But his allies were there-Fotir, Xivled, and the rest-and the stream of magic they sent back at the Weaver seemed stronger than any he had woven that day. It almost seemed that Fotir and the others, sensing his fatigue, had given more of themselves, offering their strength where his was failing. By the time the Weaver’s magic reached the Eandi lines, it had dwindled to nearly nothing. A few soldiers were wounded, crumpling to the ground, but not nearly as many as Grinsa had feared.
“We were fortunate that time,” he said.
Tavis eyed him, seeming at last to understand just how bleak was their situation. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
After a moment, Grinsa faced Dusaan again and tried once more to take control of the Weaver’s power. He had little hope of succeeding. But he didn’t know what else to do.
* * *
She felt useless, as she always did during these battles. A part of her had hoped that this day might be different, that despite the lingering pain in her hands she might prove herself as a warrior. Her brother was leading them to war. At last she had her chance to strike back against the Weaver, to repay the man for all he had done to her, and to Cresenne, and to everyone else who had suffered at the hands of his conspiracy. Finally, she could avenge the murder of Paegar jal Berget, who had once been her friend, despite his ties to the Weaver’s movement.
But Keziah found that she could be of no help at all, even in a war of magic, a war between Weavers. Grinsa did draw upon her magic once, when he used language of beasts against Dusaan’s horse, but little came of that effort, and almost immediately both Weavers turned back to the more menacing powers: shaping and fire. Ironically, had she truly been a part of the Weaver’s army, she would have been called upon to raise a wind, but as of yet, Grinsa hadn’t tried to raise an opposing gale.
She could only watch and wait, and hope that eventually, before all was lost, she would have her opportunity to strike at the enemy.
As Dusaan’s warriors drew nearer to the Eandi lines, Keziah began to push her way forward, past astonished Eandi soldiers. She wasn’t fool enough to fancy herself a skilled swordswoman, but possessing language of beasts, she thought that she ought to be where her magic would do Kearney’s army the most good. She might not be able to strike a killing blow either with steel or Qirsi power, but she could make a horse rear at an opportune time, or coax a falcon out of the sky as she had done when Fotir saved her. No matter what she managed to do, it would be better than standing behind Kearney’s men wondering how she might make herself useful.
Before she reached the front lines, however, she spied something that made her stop. It was a Qirsi woman riding in a wide arc around the eastern flank of the Eandi lines. Had there been more than this lone rider Keziah would have raised the alarm immediately. But it was just the one woman, and something in her manner gave the archminister pause. Keziah was watching her from some distance, but the rider appeared to be scanning the Eandi armies, as if searching for something, or someone. She was beautiful and so young in appearance, with golden eyes so much like those of the Weaver, that Keziah wondered for just a moment if she might be Dusaan’s daughter. She knew it was impossible, but she was equally sure that the woman was powerful in her own right, no matter the nature of her ties to the Weaver. She moved confidently, as if she had complete faith in her abilities and her magic.
“Probably a shaper,” Keziah muttered to herself, marking the woman’s progress. Her hands throbbed at the mere suggestion. For as she stood watching the rider, Keziah sensed that the woman was searching for her. The Weaver had vowed to punish her and somehow she knew that he had chosen this woman to mete out whatever retribution he had chosen.
Her first thought was to flee. Perhaps she had time to find her horse and ride away from the plain. Abeni had hurt her so badly; she would rather die instantly by a warrior’s blade than face such agony again. As quickly as the notion came to her, however, she dismissed it. If the Weaver wanted her dead, he would find a way to kill her. Better to face her doom now. Besides, she sensed that this woman would cut a swath through the ranks of Kearney’s men to reach her if forced to do so. If Keziah was to die this day, she didn’t want to face Bian the Deceiver with any more deaths on her head.
She made her way back through the soldiers to the rear of the lines and then walked a short distance from the battle plain, all the while watching the rider. The woman continued to scan the Eandi lines until at last her eyes fell on Keziah. As soon as the rider spotted the archminister, she kicked her mount to a gallop and rode directly toward her, white hair dancing in the wind.
The archminister kept her eyes locked on her attacker, readying herself to use language of beasts on the woman’s mount. It seemed, though, that the Weaver had warned this woman against her. Long before she was close enough for Keziah’s magic to have much effect on the creature, the woman halted and dismounted, continuing her approach on foot. Two soldiers charged her, but both collapsed to the ground before they were within ten fourspans of her. Keziah thought she heard the muffled snapping of bone as they fell.
This time fear got the better of her. Keziah turned, intending to run, but before she could take even a step, her leg gave way. She fell to the grass, pain clouding her vision. Her stomach heaved and she clenched her teeth to keep from being ill.
“Not so fast, Archminister,” the woman called to her, killing another soldier without so much as a glance. “The Weaver wanted me to convey a message to you.”
Keziah braced herself, knowing what was coming. Why does it always have to be shapers? she had time to wonder. Then torment. Not the hands this time, nor even a limb. She heard the cracking of bone, and felt as though a fire were burning within her body. She gasped, her agony only worsening. One rib. Then another. This time she couldn’t keep herself from vomiting, though that too brought new anguish.
Several more Eandi soldiers converged on the woman, swords drawn, but before they reached her they were hammered to the ground, their bodies collapsing in grotesque positions as if they had been mauled by some terrible demon of the Underrealm. For just an instant the archminister thought that her attacker had done this herself, but when the woman looked back over her shoulder Keziah knew that it had been the Weaver, that he was watching them, waiting to see her die.
“He wanted you to suffer,” the woman said, facing her once more, smiling faintly. “But I’m afraid there’s no time for that now.”
At least it would be quick.
“Hold, Jastanne!” came a voice from beside Keziah. “You’ll not be killing anyone today.”
Keziah looked up and, to her amazement, saw Aindreas, the duke of Kentigern, towering over her, his sword held loosely in one hand, a shield in the other.
Her first impulse was to warn him away, to tell him that the woman was a shaper and that no Eandi warrior, no matter his size, could contend with her. Then the full import of what he had said finally reached her. Jastanne. He had called the woman by her name.
The Qirsi laughed.
“Yes, Archminister. He knows me. You find that odd, don’t you?”
A few others had gathered around them, though most on the battle plain remained oblivious of this second, lesser conflict. The handful of men who had followed the duke were soldiers wearing the colors of Eibithar: Kearney’s men, who had treated Keziah with suspicion and contempt for so many turns, who had been told of Kentigern’s defiance of the Crown, who had come to this plain to do battle with the empire’s soldiers only to find themselves at war with a Weaver and his army. Most of them probably didn’t know what to make of the scene unfolding before them. Keziah wasn’t even certain that she did.