Eibithar’s dukes and their ministers bowed to the king and began to move off, Grinsa following Fotir so that he might thank the first minister for helping him keep his secret a bit longer. Before he had gone far, however, Kearney called to him.
“A word please, gleaner.”
Keziah was beside the king, her face colorless, her lips pressed together in a taut line. Grinsa returned to where they stood.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
Kearney hesitated. “Walk with me.”
They started away from the armies, skirting the portion of the moors where the battle with the Solkarans had been fought, and where bodies were now being piled. Glancing back, Grinsa noticed that Marston and the dark-haired duchess were watching them. They were too far away for the gleaner to see their expressions, but he could guess.
“The first minister didn’t make that hole in Aindreas’s castle, did he?” the king asked, drawing Grinsa’s gaze.
“Not alone, no. He couldn’t have without my help.”
“So he’s the other.”
“Your Majesty?”
“The day you told me you were a Weaver, you listed those who knew-Keziah, Tavis, Cresenne, and another you wouldn’t name. It was Fotir, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And how much longer can our circle remain so small?”
Grinsa shook his head. “Not much, I fear.”
“Aindreas will call for your head. So will Shanstead. I don’t know about the others, but I can’t imagine they’ll be willing to embrace you as an ally.”
“They have to!” Keziah said. “Who else among us can fight the Weaver?”
“I don’t disagree with you, Kez. I’m just telling you what I know to be true.”
“The question is, Your Majesty, what will you do? If you support me, the others may follow. Perhaps not Kentigern, nor even Shanstead, but the rest. Certainly Javan will. He knows what I’ve done for Tavis, and the boy will speak to him on my behalf. I sense that the queen might support me as well, though some of her nobles might speak against it. Ultimately, though, this is up to you.”
Kearney looked back across the battle plain, then stared up at the crows and vultures circling overhead. “My father used to say that we don’t choose our allies so much as find them. The hardest part, he said, was recognizing them in time.” He met Grinsa’s gaze. “I’ll support you, gleaner. I haven’t much choice in the matter, and even if I did, you’ve proved your good faith time and again. I’d be a fool not to stand with you.”
Grinsa bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Shall we speak to them now?”
“Not yet. There’s something I want to do first. With your permission, I’d wait until morning.”
“All right. May I ask what it is you intend to do?”
“I’m going to try to enter the Weaver’s dreams.”
“What?” Keziah whispered.
“We need to know where he is, and, if possible, what he’s planning. This is the only way I can think of to learn both.”
“Is there any danger to you?” the king asked.
“No. I’ll be in his mind. The worst he can do is drive me out. But it may be that I can hurt him.”
“Very well.” The king halted, as did Keziah and Grinsa. “I’ll be eager to hear how you fare.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“I should return to the armies.”
“May I have a moment with Grinsa, Your Majesty?”
“Of course.” He nodded to the gleaner, who bowed once more in return. Then he turned and started back toward the soldiers.
“You think I’m wrong to try,” Grinsa said.
“I think the risks are greater than you made them sound just now.”
“He can’t hurt me, Kezi.”
“Maybe not. But he can sense your thoughts, your fears. I know, because I’ve sensed his. Not enough to learn much, but I’m not a Weaver. You may give away as much as you learn. You could even reveal that I’m your sister.”
“I won’t.”
“But you could.”
“At the first sign of danger, I’ll break contact with him. You have my word.”
She looked like she might say more, but in the end she merely nodded and walked away, leaving Grinsa alone amid the grasses and stones.
The truth was, Grinsa didn’t have to enter the Weaver’s dreams at all. He had only to reach for him. He could search the land for the man without actually entering his mind. That would tell him where Dusaan jal Kania and his army could be found. But Grinsa wanted this confrontation. Twice before they had met, once when he pulled Cresenne out of her dream of the man, thus saving her life, and again when the Weaver came to him, and nearly managed to turn Grinsa’s own magic against him. Eventually they would face each other in battle, probably on this very moor. It seemed as inevitable as the new day. They were tied to one another, their strange bond forged of hatred and the powers they shared; of the Weaver’s ambition and Grinsa’s need to avenge all that Dusaan had done to Cresenne and Keziah. But during their previous encounter, when Braedon’s high chancellor entered his dreams, Grinsa had found himself overmatched. Before their final battle, he needed to prove to himself that he could defeat this man, that his powers ran as deep as those of the renegade Weaver.
After some time, as the sun finally began to dip toward the western horizon, Grinsa returned to the Curgh camp to look for Tavis. Before he reached the boy, though, he was accosted by Marston of Shanstead. The thane had two soldiers with him, as if he feared approaching a Qirsi unguarded. His grey eyes were watchful, scanning from side to side as he walked, and he rested a hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword.
“I know what you have in mind to do,” Shanstead said without preamble, his voice low and tense. “And I’d advise you against it.”
For just an instant, Grinsa wondered if the man really did know, if he had discovered Grinsa’s secret and learned of his intention to speak with the Weaver. In the next moment, he dismissed the idea. This man hated all Qirsi, save his own minister. No doubt he meant to accuse Grinsa of some foul crime against the king.
“What is it you think you know, my lord?”
“I know that the archminister is a traitor, and I see the two of you plotting together. I know as well that you’ve lied about your powers in the past. Aindreas and Javan, who can barely agree on the time of day, concur on that much.” He took a step closer, tightening his grip on his weapon. “I’m watching you, gleaner. And your friend as well. If one of you should so much as look askance at the king, I’ll crush you both. Do you understand?”
Shanstead, he realized in that moment, was precisely the sort of Eandi that drove Qirsi to the Weaver and his movement. This type of blind distrust and blustering animosity had done more to weaken the Forelands than had any white-haired traitor. Grinsa would have liked to shatter the man’s blade, or set his hair ablaze. Instead, he offered a thin smile. “I assure you, Lord Shanstead, the king has nothing to fear from his archminister or from me. What’s more, he knows this. It’s a pity you’re too much a fool to see it for yourself.”
“How dare you speak to me so!”
“I could say much the same thing, my lord.” And stepping around the man, Grinsa continued on toward the Curgh lines. He half expected Shanstead to follow, and a part of him wished the man would, so that he’d have an excuse to use his magic. But the thane merely stared after him as Grinsa wove his way through a maze of soldiers and past the wounded. When he found Tavis, his hands were still trembling with rage.
“There you are,” the young lord said as Grinsa approached him. “I’ve been hearing all sorts of stories about you.” He had been smiling, but seeing the gleaner’s expression he grew serious. “What’s happened?”
Grinsa shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me. I know you too well, Grinsa.”
“Nothing of importance. Really.” Knowing the boy wouldn’t be satisfied by this, he gestured vaguely at the battle plain. “Shanstead just accused Keziah and me of plotting against the king.”