Weavers of War (53 page)

A wry smile touched the king’s lips. “I’ve had some inkling, yes. But I never thought I’d hear you admit it.”

“Yes, well, there’s a good deal I need to admit.”

“I don’t understand.”

Abruptly the duke’s eyes were stinging, and for a moment he feared that he might begin to weep. How had he allowed matters to progress so far? Yes, the Qirsi had deceived him, preying on his grief and his desperate need to avenge Brienne’s murder. But he had once thought of himself as a strong man, a deeply intelligent man. It seemed an eternity since he had behaved as either. He gazed past the king and saw Brienne staring back at him. She didn’t look angry anymore, or even ashamed. She just looked sad.

“Aindreas?”

“I’ve betrayed the realm,” he said. “And I’ve shamed my house.” Just saying the words, the duke felt something loosen in his chest, though he also began to sob.

Kearney regarded him with pity, a pained expression on his face. “It’s not too late for you to reclaim Kentigern’s place among Eibithar’s great houses.”

“No. You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Perhaps you should tell me then.”

Aindreas opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. He had to bite back the bile rising in his throat.

“Does this have something to do with the men I sent to the tor some time ago?”

The captain Kearney had sent to Kentigern, the one the Qirsi woman attacked. Aindreas could still see the man lying on the floor of his presence chamber, blood pouring from the gaping wound at his throat. Jastanne had wielded the dagger, but Aindreas knew that he had killed the man, just as surely as if he had dragged the blade across the captain’s neck himself.

“No, and yes.”

“You’re speaking in riddles, Aindreas. I haven’t time for this.”

“I’ve allied myself with the Qirsi.”

Kearney gaped at him. “What?”

“I even signed a document pledging my support to their movement.”

One might have thought that Aindreas had confessed to killing his own daughter, such was the expression on the king’s face. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“I was grieving. I was certain that Tavis was guilty and that you and Javan had contrived together to destroy my house.”

“But to join with the traitors…”

“It seemed the only way to strike at you. Alone, I was weak. And even with the other houses supporting me, I could do no more than defy you and wait for you to crush me.”

“When?” Kearney asked, as if in a stupor. “When did you do this?”

“Long ago. During the snows.”

“What have you done on their behalf?”

“You know most of it. I’ve defied you, I’ve sought to turn the other houses against you, and at first I allowed the Solkarans to march past Kentigern on their way here. I also stood by and did nothing as one of them killed your captain in my castle.”

“And what have they done for you in return?”

“Nothing yet. Our agreement was that I would help them defeat the Eandi courts and when the time came, they would spare Kentigern. I don’t know if they intended to honor their end of our bargain, but I was interested only in seeing you destroyed.”

“You hated me that much.”

Aindreas nodded. “I hated everything that much. You and Javan most of all.”

Kearney exhaled through his teeth, shaking his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. “Well, you’ve certainly made a mess of things, Aindreas. I’ll grant you that.” He glanced at the duke, looking disgusted. “I can’t believe you actually pledged yourself to their movement in writing.”

“It was the only way to get them to agree,” he said, as if that excused it.

If the king was thinking the same thing, he had the grace to keep it to himself. “What made you change your mind?” he asked instead.

“I don’t want Ennis to inherit a disgraced house.”

“It may be too late for that.”

“I know. When the Qirsi see me fighting beside you tomorrow, they’ll know that I betrayed them and they’ll reveal to all what I’ve done.”

“You could leave tonight. We’d need for your men to remain, of course, but they can fight under the banner of another house. It would raise some questions, but it might save you the humiliation of being exposed as a traitor.”

“You’d let me go?”

“I’ve no desire to see your son disgraced, Aindreas. You seem to forget at times that I’m a father, too.”

“I appreciate that, Your Majesty,” the duke said, and meant it. But he knew that he couldn’t leave. That path led to a different sort of shame. “But I don’t wish to leave. I came north with Gershon so that I could fight for the realm, as the duke of a great house should. I won’t run away now.”

“I’m not certain that I can help you then.”

“I don’t expect you to, Your Majesty. I wanted to confess this to you because it was the right thing to do. It’s been a long time since I did anything for that reason alone.”

The king appeared to consider this, nodding at last. “I believe I understand. I also think that the judgments of history are based on all that we do, rather than one large thing, be it good or evil. If we prevail tomorrow, and you play a role in that victory, your deeds will reflect on your house and your son.”

It was a greater kindness than Aindreas had any right to expect, and proof once more of how greatly he had erred in opposing this king. “Again, Your Majesty, I’m grateful to you.”

Kearney offered a thin smile by way of response, but said nothing. Aindreas sensed that the king wanted him to go.

“I’ll leave you, Your Majesty. I hope you know that my sword and my men are yours to use as you will. Perhaps together we can defeat this enemy.”

“Perhaps. Good night, Aindreas.”

The duke turned and made his way back to where his soldiers were sleeping. Glancing to the side, he saw that Brienne was with him, looking more at peace than he had seen her look in so long.

“I’m proud of you, Father,” she said. “Farewell.” And with that, she vanished.

*   *   *

He had just fallen asleep, or so it seemed. One moment he was closing his eyes, allowing himself at last to give in to his weariness, and the next he was dimly aware of someone standing over him, then kneeling beside him. Fotir forced himself awake, and found himself gazing up into the eyes of the archminister.

His first thought was that he had been wrong all this time. Since the day he met Keziah, he had thought her eyes the color of sand, but seeing them now in the torchlight, he realized that they were more like flames, bright and entrancing. His second thought was that he must have looked a mess.

He sat up quickly, running a hand through his hair. “Is there something you need, Archminister?”

“No, I—”

“Have you already had your encounter with the Weaver?” he asked, abruptly remembering all that had happened earlier that night. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m fine. But Grinsa wasn’t able to defeat him.”

“But he came through it unhurt?”

Keziah nodded.

“Well, good. I’m sorry that he wasn’t able to do more, but the important thing is that both of you are safe.”

“Yes,” she said, grinning mischievously. “I could see how concerned you were for us. You almost managed to stay awake.”

“No, it’s not … I was…”

She was laughing at him, her eyes dancing. “It’s all right, First Minister. You should have been resting. I would have, had I been in your position.”

“You mean prone?”

Her mouth fell open. “Was that a joke? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say something humorous.”

Fotir looked away. “That’s not fair. I’m not as serious as all that.”

“Aren’t you? You remind me of Grinsa sometimes. You seem to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“These are dark times. Is it any wonder?”

“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.”
You’re 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.