“I need my food.”
Grinsa touched his mind again, harder this time, though he hated to do so.
“I can spare a bit of food. Dried meat, maybe some cheese.”
“That will be fine.” It was nothing short of theft, and it made Grinsa sick to his stomach. But they needed something other than roots and berries if they were to keep ahead of Solkara’s soldiers.
The peddler pulled several pouches of dried meat from his cart, along with a small sack of Caerissan pipeweed and two large rounds of hard cheese.
“One will be enough,” Gnnsa said.
Tavis started to object, but the Qirsi silenced him with a stony look.
He gave the peddler ten qinde-far more than the food and pipeweed were worth, though that did little to assuage his guilt.
“Did the soldiers say where they thought we were going?” he asked the man.
“They said you were headed south, but that they expected you to turn north eventually, to return to Eibithar.”
Damn you, Shuri! “Very well,” he said, stepping closer to the trader and staring into his eyes. “I’m going to make you sleep now. When you awake, you’ll remember nothing of the boy. You sold food and pipeweed to a Qirsi man and woman. They paid you five qinde. Do you understand?”
The old man nodded.
Grinsa led him to a blanket that lay on the ground beside his fire. “Lie down.”
The man lowered himself to the ground and Grinsa found a second blanket to cover him.
“Sleep now,” the gleaner said.
Immediately the man’s eyes closed and his breathing slowed.
“It seems Aneira’s new leaders are eager to find us,” Tavis said, watching the man sleep.
“Yes. We might be better off heading east to the steppe.”
“The steppe? That will take us a hundred leagues out of our way. We won’t reach Mertesse for another turn.”
Grinsa knew he was right. Truth be told, he didn’t want to leave Aneira either. Now that Tavis had finally agreed to go after Shurik, the Qirsi was anxious to reach Mertesse and question the traitorous minister. He wasn’t certain what he would do with Shurik after that-perhaps kill him, perhaps return him to Aindreas as a gesture of goodwill. That decision could wait-for now, he was consumed with merely finding the man. Already Tavis was beginning to talk once more of the need to search for the assassin, to avenge Brienne’s murder and clear his name. It wouldn’t be long before he began to chafe at the idea of going to Mertesse. Grinsa needed to get them there as quickly as possible. Every delay gnawed at him.
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.”