Henthas roared and spun toward her, dropping his weapons to flail with both hands at the flames. And rather than retreating from him, Kalyi ran forward, gripping her father’s dagger in her fist and pounding the crystal blade-the same blade that had taken her father’s life-into her uncle’s chest.
Henthas stopped in midstride, his face contorting, his entire body swaying, like some great oak in a harvest storm. Then he toppled forward, falling toward Kalyi as if he meant to crush her beneath his weight.
She scrambled out of the way, sobbing now, wanting only to be away from him. But he merely hit the floor and lay still, the flames still blackening his shirt and flesh.
In the next moment the door crashed open. Several men rushed into the chamber. A few of them bent to attend to Kalyi’s mother. Others hurried to smother the fire. One man crossed to Kalyi and knelt before her.
“Are you all right, Your Highness?”
She nodded, crying too hard to speak.
“Did you kill him?”
Again she nodded.
The soldier shook his head, looking at her with awe and admiration. “People will sing of this day. Of you, Your Highness. They may yet keep you as their queen.”
Kalyi just stared at him. That was the last thing she wanted.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The Moorlands, Eibithar
Tavis and Grinsa finally met up with the king’s company ten leagues north of Domnall. Kearney and his men had made camp on the moors here two days before, awaiting the arrival of the dukes of Curgh and Heneagh, who were to lead their armies to this place before the three forces continued northward toward Galdasten. According to reports from Eibithar’s north shore, the Braedon army had made land within the last half turn and after facing little resistance from the army of Galdasten, had marched southward into the heart of the realm.
Javan of Curgh and Welfyl of Heneagh had arrived this very morning, Tavis’s father leading a force of just under two thousand men, nearly the entire Curgh army, and Welfyl commanding a force of almost fifteen hundred. Combined with Kearney’s warriors, they made a formidable army. The Moorlands appeared to teem with men, their armor and blades gleaming beneath a hazy white sky. Kearney rode among his warriors, his head uncovered, the silver, red, and black baldric of his fathers strapped to his back. Grinsa had to admit that he looked every bit the soldier-king. Unfortunately, the king continued to act the part as well.
Since returning from the Wethy Crown, where Tavis finally avenged Brienne’s murder, Grinsa had been determined to prevent this war between the empire and Eibithar. After leaving Glyndwr a second time, the wound to his head healed, he and Tavis had ridden north at a punishing pace. If he could only reach the king before the fighting started, he had thought, he could find a way to dissuade Kearney from making war on the empire’s army. Yes, Eibithar had been attacked, and yes, these men of Braedon were an invading force. But Kearney knew of the Weaver. He had seen what the man could do, how brutal he could be in pursuit of his ambitions. Surely so wise a leader would understand that anything he did to weaken the Eandi armies would aid the Weaver’s cause.
But though Kearney had welcomed Tavis and the gleaner to his force, inviting them to ride with him at the head of his army, he would not listen when Grinsa argued for peace.
“My realm is under attack, gleaner,” he had said more than once. “Harel started this war, not I. But war he will have.”
Still Grinsa argued, until Kearney finally told his guards that the gleaner was to be kept at a distance. It wouldn’t be long until men of both realms were killing one another, every sword stroke and loosed arrow weakening the courts, making the Weaver’s victory that much more certain. Grinsa felt helpless to stop it, and he despaired at what it would mean for the coming war-not this one, between the Eandi armies, but the real conflict, between the renegade Qirsi and all the realms of the Forelands.
The memory of his last encounter with Dusaan jal Kania still preyed on Grinsa’s mind, robbing him of his confidence, weakening his resolve. How many times had he told Tavis that he was the only man in the Forelands who could defeat the Weaver? Hadn’t he said much the same thing to Kearney during the snows, when he revealed to the king that he, too, was a Weaver? Hadn’t he told Keziah and Cresenne that they had the power to drive the Weaver from their dreams, that they had only to take control of their magic and the man couldn’t hurt them? And yet, when Dusaan entered his dreams hadn’t Grinsa allowed the man to best him, to turn the gleaner’s own power to his purposes? If Tavis hadn’t called to him, waking him from his slumber, Grinsa would have died, his skull crushed by his own shaping power.
Not so long ago he had wondered if he might be betraying his people by fighting the Weaver’s movement. He had imagined himself being remembered as the Carthach of his time, the Qirsi who fought beside Eandi nobles, destroying his people’s best hope of escaping the prejudice that still burdened their entire race. But wasn’t it just as likely that he wouldn’t be remembered at all? If Dusaan could defeat him with such ease once, what was to stop him from doing so again on the battle plains of Galdasten?
He realized now that he had raced northward and argued with the king as he did to keep the Eandi armies from destroying themselves, not because he needed their aid in fighting the Qirsi renegades, but rather because he wanted to keep them strong, so that they could take up the battle when he failed.
He didn’t dare give voice to his doubts. Tavis still had faith in Grinsa’s ability to defeat the Weaver, and had shown little patience for the gleaner’s self-doubt. Keziah was finally taking to heart his insistence that she could guard herself from the Weaver’s attacks, should it become necessary. And despite the king’s impatience with his arguments for peace, Kearney had made it clear that he still expected Grinsa to lead their fight against the Qirsi. How could he tell any of them that he expected Dusaan to prevail in their battle, that he didn’t even believe the Weaver would have much difficulty killing him?
The gleaner had wrestled with these fears for so long that he was starting to lose patience with himself. Perhaps Tavis was justified in showing him so little sympathy the few times Grinsa did broach the subject. Tavis rode to war having no more assurance than did Grinsa that he would survive. So did the king and his dukes, Keziah, Fotir, and the other ministers. So, too, did every soldier in the King’s Guard and the ducal armies. As a Weaver, Grinsa rarely had to fear for his life. Tavis had known such fears nearly every day since Brienne’s death. Yet the boy thought of himself as a coward and looked to Grinsa as if he were some sort of hero. Perhaps the time had come for the gleaner to emulate the young lord. He wouldn’t have considered such a thing a year ago, but today he saw much to admire in Lord Tavis of Curgh.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” the boy asked.
They were readying their mounts. With the arrival of Javan and Welfyl, Kearney had issued orders for the armies to march at midday. Tavis had spent much of the morning with Xaver MarCullet, his pledged liege man and closest friend, and the companionship seemed to have done him much good. Grinsa and the boy had been living off the land for many turns now, and Tavis’s face had become tanned in the sun of the planting season, his hair a lighter shade of brown. His dark scars still showed-they always would-but they seemed to stand out less than once they had, particularly when he smiled.
“I find myself wishing that I had your courage, Tavis,” the gleaner told him.
A frown creased the young lord’s brow, then was replaced almost immediately by a self-conscious grin. “My courage?” he repeated, turning his attention back to his mount. “You must be confusing me with your horse.”