poured from the wound, darkening the grasses and soil, but Nitara hardly noticed. She laid the tip of her blade at the base of the woman’s neck, staring down at her, hating her more than she had ever hated anything or anyone.
“Why?” she shouted, tears suddenly coursing down her face. “Why did you betray him?”
The woman just gazed up at the sky, a slight smile on her lips. “My love,” she whispered, and was still.
“Tell me!” Nitara cried, though she knew that the woman was beyond hearing. “Damn you!”
Aware once more of the battle raging around her, she looked up. Three Eandi soldiers were advancing on her, swords held ready. No doubt she should have retreated to fight another day, but as far as she was concerned there were no more days. The living world had become for her a wasteland. Grinning darkly, she raised her sword and awaited their assault.
Chapter Twenty-six
Pronjed could hardly believe how quickly their fortunes had turned. Moments before the Weaver and his army had been on the verge of a great victory. Now the Weaver was dead, his army scattering over the battle plain, some fighting, others in flight. In the days leading up to this war, Pronjed had considered many possible outcomes, most of them turning on the simple fact that Dusaan jal Kania hadn’t liked him very much and might well have killed him once the war was over. But the archminister didn’t believe that he would see the Weaver defeated. He never imagined that he would watch the man die.
He had little interest in continuing this fight. Whatever his feelings toward the Eandi, he knew better than to think that he could stand against an army of them. His powers were considerable-having both delusion and shaping power, he could talk or fight his way past a good number of warriors. And if those didn’t work, he also had mists and winds. Nevertheless, he preferred to slip away, unnoticed and preferably alone.
But where to go? There was no future for him in Aneira, where by now he had been branded a traitor and sentenced to death. Nor could he remain in Eibithar, where his accent marked him as an enemy. He had no desire to live in Braedon or Wethyrn. The nobles of the empire would never again trust a Qirsi, and Wethyrn, for all its charm, was simply too small and weak to hold his interest. Which left him with Caerisse or Sanbira, and both lay to the south and west.
He made this choice in a matter of seconds and promptly turned his mount westward, intending to ride off at a full gallop.
“Hold, Qirsi.”
A woman’s voice, young but not without some mettle. A noble of some sort, probably a duchess. From Sanbira judging from the accent.
Pronjed turned slowly to face her. She looked even younger than she sounded and was every bit as beautiful as one would expect a noble of the southern realm to be. Her hair and eyes were black; with her long limbs and lanky frame she looked more like a festival dancer than a warrior. But she held a blade ready, and Pronjed felt certain that she knew how to use it. Four men stood with her, all of them holding bows.
Looking at the soldiers, the minister had the sense that they were swordsmen rather than archers; none looked comfortable with his bow. But all had arrows nocked and the bowstrings drawn. Whatever their skill, one of them would probably manage to aim true. Pronjed thought that he could snap all four bows before one of the men managed to loose his arrow, but he wasn’t certain.
“My lady,” he said, needing time, needing to take the measure of this bold duchess.
“Throw down your weapons and dismount.”
He laughed. She might have been brave, but she was too young and foolish to represent any true danger. “My weapon?” He pulled his sword free and tossed it on the ground at her feet. “There. Do you truly believe that you’ve nothing to fear from me now?”
“Of course not, Minister. But my father always taught me that in disarming a foe, one should begin with the most obvious dangers.”
Pronjed eyed her curiously.
“I don’t believe so. But you knew me for a duchess, and I know you for a minister. Is that so strange?”
Perhaps there was more to this woman than he had thought. “Who are you?”
“Off your horse, Qirsi. We’ll have ample time later for such questions.”
“Tell me,” he said, and this time he touched her mind lightly with his delusion magic.
“My name is Diani. I’m the duchess of Curlinte.”
Of course. He’d heard of this one, and of the attempt on her life. “Well, Lady Curlinte, I think I’d be better off remaining on my horse. I don’t imagine your queen or Eibithar’s king will be dealing lightly with men like me. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
The soldiers were glancing at one another, frowns on their faces. “My lady,” one of them said.
The duchess shook her head, then looked up at Pronjed with a mix of horror and indignation. “What did you do to me?”
“As you see, my lady. That sword was the least of my weapons.”
Before she could order the soldiers to kill him, Pronjed struck at them with his shaping magic, splintering the four bows. As an afterthought, he broke her sword as well, leaving the duchess and her warriors looking bewildered and afraid.
“I think I’ll be leaving now,” the minister said. He grinned. “Unless you intend to pull me from my mount with your bare hands.”
But the duchess wasn’t ready to surrender. Pulling her dagger free, she stepped in front of him. “Get off that horse.” After a moment’s hesitation, the four soldiers joined her.
“Don’t be a fool. I’ll ride you down. That is, if I don’t snap your neck first.”
“Then do it. But I won’t just stand by as you ride to freedom.”
Normally, this woman and her soldiers wouldn’t have been of any concern to him. But it had already been a long morning, and he had used a good deal of power on the Weaver’s behalf. He could kill the five of them, but how much magic would he have left if others confronted him before he escaped?
“Move!” he said, pushing again with his delusion magic.
The duchess took a step to the side, then stumbled, as if resisting his power. She lifted her hands to her head, grimacing in pain.
“Don’t let him get away!” she said, her teeth clenched.
The soldiers, who by now also had their daggers drawn, stood shoulder to shoulder in front of him. He read doubt in their faces, but he saw nothing to indicate that they were about to flee. Reluctantly, Pronjed reached for his shaping magic.
At the first touch on his mind, the minister thought that the Weaver had joined his fight, that he wasn’t dead after all. But rather than feeling his power bolstered by this new presence in his mind, he felt it bound. The other Weaver. Somehow the man had sensed his power and taken hold of it. Abruptly, shaping was lost to him. He reached for delusion, but he could no more use that magic than the other. Mists and winds. Nothing.
“No!” he cried, without thinking.
The sound of his voice seemed to propel the duchess and soldiers into motion. Powerful hands grabbed hold of his leg and arm, and yanked him off of his horse. He landed hard on the ground, but still Pronjed fought to break free, even as he continued to battle the intruder in his mind. In all ways, however, he was helpless. A moment later, he felt the point of a dagger at his throat and he stiffened, ceasing his struggles.
The duchess seized a handful of his hair, forcing him to meet her gaze. “If you so much as blink, I’ll kill you.”
How he longed to shatter that blade, or better yet, to force the woman to turn it on herself, as he had done to Carden so long ago. But the other Weaver held him fast.
“Get rope,” the duchess said. “Irons are no good against a shaper.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Or better yet…”
