“We’ve still got the advantage. That’s but one man out there. If there were two they’d have attacked by now.”
Craeffe climbed to her feet, wiping the tears from her face. “What do you suggest?”
“We need to remain together. I should never have sent Filtem out there alone-that was my mistake. But as long as we stay together and keep the archminister with us, there’s nothing he can do. We’re both shapers, after all.”
As Abeni spoke, she relaxed her grip on Keziah slightly. Not much-the woman probably didn’t even notice that she had done so. But Keziah did, and now she did the only thing she could. Moving as quickly as she ever had, she stamped her foot on Abeni’s and at the same time threw back her elbow, catching the woman full in the breast.
Abeni gasped, then cursed, but Keziah had already flung herself away from the woman, falling to the ground and rolling until she reached the edge of the ring.
The pain in her hands was nearly more than she could bear, but she managed to shout out, “I’m free!”
Immediately, mist began to fill the circle again, driven by a strong wind. There were footsteps, the sudden rustling of cloth, and then that awful, familiar sound of snapping bone. A moment later a second body fell to the earth.
Keziah felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach.
Yet another wind whipped through the circle, and when the mist had cleared, Keziah nearly cried out with joy.
Craeffe was lying on the grass, utterly motionless. And standing over her was Fotir jal Salene, his brilliant yellow eyes fixed on Abeni.
“It seems you and I wield the same powers, Archminister,” he said to her. He glanced at Keziah for just an instant. “Are you all right?”
“Well enough.”
He nodded, facing the traitor again.
“Take even a single step toward me, and I’ll break her neck,” Abeni said. “If you’re a shaper, you know that I can.”
“And you know that I can do the same to you.”
“Then it seems neither of us has the advantage.”
How many times had Keziah found herself in such a circumstance: helpless to defend herself, depending on another-Grinsa, or Kearney, or Gershon Trasker, or Fotir-to guard her life? She was tired of feeling helpless, of living in fear of the Weaver and his servants, of accepting the suspicions of others as the price of her decision to join the conspiracy. She ached to strike out at any one of her many enemies. And here was Abeni.
Fotir and Sanbira’s archminister were too intent on each other to take notice of her, or to see what she did as she looked up at the two of them.
High over the ring of stones, black as night against the deepening blue of the twilight sky, a lone falcon was gliding in slow circles. It was a long way, and Keziah was weary with grief and pain. But still she cast her thoughts upward, reaching for the bird’s mind, and touching it with her magic. Language of beasts. Many times she had used this power to calm an anxious horse, and once, years before, she had escaped uninjured from an encounter with a wild dog in the Glyndwr Highlands. But never before had she attempted to communicate anything to a wild bird, much less one as fierce as this hawk.
At first she feared that the creature would refuse to heed her request. But she maintained her hold on the falcon’s mind, conveying to it all that Abeni had done to her, and after several moments she sensed the bird’s acquiescence. She saw it pull in its wings and begin a steep dive toward the circle of stones.
Glancing at Fotir and Abeni again, Keziah saw that they were still staring at one another. Fotir was saying something, but Keziah could not hear him, so absorbed was she in the strange thoughts of the falcon-dizzying images of hunting on the wing, of tearing into the warm, bloody flesh of a ptarmigan, of the bird’s sickening descent toward the Qirsi woman standing over her. Keziah shook her head, trying to break free of the creature’s mind.
In the next instant, she heard Abeni scream in shock and pain as the bird raked the back of her head with its outstretched talons. The falcon called out as well, a sharp, repetitive cry that echoed among the boulders as the bird climbed into the sky again.
Releasing her hold on the falcon, Keziah found her sight momentarily clouded, her thoughts muddled. By the time she could see and think clearly again, Abeni lay prone on the grasses beside Craeffe, their heads jutting from their bodies at similar angles.
“You killed her,” Keziah said, knowing that she sounded simple.
“You didn’t want me to?”
“No, I did. I just…” Abruptly she was sobbing, her body shaking so violently that she wondered if she would ever be able to stand. “Thank you,” she managed.
Fotir crossed to where she lay and reached to untie her hands. When she gasped at his first touch, he stopped, wincing as if he too were in pain.
“I’m sorry. Should I leave the bonds?”
She shook her head, taking a long breath. “Please, untie them. I’ll bear it as best I can.”
Keziah had to grit her teeth and bite back more than one cry as he struggled with Abeni’s knot, but in a few moments her maimed hands were free.
“Thank you,” she whispered again.
“Of course. Let’s get you to a healer.”
“Take me to my brother.”
Fotir frowned. “Your brother?”
With all the secrets she had kept and revealed in recent turns, not only to this man, but to so many others, she found it hard to remember what remained hidden and what didn’t.
“Grinsa,” she said. “Grinsa is my brother.”
He stared at her a moment, shaking his head. “Your brother,” he whispered. “Yes, of course. I’ll take you to him.”
He lifted her into his arms as if she were but a child and carried her out of the ring of boulders.
“Is Kearney all right?” she asked suddenly, remembering all that happened before Abeni began to hurt her.
“I don’t know,” Fotir said. “The gleaner asked me to keep watch on you. I left the battle before it ended.”
“He asked you to watch me?”
Fotir smiled, his eyes so golden they appeared almost orange in the evening light. “Does that surprise you?”
Chapter Nineteen
Led by Grinsa, Kearney, and the queen of Sanbira, Qirsi and Eandi alike had begun a frantic search of the camp for Keziah and Olesya’s archminister. Tavis heard several of the king’s soldiers speaking of it as a hunt for traitors, but he didn’t bother to correct them, not knowing himself whether Grinsa and Keziah wanted it to seem just that. In fact, Tavis didn’t fully understand why Grinsa was so eager to find the archministers until Fotir walked into camp amid the commotion of the search carrying Keziah in his arms, her mangled hands livid and swollen in the twilight.
Grinsa was at the minister’s side almost immediately, taking Keziah from him and laying her gently beside a fire.
“What happened?” he asked, his brow deeply creased as he examined his sister’s hands.
Fotir and Keziah exchanged a look, as if unsure as to which of them should speak. Other nobles and ministers began to gather around them, as did many soldiers from the various houses of Eibithar and Sanbira.
“Three of them had taken her captive,” Fotir finally answered. “Sanbira’s archminister and two of her first ministers-Macharzo and Norinde, I believe.”
The queen gaped at him, her face white as bone. “Demons and fire! Three of them, you say?”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
“Where are they now?” Grinsa demanded, murder in his eyes.
“They’re dead, in that cluster of boulders back there.”
The gleaner blinked. “You killed all three of them? By yourself?”
At that, Fotir smiled, sharing another look with the archminister. “Not entirely, no.”
Grinsa faced his sister again. “Keziah?”
Before she could say anything, Tavis heard a voice shouting, “Where is she? Is she alive?”
A moment later, Kearney reached Keziah’s side, relief plain on his face. “Gods be praised. Are you hurt?” His eyes fell to her hands and he grimaced. “Damn!”