Chapter Twenty
He had only to wait one last night. Dusaan had led his army to within just a league of where the Eandi forces had been doing battle, weakening themselves, spilling one another’s blood as if at his behest. Tomorrow, he and his warriors would sweep across the Moorlands, their white hair flying like battle flags, their pale eyes shining in the light of a new day. And drawing upon the vast power of those around him, Dusaan would destroy his enemies, his shaping magic cutting through their ranks like a scythe, his conjured fires eradicating them from the face of Elined’s earth.
All his life, he had waited for this moment, anticipating his victory and all that would come after it. One might have expected that this night he would be crazed with anticipation, unable to sit still, his mind tormented with worries about the soundness of his plans.
Nothing could have been further from the truth. Never had he felt so confident. The Eandi were nothing. Cresenne ja Terba, whose betrayal had plagued him for too long, would soon be dead, if she wasn’t already. Even Grinsa jal Arriet could not stop him from extending his rule over all the Forelands. Though the gleaner didn’t know it, he was surrounded by servants of the movement, and he faced a force that would easily overwhelm the few who remained loyal to the courts.
On this night, on the eve of war, Dusaan was more at peace than he could ever remember being-an irony that he would savor for the balance of the night.
This was not to say that he had nothing left to do. Jastanne and Uestem would continue well into the night to work with the Qirsi commanders, and before dawn, Dusaan would join them, so that he might make certain that his warriors were ready. And before then, there were conversations he needed to have with his other chancellors.
He reached for Abeni first, knowing that she was near, and that she would expect to speak with him this night. Twice he combed the Moorlands, seeking her mind, growing more agitated by the moment. When at last he was forced to conclude that she was dead or had left the battle plain for some reason-impossible! — he reached for the other Sanbiran woman. She wasn’t there either, nor was her lover, Norinde’s first minister. Then he tasted fear, acrid, like bile. How long had it been since he had truly been afraid, since he had doubted that he would win this war? He searched for the healer, but even he had vanished. He gritted his teeth, his apprehension now mingled with rage. Grinsa. It had to have been the gleaner.
Among his servants on the Moorlands, the only one he sensed was Keziah ja Dafydd, Eibithar’s archminister. Dusaan started to reach for her, then stopped. He still had doubts about this one. She had pledged herself to his cause, but what had she done on his behalf? He had ordered her to kill Cresenne, but she had failed, claiming that the opportunity never presented itself. He had commanded that she kill her king, the man who had spurned her, the man she now professed to hate. Yet as of their last encounter, Kearney still lived. And now, all those who served him and awaited his arrival on the Moorlands were dead, save this woman.
Had she betrayed him? Dusaan remembered now that she had not been surprised the first time he entered her dreams. Her father, she told him at the time, had been a Weaver and she had often communicated with him in that way. And the Weaver had believed her; he had been eager to do so. Fool! Had she joined his movement as an agent of the courts? Had she been deceiving him all this time?
Fear was gone now. He still had an army of more than two hundred. No one could stand against him, certainly not Grinsa and his paltry collection of faithless Qirsi. The Weaver had no cause for concern. But fury. Yes, he had ample justification for that.
He thrust himself into Keziah’s mind, intending to exact a measure of vengeance before he slaughtered her.
For a single disorienting moment, Dusaan thought that he had opened his eyes to daylight, that he had fallen asleep and dreamed it all-Abeni’s death, Keziah’s betrayal. But then he realized that there were two suns shining on the plain, his brilliant white one, and a second-golden, dazzling, oddly familiar.
All of these thoughts crossed through his mind in the time it took him to step into the woman’s mind-less than the span of a single heartbeat. Abruptly he felt someone grappling with him for control of his magic. His defenses failed him for just an instant, and suddenly he was on the ground, his head aching, blood flowing from a wound on his temple.
He shrieked in pain, feeling the bone in his arm splinter, not as it would from an attack by shaping magic, but more insidiously, as if the bone were breaking apart from the inside. Healing.
“That’s how you attacked Cresenne, isn’t it?”
His first mistake, and the one that probably saved Dusaan’s life. In the time it took Grinsa to speak the words, the Weaver was able to wrest the last of his powers from the man. His arm was screaming, his head throbbed. But he was safe. In just a few moments he was able to heal his arm and the gash on his head.
He climbed to his feet, sensing Keziah. She was afraid. She knew how angry he was, how much he wanted to hurt her. But there could be no doubt as to where her loyalty lay. Probably there never had been.
“I’ll enjoy killing you, Archminister. When the time comes.”
Grinsa tried to take hold of his magic again, but Dusaan was ready this time, despite the agony in his arm.
“No, gleaner. You won’t catch me unawares again. You had your chance-I’ll give you that. Had you acted quickly enough, had you been a bit more precise with your magic, you might have killed me. But not now.”
And with that, Dusaan launched an assault of his own. For if Grinsa could control his magic, couldn’t he use the gleaner’s in turn? Grinsa was ready, though. He repelled the attack with ease, a feral grin on his face. The Weaver sensed no fear in him at all.
“Twice you’ve bested me, Dusaan, but not this night.”
“That remains to be seen, gleaner.” He turned to Keziah. “I’m disappointed, Archminister. I’d hoped that you would survive this war, so that I might make a noble of you, allow you to see what it is to rule, rather than just truckle to those with power. Speaking of which, I assume that your king still lives?”
She said nothing. She barely seemed willing to hold his gaze.
“You won’t be making nobles of anyone,” Grinsa said, sounding too confident, “nor will you be leading your army of traitors into battle.”
The Weaver raised an eyebrow. “You intend to kill me?” he asked with a laugh. “Don’t deceive yourself, Grinsa. You’re not powerful enough to destroy me here, not without killing the archminister as well.”
“The one has nothing to do with the other.”
“Not necessarily, no. I’m not saying it can’t be done. I may well kill you before this encounter is ended. But you haven’t the power or knowledge to do it. Unless you’ve been honing your abilities since the last time we spoke.”
This time the gleaner’s attack was entirely predictable. Dusaan was never in any danger at all.
“Tell me what you did to Abeni and the others,” the Weaver said, as if nothing had happened.
“They’re dead.”
“I guessed as much. But how is it you knew enough to kill them?”
For the first time, he sensed hesitation on both their parts. Here was their weakness, whatever it might be.
“They learned that I was a Weaver and moved against me.”
Dusaan shook his head. “I don’t believe you.” He stared at the woman, probing her mind with his own. “It was you they were after, wasn’t it? They learned that you were deceiving me.”
Grinsa tried once more to take possession of his magic. Healing, shaping, fire. But the Weaver had little trouble fighting him off.
“I told you,” the gleaner said. “They moved against me. Keziah refused to join them, and they turned on her.”
“Your hands have been healed recently. Both of them. I can feel it. There’s a residue of pain there. Did they torture you?”
Grinsa attacked again, even going so far this time as to step in front of Dusaan and strike him with his fist.
