He shrugged. “There are a good many among my people who wouldn’t see it as you do.”
Tavis frowned. “Like who? The Weaver? The man you killed in Helke?”
“Not just them. I’m a Weaver who fights to preserve the Eandi courts. Some would see that as a betrayal.”
The boy reined his mount to a halt and stared at Grinsa, forcing the gleaner to stop as well.
“I’m not sure which is more ridiculous: the suggestion that you’re doing all this to preserve the courts or the idea that you should care what such people might think of you.”
Grinsa looked away. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“What wouldn’t I understand, Grinsa? The pain of being judged unfairly? The shame of being hated by one’s own people? Who could understand those things better than I?”
Grinsa opened his mouth to argue, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to give voice to the doubts with which he’d been grappling for much of the day. Tavis was right-if he couldn’t understand, no one in the Forelands could. Perhaps that was the point. Tavis would think him a fool for comparing himself to Carthach, and just maybe he’d be right about that, too.
“You’re not fighting for the courts, Grinsa, and neither am I. We’re fighting to keep the Weaver from ruling the land. We’re fighting because, as flawed as some Eandi nobles may be, he’s worse. He’s arbitrary, and cruel, and given the chance, he’ll prove himself the most brutal despot the Forelands have ever known.”
“You and I know that. But others. .” The gleaner shook his head.
“Do you remember Kearney’s investiture? You tried to tell me that I had to learn to live without the acceptance of the other nobles, that it was enough for me to believe in my own innocence, regardless of what they thought.”
“I remember.”
“This isn’t that different. You haven’t betrayed anyone. The Weaver claims to fight for all Qirsi, yet he hurt your sister when she defied him, and he threatened to kill her if she failed to do as he commanded. He tortured Cresenne, and would have killed her if you hadn’t stopped him. That’s treachery, the worst kind. Even if no one else sees it that way, you know it to be true. That’s why you fight him, and that’s why you have to prevail.” The young lord turned his head, gazing northward, as if he could see the army of Braedon massing on the Moorlands. “You’re as honorable and as wise a man as I’ve ever known, Grinsa. For the last year you’ve been telling me that nothing matters more than defeating the conspiracy. And I’ve believed you, at first because I didn’t know any better, but more recently because I’ve seen the evil of this Weaver. I’ve seen how he treats those who serve him, and I’ve seen the lengths to which he’ll go to feed his ambition.” Tavis faced him again. “But I shouldn’t have to tell you any of this. You healed my wounds in Kentigern, and you healed Cresenne’s in Audun’s Castle. You shouldn’t need me to tell you that you’re fighting a worthy battle.”
Grinsa looked at the young noble for several moments, saying nothing, trying to discern in the man he saw before him some sign of the spoiled boy he met in the gleaning tent in Curgh city just over a year ago. “Thank you, Tavis,” he said at last. “I needed to hear that.”
The young lord’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Really? I expected you to be angry with me.”
The gleaner smiled and shook his head. “No. If you haven’t earned the right to speak to me so, I don’t know who has.” He glanced to the west. The sun stood balanced on the horizon, bathing the highlands in its golden glow. “We should ride. We haven’t much light left.”
They started northward once more, their shadows stretching across the grasses. His doubts lingered still, but perhaps that was as it should be. Only a fool rode to war without misgivings. He knew, though, that he was meant to fight this war, to stand against the Weaver, regardless of how history might remember him. And for better or worse, it was Tavis’s fate to fight beside him.