But he couldn’t help but wonder if the same was true of this man standing before him, his face in shadows, his magic like a blade aimed at Grinsa’s heart. Didn’t it make sense that they should be more alike than not? Wasn’t it possible that the leader of the Qirsi conspiracy understood him better than did Keziah or Tavis or Cresenne? In a way, Grinsa and the Weaver had more in common than any two men in the Forelands.
The Weaver seemed to read his thoughts-and why shouldn’t he, walking in Grinsa’s dreams?
“Yes,” he said, his voice low. Grinsa could tell that he was smiling. “We’re not all that different, you and I.”
“You wish to rule the Forelands. I don’t. You send assassins for innocent girls and well-meaning lords; you use your powers to torture and kill; you would gladly plunge all the realms into war in order to feed your ambition. We’re nothing alike.”
“Of course we are. We’re Weavers. We possess powers the likes of which no Eandi can imagine. Indeed, no ordinary Qirsi can fathom what we are. That’s what you were thinking a moment ago, isn’t it? You sense a bond between us. I sense it as well. It’s real, Grinsa. You may hate what I am, but you can’t deny that you see yourself in me, just as I see myself in you.”
“Even if that’s true, what difference does it make?”
“Perhaps none. Perhaps a great deal. Together you and I could destroy the Eandi armies in a matter of hours. These men have never fought against one Weaver, let alone two. We could divide the Forelands between us, create a glorious new world for our people. Tell me, gleaner, do you ever wish for a better life? Do you ever wish that you could reveal the true extent of your powers without fearing execution at the hands of small-minded Eandi nobles?”
Grinsa laughed, but tightened his hold on his magic, expecting another attack at any moment.
“You think my question amusing. But how will you feel if your daughter grows up to be a Weaver, like her father? Will it still seem funny then?”
“If she has to live her life as I have, so be it. I haven’t suffered so greatly for being a Weaver. And if you really cared a whit for my daughter, you wouldn’t have tried to kill her mother.”
“Cresenne betrayed me and she’ll be punished for that.”
“I find it interesting that in trying to turn me to your cause, you speak only of improving the lives of Weavers. I thought you were doing this for all Qirsi.”
“I am!”
“No. You just threatened Cresenne. It seems to me that you care only for those Qirsi who support you and your cause.”
“The rest are traitors! All Qirsi who would devote themselves to serving the Eandi deserve death!”
“Is that the kind of ruler you intend to be, Weaver? Will you execute all who question your vision of the world? Do you intend to kill every Eandi in the Forelands, and all the Qirsi who count the Eandi among their friends?”
“If that’s what it takes to change the world, then yes, I do.”
“And just how are you different from the worst Eandi tyrants of Aneira and Braedon? You’re no better than a Solkaran or a Curtell. Your eyes may be yellow, but your blood runs Eandi.”
He had known the assault would come if he pushed the Weaver far enough, and so was able to defend himself with ease, despite the man’s fury. As the Weaver hammered at his mind, struggling once more to gain control of Grinsa’s shaping power, the gleaner raised his hand and called forth a bright golden flame.
The Weaver’s eyes snapped wide and a low growl escaped his throat. Grinsa felt him try to snuff out the flame, but the gleaner held fast to his magic. Beyond the Weaver, across the rocky moorland on which they stood, Grinsa saw the gentle curve of a coastline and the pale glitter of water. And beyond that, more land. He saw an island to the north-Wantrae Island. The body of water had to be the Strait of Wantrae. Which made this plain. .
“Ayvencalde Moor,” he said aloud. “I’ve never been here, but I know this place.”
“I told you, it doesn’t matter.”
“I beg to differ. You must be the High Chancellor of Braedon. Dusaan jal Kania.” He had first heard the name a few turns before, in the City of Kings. After the Weaver tried to kill Cresenne, she told Grinsa of having been a chancellor in the Weaver’s movement. Since the emperor of Braedon was the only noble in the Forelands who referred to his Qirsi advisors as chancellors, the gleaner had begun to wonder if the Weaver served in the emperor’s court. After his fight with Tihod, his suspicions deepened. Now, seeing the way this man’s face shaded to crimson, he was certain. “You say it doesn’t matter, Dusaan. Your expression tells me otherwise.”
“So you know who I am. How will you explain this to your Eandi allies? Only a Weaver could have learned such a thing. Are you ready to admit to them what you are? Are you ready to die at the hands of your so-called friends?”
“You think them fools. They’re not. When they understand that I can defeat you, that I’m their only hope, they’ll accept who and what I am.”
“You’d let them use you that way? You disgust me.”
Grinsa sensed that the Weaver was about to leave him. “I can find you now, Dusaan. The next time we meet, it will be in your dreams. You’d best be ready.”
“You can’t hurt me, gleaner. And it may be that I can’t hurt you. But I can still reach Cresenne, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
It was only for an instant, a lapse brought on by fear for his love and for his daughter, by his fatigue, and by his belief, wrong though it was, that the Weaver intended to end their conversation. And like a wolf waiting for his prey to show any sign of weakness, Dusaan pounced. Grinsa felt a lancing pain in his temple and then an unbearable pressure on his skull. Fear seized his heart, as if the Weaver himself had reached into his chest and was squeezing his life away. It seemed that his head was being crushed beneath boulders.
Wake up, he heard someone say. Whose voice was that?
Wake up, gleaner. Wake up.
Tavis. Grinsa opened his eyes and felt his world heave and spin. He rolled onto his stomach, pushed himself off the ground and vomited until his gut was empty and his throat was raw.
“You’re bleeding,” Tavis said, as the gleaner sat back on his knees.
Grinsa raised a hand to his temple. His fingers came away damp and sticky.
“You were dreaming of the Weaver.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“For a long time?”
“A shade too long, it would seem.” He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, as if to will away his dizziness. “Do you have any idea of the time?”
“If I had to guess I’d say it was almost dawn.”
Grinsa nodded. He felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. Now he knew why Keziah complained of their conversations disrupting her sleep.
“Can you heal yourself?” the boy asked. “Or do you want me to dress that for you?”
“I’ll take care of it. Thanks.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“I know who he is.”
Tavis sat up. “What?”
“His name is Dusaan jal Kania. He’s the high chancellor of Braedon.”
“You’re certain?”
He nodded.
“That’s just what we’ve been hoping for!”
“I suppose it could be helpful.”
He could barely see the young lord, but he knew that Tavis was frowning. “We’ve been trying to find out something-anything-about this man since early in the snows. And now you know his name and his title. Why aren’t you pleased?”
“You mean aside from the fact that he nearly succeeded in killing me just now?” He winced at what he heard in his own voice. “I’m sorry, Tavis. I’m just not sure that it matters anymore. I don’t think he wanted me to see his face again or to learn his name. But once I had, he didn’t act overly concerned. He thinks he’s won already, and after tonight, I fear that he may be right.”