Shapers of Darkness

Chapter Seventeen

The Moorlands, near Domnall, Eibithar

She rode well back in the column, speaking to no one, her eyes fixed on the path before her, her face a mask of indifference. Keziah and Kearney had agreed that it made more sense for them to ride apart from one another, that if they spent too much time in each other’s company it might invite speculation among the soldiers that they had reconciled. More to the point, it might convince the other Qirsi riding with them of the same thing. And since Keziah couldn’t be certain that the others weren’t traitors allied with the Weaver and his conspiracy, she had to continue behaving as if she, too, was a renegade.

Kearney had assigned a man to her, to keep her safe, but also to make it seem that he still doubted her motives. So she was never truly alone. The soldier rode just behind her, as silent and seemingly withdrawn as she. Kearney knew now of her efforts to join the conspiracy, of her hope that she might learn something of the Weaver that would aid the Eandi courts in their coming battle with the Qirsi movement. But of course he had not shared this with anyone, least of all her guard, who treated her as he might the defeated leader of an invading army, with a cold courtesy that did nothing to hide his contempt for her.

Within only a few days of their departure from Audun’s Castle, Keziah had found herself longing for the company of Gershon Trasker. A year ago she would never have imagined that she and Gershon might become friends, but as with so much else, the Weaver and his movement had changed their relationship, forcing them both to see beyond their mutual distrust. Even if the swordmaster had been here, rather than leading the balance of the king’s army to Kentigern to fight the Aneirans, he couldn’t have spent any more time in her company than could Kearney. But still, she would have drawn comfort just from his presence.

She had no cause to complain. The men around her were all on foot. Only she, the king and his other ministers, and a few of Kearney’s captains were on horseback. With the passing of a storm two nights before, the air had turned cool for so late in the planting; high clouds covered the sky over Eibithar’s Moorlands, and a soft wind blew across the grasses and hillocks. From all she had learned over the years about Eibithar’s history, she knew that armies marching to war often endured terrible hardships. Thus far, they had encountered none of these. Yet, as always seemed to happen to the archminister when she accompanied Kearney and his men, she found herself alone, isolated in a sea of Eandi warriors. She was ashamed of her self-pity, yet she could not help herself.

Late in the morning, just after the last soldiers of the king’s army had started up a gentle rise, the column halted abruptly. Keziah looked up, hearing shouts in the distance and feeling her stomach tighten.

She glanced back at her guard. “What is it?”

He shrugged, looking as confused as she felt, his stony belligerence gone at least for the moment.

One of the captains was riding toward them, looking young and slightly afraid. Keziah wondered if Kearney missed Gershon as much as she did.

“What’s happening?” she asked as the man approached.

“His Majesty would like you to join him, Archminister. We’re nearing the gates of Domnall.”

Keziah nodded, kicking at the flanks of Greystar, her mount. Freed suddenly from the tedium of the soldiers’ slow pace, the horse practically leaped forward. The archminister sensed that the guard and captain were just behind her, but she didn’t look back. As she rode she felt Kearney’s men watching her, row after row of them, wary of her, wondering, no doubt, if she would raise her mists on their behalf when the battle was joined, or if, instead, she would betray them. She wanted to stop and yell at them all, to tell them that she remained loyal to Kearney and the realm, to tell them how much she had risked to learn what she could of the Weaver, to make them see how she suffered for the choices she had made. But she merely stared straight ahead, heedless of the burning of her cheeks.

Topping the rise, she found Kearney, utterly still atop his great bay. Following the line of his gaze, Keziah felt fear wrap its hand around her throat. Domnall Castle stood in the distance, her towers rising high above the moor and the low buildings and walls of Domnall City. A single flag flew above the castle’s ramparts, bearing the grey, purple, and white sigil of the house. There was no Eibitharian banner, as there should have been, though this was not what made Keziah tremble.

Outside the walls of the city, lining the road on which Kearney and his men were traveling, stood the army of Domnall, a thousand men strong. Before them, in the center of the road, a man waited on horseback, his black and silver hair stirring in the wind. Keziah couldn’t be certain from this distance, but she assumed that this was Seamus, duke of Domnall, who long ago had cast his lot with Aindreas of Kentigern in defiance of the Crown.

“Do you think he intends to fight?” Keziah asked.

The king didn’t even look at her. “I don’t know. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that he intends to offer his sword and his men in defense of the realm.”

“Isn’t that possible?”

Kearney shook his head. “His men are lining the road. If he was offering his aid, they would be positioned in rows for my inspection. He has something else in mind.”

“He wouldn’t fight us, Your Majesty,” said the captain. “It would be folly even to make the attempt. We outnumber him by more than two to one, our men are better trained, and ours are the better arms. He’d be leading them to a slaughter.”

“I agree, Captain. But if he won’t fight us, and he won’t join us, why is he out here?”

Keziah shifted her gaze back to the lone flag, watching it rise and fall lazily in the wind. “You sent word to Seamus, didn’t you, Your Majesty?” She looked at Kearney again. “You ordered his army north, to Galdasten.”

“Yes. What of it?”

“The messenger would have arrived here days ago, and yet the duke and his army remain. And he’s not flying the colors of the realm.”

“You think he’s making a show of defying me.”

She could hear the pain in his voice. None of the others would have noticed-they didn’t know Kearney as she did-but it was there, unmistakable.

“There’s no Qirsi with them, Your Majesty,” the captain said after a brief silence. “There would be whether they were planning to fight us or join us. I think the archminister may be right.”

“I’ve never known Seamus to be so bold.” A sad smile touched the king’s lips, then vanished. “He must hate me a great deal.”

“They’re traitors,” the captain said. “Every one of them. We should kill them all.”

“We can’t.” Kearney gave a short, harsh laugh. “Seamus knows we can’t. We haven’t the time to fight them, and we can’t weaken ourselves by trying. It’s a coward’s gesture.”

But Keziah could see from the expression on Kearney’s face that it stung nevertheless.

The captain faced him. “So what do we do?”

“We ride past them,” the king said. “Captain, I want you to make certain that the men don’t respond in any way to Domnall’s soldiers. They’re going to be taunted, they may be spat upon. They’re not to retaliate. Not at all. I want them looking straight ahead, I want them silent, and I want their weapons to remain at their sides. Do you understand?”

The man nodded, though he didn’t look at all pleased.

“They’re testing us. They want to see if we’re disciplined enough to prevail, not only against the empire, not only against the conspiracy, but also against Aindreas and his allies. If we lash out at them, even if it’s justified, we weaken ourselves, we weaken the realm.” He looked down at Domnall’s army once more. “Seamus wants to show that he’s not afraid to defy me. Let’s show him that we don’t care one way or another. Give the order, Captain. Return here when the men are ready.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The captain rode off, calling to the other commanders.

“He’s playing a dangerous game,” Kearney said, his voice so low that Keziah had to lean forward just to hear him. “This could get out of hand very quickly.”

“Might we be better off leaving the road, putting some distance between our soldiers and his?”

“Probably, but I think you know I can’t do that. Seamus is looking for any sign of weakness on my part. I’d be giving him just what he wants.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

He looked at her. “You think I’m wrong.”

“No. I’m sure you’re right. But I fear for us all. You shouldn’t have to consider such things when marching to defend the realm.”

The captain returned a short while later to inform the king that the men had been given their orders.

“Then, let’s march,” the king said.

Keziah hesitated, wondering if she should return to the rear of the column. “Where do you want me, Your Majesty?”

“I think you’d better stay with me, just in case.”

They started down the gentle slope, Kearney, his youthful face grim, leading the way.

Seamus remained in the center of the road, a smirk on his thin lips. As they drew nearer to Domnall’s army, Keziah could see that the duke’s men stood at attention, but with their swords sheathed.

The king seemed to notice this as well. “At least he has sense enough to keep weapons out of their hands,” Kearney murmured. A moment later, he added, his voice still low, “Archminister, I want you to follow my lead. Do what I do, and stay close at hand.”

Keziah nodded, her heart hammering at her chest and her mouth dry.

As the road leveled out and the king’s army drew ever nearer to Domnal’s men, the duke steered his horse off the road, though he halted just beside it, and close to the first of his men.

“At ease!” he called in a clear voice.

Immediately, Domnall’s soldiers relaxed their stances and started shouting insults at Kearney’s men, calling them cowards and butchers. Keziah glanced back at the soldiers and saw that though they continued to face forward, already the nearest of them were reddening.

“Stop looking back,” Kearney said quietly.

She obeyed, but gave a small shake of her head. “This isn’t going to work.”

“I know. Just follow me.”

As he reached Seamus, Kearney steered his mount off the road as well, so that he was positioned just beside the duke. Keziah did the same, taking her place on the other side of Seamus.

“Lord Domnall,” the king said, as his men began to file past. “How kind of you to greet my men. You honor us.”

Seamus frowned. “That wasn’t my intention.”

Kearney’s sword was in his hand so swiftly that Keziah didn’t even see him reach for it. Apparently the duke didn’t either. He looked utterly shocked to find the tip of Kearney’s blade pressed against the side of his throat.

Immediately Kearney’s men halted and a hush fell over the duke’s army.

“Continue the march!” the king said, his voice pitched to carry. “Eyes straight ahead!”

After a moment, one of the captains barked a command and the king’s soldiers started forward again. Seamus’s men, however, kept their silence.

“What did you think to accomplish here, Seamus?” the king asked, speaking softly again. “Surely you didn’t think that I’d allow you to mock me and my men in this way.”

When the duke said nothing, Kearney pressed harder with his blade, until Keziah wondered how the skin on Seamus’s neck didn’t break.

“Well?”

“No matter what I’ll say, you’ll kill me as a traitor.”

“If I wanted you to hang, I’d already have cause enough to give the order. I ordered you to Galdasten. Under the laws of the land, your house is already in rebellion.”

Seamus said nothing, though the color fled his cheeks. It seemed he hadn’t considered this.

“I’m not going to have you executed.”

“Then you’ll imprison me in my own dungeon.”

“I won’t do anything to you, Seamus. I have more pressing matters to which to attend. To be honest, you’re not worth even this much trouble. But I want an answer. I want to understand this.”

The duke eyed him briefly, his mouth set in a thin line, his angular face ashen. “I can speak freely?” he finally said. “Without fear of punishment?”

“You have my word.”

“Your word. Very well, Your Majesty. I suppose I have little choice. If you mean to kill me, there’s little I can do to stop you, so I might as well speak my mind. I don’t believe you deserve to sit on the throne. I have nothing against Glyndwr, nor did I have any reason to distrust you, until you granted asylum to the Curgh boy. But I believe that you and Javan have contrived to take the throne from Aindreas.”

“Then you’re a fool, Seamus. If Javan had wished to do such a thing, he would have done so in a way that enabled him to keep the crown for himself and his line. Remember, he abdicated, just as Aindreas did.”

“He had no choice in the matter. Had he attempted to take the throne after what his son did, it would have led immediately to civil war.”

“The boy didn’t do anything! We hold in the prison tower of Audun’s Castle a Qirsi woman who admits to hiring the assassin who killed Brienne. Demons and fire, man! Didn’t you even bother to read the missive I sent?”

“One more Qirsi deception. They’ve shown time and again that they can’t be trusted, and yet you’re so ready to believe this woman who came to your castle. You would seek any evidence, no matter how weak, to justify your faith in the Butcher of Curgh.”

Kearney closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “Why would she lie about this? The conspiracy wants you and Aindreas and the others to believe in Tavis’s guilt. They have no reason to offer proof to the contrary.”

“The Qirsi have been lying to us for too long, deluding us with false counsel, striking at us with hidden blades.” The duke’s eyes flicked toward Keziah. “We can only guess at what their purpose might be. Our only recourse is to stop relying on white-hairs entirely. Nothing they say can be trusted, and that includes this woman in your prison tower. Perhaps she seeks to save herself by telling you what you wish to hear. Or maybe she’s been ordered by her leaders to say these things. I don’t know. But I will not believe in Tavis’s innocence simply because a traitorous Qirsi says that I should.”

“Is that why your first minister isn’t here, Seamus? Have you lost faith in all your Qirsi?”

“Yes. To be honest, Your Majesty, I’m surprised and disappointed to find that you haven’t.”

Kearney opened his mouth, then stopped himself, glancing at Keziah with an apology in his green eyes. She knew that he wanted to defend her. “I still don’t understand this show of defiance,” he said instead. “Why not remain in your castle, and let us march past?”

“That,” the duke said, his eyes meeting the king’s, “would have been an act of cowardice.”

It seemed that Kearney didn’t know what to say. For as long as Keziah had known him, he had prided himself on his honor, his refusal to compromise his principles under any circumstance. Though Seamus had committed treason, and then had chosen to flaunt his defiance, there was a certain perverse dignity in this display. At last the king shook his head once more, a bitter smile on his lips. “You’re an ass, Seamus,” he muttered, and sheathed his sword.

The duke’s face reddened, but before he could answer, they heard voices raised in anger at the front of the column.

Kearney leveled a finger at Seamus. “Any blood spilled here is on your head!” Then he kicked at his mount and raced toward the commotion, Keziah and the duke following in his wake.

Near the front of the column, two men were wrestling on the ground, one wearing the colors of the king, the other obviously from Domnall. They had their daggers drawn and the duke’s man bore a deep gash on his shoulder. A large group of men, many of them with their swords drawn, had formed a ring around the two combatants. Kearney’s captains were shouting for the king’s men to stand down, but they had done nothing to separate the two who were fighting, and already other men were pairing off, preparing for combat. It wouldn’t take much for the confrontation to escalate into a full battle.

Reaching the ring of soldiers, Kearney didn’t hesitate. He swung himself off of his mount, pushed his way through the bystanders, and, drawing his sword, plunged the blade into the earth just beside the men’s heads.

The two fighters froze, twisting their necks to stare up at the king. All other conversations stopped.

“Get up!” Kearney said, his tone a match for the ice in his eyes.

Slowly, the two soldiers untangled themselves and stood, both of them looking as sheepish as chastised boys.

“Captain!”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Didn’t I tell you that these men were not to respond in any way to the duke’s soldiers?”

“You did, Your Majesty.”

“And did you convey those orders to the men?”

“Of course I did, Your Majesty.”

“Did you think that your captain’s commands didn’t apply to you?” Kearney asked the soldier.

“No, Your Majesty! But this man called you a milksop and-”

“I don’t care what he called me, and neither should you. This man and his duke intend to hide in their castle while we fight to defend the realm.” Kearney grinned and looked up at Seamus, who remained on his mount. “Why should it matter to us what any of them say?”

The soldier grinned in return. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Get these men moving again, Captain. We’ve wasted enough time here.”

Seamus’s men were glaring at the king, but none of them said a word, nor did any dare to raise a weapon against him. Still, Keziah wished that Kearney would take to his mount again; he’d be safer in his saddle. The king appeared unconcerned.

“Lord Domnall,” he said, allowing his voice to carry. “I hereby declare you and your house to be in rebellion. I’ll take no action against you so long as your army remains in the dukedom, but any effort you make to journey beyond your lands will be considered an act of war against the realm and will be met appropriately. With one exception. You may march with us now to meet the invaders at Galdasten. If you do so, all this will be forgotten.”

The duke stared at him a moment, then clicked his tongue at his mount and steered the beast away, back toward his castle. He called out to one of his commanders, who began to shout commands at Domnall’s soldiers. Soon all of them were following their duke.

Kearney watched them go, his expression as bleak as Keziah had ever seen it, his sword lowered and seemingly forgotten.

“You were right when you called him an ass,” she said softly.

“Perhaps. But there’ll be others like him. And they may cost us everything.” He walked past her, and climbed onto his mount. “I suppose we should ride apart again.”

“It’s safest if we do.”

He nodded, casting one final look at Domnall castle before returning to the front of the column. Keziah turned her mount and started down the road with the last of Kearney’s soldiers. A moment later her guard fell in just behind her, still silent, his face like a stone wall. It was all Keziah could do not to rail at the man.

Kearney and his army managed to put several leagues between themselves and Domnall by the time daylight started to fail and they were forced to make camp. As usual, Keziah ate her supper alone, save for the reticent guard. After, she unrolled her sleeping roll and lay down, conscious of the guard doing the same a short distance away. Prior to leaving the City of Kings, Kearney had offered to have his men carry a tent for her, but the archminister refused. If the soldiers had to sleep beneath open skies, she reasoned, so would she. They carried a tent for Wenda, but the high minister was by far the oldest of the king’s Qirsi-Keziah didn’t begrudge her this small comfort. Indeed, had she realized how bothersome she would find the guard’s constant presence, she might have accepted Kearney’s offer herself.

The clouds that had covered the skies for the past several days had finally started to break up, and as they drifted overhead, like ice in the northern rivers, she could see an occasional star shining bright in the blackness beyond. The moons offered some light as well, Ilias’s.red glow blending with Panya’s white to give a rose cast to the grasses and boulders of the moor.

When sleep finally came to her, Keziah began to dream, seeing once more the armies of Domnall and Eibithar’s king arrayed against each other. This time, however, Kearney could not keep them from fighting and soon Keziah was surrounded by mayhem and carnage. Everywhere she looked, men were dying, their blood flowing from ghastly wounds until it seemed that the entire moor had been stained red. Keziah shouted for them to stop, but they ignored her. She tried to raise a mist, hoping that if they couldn’t see one another, they might break off their combat, but her power failed her. Hearing hoofbeats behind her, she turned to see her guard bearing down on her, his blade raised and a fierce grin on his face. She threw up an arm to shield herself and cried out for Kearney, but the soldier was closing the distance between them far too swiftly.

Abruptly, everything went dark, as if the sun had been extinguished. Her footing changed as well, and she nearly stumbled. It took her a moment to realize that she was still dreaming, and another to understand that the Weaver had come to her. Without even thinking, Keziah began to walk, trudging up the incline to where she knew she would find him. The climb was more difficult than she remembered, the hill steeper, the terrain rougher. In the short time she had known the Weaver, she had come to understand that his moods could be measured in such things. This hill was the man’s way of telling her that he was displeased. And Keziah knew why.

She was winded and sweating when she reached the summit. Almost the moment she stopped climbing white light flared before her, and the Weaver appeared, framed as always against the harsh radiance so that she couldn’t see his features.

“I heard you cry out,” he said. “You were dreaming even before I came to you.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“Of what?”

Keziah hesitated. She was dazed, her mind addled by the sudden shift to this second far more dangerous dream. Under any circumstances facing the Weaver terrified her, but to do so without her wits. .

“Of what?” he demanded again, his voice like iron.

“A battle,” she said. “We marched past Domnall today and the duke had his army on the road as a show of defiance. The two armies nearly did battle, and that’s what I was dreaming. Only in my dream, one of Kearney’s men was trying to kill me.”

In this case, she realized only after she had finished, the truth served her purposes quite well, making it seem that she and the king remained at odds.

“You march to Galdasten?”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“But Domnall does not.”

“No.”

“What of the others?”

“We can’t be certain yet, but we believe Eardley, Sussyn, Rennach, and Galdasten will also refuse to fight alongside the king.”

“Thorald will fight?”

“It seems so. Tobbar’s son has allied himself with the king, even though his father refuses to take sides in Kearney’s dispute with Kentigern.”

“I suppose that can’t be helped,” the Weaver said, as much to himself as to her. Then the question she had been dreading. “Was Cresenne still alive when you left Audun’s Castle?”

She lowered her gaze. “Yes, Weaver.”

“Have you made arrangements to have her killed before you return?”

“No, Weaver. I didn’t know who to trust with such a task. And I never had the opportunity before we left. Kearney keeps her well guarded. Any time I went to see her-”

Agony. Her chest seemed to be seared by flames. She couldn’t breathe; she certainly couldn’t speak. She tried to remember what Grinsa had told her, that whenever the Weaver hurt her it was an illusion, a trick of the mind. Her magic and her body were her own. The Weaver might have access to her thoughts, but that was all. She had only to take control of them.

Except that she couldn’t. Terror gripped her mind. She could think of nothing but her pain and her desperate need to draw breath.

“You failed me,” the Weaver said, his voice low and shockingly cold. “I told you I wanted her dead, that her murder would be a test of your loyalty, and still she lives. Your excuses mean nothing to me; your failure is all that matters.”

At that moment she could offer no argument. She had failed him and she would have given anything to be able to beg his forgiveness, to fall at his feet and grovel for mercy. But even this bitter comfort was denied her.

“I sensed your reluctance when I first assigned this task to you. Did you even want to succeed? Or did you think to delay until Kearney marched to war? Was that what happened?”

She shook her head, still fighting for breath. Her vision began to fail her, the figure of the Weaver starting to swim. She wondered how much longer she could remain on her feet.

“I should kill you now, make you an example to all those who would defy my commands. You’d be a message to Kearney as well, lest he think that the movement can be taken lightly.”

Keziah dropped to her knees, clutching at her chest.

“Unfortunately, I can’t afford to lose even one servant just now, and with your king marching to war you may still prove to be of some value to me.”

He released her and she fell onto her side, gasping, greedily sucking sweet air into her lungs, her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth wide. Each breath seemed to soothe the fire in her chest, easing the pain. Her fear lingered, however. The Weaver had only to form the thought and her suffering would begin anew.

“I trust you won’t fail me again.”

“No, Weaver.” She could barely manage to speak the words. “As soon as we return to the City of Kings, I’ll take care of the woman. I swear it.” And at that very moment, she almost meant it.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Even prone on the ground in her dreams, afraid for her life and still struggling to shake off the effects of what he had done to her, Keziah had the presence of mind to mute her response to this.

“But I promised you that I’d do it.”

“Your promises were worth little in that regard. Now I have little choice but to see to the matter myself. But don’t fear, Archminister. I have other tasks for you. One in particular that I believe you’ll enjoy. I had been planning to have another do this-an assassin of some renown. It seems now that he’s dead, and so I have to turn elsewhere. As it happens, it’s just as fine a test of your loyalty to me as Cresenne’s murder would have been. It might even be better.”

Keziah sensed that he wanted her to ask, that he would be watching her closely to gauge her response. She sat up, then forced herself to her feet.

“What is this task, Weaver?”

“I think you know.” She couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was smiling. And she did know. Gods help her, she knew exactly what it was, though she couldn’t imagine how he expected her do this without being caught and executed herself.

“You want me to kill Kearney.”

“Very good, Keziah. Very good indeed.”

She didn’t bother to conceal her fear and the ache in her heart.

“You still love him, I know. This won’t be easy for you. But it must be done. I won’t accept failure a second time.”

“But how can I possibly-?”

“I don’t expect you to do it yet, and I don’t want anyone to know it was you. He should die in battle, near Galdasten, if possible.”

Of course. What better way to prolong the war and weaken Eibithar than to leave her leaderless in the middle of this conflict? No doubt he hoped that in the wake of Kearney’s death Renald, Javan, and Aindreas would all vie for the crown.

“You understand. I sense it.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“Good. There may be some hope for you yet.”

“Kearney still doesn’t trust me entirely. I may not be able to get close enough to him.”

“Well, see that you do. You possess both language of beasts and mists and winds. They should serve you quite well in this regard.”

“Yes, Weaver,” she whispered.

“Perhaps you’ll be fortunate and he’ll be killed in battle without any help from you. But one way or another, I want him dead.”

“It shall be done.”

“I expect no less.”

She awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright, her chest heaving. Her hair and clothes and sleeping roll were soaked with sweat, and her head spun so violently that she feared she might throw up. Glancing to the side, she saw that her guard was awake, propped up on one arm, eyeing her in the dim light of the moons.

She briefly considered sending the man to Kearney’s tent with word that she needed to speak with the king immediately. But in the next moment she dismissed the idea. It would serve only to draw attention to her and it might convince others working for the Weaver that she remained loyal to the king. Certainly she needed to tell Kearney what the Weaver expected her to do, just as she needed to dispatch a message to Cresenne warning her of the Weaver’s intent to kill her himself. But she had some time. It would be days before Kearney would lead the men into battle, and Cresenne spent her nights awake, sleeping by day so that she might avoid dreams of the Weaver. Keziah could wait until morning with little risk to either of them.

The archminister lay back down, turning her back to the guard. A gust of wind swept over the Moorlands, scything through her damp clothes and making her shiver. She wasn’t fool enough to think that she could get back to sleep, but if she sat up again, or changed clothes, or took a walk, which is what she really longed to do, the guard would follow, watching her, dogging her every step. So Keziah lay there, trembling in the chill air, jerking occasionally as she recalled the Weaver’s assault, staring at the swaying grasses.

When at last the dawn broke, the eastern sky glowing gold, she rose and, heedless of the stares of the men around her, changed her clothes. Then she walked to the guard.

“Tell the king his archminister requests a word with him.”

She thought he might argue with her, but he seemed to hear something in her tone. He nodded once, then set off across the camp.

When he returned a short while later, one of Kearney’s captains was with him.

“I’m to escort you to the king, Archminister.”

Keziah nodded. It was a nice touch. It would seem to those watching that Kearney didn’t trust her enough to allow her to approach him unguarded. “Very well, Captain. Lead the way.”

When they reached Kearney’s tent, the captain had the archminister and her guard wait outside while he stepped within and spoke to the king. A moment later he pushed the tent flap aside and motioned for her to enter.

“Thank you, Captain,” Kearney said. “Find something to eat. We’ll be riding shortly. You, too,” he added, looking at the guard.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the captain said.

When both men were gone, Kearney stood, regarding her with obvious concern. “You don’t look well. What’s happened?’

“I had a visit from the Weaver last night.”

“Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” she said, ignoring the second question. “He was angry with me for not killing Cresenne, but he still needs me. Otherwise I’d probably be dead.”

“This is madness, Kez! It has to stop!”

“There’s no way to stop it except to see it through to the end.”

“But-”

“Please,” she said, fearing that she might cry at any moment. “Just let me finish. He told me that he intends to kill Cresenne himself. We have to get a message to her, quietly but quickly. She has to know what he plans to do.”

“All right. We’ll send someone today.”

“Thank you.” She took a breath, remembering once again the fire that had tortured her the night before. “There’s more. He gave me another task, another test of my loyalty to the movement. He wants me to kill you.”

Kearney actually smiled. “Is that why you’ve come?”

She laughed. How could she help it? There were tears in her eyes, but this man had always been able to make her laugh. “I’m to do it during the battle. I won’t, of course, but I thought you should know, because he may have others working for him who will make the attempt.”

“They won’t be alone, Kez. Half the men on that battlefield will be trying to kill me.”

“I know. But all the emperor’s men are nothing compared to this Weaver and his servants.” She swallowed. “I’m afraid for you,” she whispered.

Kearney took a step toward her, and, glancing at the tent flap to be certain no one was there, he took her hand. “And I am for you. I suppose somehow we’ll have to keep each other safe.”

For a moment that stretched to eternity they remained utterly still, their eyes locked. More than anything, Keziah wanted to kiss him; just this once, just so that she could taste his lips again and feel his arms around her. She sensed that he wanted this as well, and she knew that if they unleashed their passion for each other, even if only for one stolen kiss, they would never find the strength to quell it once more.

And so Keziah did the only thing she could, the only thing she dared. Pulling her hand free, she fled the tent.