He also realized, however, that if they remained in Aneira, they would be taking a grave risk. Tavis needed to understand that. “At least in Caensse, we can travel without constantly fearing for our lives,” he said, eyeing the boy. “I don’t know if we can avoid Solkara’s soldiers forever.”
“Better to try than to go running to the steppe. For all we know, they’ll be expecting that. It’s far closer than the Tarbin; the Solkarans are probably watching the slope already.” He looked up at the gleaner. “Each day that I spend running means one more day in exile. I want to go home, Grinsa. I want to go back to Curgh. And at this point I’d rather fight off the entire Solkaran army than waste another turn seeking refuge on the steppe.”
“Actually, I feel the same way, but I wanted to give you the choice.”
They started north immediately, putting some distance between themselves and the peddler’s camp before stopping for the night. The next morning they resumed their journey, avoiding the forest roads and staying close to the thicker groves of the wood. This slowed their progress, but it kept them far from most of the soldiers, and it allowed them to elude those they did encounter. They followed a meandering course through the wood to further frustrate those pursuing them, but still they reached the southern banks of the Kett only a few days after leaving the peddler. The waters were slow here, though Grinsa couldn’t tell how deep the river might be. Not that it mattered. With the air this cold, they would have been fools to ford the waters, especially since he still feared attracting the soldiers’ attention with a fire. Yet, he was certain that the Aneirans would be watching all the bridges. In the end, they decided to gather fallen logs and lash them together into a small punt using willow boughs. It took them much of what remained of the day, but they were able to cross the river without freezing or alerting the Aneirans. Once they were across, Grinsa shattered the boat with a thought, rather than leave it for someone to find.
With the Kett behind them, the two travelers continued north, though they began to angle westward once more. At some point they would have to cross the farmlands between the Great Forest and Mertesse, but Grinsa wanted to make certain that they spent as little time as possible in the open.
For a court boy who had enjoyed a comfortable childhood and still desired the comforts of a noble’s life, Tavis was a surprisingly good travel companion. He rarely complained of being tired, and had no trouble matching the pace Grinsa set for him. When the gleaner complimented him on this, a few days after they had crossed the river, the boy smiled.
“You should save your praise for Hagan MarCullett.”
“Xaver’s father?”
“Yes. He’s my father’s swordmaster, and as many times as he’s had me run the towers of Curgh Castle, I ought to have the endurance of an Uulranni mount.”
They walked a short time in silence, before Tavis glanced at him again.
“What about you?” the boy asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve always heard that Qirsi are weaker than the Eandi, yet you don’t get tired as one might expect. When we rest it’s usually for my benefit, not yours.”
Gnnsa shrugged. “I’m a Weaver.”
“So Weavers are stronger than other Qirsi-physically I mean?”
“Usually, yes.”
“Is that why my people are so afraid of your kind?”
The gleaner hesitated. Since the night he rescued Tavis from Kentigern’s dungeon, with the help of Fotir jal Salene, first minister of Curgh, he and Tavis had rarely spoken of Grinsa’s secret. When the boy asked him questions of this sort, he usually gave a terse answer, making it clear that this was not a topic he wished to discuss. Perhaps, though, the time had come to tell Tavis a bit more. They had been traveling together for nearly half a year now, and if the visions Grinsa had of the boy prior to Tavis’s Fating proved to be accurate, they would be together for some time to come.
“What do you know about Weavers, Tavis?”
“Not much really. I know that Weavers led the Qirsi invasion of the Forelands, and that after the army of the Southlands was defeated all the Weavers were executed.”
“But you don’t know why.”
“I’d guess it was because you’re stronger than the other Qirsi, not only physically, but also in terms of your magic.”
“You’re right, we are. But that’s not why we’re feared. That’s not why the Eandi have been executing Weavers for the last nine centuries.”
“Then why?”
“Have you noticed how many different types of magic I possess?”
“Now that you ask, you do seem to have a lot. You healed me in Kentigern’s dungeon, you shattered the guards’ swords in Solkara and raised a mist. I’ve seen you conjure fires, and you made the peddler answer your questions when he didn’t want to.”
“That’s five. I also made Shurik’s horse rear in Solkara.”
“Language of beasts.”
“Yes. And you forgot the fact that I’m a gleaner.”
“Seven,” Tavis said. “Is that all the Qirsi powers?”
“There’s one other. My people call it weaving and divining. It allows us to read the thoughts of other Qirsi, sometimes we can even enter their minds. Only Weavers have it.”
“So Weavers wield every kind of Qirsi magic.”
“Yes, but there’s even more to our powers than that. Because we possess all the magics, and because we can touch the thoughts of other Qirsi, we have the ability to combine the magic of one Qirsi with our own and with that of others.”
Tavis stopped walking. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said, though judging from what he heard in the boy’s voice, Grinsa guessed that he understood all too well.
“Weavers do just what our name implies. We weave together the magic of other Qirsi. A Weaver who leads an army of shapers, for instance, wields the power of all his soldiers as if it were his own. Fotir and I carved a hole in the wall of Kentigern Castle the night you escaped Aindreas’s prison. With an army of shapers and a bit of time, I could have reduced the entire castle to rubble. With an army of fire wielders, I could burn this forest to the ground in a matter of days.”
Tavis gaped at Grinsa, the expression on his scarred face a mix of awe and abject fear.
“How did the Eandi ever defeat you?” he whispered.
“The easy answer is that the Qirsi army was betrayed by one of its commanders, a man named Carthach. He told the Eandi how the magic of the Weavers worked.”
“Why do you say that’s the easy answer?”
The gleaner looked away, abruptly thinking of Cresenne, whose hatred of Carthach, and thus all Qirsi who lived in peace with the Eandi, had driven her to the conspiracy. The rifts that still divided his people and now threatened to plunge the Forelands into a maelstrom of murder and war could all be traced back to Carthach’s betrayal. Talking about Carthach with other Qirsi was difficult enough. Speaking of the traitor with an Eandi was humiliating, even now, even for Grinsa. He should have known that any discussion of his powers would lead here.
“That’s the easy answer, because it’s not really true. By all accounts, the Eandi were already beginning to turn the tide of the war before Carthach betrayed the Qirsi army.”
“But how could they?”
“Because our powers aren’t truly meant for war. Woven properly, we can destroy a castle or burn a forest, or even turn a stampede of wild horses.
But as our power grows, it becomes more difficult to control, even for the most accomplished Weaver. The same shaping magic that can shatter a castle wall is nearly helpless to block a volley of arrows. Your people had begun to realize this and had changed their tactics.“ He started to walk again, as did Tavis. ”We would have been defeated eventually anyway. I believe Carthach did what he did to save Qirsi lives.“ He glanced at the young lord. ”I can say that even though I’m a Weaver, and even though since the time of Carthach’s betrayal my kind have been hunted and killed by the Eandi.“
“Are there other Weavers in the Forelands?”