“Even in the darkest of days, we have to be able to laugh. If we can’t, we’ve lost already.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Is this why you woke me? To coax more humor from me?”
She shrugged, smiling. “I can’t sleep.”
“After the day you’ve had, I’m not surprised.”
“No,” she said, with a small laugh. “I mean that I can’t risk trying to sleep. The Weaver threatened to kill me if I dared sleep again tonight. I was hoping you might be willing to keep me company while I await the dawn.”
He was as flattered as he was surprised. Mostly, though, he was at a loss as to what he should say. “I’m honored that you’d ask me,” he said at last, inwardly cringing at how formal he sounded. “Of course I will.”
For several moments neither of them spoke. The archminister was staring at her hands.
At last she faced him once more. “I want to tell you how much I appreciate your words of support earlier tonight. If you hadn’t said what you did, the king might not have given us permission to make the attempt.”
“You’re welcome. Though it seems that it didn’t do much good.”
She frowned. “Do you think now that it was a mistake?”
“Not at all. I thought it quite a fine idea. I just…” He shook his head, wishing that he had kept his mouth shut. “Never mind.”
They lapsed into another silence. Fotir had to keep himself from staring at her as he cast about for something-anything-to say.
“Are you certain I’m not disturbing you?” she finally asked. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have woken you.”
“You’re not disturbing me. I’m just not very good at this.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Good at what?”
Fotir felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Why was it that he always found himself so flustered when he was with this woman? “Making conversation,” he said.
“You’re first minister to a major house. Surely you’re accustomed to speaking with nobles and ministers.”
“Somehow this is different.”
She gave a kind smile. “Would you like to walk?”
Even if he had wanted to refuse her, he hadn’t the power to do so. “Of course,” he said, standing.
She offered him a hand and he pulled her gently to her feet, their eyes meeting for just an instant.
“Is something the matter?”
His cheeks still burning, Fotir looked away and shook his head. “Not at all.”
They started away from the camp, southward, picking their way among the grasses and boulders. Panya, the white moon, shone low in the eastern sky, thin and curved, her edges as sharp as an Uulranni blade. As they walked, Keziah took Fotir’s hand, her skin cool and soft.
“What about the king?” he asked, the first words that came to mind.
As quickly as she had claimed his hand, she let it drop.
“What do you mean?”
He squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, cursing his stupidity. “Forgive me, Archminister. It’s really none of my concern.”
For some time Keziah said nothing, and though they continued to walk, Fotir suddenly sensed a great distance between them.
“It’s not really something I can discuss,” she told him at length, her voice so low he had to lean closer just to hear her.
“You don’t have to. I shouldn’t have-”
“No, you had every right. I just thought…” She stared straight ahead, looking as if she might cry. “I should have known better.” They walked a bit more, and then she stopped, facing him with a smile that was clearly forced. “Perhaps we should return,” she said.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t. You asked a question that I’m not ready to answer. And I shouldn’t have come to you until I am.”
She started away, but Fotir merely stood there. After a moment Keziah stopped, facing him again.
“I don’t want to go back,” he said.
She looked so sad, so beautiful. “Neither do I. But I think it’s best that we do.”
Keziah started walking once more, and Fotir could do nothing but follow, railing at himself for speaking so carelessly. She led him toward the king’s camp, but stopped a good distance from Kearney’s tent, the same difficult smile on her lips.
“Thank you,” she said.
Fotir frowned. “For what?”
She started to answer, then faltered and shook her head. “It’s hard to explain. But I’m grateful to you.” And stepping forward, she kissed him lightly on the lips. Then she left him, hurrying away without a backward glance.
* * *
Grinsa spread out his sleeping roll near where Tavis slept, trying his best to make no noise. He was more weary than he could ever remember being. The day’s battle, the search for Kezi, his confrontation with Dusaan-it had all left him utterly spent, as if he had just done a hundred gleanings at one sitting. He needed desperately to sleep, yet he knew that even a full night’s rest wouldn’t do him much good. Far more than merely being exhausted, he found that he was without hope. As much as he had feared for his sister, he had also known with the certainty of a man facing his own death that tonight’s attempt on the Weaver’s life was their last best hope of defeating Dusaan and winning this war. Their failure struck at his heart like a blade.
He wasn’t certain any longer that the Weaver was more powerful than he was. He had thought so for many turns, but after this night he felt a bit more confident in his own abilities. Not that it mattered. He could have been far stronger than Dusaan, and still his own power would not make up for the sheer number of Qirsi under the Weaver’s command. Dusaan commanded an army of over two hundred. Grinsa had a force-if it could be called that-of thirteen. Perhaps a few more of the healers would join them in the end, but while they might number twenty before all was said and done, that still was not enough. Not nearly.
Yes, they had the Eandi warriors, and Grinsa spoke of them to the others as if they might actually balance the coming battle. But he knew they could not. He was a Weaver and so he knew what a wind summoned by so many sorcerers could do to the arrows of even the finest archers. He had healed wounds and burns and mangled limbs, and so he knew what Qirsi fire and shaping power could do to mortal flesh and bone. This war-and again, he wondered if the word was appropriate in this instance-would be quick and brutal. It would be a slaughter.
He should have told Kearney and Sanbira’s queen and their soldiers to flee while they still could. Better to make Dusaan hunt them down. Perhaps a series of wars, scattered across the Forelands, would offer them some hope. Perhaps over time, they could whittle away some of the Weaver’s army. Then there might be a chance.
But Eandi warriors didn’t think this way. They heard Grinsa speak of an army of two hundred Qirsi, and they tried their best to understand what that meant, how much power such a force might wield. But in their hearts, they scoffed at his warnings. They envisioned a puny army being overwhelmed by steel and muscle and courage, failing to realize that they would never get close enough to Dusaan and his servants to pull their blades free, much less fight. Keziah and Fotir and the other Qirsi understood, but though they might have spoken in support of retreat had Grinsa suggested it, their nobles would not have listened. Not now, after all that the Weaver’s movement had wrought.
No, the war would be fought on the morrow. And by nightfall every person in these camps would probably be dead.
Grinsa lay down, but he didn’t even try to sleep, staring up at the stars and the moons instead.
“You’re alive,” Tavis said sleepily.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s all right. How’s the archminister?”
“She wasn’t hurt. The Weaver’s still alive.”
“I assumed that. You would have woken me had you managed to kill him.”
“Probably, yes.”
“What’s troubling you?”
