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Authors: David B. Coe
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moments after Stavel left him, looking like a frightened rabbit, there came a knock at his door. Gorlan and Nitara.
“Enter,” he called.
They came in together, but quickly separated, Gorlan taking a seat near the window, Nitara sitting beside the high chancellor. It seemed that his hope of fostering a love affair between them, one that would make her forget her desire for him, had been in vain. A pity: her expressions of affection were becoming more and more distracting.
“What have you learned?” he asked, looking from one of them to the other.
“I believe all of the ministers will join with you,” Nitara answered, eyeing Gorlan as she spoke. “And perhaps one or two of the chancellors.”
“And the rest?”
“I’m not certain what they’ll do. They’ve served the emperor for so long they’ve forgotten what it is to be Qirsi.”
She said it to please him, he knew, because she thought it sounded like something he might say.
“What do you think?” Dusaan asked, looking past Nitara to Gorlan.
He had chosen to join the movement, just as the Weaver had known he would. The alternative had been death, or a desperate attempt to flee Curtell. Gorlan wasn’t the type to choose martyrdom, and he was too wise to think that he might actually escape. What impressed Dusaan, however, was the fervor with which he had embraced the Qirsi cause as his own. It was hard to tell if the minister had considered the possibility of joining the movement prior to that day when Dusaan offered him the opportunity to do so. But once presented with the choice, he committed himself fully to its success. Dusaan would have known if the man was feigning his enthusiasm—such was the power of a Weaver. It almost seemed that having opened his eyes at last to the suffering his people endured under Eandi rule of the Forelands, Gorlan could hardly stand to look upon what he saw. He was everything Dusaan had once hoped Kayiv would be, and more. Intelligent, passionate, but controlled, and above all, honest with his opinions and insights, even when he knew that they were at odds with what Dusaan wanted to hear.
“I’m a bit less certain about the ministers than is Nitara. B’Serre and Rov will probably pledge themselves to the movement. I don’t know about the others. And I have little sense of what the chancellors will do.”
“What do you think it would take to convince those who are less willing to join us?”
Gorlan shook his head. “I really don’t know.”
“Do you think telling them of the Weaver would help?”
“It might.”
“What if they were to learn that I was that Weaver?”
Dusaan heard Nitara give a small gasp, but he kept his eyes fixed on the other minister. Gorlan was staring at him, looking awed and just a bit frightened.
“You’re the Weaver?”
“I am.”
“I’m not certain that I believe you.” There was no disrespect in his tone. Just disbelief.
Dusaan smiled. He had concealed his powers for so long. He would enjoy proving to this man what he was. “Raise a wind,” he said.
“What?”
“I want you to summon a wind, right here in this chamber.”
Gorlan regarded him briefly, then gave a small shrug and closed his eyes. A moment later the air in the chamber began to stir. In a few seconds a gale was howling, blowing scrolls onto the floor and making Dusaan’s hair dance.
“Good,” the Weaver said. “Don’t stop.”
He reached for his own power, and joining it to Gorlan’s strengthened the wind as only a Weaver could. Two of the empty chairs toppled. His sword, still sheathed, fell to the floor. The shutters on his window clattered loudly, until it seemed that they would splinter.
Gorlan’s eyes flew open. “Demons and fire!”
“You believe me now?”
The wind died down, and a broad smile broke over the man’s face. “Forgive me for doubting you, Weaver.”
“You needn’t apologize.”
“The others will join you,” he said, still grinning. “I’m certain of it. How
“Enter,” he called.
They came in together, but quickly separated, Gorlan taking a seat near the window, Nitara sitting beside the high chancellor. It seemed that his hope of fostering a love affair between them, one that would make her forget her desire for him, had been in vain. A pity: her expressions of affection were becoming more and more distracting.
“What have you learned?” he asked, looking from one of them to the other.
“I believe all of the ministers will join with you,” Nitara answered, eyeing Gorlan as she spoke. “And perhaps one or two of the chancellors.”
“And the rest?”
“I’m not certain what they’ll do. They’ve served the emperor for so long they’ve forgotten what it is to be Qirsi.”
She said it to please him, he knew, because she thought it sounded like something he might say.
“What do you think?” Dusaan asked, looking past Nitara to Gorlan.
He had chosen to join the movement, just as the Weaver had known he would. The alternative had been death, or a desperate attempt to flee Curtell. Gorlan wasn’t the type to choose martyrdom, and he was too wise to think that he might actually escape. What impressed Dusaan, however, was the fervor with which he had embraced the Qirsi cause as his own. It was hard to tell if the minister had considered the possibility of joining the movement prior to that day when Dusaan offered him the opportunity to do so. But once presented with the choice, he committed himself fully to its success. Dusaan would have known if the man was feigning his enthusiasm—such was the power of a Weaver. It almost seemed that having opened his eyes at last to the suffering his people endured under Eandi rule of the Forelands, Gorlan could hardly stand to look upon what he saw. He was everything Dusaan had once hoped Kayiv would be, and more. Intelligent, passionate, but controlled, and above all, honest with his opinions and insights, even when he knew that they were at odds with what Dusaan wanted to hear.
“I’m a bit less certain about the ministers than is Nitara. B’Serre and Rov will probably pledge themselves to the movement. I don’t know about the others. And I have little sense of what the chancellors will do.”
“What do you think it would take to convince those who are less willing to join us?”
Gorlan shook his head. “I really don’t know.”
“Do you think telling them of the Weaver would help?”
“It might.”
“What if they were to learn that I was that Weaver?”
Dusaan heard Nitara give a small gasp, but he kept his eyes fixed on the other minister. Gorlan was staring at him, looking awed and just a bit frightened.
“You’re the Weaver?”
“I am.”
“I’m not certain that I believe you.” There was no disrespect in his tone. Just disbelief.
Dusaan smiled. He had concealed his powers for so long. He would enjoy proving to this man what he was. “Raise a wind,” he said.
“What?”
“I want you to summon a wind, right here in this chamber.”
Gorlan regarded him briefly, then gave a small shrug and closed his eyes. A moment later the air in the chamber began to stir. In a few seconds a gale was howling, blowing scrolls onto the floor and making Dusaan’s hair dance.
“Good,” the Weaver said. “Don’t stop.”
He reached for his own power, and joining it to Gorlan’s strengthened the wind as only a Weaver could. Two of the empty chairs toppled. His sword, still sheathed, fell to the floor. The shutters on his window clattered loudly, until it seemed that they would splinter.
Gorlan’s eyes flew open. “Demons and fire!”
“You believe me now?”
The wind died down, and a broad smile broke over the man’s face. “Forgive me for doubting you, Weaver.”
“You needn’t apologize.”
“The others will join you,” he said, still grinning. “I’m certain of it. How
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