“Will you accompany me to the battle plain as a healer, then?”
“I will, if you will allow me to tend to all who are wounded, no matter the color of their eyes.”
Dusaan gave a small laugh. “You’re a difficult woman.”
“Why is it, Weaver, that I’m called ‘difficult,’ while men who behave as I do are called ‘determined’ and ‘strong’?”
“A fair point, healer.” He nodded. “You can tend to all who are wounded, and I’ll enjoy having you with me, to keep my wit honed.” He eyed the others. “And what of the rest of you? Will you wield your shaping power on behalf of the Qirsi cause?”
“You mentioned gold before,” the brigand said, a sly look on his handsome face. “Just how much will our role in this battle-?”
Before he could finish, Dusaan had taken hold of his shaping power and used it to press on the man’s temples. B’Naer gasped at the pain, both hands gripping his head. The Weaver was willing to tolerate a good deal from a woman like Qidanne. But this man was another matter entirely.
“This is not a negotiation, cousin. The healer has earned some consideration, even from me. You haven’t. Push me too far, and you’ll learn what it is to face the wrath of a Weaver.”
He maintained his grip on the brigand’s magic for a moment longer, then released him. B’Naer toppled to the floor, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut. The other Qirsi were gaping at Dusaan, all of them looking awed and terrified. In a way, the brigand had done him a service. Qidanne had given him the opportunity to show his compassion, his willingness to accommodate those who served him well. B’Naer had allowed him to demonstrate what happened to those who defied him. He knew that it wouldn’t take long before all the Qirsi who had come to the palace that day heard of both the depth of his kindness and the power of his rage.
“Now, I’ll ask all of you again,” he said. “Will you join me in this fight against the Eandi?”
“Yes, Weaver.” They spoke as one, without the enthusiasm that all the Qirsi had shown in the courtyard, but with a tone of reverence that Dusaan found quite satisfying.
“Good. We leave for Ayvencalde in two or three days. Until then, you’re to do as Nitara commands. In my absence, in all matters of importance, she speaks with my authority.” He glanced at Nitara, who nodded in return. “You may go.” They began to file out of the chamber. “A word please, B’Naer.”
The brigand halted, glancing toward the door as if considering whether he might be better off fleeing. The others looked back at him, and judging from their expressions, they could well have been thinking the same thing.
B’Naer walked slowly back to the center of the chamber, stopping at last just before the Weaver’s throne and flinching slightly when the door clicked shut behind him.
“I hurt you,” Dusaan said.
“Yes, Weaver.”
“And now you think I’m going to kill you.”
“Aren’t you?”
“That depends in large part on you. Even as high chancellor to the fat oaf who used to sit in this chair, I grew accustomed to people heeding my commands and speaking to me with deference. If you can do so from this day forward, you’ll live. If not, your death will serve as a lesson to others foolish enough to defy me.”
“Of course, Weaver. I’ll do as you say.”
Dusaan reached for him so swiftly, wrapping a powerful hand around the man’s throat, that the brigand had no time to react. He grabbed for the Weaver’s hand, no doubt to try and break Dusaan’s grip. After a moment, however, he appeared to think better of this.
“You’ll find, B’Naer, that I don’t take kindly to being humored. I’m not some merchant ripe for being cheated, nor am I a simpleminded Eandi soldier to be mollified with a smile and a kind word. I’m the most powerful man you’ve ever met, and the most intelligent as well. Anger me again, and I will kill you. You have my word on that. Do I make myself clear?”
B’Naer nodded, his pale eyes wide.
Dusaan let go of the man’s neck, sitting back in his throne. “What did you do as a brigand?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you must have had a specialty. Men of your sort usually do. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, Weaver.” His face colored. “I … I began as a road thief. Later I turned to city thieving, first in Refte, then in Ayvencalde, and finally here.”
“I see. How does a man choose such a profession, B’Naer? Surely your Determining didn’t show you as a brigand.”
The man smiled-it almost seemed he couldn’t help himself. “No, Weaver, but my Fating did. I’m good with a blade, and I’m strong for a Qirsi. And having shaping power made it that much easier to take care of myself.”
“Yes, I’m sure it did,” the Weaver said, narrowing his eyes, staring intently at this man before him. He couldn’t deny that there was need in his army for men like this one. He had more than enough ministers and healers; shouldn’t he have a brigand or two as well, men who could be ruthless, perhaps even cruel? After all, soon they would be marching to war. “I think I’m glad you’re here, B’Naer. I sense that you may prove useful to me yet.”
The brigand grinned.
* * *
They rode from the palace three days later, seventy strong-a laughably small army by Eandi standards, but powerful enough to topple every fortress in the Forelands if victory demanded it. To her delight, Nitara rode with the Weaver at the head of their column. The other chancellors and ministers-Gorlan, Rov, B’Serre, and the rest-followed just behind them, and they, in turn, were trailed by those newly enlisted in the Weaver’s cause. All told, there were ten shapers in their ranks, as well as twenty who had language of beasts, nearly thirty who could summon mists and winds, dozens of others who could call forth a killing fire, and a good number of healers who would prove of great value when the fighting began.
And, of course, they had the Weaver, who could wield their power as a single weapon more fearsome than any that had been seen in the Forelands for nine centuries. The armies of Eibithar and Aneira and Sanbira had their kings and queens, but what were these sovereigns other than mere men and women? Perhaps they inspired their soldiers to fight and die with a bit more courage than the pathetic souls would muster otherwise. But beyond that, they were nothing; their crowns and thrones signified nothing. To Nitara and the other Qirsi, Dusaan jal Kania was their strength and their hope, their power and intelligence, the link to their past and the path to their future. He was everything-king, commander, god. Nitara would have followed him into Bian’s Underrealm to face hordes of demons and wraiths if only he asked it of her, and though others might not have loved him as she did, the minister sensed that many in their army had already devoted themselves wholly to him and his cause.
They thundered across the moor toward the city of Ayvencalde, knowing that they might meet resistance there from the Eandi lord, who had been a close ally of the emperor. They needed only to reach the pier and seize a ship, but the Weaver made it clear that they would not shy away from a battle if the lord decided to challenge them.
“No doubt he’s heard of what happened in Curtell,” Dusaan told them before they left the palace. “He’ll think this no more than a rebellion, easily beaten back by a show of force. I intend to prove him wrong and then add the willing among Ayvencalde’s Qirsi to our army.”
Pushing their mounts to the limits of the beasts’ endurance, the Weaver and his army were able to cross the moor in only two days, coming within sight of Ayvencalde Castle’s great towers a short time before dusk on the second day. There, on the plain, positioned just before the city walls, the lord was waiting for them, an army of more than a thousand men behind him, their weapons gleaming gold in the dying sunlight.