because of me.”
“After all this time, you don’t really still believe that, do you?” Javan smiled again, a kinder smile than the duke had offered Tavis in many years. “It wasn’t you, Tavis. Your mother and I both know that, and so does anyone with even a bit of sense. It was the conspiracy all along. A man doesn’t succeed as a noble because of what others think of him. He succeeds with courage and wisdom, strength and compassion. You’re young still, you’ve much to learn. But I believe that someday you’ll make a fine duke.”
Tavis nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Father,” he said, and meant it. It was as close as Javan had ever come to expressing pride in him. A part of Tavis wondered, though, if he still even wanted to be duke.
* * *
Fotir wandered about the camp as long as he could bear, giving aid to healers who were tending to the wounded from the most recent battle. He didn’t possess healing magic himself, but he knew something of herbs and tonics, poultices and splints. And he welcomed any opportunity to keep his thoughts from wandering to all that had happened this day.
At that moment, most ministers in the camp were speaking with their nobles, so that the Eandi might determine if there were any other traitors among their Qirsi. Fotir had long been above such suspicions, for which he was grateful, and all that he had done in the past few hours had only served to enhance his reputation. Everywhere he went, soldiers cheered him, clapping him on the back and inviting him to sit and share their meager food. Always he declined, with a smile and a polite wave. Still, there could be no denying that he was a hero, his valor established beyond doubt by the three bodies he had left among the boulders and grasses.
He had killed before-during the siege of Kentigern, when he fought alongside his duke to repel the invasion from Mertesse, he killed more soldiers than he could remember. In the course of that fight, he had used his magic several times to shatter the blades of his opponents, so that he might dispatch them more quickly with his sword. In all his years of service to the House of Curgh, however, he had never actually used his power to take a life. On this day he had done it twice.
He wasn’t fool enough to believe that he’d had any choice in the matter. Had he not killed the two women with his shaping magic, they would have killed him, and surely they would have killed the archminister. And that brought him to the core of the matter. For even as he struggled to justify the killings, he understood that he would kill again without hesitation if it was the only way to save her.
Fotir had devoted his life to serving his duke and his house, and though he had sacrificed much for that service, he had never once regretted his choice. True, he had effectively ended his relationship with both of his parents, who saw service to an Eandi noble as a betrayal of the Qirsi people, and who probably would have joined the Weaver’s cause had they lived long enough to see this day. It was also true that he had never married or started a family. Still, serving the duke offered its own rewards-travel to the great cities of Eibithar, the opportunity to shape the future of the realm by offering counsel to a powerful duke and his fellow nobles, and an ever- deepening friendship with Javan, whom Fotir believed to be a truly great man, despite his faults.
Perhaps because he was the most powerful minister in all the dukedom of Curgh, there had been no shortage of women, Qirsi and Eandi both, offering to warm his bed. Nor had Fotir been shy about encouraging their advances. None of these women, however, had ever managed to capture his heart the way Keziah had.
It was not just that she was beautiful, and brilliant, and kind, though she was all of these things. She was also the bravest soul he had ever met. Anyone who was willing to risk the power and wrath of the Weaver so that she might destroy his movement deserved to be counted among the true heroes of the Forelands. It made laughable the celebrity he was enjoying this night. It humbled him. In all his life, no one had affected him so- certainly not a woman with eyes the color of sand on a quiet seashore, and hair as fine and lustrous as spun gold.
For years he had heard rumors of a forbidden love affair between Kearney of Glyndwr and his exquisite first minister, but always he had chosen not to give credence to what he heard, believing such talk unseemly. But since Kearney’s ascension to the throne he had spent a good deal of time in the company of the king and archminister, and it seemed clear to him that there was more to their rapport than met the eye. Only today, though, seeing how the king looked at her, did he know for certain that the rumors had been true. Kearney had been horrified by her wounds, and so relieved to find her still alive that he could barely speak. And Fotir had also seen how she looked at the king, her breath catching at the mere sight of him, her skin seemingly aflame with his caress.
How could a mere minister compete with a king, particularly one as noble and strong as Kearney? Why would he even try?
So Fotir wandered the camp, helping as he could, avoiding Grinsa and the archminister. Until at last his need to see her again overwhelmed his good sense.
The king was there when he reached them, and Fotir tried to turn away without being noticed. Kearney saw him before he could flee.
“First Minister!” the king called. “Please join us for a moment.”
How had he come to this? He hardly recognized himself. Fotir was renowned throughout the land for his formidable intellect and powerful magic. And here he was wishing he could run and hide, like some lovelorn schoolboy. It would have been laughable if … Actually, it was laughable.
“Yes, Your Majesty?” he said as he drew near the others.
Grinsa was still intent on Keziah’s injured hand, but the king was grinning at him, still grateful no doubt, for Keziah’s rescue. For her part, the archminister favored him with a smile, but said nothing.
“We were just discussing something, and it seems from what I’ve been told that you’re one of the few others in all the Forelands who can offer an informed opinion on the matter.”
Now that he was closer to the man, Fotir realized that the king’s smile a moment before had been forced. Kearney didn’t look at all pleased, and Grinsa seemed to be concentrating on Keziah’s hand so that he wouldn’t have to meet the king’s gaze.
“How can I help, Your Majesty?” Fotir asked, all other considerations forgotten for the moment.
To his surprise, it was Keziah who answered. “I believe, First Minister, that both my king and my brother would like you to convince me that I’m a fool.”
“That’s not fair,” Grinsa said, his eyes snapping up to meet hers.
Once again, Fotir found that he had been wrong. It seemed that Grinsa wasn’t angry with the king, but rather with Keziah.
“The gleaner’s right, Archminister. Neither of us thinks you a fool, nor do any of us question your courage. But what you propose is lunacy.”
“So now you think me mad?” She laughed, though it sounded forced and, Fotir had to admit, just a bit crazed. “That’s hardly more flattering, Your Majesty.”
“Keziah, if you’d just listen for a moment-”
“No. The king asked Fotir to join us so that he might render an opinion. We should let him.”
“I’m not certain that I want to get in the middle of this.”
Grinsa glanced at him, shaking his head. “I’m certain that you don’t.”
“Come now, First Minister. You were brave enough to rescue me once. Surely you won’t hesitate to do so again.”
Fotir felt his face redden. It was far too close to what he himself had been thinking not long ago. “I don’t wish to put myself between you and the king, Archminister,” he said, and immediately regretted his choice of words.
Keziah regarded him for a moment, then turned to her brother.
“That feels much better, Grinsa. I’m grateful.”
The gleaner nodded, still looking grim.
“Let me tell you what it is I want to do,” she said, facing the first minister again. “And if you truly feel that I’m foolish-” She cast a quick look at Kearney. “Or mad-then I’ll relent.”
“All right.”
“You know that I’ve joined the Weaver’s movement, or at least feigned doing so in order to win his trust. You also know what he did to Cresenne when she betrayed him, and so you have some idea of what he’ll do to me when he learns that I’ve been deceiving him all this time.”
Fotir nodded, shuddering at the memory of Cresenne’s scars.
“Now that the other, true traitors among us are dead, I’m apparently the only one of his servants remaining
