“You see?” the gleaner said, so proud of her that he thought he might weep. “He must have been horrified.”
“He was.”
Grinsa kissed her brow. “You’ve nothing to fear from him anymore. He may send others to kill you, men like the healer. But you can sleep in peace.”
“I’ve tried. I can’t.”
“But-”
“I know that I should be able to. As you say, if I can drive him from my dreams, I have no reason to fear him. I could even go back to sleeping at night again. I’m still afraid, though. I think of. . of what he did to me, of how close Bryntelle came to losing me forever, and it’s all I can do to close my eyes at midmorning.”
“It’ll take some time, Cresenne. But eventually you’ll find peace.”
“Not until he’s dead. You have to kill him, Grinsa. I know that you want to-more than ever, no doubt, having heard all of this. And I’m telling you, that’s what you have to do. For me, for Bryntelle, for Keziah. I don’t know how I ever could have been so blind as to follow him, to do all those terrible things on his behalf. But I realize now that the Forelands won’t be safe until he’s dead.”
“The Forelands will be safe,” he said. “You have my word.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “You should sleep. And when you wake, you need to eat something. You look so thin.”
Cresenne twisted her mouth sourly. “I haven’t been able to eat since I was poisoned.”
“You have to. Bryntelle needs you to be strong.”
“I know. I’ll try.”
He gazed at her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Even drawn and weary she remained beautiful.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing. I love you.”
“And I you. Are you well? Have you recovered from your fall in the highlands?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Where are you?”
“On the Moorlands, north of Domnall. We’re with Kearney.”
She nodded, crossing her arms, as if suddenly cold. “Has the Braedon army landed yet?”
“Yes. They march toward us even as we speak.”
“Gods keep you safe.”
“And you.” He kissed her one last time, then opened his eyes to the hazy brightness of the moors.
Taking a long, shuddering breath, he stood and started leading his mount back to where the armies were gathering in formation. He should have been relieved. Despite being brutalized, despite the fact that she had very nearly died, Cresenne had found the strength to defend herself from the Weaver’s attacks. But any comfort he drew from this was overmastered by his lingering fears and his remorse. If only he hadn’t left her. .
“How is she?” Tavis asked, when Grinsa found him.
The gleaner shrugged. “Considering all she’s been through, she’s doing well.” Seeing the puzzlement on the young lord’s face, he explained, “The Weaver attacked her again, and then she was poisoned by one of the healers in Audun’s Castle.”
“Demons and fire! She survived all that?”
“I find it hard to believe, too.”
“Is Bryntelle all right?”
Grinsa smiled. “Yes, thank you. She’s fine.”
“Gods be praised for that.”
“Indeed.”
The gleaner glanced southward, grappling with a sudden urge to ride back to the City of Kings.
“You can do more for her by fighting this war than you ever could in Audun’s Castle.”
He looked at the boy, nodded. “I know. So does she.”
A short time later, the armies resumed their march toward Galdasten. Tavis and Xaver rode just ahead of him, speaking in quiet voices and laughing occasionally. Fotir rode beside him, but Grinsa couldn’t bring himself to start a conversation, and the minister seemed content to ride in silence.
During what remained of the day, the armies marched without rest past villages and farms. And at every cluster of homes, every lone farmhouse that rose from the earth, people came out to stare at the warriors, with their shining weapons and dull grey coats of mail. Some of the children cheered, no doubt thinking it all a grand game. But their parents just watched, apprehensive and silent.
Sitting atop his mount at the head of such a vast force, Grinsa couldn’t help but wonder if the people he saw knew of the storm that menaced their land. Surely they had heard of the threats from Braedon and Aneira, but did they understand the greater danger they faced? A part of him wanted to stop and warn them of this Weaver, this Dusaan jal Kania, who was poised to make himself sovereign over all the Forelands. Everyone in the seven realms needed to know, Eandi and Qirsi alike.
But if Kearney wouldn’t listen to him, why should these simple folk?
“We both have our wars to fight, gleaner,” the king had told him the night before. “Mine is with the empire. Yours is with the Weaver. I’ll offer you whatever aid I can, and I’ll ask no less of you. But both wars must be fought and won, or else Eibithar is doomed.”
At the time, hearing Kearney speak so, Grinsa had grown angry and stalked off. Perhaps the king was right, though. The gleaner had claimed this war as his own long ago. He might have been brazen and foolish to do so, but that changed nothing.
The time for self-doubt had passed. He knew that at last, thanks to Cresenne and Tavis. Would he have liked to be stronger? Would he have taken comfort in some divine assurance that he would prevail against this foe? Of course. What warrior didn’t wish for such things on the eve of battle? Somewhere to the north, Dusaan might well have been wishing for them as well.
“If the Weaver wasn’t afraid of you,” Tavis had said that night half a turn ago, when Dusaan attacked him, “he wouldn’t have entered your dreams.”
Grinsa had doubted this at the time, but now he saw that he had no choice but to believe it. For all of Dusaan’s confidence, the Weaver had to harbor doubts of his own. There could be no certainty in this coming conflict, no assurances for anyone, not even for the high chancellor. How could it be otherwise?
This was to be a war between Weavers. In all its long history, the Forelands had never witnessed such a thing.