Weavers of War (27 page)

Pillad saw his duke then. The man’s mouth was open as if he were wailing, the killing blaze shining in his eyes. The minister almost hoped that Renald would look at him, so that he might know that Pillad had killed him, that he had contributed his magic to this spiraling storm of flame. But the duke seemed incapable of looking away from the fire. He was still staring up at it when the full force of the magic crashed down upon his army, swallowing him and the soldiers around him, blackening the ground, lighting the Moorlands as if a piece of Morna’s sun had fallen to the earth. Renald hadn’t even drawn his sword.

Pillad wanted to laugh aloud. Never before had he felt so strong, so alive. Never before had he been so free.

Chapter Eleven

Glyndwr Highlands, Eibithar, Adriel’s Moon waning

Abeni ja Krenta, archminister of Sanbira, lay on the damp ground, staring up at the few pale stars that still lingered in the brightening blue sky. Around her, the camp was coming to life slowly, warriors awakening, horses nickering in anticipation of another day’s ride.

The archminister had been awake for some time. Her encounters with the Weaver always left her too unsettled to sleep, and on this past night he had come to her when the sky was still black, speaking to her only briefly before leaving her, no doubt to walk in the dreams of another of his servants. She had not entertained any hope of falling asleep again, but neither did she think it prudent to leave her sleeping roll and walk, as she often did back in Yserne after the Weaver came to her. So she lay where she was, trying to still her racing heart and slow her breathing, and turning over in her mind all that the man had told her.

Any doubts that might have lingered in her mind as to the purpose of this war in the north to which she and Sanbira’s army were riding had been dispelled tonight. Braedon’s invasion of Eibithar had been contrived by the Weaver’s movement—he had all but said so. The armies of the Eandi were destroying one another, so that when the Weaver and his army struck at them, they would be too weakened to defend themselves. That Sanbira’s queen had elected to join this war pleased him greatly.

“Your army should arrive at nearly the same time as the Solkarans,” he had said. “With so many of the Foreland’s powers there, making war on one another, our task grows simpler by the day. By convincing the queen to fight you’ve made our victory that much more certain. You’re to be commended.”

Abeni explained that she had little to do with the queen’s decision, but he continued to praise her, particularly after learning that the first ministers of Macharzo and Norinde, both of whom served his movement as well, rode with her.

“Three of you together,” he said. “Truly the gods must be with us.”

There was little she could say, except, “Yes, Weaver.”

“Don’t reveal yourselves yet. Do nothing to delay your queen’s arrival at the battle.” She could hear the excitement in his voice, and she found that she felt it, too. They were approaching the culmination of their efforts, the final battle for which they had been preparing these long years. Yet, even recognizing this, she hadn’t been prepared for what he said next.

“Look for me when you reach the battlefield.”

“What?”

“I’ll be there. I’m not going to reveal myself to you now, but you’ll know me, you’ll feel me as I reach for your power. Be prepared to give your magic to me so that I can wield it as my own against the enemy. Tell the other two to do the same. Our time is at hand. The Forelands will soon be ours.”

The archminister had nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.

“One more thing. There’s a man with Eibithar’s army, a Qirsi named Grinsa jal Arriet. He claims to be a mere gleaner, but he’s far more. This man is dangerous. Keep away from him. When the time comes, I’ll deal with him myself. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Weaver,” she whispered. “Do we also have allies among the Eibitharians?”

For a moment the Weaver said nothing, and Abeni wondered if she had angered him. When he did answer, however, his tone was mild. “Actually, yes. Usually, I don’t reveal such things, but it may be time that I started to bring together those who serve me in different realms. There is a woman—your counterpart actually.”

“The archminister?”

“Yes. But don’t approach her unless you absolutely must. The risks are far too great.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“The hour of our victory approaches. Until then.” An instant later, she was awake, shivering in the darkness, though with excitement or fear or simply the cold, she couldn’t say. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have another take hold of her magic, to give herself over to a man so completely. Though she had never taken a husband, she had shared her bed with many, both men and women. She wondered if it would be anything like the act of love.

Since learning that the queen intended to ride to war, and listening as Olesya speculated as to whether this conflict was connected in some way with the conspiracy, Abeni had feared that the Eandi might yet find a way to thwart the Weaver’s plans. In the wake of her dream, however, she was reassured. The Weaver had spoken of the coming war with such confidence that she couldn’t help but take heart. There was a portent in this dawn she was witnessing, the promise of a new era in the singing of the larks and the earliest golden rays of sunlight. For the first time since leaving Yserne with the Sanbiri army, she was anxious to be riding. When at last the soldiers and nobles and other ministers began to stir, she rose, bundled her sleeping roll, and saddled her mount with the exuberance of a young warrior riding to her first battle.

Olesya, the queen, expected Abeni to ride with her, just as the dukes of Brugaosa and Norinde, and the duchess of Macharzo assumed that their ministers would ride with them and their armies. The nobles of Sanbira had long since lost faith in their Qirsi, their trust shaken by the attempts on the life of duchess Diani of Curlinte and the death of Kreazur jal Sylbe, her first minister—or, more precisely, his murder, for which Abeni was responsible. Eager as the archminister was to tell Craeffe and Filtem of her dream, she would have to await an opportunity, or create one. Diani herself had ridden with the queen as well, and seemed to have taken it upon herself to keep watch on the archminister. Whether she expected Abeni to make an attempt on Olesya’s life or to flee the war party at her first chance, the minister couldn’t say, but as their journey into Eibithar continued, she had found the woman’s constant presence increasingly bothersome. On this day, she no longer cared. Let Diani of Curlinte indulge her suspicions and her lust for vengeance. Abeni had nothing to fear from her, nor did the movement. The woman would be crushed with the rest of them, destroyed by the combined might of the Weaver and those who served him.

Abeni actually smiled at the duchess as they began to ride.

“Good day, my lady. I trust you slept well?”

Diani frowned, as if confused by Abeni’s courtesy. “Yes, thank you. And you?”

“Very well, thank you.” The lie came to her with such ease that she nearly laughed aloud.

Even the prospect of another lengthy ride was not enough to dampen her spirits. They had come a great distance already—the ride from Yserne to Brugaosa alone had been over forty leagues—and Abeni, who had spent little time riding before then, was in agony day and night, her muscles aching.

Once the duke of Norinde and the duchess of Macharzo reached Edamo’s castle with their warriors, the journey began in earnest. After fording Orlagh’s River into Caerisse, the Sanbiri army rode northwest, between the duchies of Aratamme and Valde. They then forded the headwaters of the Kett River and began the arduous climb into the Glyndwr Highlands, crossing into Eibithar in the midst of a violent storm. Throughout their travels, Olesya had assured the minister that she would grow accustomed to riding, that her body would soon learn to move with her mount, but Abeni’s discomfort only grew worse, until she wondered how she would ever make it all the way to Eibithar’s Moorlands.

Over the past few days, however, as they made their way through the highlands passing close to Glyndwr Castle and its sparkling jewel of a lake, her pain had finally begun to subside.

Hearing the cheer with which Abeni greeted Curlinte’s duchess, the queen slowed her mount, allowing the two of them to catch up with her. Her master of arms, Ohan Delrasto, slowed as well, though he didn’t look pleased. Abeni had noticed that he often seemed to resent those who intruded upon his time with the queen, and she wondered if the old warrior fancied himself a suitor for Olesya’s affections.

“You’re in a fine mood today, Archminister,” the queen said. “I take it you and your mount have reached an understanding.”

Abeni grinned. There were times when she did like Olesya. “I suppose you could say that, Your Highness. It may be more accurate to say that my horse has finally succeeded in training me.”

The queen laughed. “Well said! I’ve long believed that the first step in becoming a true rider is giving up the illusion of control. As my mother used to say, we may hold the reins, but the horse holds us.”

Diani frowned again. “I’ve been riding since I was a child, and I always have control over my mount.”

“My mother also used to speak of the arrogance of youth,” Olesya said, a conspiratorial tone in her voice.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“It seems I’m outnumbered,” the duchess said, raising an eyebrow.

They crested a small rise, and beheld a sight that took Abeni’s breath away. Ahead, less than half a league off, the earth seemed to fall away, as if Elined had carved a great hole in the surface of her world. They had reached the edge of the Caerissan Steppe. To the east, the waters of Binthar’s Wash churned and rumbled, glimmering like a river of sapphires, toward a great waterfall from which rose a fine white mist. Beyond the rim of the steppe and a thousand fourspans below them, the Moorlands stretched toward the horizon. Brilliant green, they were bounded on the east by the wash, which looked like little more than a thin blue ribbon, and on the west by the great Sussyn River. Farther to the east, so dark that it looked almost black, stood Eibithar’s North Wood, nearly as vast as the Moorlands and divided by yet another river, the Thorald, if she remembered correctly.

“What are these falls?” Diani asked in a hushed voice.

“Raven Falls, I believe,” the queen said. “I’d never go so far as to say that any realm was as beautiful as our own, but surely Eibithar comes closest.” She inhaled deeply, as if trying to breathe in the splendor. “We’ll rest here briefly before beginning the descent.” She cast a sympathetic glance at Abeni. “I’m afraid going down from the highlands will be no easier than the climb into them.”

A moment later they were joined by the dukes of Brugaosa and Norinde, the duchess of Macharzo, and their Qirsi.

Craeffe and Filtem still looked ill at ease atop their mounts, and Abeni took some solace in knowing that however much she would suffer on the way down from the highlands, they would suffer more. She shared their cause, but she had never liked either of the Qirsi, particularly Craeffe, who had long envied Abeni’s status as a chancellor in the Weaver’s movement. Fortunately, their mutual dislike made it far easier for them to spend time in each other’s company without drawing the attention of Olesya and her nobles. The real danger was not Diani or the queen—Abeni and her allies knew better than to say anything revealing in front of them. But the fourth Qirsi in their midst, Vanjad jal Qien, Brugaosa’s first minister, remained loyal to his lord and to the realm. As far as Abeni could tell, the man had never even considered whether his duke deserved such devotion. He was, in her mind, the worst kind of Qirsi traitor.

But he stood with them now, as the Eandi spoke among themselves, keeping Abeni from relating to Craeffe and Filtem what the Weaver had told her.

“I trust you slept well, cousin?” Abeni said, eyeing Craeffe.

The woman seemed as unprepared for her graciousness as Diani had been. “I suppose,” she said. And then as an afterthought, “You?”

“Actually, no. I had a dream that kept me awake for much of the night.”

Craeffe’s eyes widened, and she looked sharply at Filtem. After a moment, he gave a nod that was almost imperceptible.

“Minister,” he said, placing a hand lightly on Vanjad’s shoulder, “I wonder if I might have a word with you, in private.”

“Of course, cousin.”

The two men walked off a short distance, leaving Abeni alone with Craeffe, who would tell Filtem later all he needed to know.

Abeni and Macharzo’s minister gazed out at the distant Moorlands, the wind stirring their white hair. To anyone watching, they would have seemed to be discussing the terrain.

“The Weaver came to you?”

“Yes. Our conversation was brief, but quite illuminating.”

“Strange that he didn’t contact Filtem or me as well.”

Abeni smiled, as if the minister had said something amusing. “Actually, cousin, it’s not strange at all. This is precisely why he has chancellors in his movement. He told me knowing that I would, in turn, tell you.” She extended an arm, as if pointing at some feature of Eibithar’s landscape, and Craeffe nodded, though Abeni could see that the muscles in her jaw were bunched. “I’m surprised that after all this time, you still haven’t gotten used to this.”

“Just tell me what he said, and be done with it.”

Craeffe pointed at something else, and Abeni looked off in that direction, passing a hand casually through her hair.

“Very well.” The archminister related her conversation, repeating as best she could exactly what the Weaver had said about how they would know him on the battlefield, and how he would reach for their power. Speaking the words, she felt her excitement return in a rush; by the time she had finished, her hands were trembling, and her cheeks burned as if she were a love-struck girl.

For all her carefully rehearsed indifference, Craeffe could not entirely conceal her own astonishment at what she heard.

“How long did he say it would be?” she asked, breathless and grinning.

“He didn’t. He just said to look for him when we reached the Moorlands. For all we know, he’s already there.”