“The Weaver will kill her. He’ll kill all of them.”
“Wake up, Grinsa,” he said again, though he knew it would do no good. “Please.”
The gleaner said something else that Tavis couldn’t understand.
The young lord sat back, shaking his head. “Maybe the fire will help.”
He retrieved the sacks of food they carried and pulled out some dried meat and fruits. After eating and drinking some water, he stepped out of the circle of boulders to make certain the horses were all right. It was definitely growing dark now. The fog had cleared somewhat, though a light snow still fell. Far to the west, near the horizon, Tavis thought he could see an end to the cloud cover and a thin bright line of sky. If they made it through the night, they might be able to return to Glyndwr Castle come morning.
On that thought, he returned to Grinsa and his fire. The blaze burned brightly now, and while he knew that he was being foolish, he couldn’t help but be pleased with himself. He turned the sleeping rolls so that they would dry evenly, placed more wood in the flames, then lay down beside the fire ring, bundling himself in his riding cloak.
He awakened sometime later to a black sky and the soft glow of dying embers. He climbed to his feet and threw more wood on the coals, smiling when they quickly caught fire. Then he went to Grinsa once more and laid the back of his hand on the gleaner’s cheek. His skin still felt cool. After a moment, he stirred, but his eyes remained closed and he said nothing.
The sleeping rolls were nearly dry by now, and Tavis draped one of them over the gleaner and took the other for himself, lying down once more.
When next Tavis woke, it was to the sound of distant voices and the nickering of his mount. The sky above their small shelter had begun to brighten and for a moment the young lord thought that perhaps someone had come to help them. An instant later, though, as he shook himself awake, it all came back to him in a rush. By the time the first of the brigands stepped through the narrow passages into the circle of boulders, Tavis was on his feet, standing over Grinsa, his sword drawn.
Two of the men came through the same entrance Tavis had been using, daggers in hand. They were both of medium build, with dark hair and eyes, and sharp, narrow faces. They must have been brothers; they might even have been twins. Two more men entered through another passageway opposite this first one, both of them armed as well. Tavis was forced to take a step back toward the nearest boulder and open his stance, his eyes darting from one pair to the other.
These other men were as dissimilar as the first two had been alike. One was tall and lean, with a long face and cold, pale eyes. For just a moment, he reminded Tavis of Cadel. His companion was far shorter and powerfully built, his chest and shoulders broad and round. He was bald and he wore a rough, yellow beard.
“Thar’s two of ’em,” this last man called loudly. “Though from th’ looks o’ things, only one is worth worryin’ ’bout.”
A moment later a fifth man entered the circle, using the same entrance used by the twins. And seeing this man, Tavis knew immediately that he was the leader of their gang. He was no larger than any of the others, but he had the body and swagger of a swordsman. He had a handsome face and long, wheat-colored hair that he wore loose to his shoulders. His beard was full, but trim, as if, in spite of the life he led, he took some care in maintaining his appearance.
He stepped to the center of the space, eyeing Tavis with interest, a thin smile on his lips. He held a short sword loosely at his side and a longer blade in a baldric on his back.
“Yer trespassin’, noble.”
If they could get out of this with their lives and their mounts, Tavis would count it a victory, a miraculous one at that. He wasn’t about to anger the man.
“We are,” he said. “And I apologize for that. We were caught in the storm and my friend was hurt. We had no choice but to take shelter here.”
The man’s gaze fell to the fire ring, then slid toward the depleted pile of wood, before returning to Tavis. “Ye stole our wood. It’s no’ easy t’ find out here on th’ highlands.”
“We can pay you for the wood.”
A smile broke over his face. “I’ve no doubt ye can.” He glanced down at Grinsa, then prodded him with his foot. “He looks dead to me, noble.”
“He’s not.”
The brigand’s eyes danced. Clearly, he hadn’t really thought Grinsa was dead. “Wha’ I can’ figure out is why an Eandi noble would be journeyin’ with a white-hair in th’ firs’ place.”
“Maybe th’ Qirsi’s ’is minister,” one of the twins said, and started to laugh.
The others joined in, but the leader raised a hand, silencing them.
“Maybe ’e is. But I don’ think th’ lad’s a duke quite yet. Are ye, lad?”
Tavis felt himself starting to tremble. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? Where’d ye get those scars?”
“A brigand gave them to me. Then I killed him.”
The man laughed. “Ye have some pluck, lad. But I suppose I should ’spect as much from a Curgh.”
The young lord felt cold spreading outward from his chest, as if his blood had turned as icy as Amon’s Ocean. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, not knowing what to say.
The brigand laughed again. “Look, boys. I’ve silenced a noble. An’ no’ jus’ any noble either.” He glanced at the others. “Our frien’ here may be th’ mos’ famous lord in all th’ Forelands.”
“Wha’ ye talkin’ ’bout, Kr-”
The leader’s sword snapped up, so that it was level with the eyes of the stout man, who instantly fell silent.
“No names, ye fool. We haven’ ’cided yet if our frien’ here is goin’ to live out th’ day.”
The bald man just nodded.
“ ’Nough o’ yer games,” the tall one said. “Who is ’e?”
“This, boys, is Lord Tavis o’ Curgh.”
“I thought ’e was dead.”
“No, ye fool.” The leader regarded Tavis again, shaking his head. “No. ’E’s alive, all right. Aren’ ye, lad?”
“You’re mistaken,” Tavis said, his voice unsteady.
“Got those scars from Aindreas, himself, didn’ ye? Word was ye refused t’ go t’ Glyndwr. Wen’t’ Aneira instead. Bu’ here ye’ are, walkin’ th’ highlands with yer Qirsi frien’.”
The tall man stepped closer to the leader. “If ’e’s really th’ Curgh boy,” he said in a low voice, “we shoul’ kill ’im now an’ take ’is gold. Kill th’ Qirsi, too, ’fore ’e wakes up.”
“I don’ think so. ’Is gold’s already ours, isn’t it, lad? An’ I wager ’is father th’ duke will pay a good deal more t’ get ’im back alive.” He looked at Grinsa again. “Qirsi’s another matter. Ye can kill ’im.”
A dark grin spread across the tall man’s face.
Tavis edged closer to the gleaner, his sword still raised. “No,” he said. “You can’t kill him.”
The leader looked amused. “An’ why is tha’?”
Because he’s a Weaver. Because without him all the Forelands will fall to the Qirsi renegades. “You’re right about me. I am Tavis of Curgh, son of Javan, heir to the dukedom. And this is Fotir jal Salene, my father’s first minister. The duke sent him to Glyndwr to bring me north, so that I can fight beside the men of my house in the war against the empire.”
One of the twins shook his head. “’E’s lyin’. Thar ain’ no war.”
“Not yet, perhaps. But the Braedon fleet is poised off Galdasten’s shores, waiting for the emperor’s orders. They’ll attack soon, and when they do the entire realm will march to war.”
“I tell ye, ’e’s lyin’.”
The leader was watching Tavis, his eyes narrowed. Now he gave a slight shake of his head. “I don’ think ’e is.” He looked at the twins. “ ’Member th’ las’ time we was near th’ castle, th’ way th’ gate soldiers was turnin’ peddlers away? Lad’s right. War’s comin’.”
“Well, even so,” the tall one said, “wha’s tha’ got t’ do wi’ th’ white-hair?”
“A duke riding to war wants his ministers with him, particularly his first minister.” Tavis met the leader’s gaze, sensing that he had the man’s interest. “My father will pay handsomely for his life as well as for mine.”