“Shanstead’s an idiot.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you.”
“Do you want me to speak with the king?”
The gleaner had to smile. Tavis had grown a good deal in the past year. “No, thank you,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Shanstead’s suspicions will prove useful as long as Keziah is still maintaining her deception.”
“I suppose.”
“Tell me about these stories you’re hearing.”
“Actually most of them are coming from my father. He’s saying that along with Fotir and the archminister, you held off the entire Aneiran army.”
Grinsa laughed. “That’s not quite true.”
“Still, that’s what he’s saying. He also told me that Aindreas accused you of putting a hole in his castle so that I could escape. Now, he said as well that Fotir claimed to have shaped the hole himself, but my father doesn’t believe that for a moment.” He paused, eyeing the gleaner. “You do see where I’m going with all this.”
“I do,” the gleaner said, rubbing a hand over his face. It wasn’t as funny anymore.
“He wasn’t just telling stories, Grinsa. He took me aside and started asking questions about you, about your powers, about what I’ve seen you do during our journeys together. My father’s no fool. He may not know as much about Qirsi magic as I do at this point, but he’s going to figure this out. He might have already.”
“What will he do when he does?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need his support, Tavis. With Shanstead telling everyone who’ll listen that I’m a traitor, and Aindreas still bitter over your escape, I’ll need all the friends-”
“You’re going to tell them?”
“I haven’t much choice. Even now, the king is preparing for a final battle with the empire. I can’t allow that to happen. If these armies destroy one another, we’ve no hope of defeating the Weaver. As it is, we might have lost too many men already. I intend to reveal to the nobles that I’m a Weaver, to try to make them see what it is we face. I’m hoping that I can convince them to sue for peace with the Braedony army.”
“They won’t do it.”
“They have to.”
Tavis shrugged. “They won’t. You’ve taught me a good deal about your people and your magic during this past year. Now, let me tell you something about the Eandi courts of Eibithar. They don’t tolerate invasions. It amazes me that you convinced them to spare the lives of those Solkarans. You might get them to do the same with what’s left of the empire’s force, but you’ll never convince them to sue for peace, much less fight beside them. I do know what’s at stake, and I’ve half a mind to destroy their army anyway.”
“I understand what you’re telling me. But still, I have to try.”
“I know you do,” Tavis said, sighing. “I’ll do all I can to convince my father. He can be stubborn, although no more so than I.” A smile touched his lips and was gone. “After all you’ve done for me, he won’t be one of those calling for your execution. I can promise you that.”
“Thank you, Tavis.”
“Have you told Keziah what you intend to do?”
“Yes.” Grinsa faltered, but only briefly. Tavis should know all of it. He had earned that much. “You should also know that I intend to enter the Weaver’s dreams tonight.”
He expected the young lord to express amazement, or perhaps to tell him that he was a fool. Instead Tavis just nodded, and said, “Be careful.”
“I will.”
They stood in awkward silence for several moments. It seemed to Grinsa that they had reached some sort of ending, as if all that they had shared since Tavis’s escape from Kentigern was drawing to a close. And strangely, the gleaner found himself saddened by this.
“I suppose everything is going to be different once others know,” the boy said. The smile sprang to his lips again, looking forced and bitter among the scars Aindreas had left on his face. Once Grinsa had thought that the scars fit the boy, giving him a hardened look that was a match for his difficult manner. That was when they first began to journey together. Over the course of the past year, however, as they searched for Brienne’s assassin and prepared for this war, their relationship changed. Tavis changed. Where once he had been a selfish, undisciplined child, he now stood before Grinsa a man, still with his faults to be sure, but more mature than the gleaner would have thought possible. With time, perhaps, as Tavis’s face aged, adding other lines, and softening the effect of the old wounds, he’d look wise and strong. That struck Grinsa as more apt now.
“I won’t be the notorious one anymore,” Tavis said after a moment. “They’ll all be looking at you.”
“I’d think that you’d welcome that.”
“I guess I should.”
“But?”
Tavis shrugged, then shook his head. “But nothing.” The smile lingered, grew warmer. “What a pair we make.”
Before Grinsa could answer, Tavis stepped forward and gathered him in a rough embrace.
“Thank you, Grinsa,” he whispered. Then he pulled back, turned away, and hurried off.
The gleaner wandered off in a different direction, eventually taking a seat on a large grey stone and watching the sun set. As darkness gathered around the armies, the soldiers lit fires and the faint smell of roasting fowl reached him. He hadn’t eaten since morning, but he wasn’t hungry. He remained where he was, watching as stars began to spread across the night sky. Fragments of conversations reached him, occasionally he heard a burst of laughter, or the sound of rough voices singing some Eibitharian or Sanbiri folk song. After some time, Keziah came to him and sat as well. He thought that she would resume her argument against what he was planning, but she said nothing, just rested her head on his shoulder, and stared up at the stars. Eventually she began to nod off, jerking herself awake more than once. At last she stood, yawning deeply. Gazing at him in the darkness, she smiled sadly. Then she kissed his cheek, gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and moved off, leaving him alone with the soft wind and the distant, mournful cry of an owl.
Still he waited, watching for the moons. Only when both were up, did he finally close his eyes and stretch his mind forth, searching for the Weaver. He had known to look northward, expecting that Dusaan would be on the waters beyond Galdasten. Instead, he found the Weaver in the company of nearly two hundred Qirsi on the moors south of the castle, only a few days’ ride from the battle plain. Fear gripped him and he nearly opened his eyes once more and went immediately to Kearney. But such a warning could wait a short while-Dusaan and his army weren’t on the move just now. And the truth was, Grinsa wanted to face this man again. He wanted to prove to himself, and to the Weaver, that he could stand against the high chancellor’s power. He wasn’t proud of this-it was something he would have expected of Tavis, not himself-but there could be no denying the strength of the impulse. It was more than he could resist.
Taking one long, final breath, he entered Dusaan’s mind.
He had chosen the moors near Eardley for their encounter-the same place he usually spoke to Keziah when he entered her dreams. It was where he felt most comfortable; he wanted to keep all his attention on the Weaver and what he said, without having to give a thought to their surroundings. Still, he made certain that the sun was high overhead. Dusaan liked to hide his face during such encounters. Grinsa wouldn’t allow him that luxury.
An instant later, Dusaan stood before him, dressed in warrior’s garb, an amused grin on his square face.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said.
Without bothering to respond, Grinsa reached for the man’s power-shaping first, then fire, then healing. Dusaan blocked his efforts with ease.
“You disappoint me, gleaner. You didn’t really think that you’d best me with such a predictable attack.”
“It was worth trying.”
Dusaan shrugged indifferently. “I suppose, though it seems to me that you do our relationship a disservice.”
“We have no relationship.”