Chapter Twenty-one
Keziah awoke as soon as the Weaver left her dream, opening her eyes to find Grinsa still sitting beside her, concern etched on his face.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. As encounters with the Weaver went, this one had been relatively easy for her. “Are you?”
He shrugged, glowering at the fire that burned a short distance away. “I had him. Twice, really. And both times he managed to fight me off.”
“You hurt him, Grinsa. And maybe more important than that, you frightened him. He won’t be so confident tomorrow, and that has to be to our advantage.”
“Maybe. I fear he was right though. Any victory I might have won just now will be meaningless in the end. In order to defeat him I needed to kill him, and I couldn’t.” He swung his gaze back to her. “You’ll have to be especially watchful tomorrow, Kezi. He’s vengeful-we know that-and now he has ample reason to want to punish you.”
She sat up, her head spinning, though not as it had after previous dreams of the Weaver. Could it be that she was getting used to this?
“I’ll be careful,” she said, “although I imagine he’ll be most intent on killing you. Every time he thinks he’s added a woman to his movement, you seem to take her away. I can’t imagine that he likes that.”
Her brother grinned. “No, probably not.”
“We should tell Kearney what’s happened. He’ll want to know.”
Grinsa nodded, standing and helping Keziah to her feet. They crossed the camp and found the king sitting outside his tent with Gershon Trasker.
Keziah and Gershon had hardly spoken since the swordmaster’s arrival on the battle plain. Once they had been fierce rivals for the king’s ear and had disliked and distrusted each other. Later, when Keziah began trying to join the conspiracy, she was forced to rely on Gershon as a confidant, and they came to an understanding of sorts. More than once during the march north from the City of Kings, Keziah had been surprised to find that she missed his company. She thought about seeking him out upon his arrival, but at the time she was still posing as a traitor, and she couldn’t risk being seen with him.
Both Gershon and the king stood as Keziah and Grinsa approached.
“Are you all right?” Kearney asked, looking the archminister up and down as if he expected to see wounds on her.
“I’m fine. Both of us are.”
“Did it work?”
“No, Your Majesty,” Grinsa said. “I’m sorry.”
“Damn. What happened?”
“Grinsa tried!” Keziah said.
Kearney cast a dark look her way. “I don’t doubt that he did, Archminister. I’m merely asking that he tell me what happened.”
Grinsa laid a hand on her shoulder, as he briefly described for Kearney their encounter with the Weaver.
“I’m certain that you did all you could, gleaner,” the king said when he had finished. “I’m grateful to you for making the effort. And I’m grateful to you, Archminister. I have some idea of how much you risked.”
“You honor me, Your Majesty,” she said, her gaze lowered.
Gershon looked at Kearney and then at Grinsa. “So what do we do now?”
“We ready ourselves for war. Isn’t that so, gleaner?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, I suppose it is.”
“You’ll lead the Qirsi, of course.”
“The few I have left.”
“How do you suggest we array the armies?”
Grinsa rubbed a hand over his face. “To be honest, I’m not very knowledgeable when it comes to military tactics. The swordmaster probably knows better than I.”
“I doubt that,” Gershon said. “I’ve never fought a Qirsi army.”
“I’m not interested in hearing which of you knows less about fighting this kind of war! I simply want your recommendations.”
“Let me ask you this, gleaner,” Gershon said. “If you were leading an army of Qirsi against us, what could I do that would confound you the most?”
Grinsa appeared to consider this for several moments. “It all comes down to the archers,” he said at last. “Swordsmen will never get close enough to do any damage, but the archers may be able to reach them.”
“How?”
“Spread them. Have arrows flying at the Qirsi from as many different positions as possible. Force them to summon winds from several directions at once. Either the Weaver will have to relinquish his hold on some of those who have mists and winds, which will make the gales they raise less effective, or he’ll have to keep his full attention on sustaining all the winds. One way or another it helps us.”
“Good,” Kearney said. “What else?”
Grinsa fell silent once more, staring at the fire, slowly shaking his head. “The queen’s army should remain on foot,” he said after some time. “All of us should.”
“But won’t the Qirsi be mounted?”
“Yes. But the Weaver will have many warriors with language of beasts.”
Neither Kearney nor Gershon appeared convinced.
“You can’t think of them as you would an Eandi enemy, Your Majesty,” the gleaner went on. “As simple fighters, they won’t be the equal of your soldiers. It’s their magic that makes them dangerous, and so we must do everything we can to eliminate that advantage. They will be mounted, which means that I can use magic against their horses. We’ll be better off if they can’t do the same.”
The king nodded, though he still looked unhappy. “Very well, gleaner. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of, Your Majesty. But if more comes to me, I’ll let you know.”
“Of course. You’re probably weary. Get some sleep, gleaner. And again, you have my thanks for all you’ve done.”
Grinsa bowed. Then he turned to Keziah. “You’ll be all right?”
“Yes.”
“If you find that you’re having trouble remaining awake, find me, and wake me. I’ll watch over you.”
“That’s kind of you, but it’s more important that you get some rest.”
Gershon frowned. “Why can’t she sleep?”
“The Weaver threatened me at the end of our encounter tonight,” she answered. “I’m not certain that he’d really make an attempt on my life on the eve of battle, but it’s probably best that I don’t give him the opportunity.”
“Until the morning then,” Grinsa said, kissing her cheek. He nodded to Gershon, then walked toward the Curgh camp.
For several moments the three of them stood silent watching her brother walk away.
Finally, Gershon cleared his throat, and said, “Well, I should probably sleep, too.” He remained where he was, however, eyeing Keziah. “It seems you survived your deception of the Weaver. Whatever happens tomorrow, you don’t have to pretend anymore.”
“No, I don’t. Thank you, swordmaster.”
He glanced at the king, his cheeks shading to crimson. “For what?”
“For keeping my secret. For protecting me.”
“I didn’t do much, Archminister.”
She smiled. “You did more than you know. And like it or not, you gained a Qirsi friend.” She stepped forward, raised herself onto her tiptoes, and kissed him.
