merely said, “I understand. Still, there is no one else. You must not fail me. Get as close to him as you dare, but not so close that you arouse the suspicions of those around you. I want this to seem an accident or an act of the Eandi warriors. There are times when we must become more than we are, perhaps more than we ever were. For you, that time has come.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“If you do this, you will never again want for anything. Your last days on Elined’s earth will be glorious, and when you die, Bian will offer you a special place in his realm.”
“Thank you, Weaver.”
Lenvyd had awakened to a starry sky, exhausted and awed. He had never thought to see a day when a Weaver walked the Forelands. Certainly he had never dared hope to draw the attention of one so powerful. Truly he had been blessed to live in such times.
As the day progressed however, Lenvyd began to wonder if there would even be a battle. When he heard that Kearney had ridden forward to sue for peace, his hands began to tremble so badly that he had to leave the other healers for a time in order to compose himself. But at last, late in the day, after the king’s attempt to forge a truce failed, the armies finally began to ready themselves for combat.
The sun had already started its slow descent toward the western horizon when the first arrows flew. Screams went up from both sides, the Braedony swordsmen commenced their charge and were met by Kearney’s warriors before they had covered half the distance between the two armies. In moments, the battle plain was in tumult and Eibithar’s healers were called upon to mend shattered bone and repair mangled flesh. As always, their work took them dangerously close to the front, and just this once Lenvyd didn’t mind at all.
He could see the king from where he tended to the first of the fallen, but the distance was still too great. Others were struck down closer to the fighting, and Lenvyd hurried toward them, continually marking the king’s position, doing all he could to narrow the gap between them.
“Lenvyd!” one of the other healers called to him. “You’re too close! It’s not safe there!”
“What choice do I have?” he called back. “This is where the injured are!” He turned his back on the man.
“You’ll get yourself killed!”
He ignored the healer, kneeling down beside a wounded soldier and placing his hands over a deep, bloody gash high on the man’s chest.
“Thank ye, healer,” the soldier whispered.
Lenvyd nodded, but he was watching Kearney, who steered his mount skillfully, first to one side, then to the other, his blade rising and falling with terrible grace, the steel stained crimson.
He was almost close enough.
Another man dropped to the ground several fourspans ahead. Lenvyd glanced down at the soldier he was healing. The wound had nearly closed.
“That should hold for a time,” he said quickly. “Make your way back to the other healers. They’ll do the rest.”
“Yes, healer. Again, my thanks.”
Lenvyd was already scurrying forward, his head held low. Yes, this one would get him close enough. His heart pounded in his chest, fear and elation warring within him. Old Lenvyd. He’d be so much more than that after this day.
He had hoped that this next soldier would already be dead, but he wasn’t. The soldier bled from a cut on his temple, and his leg was broken, but he was alive, and, worse, awake.
“Ean be praised!” the warrior said, as Lenvyd knelt beside him. “I though’ I was goin’ t’ die here.”
Lenvyd didn’t answer. He was watching the king, waiting for the right moment, gathering his power. Not healing, of course, but his other magic. Language of beasts.
* * *
Keziah strained to keep Kearney in view. As long as she could see him, she told herself, he was alive. So she watched, her fists clenched so tightly that they ached, her throat dry, her stomach feeling hollow and sour. Yet even now, struggling with her fear, she couldn’t help but take pride in what she saw.
She had never been a woman to be impressed with a man’s brawn or prowess with a blade. She had been drawn to Kearney by his wit and his intelligence; she had fallen in love with his tenderness and compassion. But seeing him now, his sword a gleaming blur in the golden sunlight, his mount whirling under his command like the Sanbiri horses that danced in Bohdan’s Revel, Keziah felt as though she were watching Binthar himself. This was the stuff of myth and song. She knew that she and the king would never again be together, but she knew as well that she would always love him, that his death would kill her as well.
A moment later she saw the healers making their way toward the front, and she wondered where her brother was, and who had fallen. Where were Tavis and his father, Fotir and Evetta and the other ministers? Where was Sanbira’s queen? With the Weaver and his army bearing down on them, they could ill afford to lose anyone.
Once again, she had to fight her desire to mount her horse and ride to Kearney’s side.
Confusion and violence swirled all around the king. Everywhere Keziah looked she saw men dying. Battle-axes and pikes and swords glinted in the sunlight, steel and flesh alike bore the stain of blood, and a thin haze of dust hung low over the plain. A thousand voices seemed to be screaming out at once, cries of fear and pain, battle lust and death mingling into an incomprehensible din.
Which is why, when Keziah first heard the name called out-“Lenvyd”-she knew she must be imagining it. How could she possibly pick out a single voice in the midst of this clamor? Unless it was the name. For she knew a man named Lenvyd. He was a healer who they had left back in Audun’s Castle, an older man whom the master healer had deemed too aged to make the journey northward. More than that, it seemed that the name had been shouted by another of the healers, a man who would also have known the old Qirsi. Looking at him now, she saw a second Qirsi beyond him, tall and thin, his back bent with age. And seeing this second man’s face as he turned for just an instant, a name-the full name-immediately leaped to mind. Lenvyd jal Qosten.
“He shouldn’t be here,” she murmured, her eyes following him.
Yet there he was, and hadn’t he been with them since they marched from the City of Kings? She had taken little notice of the healers during their journey. Certainly it was possible that the master healer had changed his mind about Lenvyd. Minqar would have known that there would be no shortage of wounded men; he might have
