Weavers of War (55 page)

Evanthya took another bite or two of bread and a few sips of water. Then she handed the food and skin back to Fetnalla. Hungry as she had been, she filled up quickly.

“Don’t you want more?”

“Not now. I’m grateful to you, though.”

Fetnalla returned the pouch and skin to her bag before facing Evanthya once again.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, firelight shining in her pale eyes. “I don’t want to fight you, and I know better than to think that I can turn you to the Weaver’s cause.”

“You could come away with me.”

Her beloved frowned. “This is no joke, Evanthya.”

“I know that. Leave here with me tonight.”

“Impossible. I’m a murderer, remember? I’m a traitorous minister who killed her duke. That’s what the Eandi will say. I can’t ever go back to Aneira.”

“Then we’ll go somewhere else. Wethyrn or Caerisse or Sanbira. We can join the prelates on Aylsa for all I care. As long as we’re away from the Weaver and his war.” She swallowed, trying not to cry. “As long as we’re together.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“A moment ago you said that you had to fight the Weaver. That you hated him too much to run away from this war.”

“My love for you is stronger by far than my hatred of the Weaver.”

“You’d leave Tebeo? You’d give up your service to Dantrielle?”

She nodded. “If it meant being with you.”

Fetnalla smiled at her, the tender, loving smile Evanthya recalled from so long ago, before they had ever heard of the Weaver and his conspiracy. Tears glistened on Fetnalla’s cheeks and she wiped them away. “I’d like that very much.”

“Then come with me.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“It can be.”

“No, it can’t. The Weaver—”

“Forget about the Weaver!”

She shook her head, tears flying from her face. “You don’t understand! He’ll think that I betrayed him. He walks in my dreams, Evanthya. He can find me anywhere and kill me in my sleep.”

A comment leaped to mind, another barb about the Weaver’s cruelty and Fetnalla’s willingness to follow him in spite of it. But Evanthya kept this to herself.

Instead she asked, her voice as gentle as possible, “Are you certain that he would? Are you that important to him? Or is it possible that after this final war, should he survive, he won’t care enough to come after you?”

She feared that Fetnalla might take offense, but her love merely stared at her. “I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“What choice do we have, Fetnalla? If we remain here, either you’ll have to kill me or I’ll have to kill you. Failing that, one of us is likely to die. Is that what you want? For one of us to be alone for the rest of her days? Wouldn’t it be better to take this chance? At least we’d be together, with a chance at a new life. If the Weaver finds us, so be it, but at least we’d have some hope.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“I’m not as foolish as you think I am. I’m not saying that escape will be easy. Merely the choice.” She grinned. “That is, if you don’t mind living out your days with a cripple.”

She meant it to be humorous, but abruptly Fetnalla was bawling, tears coursing down her face.

“I’m so sorry,” she managed to say, her body quaking with her sobs. “Hurting you that way … That was the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

Evanthya should have gone to her. She should have taken Fetnalla in her arms and told her that she was forgiven, that all she cared about was being with her, that none of the rest mattered. She wanted to, yet she couldn’t bring herself to move her feet. For the first time, it dawned on her that she might not be able to love this woman anymore. She was still in love with the Fetnalla she knew a year ago, before any of this began, but could she ever really trust her again? She was in love with an idea, a memory. For as long as she lived, she would be. But for the rest of her life, she would also remember the sound of her bones shattering, the pain tearing through her shoulder like a battle-ax. How could she ever love someone who had assaulted her? Yes, Fetnalla had healed her bones, but for all her talents with such magic, her love couldn’t mend the wound on Evanthya’s heart.

“You were angry,” Evanthya offered, feeling that she had to say something.

“That doesn’t justify it.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Fetnalla’s sobbing began to subside. “Can you forgive me?”

Evanthya stared down at the fire. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I want to try.”

“But you speak of going away with me. How can we do that if you can’t forgive what I’ve done?”

“I’m sure I can with time.”

“But—”

“Can’t we just go? It’s harder with the Weaver so close and war in the air all around us. We’ll leave here together, go someplace safe. Everything will be better then.”

But Evanthya could feel her hope slipping away. For just an instant she had believed that this might work, that Fetnalla would go with her, that they could escape the darkness that was blanketing all the Forelands. Not anymore. The moment had passed, and once more she found herself face-to-face with an enemy she loved, a lover she could never trust again.

It seemed that Fetnalla sensed this as well. “It sounds nice,” she said quietly.

For some time neither of them spoke. A soft wind blew across the grasses, and an owl called from far off, sounding ghostlike and lonely.

“Do you remember the first night we … we lay together?” Fetnalla asked, breaking the silence.

“Of course I do.”

“You told me that you’d gone to Dantrielle hoping to join the Festival, that you’d never intended to serve in an Eandi court.”

“It was true. I never did intend it. But I feel fortunate to have found my way to Tebeo’s castle.”

“I know you do. But I never felt that way about my life in Orvinti.”

“I don’t believe you. You always told me that serving Brall—”

“I know what I told you. And I’m telling you now that it wasn’t true. I wanted it to be. I always hoped that someday I’d be as content serving my duke as you were serving yours. But it never happened, and then he started growing suspicious of me.”

She stared at Fetnalla, fighting back tears she couldn’t explain. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to understand.” She held up a hand, silencing Evanthya before she could speak. “I know it doesn’t excuse what I’ve done. But even before I joined the Weaver’s movement, I was unhappy in my life as a minister. I thought you should know that.”

Evanthya shook her head. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I don’t want you to say anything. I’m just…” She trailed off, a puzzled look on her face. She was looking past Evanthya, her eyes narrowed, as if she were straining to see something in the darkness beyond the firelight. “You…” she whispered.

Before Evanthya could turn and look for herself, she heard a footfall just behind her, light and sure, and far too close.

*   *   *

He hadn’t expected the Weaver to walk in his dreams again. They had spoken only a few days before, and the Weaver had told him then all that he needed to know. War was at hand. In another few days they would meet on the battle plain and the Weaver would reach for his magic—mists and winds as well as shaping. He would have to be prepared for this. He would have to open his mind to the Weaver’s power. This was no time for any Qirsi in his army to be hesitant, or to resist the Weaver in any way.

All this and more the Weaver had explained to Pronjed the last time they spoke. The archminister understood perfectly. He might have made some mistakes during his service to the movement—he still shuddered to think of how close the Weaver had come to killing him after he decided on his own to murder the king of Aneira, whom he had served—but Pronjed was determined not to fail on the battle plain. By good fortune and the Weaver’s mercy, he remained a chancellor in the movement, which meant that he would likely be one of the Weaver’s nobles once the Eandi were defeated and Qirsi ruled the Forelands. He had no intention of squandering his claim to nobility. He had pushed himself to the limits of his endurance and now he was within a day’s ride of where the Eandi armies had gathered, and only two days’ journey from joining the Weaver’s company.

Which was why he had been so surprised to find himself walking the familiar plain again soon after falling asleep only two nights after the previous dream. This time the Weaver didn’t force him to climb that torturous incline, or even to wait for his appearance. Pronjed opened his mind’s eye to the dream, and there was the Weaver, framed by the familiar radiant light.

“Weaver—”

“We’ve spoken before of the woman from Orvinti, the first minister.”

“Yes, Weaver. I remember.”

“She follows you still. She’s but a day’s ride behind you. I want you to find her.”

“Of course, Weaver. Is she in danger?”

“Not as you mean, but yes. There was a task I wished her to complete, and she’s failed, to the peril of us all.”

“Are you certain?” he asked, without thinking. He knew of this task. She was to kill Evanthya ja Yispar, Dantrielle’s first minister, who had also been her lover. The last time Pronjed saw Fetnalla, she had been waiting for Evanthya on the Moors of Durril, intent on doing the Weaver’s bidding though clearly the very notion of it pained her deeply. Still, Pronjed should have known better than to question the Weaver’s word. As soon as he spoke, he regretted it, wincing in anticipation of punishment.

It never came. Fortunately, the Weaver appeared to understand his response. “I believe she wanted to succeed, but her love for the woman overmastered her judgment. She rode north from Aneira without having killed the minister, and she allowed herself to be followed.”

Again, Pronjed wanted to ask how the Weaver could be certain of this, not because he doubted that it was true, but rather because he longed to understand better the power this man wielded. He kept silent, however, knowing how dangerous it would be to question the Weaver a second time.

“When I reached for the one to enter her dreams,” the Weaver said, apparently reading his thoughts, “I sensed the presence of the other.”

“They’re together?”

“No, though the distance between them is little enough for the minister to know that the other pursues her.”

Pronjed couldn’t help thinking that Fetnalla’s love for the woman had to be powerful indeed to make her defy the Weaver in this way. “Is it possible that Dantrielle’s minister might still be turned to our cause? If they love each other that much…”

“Were that possible, they’d be together. No, the woman from Dantrielle is determined to stop her, perhaps even to oppose the movement. She must be killed.”

“I understand, Weaver.”

“You may have to fight both of them. Fetnalla couldn’t kill her. She may be relieved to have this task fall to you. But it’s also possible that she’ll try to stop you. Like you, she’s a shaper. Her other powers are of no consequence. The other woman has language of beasts and mists, but nothing that can harm you.”

“Very well. Where do you want me to do this?”

“Fetnalla should come within sight of the Eandi encampment tomorrow, and when Dantrielle’s first minister sees how close she is to the battle plain, she’ll make every effort to catch up to her. You shouldn’t have to journey far to find them.”

“I’ll see to this, Weaver. I give you my word that Dantrielle’s first minister will never live to see your victory.”

“Good,” the Weaver said.

Pronjed expected the dream to end then. But the Weaver seemed to hesitate.

“I don’t want you to use magic, if you don’t have to,” the man said at last.

“Weaver?”

“I want any who find the minister’s body to think this the work of Eandi soldiers. There will be enough killing of Qirsi by Qirsi on the battle plain. Fetnalla will know the truth, of course, but the rest need not know that we had to kill this woman. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“Ride north when she’s dead, with Fetnalla if at all possible.”

An instant later, Pronjed awoke.

That was the previous night. As the Weaver predicted, Fetnalla appeared on the southern horizon this very day, just as the sun began its descent into the west. Pronjed marked her progress northward, but made certain to keep out of sight. He watched her stop for the evening and make camp, and, soon after darkness fell, he heard a second rider approaching, drawn to her fire as if a moth.

He watched the two women together and could see how powerfully they were drawn to one another. He strained to hear their conversation and was able to make out most of it. At first, he believed that they might leave the plain together and he struggled with himself, unsure of what he would do. Surely these two, if they fled, intending to make a new life for themselves elsewhere in the Forelands, were no threat to the Weaver and his movement. But would the Weaver view them that way, or would he see such a choice on Pronjed’s part as yet another failure, and reason to deny him a place of honor in the new world he was shaping?

To the archminister’s profound relief, it was not a decision he was forced to make. Within moments the women abandoned their plans, perhaps sensing, as he did, that the Weaver would find them no matter where they went. Or maybe they realized that all that divided them from each other had grown too powerful to be overcome.

Whatever the reason, he took this latest turn in their conversation as an indication that the time had come to act. He started forward as stealthily as possible, circling their fire until he was directly behind Evanthya. He pulled his sword free as he crept toward them, sliding the blade free of its sheath slowly and silently. Neither of the women appeared to take any notice of him at all, and within moments he was close enough to hear the settling of the embers in their fire and to see the tears on Fetnalla’s face.

He was close enough to have killed Evanthya with his magic, but the Weaver had made his wishes quite clear, and so Pronjed crept closer. At last Fetnalla did see him, faltering in what she had been saying and straining to recognize the shadowy form lurking behind her love, but by then he was close enough.