Weavers of War (30 page)

“You’re brave,” he said at length. “And I sense your strength.”

“Thank you, Weaver,” she whispered.

In the next instant she opened her eyes, blinking several times to clear her sight. White Panya and red Ilias were climbing to the east, though they were still low enough in the sky so that their light did not obscure the brilliant stars overhead. The night was warm, but Fetnalla found that she was shivering. Her clothes and hair were soaked with sweat, as they always were after these encounters with the Weaver, and her face was damp with tears. Alone save for her mount, she removed her wet clothes and sat naked, allowing the mild breeze to dry her skin and soothe her heart.

Eventually she lay back down, pulling her blanket up to her chin and staring at the moons until she fell back asleep.

When next she woke, the sun was high in the eastern sky, warming the moor. She sat up quickly, cursing herself for sleeping so late into the morning. Then it all came back to her, crashing down like a wave, stealing her breath.
Remain there,
the Weaver had said.
Allow her to find you.

But what if she didn’t? What if Fetnalla explained to him that in spite of her best efforts, Evanthya had passed her by? No sooner had she formed the thought, however, than she realized that such a transparent lie would never work. The Weaver would find Evanthya eventually and he’d kill Fetnalla, too.

What did it say about the love Fetnalla shared with Evanthya that she should choose to kill the woman herself rather than allow another to do it? She tried to tell herself that she feared another Qirsi might be too cruel in carrying out the Weaver’s command. She desperately wanted to believe that.

Not wishing to ponder the matter further, she rose, dressed, and gathered what wood she could find for a fire. No trees grew in this part of the moor, but there were enough low shrubs to feed a small blaze. The branches were fresh and gave off far more smoke than heat, but under these circumstances, that was just what Fetnalla wanted.

She spent much of the day sitting beside the fire, feeding more branches into its low flames, and foraging for additional fuel. All the time, she kept an eye on the southern horizon, searching for some sign of her love. As the hours stretched on, she began to wonder how long the Weaver would expect her to wait. Wasn’t it possible that Evanthya had taken another route northward? Even as she formed the question, however, Fetnalla knew that she hadn’t. Any farther east, and she would have had to climb onto the steppe; any farther west and she would have had to cross Harrier Fen, or worse, brave the waters near Kentigern, where there was war. Fetnalla had chosen to come this way because it was the quickest and safest path to Galdasten, and Evanthya would do the same.

Late in the day, at long last, a figure appeared in the distance, riding a horse, white hair flying in the wind. At first Fetnalla was certain that this was Evanthya, and her heart began to race, not with dread at having to kill her, but with the familiar thrill of knowing they would soon be together.

As the rider drew closer, however, she realized that this wasn’t Evanthya at all. It was a man, tall, with narrow shoulders and a thin face. Pronjed jal Drenthe, archminister of Aneira. Fetnalla stood. For just an instant she even considered drawing her sword.

“I saw your fire,” he said, as he approached. He reined his horse to a halt a few fourspans from where she stood, but he made no move to dismount. “You want her to find you?”

Fetnalla and Pronjed had never spoken of the conspiracy. After Carden’s death, she and her duke had speculated that the archminister might be a traitor, but they had never confronted him. Since joining the movement herself, Fetnalla had spent almost no time in the man’s company. Yet it seemed now that each knew where the other’s loyalty lay. Why else would Pronjed be riding northward? Why else would she?

“I’ve been instructed to wait for her.”

He nodded, showing no surprise. “She’s about a day’s ride behind me—she’s been following me almost since the moment I escaped from Dantrielle.”

There are others.
“The Weaver sent you this way.”

“He didn’t have to. When I left Dantrielle, my only aim was to reach the Moorlands as quickly as possible. But when he learned that I could lead the first minister to you, he told me to go slowly enough to keep her close.” He hesitated. “Are you going to…? What is it he expects of you?”

“I think you know.”

His eyes widened slightly, but otherwise his expression didn’t change. “Can you do it?”

Fetnalla found herself wondering if Pronjed was asking for himself or on behalf of the Weaver, and she answered cautiously. “The Weaver has told me what needs to be done. What else matters?”

“I could do it for you. The Weaver need never know.”

She eyed him doubtfully. “Why would you take such a risk?”

“It’s the least I can do. You once healed me when I came to you in need, and you guarded my secret. I haven’t forgotten that.”

Fetnalla had, though hearing him speak of it, she remembered it all quite clearly. They had been in Castle Solkara for Carden’s funeral, not long before the poisoning that nearly killed her. The archminister came to her quarters early in the morning with a shattered bone in his hand, which, he said, had come from a fall he had taken the night before. And with the memory, came a sudden insight.

“The Weaver did that to you!” she whispered. “He broke your hand—it didn’t happen in some fall.”

He smiled weakly. “Very good, cousin.”

“But why did he hurt you?”

“It was punishment for something I did, something that angered him greatly.”

“What?”

The smile lingered, but there was a haunted look in Pronjed’s pale yellow eyes as he shook his head. “It’s not a matter I wish to discuss.”

“Yet you offer to risk angering him again by helping me.”

“As I say, I feel that I owe you this much. And if neither of us tells the Weaver, there is no risk.”

“I think we both know better. Keeping secrets from him is no small task.” She looked away from him, gazing southward once more, as if expecting to see Evanthya at any moment. “Besides, I think it’s best that I do this.”

“I believe I understand. Perhaps I should be on my way then.”

A part of her would have liked for him to stay. She had been alone for so many days that it felt good to talk to someone, even about this. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask him to remain with her, so she merely nodded. “May the gods treat you kindly, Archminister. I’m grateful to you for offering to help me.”

“Gods keep you safe, Fetnalla. I’ll look for you on the Moorlands.”

He clicked his tongue at his mount and the beast turned, resuming the journey toward Eibithar. Fetnalla watched him ride off for a time, until he was little more than a speck in the distance. Then she threw another branch on the fire and sat facing south, scanning the moors for her love.

Nightfall brought a sense of relief. Even early in the waning, the moons didn’t rise until several hours after dusk—they didn’t climb high enough to light the moors until well past midnight—and Evanthya wouldn’t ride far in the darkness. Fetnalla tried to eat, but she had no appetite. She unrolled her sleeping roll and lay down, staring at the low flames. Her clothes stank of smoke and horse and sweat. She could only imagine how she must look. How strange it was to worry about her appearance now, when she was waiting to kill her lover. Eventually, she fell into a deep, dreamless slumber, waking only when she felt the sun warming her face. Again, she had slept far into the morning.

Sitting up, she noticed that her fire had burned out. Zetya nickered and bobbed her head.

“Good morning to you, too.”

The horse whinnied again and stomped a hoof.

“What is it you—?”

She froze, her heart suddenly pounding. Not a hundred fourspans from where she lay, Evanthya sat on her horse, her sword in hand, her fine white hair stirred gently by the breeze. Their eyes met and locked, and for what seemed an eternity Fetnalla could do nothing but gaze back at her love, struggling to remember how to breathe.

Finally, she forced herself to her feet, running a hand through her ragged hair. She glanced at Evanthya’s sword and made herself grin. “Are you planning to use that on me?”

Evanthya looked down at it for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know.” Her voice sounded small and thin, as if the distance between them were much greater than it appeared.

“You know that I can shatter it if I must.”

“Is that what it’s come to, then? Are we to fight?”

“I’d rather we didn’t.”

Evanthya whispered something to her mount, and the beast began to step closer. She kept her sword out, and her eyes, bright as gold and as lovely as ever, never left Fetnalla’s face.

“You broke the siege,” Fetnalla said, watching her love approach.

“Yes, with help from the other dukes, and from Orvinti’s army.” Evanthya halted just in front of her and dismounted, her blade still in hand.

“Your duke survived?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I always liked Tebeo. Put your sword away, Evanthya.”

Her love had started to walk toward her, but now she faltered, appearing uncertain as to what she should do.

“I said, put it away.”

“And if I won’t?”

It was as easy as drawing breath, as immediate as thought. There was a sound like the chiming of a small bell, and in the next instant the blade of Evanthya’s sword lay shattered on the ground. Once more, as she had the night she killed Brall and his men, Fetnalla marveled at her own power, at the mastery with which she wielded her magic. The Weaver had given her this, simply by speaking to her of the wonders their people could accomplish working together, by forcing her to become more than she had been.

And gazing at her love as she stared at the broken weapon in her hand, Fetnalla realized that Evanthya could never truly understand. She still equated loyalty with fealty to the Eandi courts. She still measured strength by counting Eandi warriors and gauging the quality of their weapons. She could no more contemplate joining the movement than she could hacking off her own arm. Yet, standing on the plain, feeling the sun and wind on her face, feeling more alive than she ever had, Fetnalla also understood that the only way to save Evanthya’s life was to force the woman to become more than she was, just as the Weaver had done for her. Probably it wouldn’t work. Probably Fetnalla would have to kill her. But she owed it to herself and to Evanthya to try.

“You knew that I was a shaper,” she said, speaking softly, as to a frightened child.

Evanthya nodded, still looking at the hilt of her sword. A single tear rolled down her cheek, but she made no effort to wipe it away. “That’s how you killed Brall.”

“Evanthya—”

Her eyes snapped up, meeting Fetnalla’s once more, silencing her. “When did you join them?” she demanded. “How long have you been a traitor?”

Fetnalla’s anger flared, and she struggled to control it. She had to make Evanthya see the world as she saw it, which meant, at least for the moment, accepting what a limited notion she had of the Weaver’s cause.

“I’m not a traitor,” she said, pleased by how calm she sounded.

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not lying. I’m with the movement. I killed Brall and his men. But that doesn’t make me a traitor.”

“What kind of madness is that? The movement?”

“Yes. That’s what we call it. We’re led by a Weaver, Evanthya. He wants to unite all the realms of the Forelands and rule them as king. Think about that. A Qirsi king. Qirsi nobles. How long have our people been forced to serve the Eandi, to put up with their foolish wars and their limited minds? Isn’t it time we claimed the land as our own?”

“Would you listen to yourself? Less than a year ago you gave me all the gold you possessed in this world so that I could hire an assassin and strike at the conspiracy. You knew—both of us knew—that this movement, or whatever you want to call it, was a threat to all that we cared about.”

“We were wrong. I was wrong.”

“No, you weren’t! These renegades have been responsible for murders in every realm. They killed Chago and the king—”

“The king was a brute and a despot, and Chago was no better.”

“So they deserved to die? Did Brall?”

“Yes. You know how he treated me for the past half year.”

Evanthya gave a high, desperate laugh and threw her arms wide. “He treated you that way because he thought you had betrayed him. And I hated him, too, because I thought that he was mistaken, that he was treating you unfairly. But now…” She shook her head.

“Now you think he was justified.”

“You betrayed me, as well. You lied to me, and you nearly killed me.”

“I did not!”

“You murdered Brall to keep Orvinti’s army from reaching Dantrielle. You wanted the castle to fall—or rather, your Weaver wanted it. And if it had, I would have been executed, along with my duke and his family. You know that’s true.”

Fetnalla did know it, and she had known it at the time. “I assumed you’d get away,” she muttered, but she had little hope that her love would believe her.

“You never answered me. How long?”

She didn’t have to answer, of course, and yet she felt compelled to do so. “Not long,” she said, her voice low. “Four or five turns. The Weaver first came to me shortly before you and Tebeo arrived in Orvinti to speak of opposing the regent.”

“That makes sense. You acted so strangely when we were together. Just as you did later, when you and Brall came to Dantrielle.” She looked at her sharply. “You had that dream. You were dreaming of him, weren’t you?”

“That’s how he communicates with us. He walks in our dreams.”

“I remember that you were terrified of him. You cried out in your sleep. This is the man you want to lead the Forelands?”

“It’s not terror; it’s awe. Do you know what it’s like to be in the presence of one who is so powerful, to feel that power touching your own mind? All my life I’ve thought that I was fortunate to be the servant of an Eandi lord. But he’s shown me that I can be so much more than that. He’s promised me that I will be.”