“You’ve done well,” the Weaver said after looking about for some time, as if to determine their position. “But we have need of haste.” All of them were watching him. It seemed to Nitara that the others couldn’t help themselves. Certainly she couldn’t. He turned to her now, beckoning to her with a gesture. Crossing to where he stood, she bowed, then waited.
“Open yourself to me,” he commanded, his voice low.
A moment later, she felt him touch her mind, and there arose around her a gale the likes of which none of the Qirsi, herself included, had been able to raise alone. The ship leaped forward, leaning heavily alee, and the others scrambled to grab hold of something.
“I want others with winds to join us here,” Dusaan called over the rush of the wind he had summoned. Several stepped forward, and the gale began to strengthen, until it seemed that the ship would tear itself apart. The hull held, however, as did the sail, and the Weaver’s windstorm propelled them past Eibithar’s coastline and the islands of the upper Scabbard as if the ship were being pulled by a team of Sanbiri stallions.
Nitara knew that she should be tiring-a Qirsi’s powers were finite. To tax oneself beyond endurance was to risk utter exhaustion, even illness or death. Yet with the Weaver wielding her magic for her, blending it with his own and that of the other Qirsi, she hardly grew weary. She might have been doing gleanings in a festival tent for all the effort the Weaver required of her. Glancing at the others, she saw them smiling with wonder at the wind they had called forth. At midday they rested, taking a meal and speaking of how easy it had been to drive the ship toward Galdasten. Clearly the Weaver had been taxed far more than had they. As soon as they stopped, he went below deck, his face wan and damp. Nitara wanted to follow, but she knew that he didn’t want her with him. Instead she waited with the others, and before long Dusaan returned, looking refreshed.
“Shall we continue?” was all he said. Soon they were cutting through the tide once more, gliding beneath Curgh Castle, perched atop the rocky cliffs above them, and past the sheer cliffs of Eibithar’s northwest coast.
Late in the day, as they approached the mouth of Falcon Bay, Nitara saw the Braedony war ships, sails lowered and sweeps extended for combat, the red and gold painted on their bows glowing in the light of the setting sun. Beyond them, arrayed as if for battle, a second set of ships advanced, their sails lowered as well.
She glanced at the Weaver, wondering if he had expected this, afraid that perhaps he hadn’t.
“The Wethy fleet,” he said. “No doubt the men and women of Galdasten believe their salvation is at hand. If any ships can best those of the empire, Wethyrn’s can.” He smiled. “It doesn’t matter.”
They sailed on, steering toward the heart of the emperor’s navy, and as they drew close, the Weaver strengthened his gale still more, sending it beyond the sails of the Qirsi vessel so that it battered the ships of Braedon. At first the men of the emperor’s fleet ignored the Qirsi vessel. It was but one boat and the soldiers were far more concerned with the strange, powerful wind that had struck at them so suddenly. But as the Weaver’s ship bore down on them, the soldiers finally noticed. Rowing furiously, the oarsmen on several of the vessels managed to turn their boats toward the Qirsi ship, increasing their speed as if to ram. As the distance between the ships closed, one of the men on the lead vessel recognized Dusaan.
“High Chancellor!” he called, raising a hand in greeting, his face a mask of puzzlement.
“Shapers,” the Weaver said without raising his voice. Immediately the shapers stepped forward, and an instant later, the advancing ships crumpled, as if some unseen fist had hammered down upon them. Men tumbled into the cold waters of the bay, some of them screaming, others too shocked to make any sound at all.
Too late, the fleet captains tried to turn their vessels to meet this new challenge. The Weaver and his shapers destroyed these ships as easily as they had the others, spilling more bodies into the sea, turning Braedon’s vaunted navy into little more than jagged scraps of wood and shattered oars. Still the Qirsi ship sailed on, barely slowing as it passed by the ruins of the fleet.
“Fire,” Dusaan said, and more Qirsi moved to stand near him.
The men on the Wethy vessels, who had cheered upon seeing the Braedony ships smashed, now began to shout warnings to one another. A thin line of golden flame appeared on the surface of the water and began to roll toward Wethyrn’s navy, building like a wave as it went, until it towered above the vessels, menacing them like some demon sent by the fire goddess. The Wethy oarsmen tried to reverse course and outrun the wall of fire, but to no avail. The blaze crashed down upon them, blackening wood and flesh alike, making the water hiss and seethe, sending great clouds of steam into the sky.
The ship slowed and the wind around them diminished until it was but a faint breeze. The Weaver looked weary again, but he wore a grim smile as he surveyed the waters around them.
Eandi soldiers would have cheered after such a victory, but the Qirsi standing near the Weaver made not a sound. They seemed awed by what they had done, perhaps even a bit frightened, though Nitara felt certain that this would pass.
“What now, Weaver?” B’Serre asked, her voice barely carrying over the sound of water lapping at the sides of the ship.
“Now, I rest, and those of you with mists and winds steer us into the port of Galdasten. If you meet resistance, call for me. Otherwise, come for me when we’ve tied on to the pier. We’ll take Galdasten tonight. Two of my chancellors await us in the city, to join our assault on the castle and add their number to my army. Tomorrow we ride to the Moorlands. And there, we’ll destroy what’s left of the Eandi armies.”
Chapter Nine
Galdasten, Eibithar
It had been two days since Renald led his soldiers out of the castle in pursuit of Braedon’s army, four since he defied her, choosing to follow the counsel of his fool of a swordmaster and the first minister who, Elspeth was certain, had betrayed them all to the conspiracy. The duchess tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter, that Renald would have made a poor king whose reign would do more to sully the Galdasten name than glorify it. But it wasn’t her husband for whom she had harbored ambitions; the fact that none of her sons would ever wear the crown made her seethe like Amon’s Ocean on a stormy day. If only she had been born into the Matriarchy of Sanbira where her keen mind would have allowed her to do more than merely recognize her duke’s many flaws, and her path to power wouldn’t have been blocked by the man’s weakness and timidity.
Even if he returned from this battle to which he had ridden, she would never again allow him into her bed. Let him fill his court with bastards, he’d take no more pleasure in her flesh. She would gladly take a lover herself and bear him a child, announcing to all that the babe wasn’t Renald’s, if the punishment for such a thing were not so severe. A part of her wanted just to kill Renald and be done with it, and not for the first time she found herself hoping that he wouldn’t survive the war. She knew, however, that the man’s death would do little to enhance the station of her sons. Renald the Younger would become duke a bit sooner, but he’d never have more. And Adler and Rory would both still be tied to their paltry thaneships. They deserved better fates.
More to the point, Galdasten deserved to be led by a great man. Elspeth had lived in the dukedom all her life and was as devoted to the house as any soldier or noble could be. Her father, the thane of Prindyr, whose title Rory would one day inherit, had been a great friend of Kell, the duke before Renald. Indeed, her father had planned to attend the feast that Kell hosted in Galdasten Castle during Morna’s turn in 872. At the last moment, however, amid fears that Elspeth, at the time a young lady just past her Fating, had come down with the pestilence, he remained in Prindyr. Hers turned out to be an ordinary fever, one that saved her father’s life. For that was the feast to which a madman brought vermin infected with the pestilence, killing the duke and his family, and dooming Galdasten to four generations of inconsequence. The House of Eagles should have been leading this realm, its banner flying above Audun’s Castle along with the purple and gold of Eibithar. Instead, its people bowed to a false king from Glyndwr, the weakest of the five major houses, and its foolish duke rode to fight on behalf of that king, thus preserving the very laws that barred his sons from the throne.