did he have time to do so.
With so many dangerous Qirsi about, he had to be alert to the possibility of attack, readying himself to fend off enemy magic even as he parried Eandi assaults with his steel. As a Weaver he could sense not only what powers a Qirsi possessed, but also when they were used. At any moment he expected his sword to shatter, or, worse, one of his limbs or his neck. He had chosen to fight on the ground this day, rather than mounted, fearing that the horse would only offer his enemies another target.
So it was that he perceived the attack, knowing immediately that it hadn’t been intended for him. For a long time, he had sensed only healing magic-a good deal of it. When the other power intruded on his thoughts, as jarring in his mind as a sour note might be to an accomplished musician, he jumped away from his Eandi attacker, spinning around swiftly, locating the source of the magic almost immediately. Language of beasts. From the old healer standing near Kearney, just to the east of where Grinsa was fighting.
He reached for the man, trying to take hold of his magic before he could make the animal rear, or bolt, or whatever he had in mind. But the Eandi soldier was on Grinsa again, and the gleaner had to fight him off, parrying two blows before finally breaking the man’s blade. When the soldier came at him once more, this time brandishing a dagger, Grinsa shattered the bone in his leg, cursing the warrior’s stupidity. He whirled to look for the healer, turning just in time to see the king topple from his horse. Several Braedony soldiers shouted in triumph, surging toward the spot where Kearney had fallen. They were met, however, by an equal number of Eibithar’s men.
Torn between his concern for the king and his need to stop the healer from doing more damage, the gleaner hesitated, though only for an instant. The soldiers could protect their sovereign. He might well be the only person who knew that the healer was responsible. He strode toward the old man, who was still standing, staring at the king’s horse and the tumult around the beast, as if unable to fathom what he had just done. Reaching him, Grinsa spun the man around and grabbed him by his arms, forcing the healer to look him in the eye. He had a thin, angular face, with an overlarge nose and small, wide-set eyes. Grinsa didn’t recognize him.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m … I’m just a healer!”
“Liar! You used language of beasts on the king’s mount! Now tell me who you are!”
“How can you know that?”
“I’m a Weaver, you fool! Haven’t you heard your fellow traitors speaking of me? I’d imagine it’s all they can talk about.”
“I don’t know what-”
Grinsa slapped him hard across the face, leaving a bright red mark high on his cheek.
“Lie to me again and you’ll get far worse!”
The man started to say something, then stopped himself. For several moments he merely glared at Grinsa. Then he grinned maliciously, all pretense forsaken.
“What is it you think you can do to me? I’m a dead man no matter what I say, so the threat of killing me won’t help you.”
“There are other ways.”
The healer actually laughed. “You mean torture? I’m an old man. I’ll die before you learn anything of value.”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me a moment ago, healer. I’m a Weaver. I have mind-bending magic.”
The man’s face fell.
“You’ll tell me everything I want to know, simply because I ask it of you. One way or another, you’ll talk. The question is, how much do you want to suffer for each answer you give. I’m told that mind-bending power can hurt when used too roughly. Of course, I don’t know for certain. The last man I used it on died before I could ask him.” This time it was Grinsa’s turn to grin. “So I’ll give you one last chance. Who are you?”
The healer didn’t answer at first. He clamped his mouth shut, his eyes still fixed on Grinsa’s face, as if he were preparing himself to resist the gleaner’s mind-bending power. After some time, though, he looked away, and gave a small shake of his head.
“My name is Lenvyd jal Qosten,” he said at last.
The name seemed familiar somehow, though Grinsa couldn’t quite place it. “You came here as a healer?”
“Yes.”
“From where? I don’t recognize you. Are you one of the queen’s Qirsi, or do you come from one of Eibithar’s houses?”
He smiled thinly. “No. I came from the City of Kings. Just because you didn’t notice me doesn’t mean that I wasn’t there.”
The gleaner nearly struck him again. “You think that justifies it, don’t you? You aren’t noticed enough, you want to be praised, and instead you’re ignored, and that’s reason enough to betray your king and your realm.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Your eyes may be yellow, but your blood runs Eandi.”
Grinsa had once been married to an Eandi woman; he’d had the barb directed at him too many times for it to bother him anymore. “What else have you done for the conspiracy?”
“You’ll have to take that from me, gleaner. Use your mind-bending magic if you must. I’ll tell you no more willingly.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Gleaner?” he said.
The healer smiled again. “Oh, yes. I know who you are. I didn’t know that you were a Weaver, but I know you. You were a Revel performer once-that strikes me as even more pathetic now that I know how powerful you truly are. And then you were Tavis of Curgh’s toady. I take it you’re his squire now.”
“What else have you done for them?” Grinsa demanded, struggling to keep control of his temper.
“Actually, there is one thing that will interest you,” he said. “The woman in Audun’s Castle, the one who betrayed our movement-I killed her.”
It hit Grinsa like a fist to his stomach, knocking the air out of him. He knew she wasn’t dead-he’d entered her dreams too recently; the healer couldn’t possibly have killed her since then and still made it to the Moorlands so quickly. But he should have known the name as soon as he heard it. Lenvyd jal Qosten. He could hear Cresenne speaking of him, telling Grinsa of the poisoning that nearly took her life.
Abruptly the gleaner’s sword was in his hand, though Grinsa didn’t remember pulling it free. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of his steel, but Grinsa didn’t even give him a chance to speak. He grabbed Lenvyd by the shoulder with one hand, and drove the point of his blade into the healer’s heart with the other. Lenvyd opened his mouth, as if to scream, but he could only manage a wet gasping sound, as his eyes slid briefly toward Grinsa’s face, then rolled back in his head.
“You didn’t kill her,” the gleaner said, pushing the man off his blade. “You failed. You’re lucky I got to you first. Your Weaver would have been far more cruel in meting out his punishment.”
Perhaps he should have been ashamed. Against him, Lenvyd had been defenseless, an old healer, with barely enough magic to be a threat to anyone. As Grinsa himself had said, the man had only succeeded in making Cresenne ill. He was but a foot soldier in the Weaver’s army.
Yet in that one moment, he had been the embodiment of all that had been done to Cresenne in the Weaver’s name. There was no real vengeance to be found in the killing; only an outlet for rage and frustration and grief. Had Tavis done something similar, Grinsa would have railed at him. But in this case the gleaner couldn’t bring himself to care. It was a murder, nothing more, and certainly nothing less. Given the opportunity to do it again, he would have, without hesitation.
He stooped to wipe the man’s blood from his sword, glancing briefly at the healer’s body. Then he turned and strode toward the soldiers who were fighting for Kearney’s life.
* * *
They had chosen to fight near the king because they didn’t dare remain too close to their fathers, who were fighting at the head of the Curgh army, west of Kearney’s force. Had Hagan seen Xaver with a sword in his hand, blood trickling from a small cut above his eye, he would have flown into another rage. And since Tavis had fought and marched with both the king’s army and that of his father in recent days, none would think it strange to see the young lord and his liege man fighting under Kearney’s banner.
They remained on the fringe of the battle, both of them putting to use all that Xaver’s father had taught them in the wards of Curgh Castle as they tested their skills against the brawny swordsmen of the empire. Tavis had
