Weavers of War (67 page)

“I agree,” the king said. “How do we guard Qirsi with such powers, gleaner? You can’t watch them all the time, and our weapons are of little use against them.”

The thane shook his head. “They shouldn’t be imprisoned. They should be executed. They’re traitors and murderers, and they deserve no less.”

“I agree,” Gershon said.

Keziah looked at him, but said nothing.

Caius was gripping his sword tightly, as if he would have liked to strike the killing blow himself. But he kept his distance from the two Qirsi. “How do you execute a shaper? Our weapons are useless against them.”

Marston nodded toward Grinsa. “The gleaner can kill them. He can use their own power against them.”

“I can,” Grinsa said. “But I won’t.”

“What?”

“I fought for the courts, and was glad to do so. But I won’t execute prisoners for you.”

“Not even if His Majesty orders you to?”

Grinsa held the thane’s gaze. “Not even then.”

“You know what they’ve done, what they’ll do again, if only we give them the chance. And still you refuse? All you white-hairs are the same!”

Xivled jal Viste stepped forward, glowering at Marston. “White-hairs?” he repeated. “You haven’t learned a damn thing from all this, have you?”

The thane’s eyes widened. “Xiv, I—”

“No, my lord. You need to hear this. We’ve just come through the most horrific war our land has known in centuries. I never thought I’d see so many killed in my lifetime, much less in a single day. And all of them died because our people—yours and mine—have paid more attention to the color of each other’s eyes and hair, than to all that binds us to one another. It has to stop, my lord. Your suspicion, your prejudice—we can’t afford them anymore. We need to find some way to trust one another, to put these ancient hatreds to rest finally and for good. If we can’t, we’re doomed to repeat this war.”

“Of course, I know that. But this gleaner—”

“This gleaner saved us all, my lord. He’s done enough. If you can’t see that, then I’m not certain that I wish to continue serving in your court.”

Before Marston could respond, his minister turned and walked away, leaving the thane looking perplexed.

For some time, none of them spoke.

“He’s right, of course,” Keziah said at last.

“Let it be, Kez,” the king said in a low voice.

“No, Your Majesty, I won’t! That’s what we’ve done for too long. We’ve refused to talk about it, hoping the problem would simply disappear, and as a result it nearly destroyed us. We can’t wait any longer.”

“All that may be true, but this is a discussion we can have later.”

“When? When the dead have been buried? When the rest of the renegades have been found? When the wounds of this war have healed? Or must we wait even longer than that? Shouldn’t we do this now, before your dukes return to their castles?”

“You’re wasting your breath, cousin,” Jastanne said, an insolent smile on her lips. “The Eandi will never change. They hate us, and do you know why? It’s because they fear us, they fear our magic.” She shook her head. “No, you can’t change them. Your only hope lay with the Weaver and his movement, and now you’ve destroyed that.”

Kearney stared at the woman, as if seeing her for the first time. At last he faced Keziah again. “We won’t wait long. Discussing this matter before we bid farewell to the dukes strikes me as a fine idea. I give you my word. For now though, we should deal with these two, and any other renegades we can find.”

“Your Majesty—”

“Have done, Marston. Please. I have no intention of ordering the gleaner to do anything that he does not choose to do voluntarily.”

Grinsa tipped his head. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Nevertheless, Grinsa, I do agree that this man and woman should be put to death, and I need to know if you intend to intervene on their behalf.”

Grinsa felt the others watching him, waiting. Gershon still held his weapon, as did the duchess, Caius, and several of the soldiers. He was quite certain that they were prepared to fight him if they thought it necessary.

“No, Your Majesty, I have no such intentions. If you think it best to execute them, you should do so.”

Kearney nodded.

Keziah glanced Grinsa’s way, then said, “You should blindfold them, Your Majesty. Keep their hands bound, and bind their ankles as well. You should also have several archers watching them at all times.”

“Thank you, Archminister.” The king turned to his soldiers. “You heard what she said. See to it right away, and have preparations made for their executions. I want them dead before nightfall.” He looked at Grinsa again, nodded once. “Gleaner.”

The king strode away, followed closely by Shanstead, Labruinn, and the others.

“I’m sorry,” Keziah said when they were gone.

“For what?”

“For telling Kearney how he should guard them. The truth is, I want them dead. I never thought I’d say it, but in spite of everything else, I agree with Marston: they deserve to die.”

“Actually, I agree with him, too.”

Her eyebrows went up.

“It’s true,” he said, feeling terribly weary. “I just didn’t want a hand in their deaths. Is that so difficult to fathom?”

His sister looked pained. “No, not at all. I should have understood.”

He shrugged. “It’s been a long day. For all of us.”

She summoned one of the soldiers with a gesture. “I’m going to get some food. Why don’t you join me? You must be famished.”

Grinsa made himself smile. “I’ll eat soon. First I want to speak with Cresenne.”

“Of course.”

The soldier helped Keziah to her feet and led her away, leaving Grinsa alone on the cool grass. He could have slept for hours, and he wasn’t certain how long he could keep himself in Cresenne’s dreams. But it was growing late; she would be waking soon to another lonely night, and he didn’t want to wait even one more day to tell her that Dusaan was dead.

Closing his eyes, he sent his mind southward to Audun’s Castle. He found her quickly and entered her mind. Immediately he felt the dull pain in her chest. Had she been attacked yet again?

“Cresenne!” he said as soon as he saw her.

She gazed toward him, then took a tentative step forward. It occurred to him that in her dream he would be sitting, just as he was in the waking world.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s me.”

“Grinsa?”

“Yes. I was hurt, but I’m fine now.”

She ran to him, dropped to her knees beside him. Despite the scars that he still saw on her face, he thought that she had never looked more beautiful. She kissed him lightly on the lips, then sat back meeting his gaze, fear and hope mingled in her eyes.

He reached out a hand and cupped her cheek. “He’s dead. It’s over.”

For a moment she merely stared back at him. Then tears flooded her eyes and she began to sob. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. He can’t hurt you anymore.” He found that he was crying as well, though he was also smiling.

“A woman attacked me today. I nearly died again, and she nearly took Bryntelle. I went to sleep thinking that this would never end, that I’d be fighting off his servants and living in fear of his dreams until he finally managed to kill me.”

“I don’t know how many more of his servants are out there,” Grinsa told her. “But Dusaan will never walk in your dreams again.”

She put her arms around him, still weeping, and for a long time they held each other.

“How bad was it?” she finally asked. She pulled back quickly. “Is Keziah all right?”

“She’s fine.”

“And Tavis?”

“He’s … it’s complicated. He survived the fighting, but his father was killed and his closest friend.”

“I’m sorry for him. Truly.”

“You said that Bryntelle was nearly taken from you. Is she—”

“She’s right here beside me. Trin saved her. He saved us both.”

Grinsa gaped at her. “Trin?”

She nodded.

“Trin,” he said again. After a moment he laughed. “What a day.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Not now,” he said, shaking his head. “I need to rest. But soon. I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”

“All right.” She kissed him again, deeply this time. Then she smiled, the dazzling smile he remembered from so long ago. He hadn’t seen her smile like that in more turns than he could count. “I love you.”

Grinsa brushed a strand of hair from her face. “And I love you.”

He opened his eyes to the late-day sun, blinking against the brightness. He sat there a moment, then forced himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. His legs felt well enough, though—the healers had worked their craft well—and he turned gingerly to face the battle plain.

Dusaan’s body still lay amid the grasses. Other bodies, Eandi and Qirsi alike, had been moved. But no one had bothered with the Weaver. Or maybe none had dared go near him.

Grinsa reached out with his magic and tried to touch the Weaver’s mind, much as a soldier might prod a fallen enemy with the toe of his boot. Nothing. Dusaan was dead; his war was done. Over the next several turns, perhaps stretching to years, all the realms of the Forelands would continue to pay a price for what the man and his movement had done. Even now, Grinsa could hear Gershon Trasker in the distance, barking commands to the archers who would soon execute Jastanne and Pronjed. In the days to come, parents would weep for children lost in battle, sons and daughters would learn their first painful lessons about war and death, lovers would grieve at the realization of their worst fears.

But too, the land would begin to heal itself. At least Grinsa could hope as much. Throughout the Forelands, suspicions ran deep and in all directions, like fissures in dried earth. It would take time, he knew, for trust to take root again. Already though, he saw signs that the process was under way. Kearney had lied to preserve Kentigern’s honor. Soldiers in the king’s army were treating both Keziah and Tavis with the courtesy and respect that were their due.

These were trifles, to be sure. But they were a start. And on this day, when so much blood had been spilled and the Weaver had come so very close to defeating them all, Grinsa could hardly ask for more.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Curgh, Eibithar, Morna’s Moon waxing

They remained on the Moorlands for several days, collecting the dead, building pyres from the scant brush found among the grasses, and sending dark black clouds of smoke into the clear planting sky. At the insistence of Kearney and Sanbira’s queen, even the renegades were given the honor of a single vast pyre that for hours poured foul smoke into the air. Only the Weaver’s body was left to rot under the sun, its putrid remains picked at for days by crows and vultures.

Tavis’s father and Xaver MarCullet were given over to flame and vapor the first night after the battle, as stars burned brightly over the moor and slivers of moonlight shone weakly in the east. Tavis stood with Hagan MarCullet, his hand resting on the swordmaster’s stooped shoulder, his vision blurred with tears. He hadn’t cried so much in a single day since he was a child, and his throat and chest ached. Later that night, Aindreas of Kentigern was laid out on his own pyre, and Tavis watched that one burn as well, his emotions as roiled as a river in flood.

The following morning, the last of Adriel’s turn, he penned a message to his mother, informing her that he would be returning to Curgh early in the new turn, accompanied by the king and a number of nobles. He had planned to tell her of the duke’s death upon reaching the castle, but she needed to know that Kearney was coming, and she would not have wanted to have the king there when she learned that her husband was dead. As it was, he needed only write of their plans to tell her all she needed to know. Had Javan been alive, he, and not Tavis, would have sent such a message.

At first, Tavis had been reluctant to have the king accompany him back to Curgh. He liked Kearney a great deal, but even without accepting the king’s offer of asylum and a home in Glyndwr, he had lived under the protection of the Crown for too long. Kearney had argued, though, that now more than ever, Tavis needed his help.

“You lead your house now, Lord Curgh. We must make it clear, to friend and foe alike, that I trust completely in your innocence and your ability to govern a major house.”

His innocence. Tavis knew that some in the realm would die of old age still believing that he had killed Brienne, and he no longer cared to try to convince them otherwise. But he was wise enough to recognize the generosity of Kearney’s offer, and to know that he would have been a fool to refuse him.

And had he not, Fotir, ever the first minister, would have prevailed upon him to accept anyway.

“He puts himself at risk for you, my lord,” the Qirsi told him quietly. “There are many, including ministers in his own court, who would tell him that you’re not worth the cost of such a gesture.”

“I know. I have no intention of refusing him. I just wish for a bit of peace.”

Fotir had smiled at that. “I don’t doubt it, my lord. You’ll have it soon enough.”

When at last they set out for Curgh, Tavis was accompanied by a host of soldiers, nobles, and ministers. Not only did Kearney ride with him, but so did Lathrop of Tremain, Caius of Labruinn, Marston of Shanstead, and their companies. Naturally, Grinsa rode with him, too, although not without some reluctance, for he was eager to return to the City of Kings and see Cresenne and his daughter. Tavis noticed as well that the duchess of Curlinte rode with Marston rather than setting out for Sanbira with her queen.

Well before they reached Curgh, Tavis began to feel that he was home at last. He hadn’t seen the castle of his forebears in more than a year, since he set out with Xaver and his father for Kentigern. In the time since, he had sailed the waters of Kreanna to Wethyrn and had battled the assassin Cadel on the rocky shores of the Wethy Crown. Yet only now, still leagues south of the castle, but sensing the first hint of brine in the wind, did he find himself thinking of the high cliffs of Curgh and the frothing waters of Amon’s Ocean below.

They came to the great walls of Curgh City late on the fourth day of their journey from the battle plain. The King’s Guard and the armies of Thorald and Tremain stopped at the gates and made camp in the shadow of the city. Kearney and the other nobles followed Tavis through the gates and into the streets of Curgh, where they were greeted by cheers from the city folk. For Tavis, it was a bittersweet homecoming. He had assumed since Kentigern that he would never hear his name shouted with such reverence by Curgh’s people. But he sensed as well the shock of those lining the streets at not seeing their duke in the king’s company. Upon entering the castle, he leaped from his horse and rushed to his mother’s outstretched arms. For several moments they held each other, heedless of the king and the protocol of royal visits, and they wept, grief for Javan mingling with joy at Tavis’s redemption.