“Yes, Your Highness.” He bowed to her as best he could atop his mount before riding off toward the other nobles.
Abeni gazed straight ahead, revealing nothing with her expression, but inside she was smiling with relief. The Weaver wanted both armies at the battle on the Moorlands. And he would have them.
The queen, with Ohan at her side, had pulled ahead of the archminister again. It took Abeni a moment to realize that the duchess wasn’t with them.
“You’re one of them.”
The archminister started at the sound of Diani’s voice. Somehow the woman was right beside her, hatred in her black eyes.
“That’s why you didn’t want us to attack. I’m sure of it now.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” But Abeni could hear the flutter in her own voice.
“Yes, you do. You got your way this time. I commend you for that. Somehow you convinced the master of arms that you had the army’s interests at heart. But I’ll be watching you as never before. And at the first move you make against the queen, I’ll kill you.”
She kicked at her mount and rode ahead of Abeni, her back straight, her dark hair dancing in the wind.
Despite the pounding of her heart, Abeni nearly laughed aloud. At the first move … By then it would be too late.
Chapter Twelve
“You know that she pursues you, even as we speak.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“And you know what you must do?”
Terror and grief warred within Fetnalla’s heart, threatening to rend it in two. She wanted to hide her feelings from the Weaver, but despair overwhelmed her; even if she had the wherewithal to try, he would have seen through her deception.
She hadn’t needed the Weaver to tell her that Evanthya was following her; she’d known for days. She hadn’t yet seen any sign of her beloved, but Fetnalla felt her presence in other ways: the tingling of her skin as she slept at night, dreaming of the unmistakably tender touch of Evanthya’s lips and slender hands on her back and her breasts; the hint of the woman’s voice in the cry of a falcon circling overhead; the elusive scent of her hair and skin riding the warm wind. Illusions, of course, brought on by her longing for Evanthya, and by her loneliness. When these sensations persisted, Fetnalla tried to tell herself that her fear of being caught and her guilt at all she had done were getting the best of her. But the feeling that she was being trailed remained with her, growing stronger with each passing day. And the more she considered the matter, the more certain she became that in fact Evanthya was following her. It made sense. Evanthya would never just let her go, particularly after Fetnalla killed Brall, duke of Orvinti, and revealed herself as a traitor to the realm.
The truth was, Fetnalla would have been devastated if Evanthya had not come after her. For her part, had their roles been reversed, Fetnalla would have followed her love to the farthest reaches of northern Eibithar and across Amon’s Ocean. She had fled not only to save her own life and find the conspiracy, but also to shield Dantrielle’s minister from harm. All of which made answering the Weaver’s question all the more difficult. Fetnalla knew what he expected of her, but the very idea of it made her tremble like a palsied child. She couldn’t even bring herself to speak of it.
“Do you still think she can be turned?” he asked her, his voice as close to gentle as she had ever heard it.
“No, Weaver.”
“A brave answer. I sense what it cost you to admit that.” He paused, seeming to search for the right words. “I need to ask you if you can do this-and I must have the truth.”
“You want me to kill her.” She sounded dull, but she couldn’t help herself, and for once the Weaver didn’t lose patience with her.
“She has to die,” he said. “She is a threat to you and to this movement.”
“She’s not interested in the movement. She only cares for me, and she’s no threat.”
“You know this?”
“I know her.”
Fetnalla saw him shake his head, the wild mane of hair, made black by his brilliant white sun, moving back and forth slowly, even sadly. “That’s not enough. A year ago, perhaps, but not now, when we’re so close. I can’t risk allowing her to live. And since you know her so well and you’re so near to her, you’re the one to kill her.”
She felt tears coursing down her face, but she didn’t bother to wipe them. “Isn’t there anyone else?”
“Actually, there are others who are near, who are making their way northward as you are, but I want you to do this. You and I have spoken of this before, and I’ve long believed that this would be the greatest test of your loyalty to our movement. If you can take the life of this woman you love, then you will have earned a place at my side. You will become part of the new nobility, the Qirsi nobility, that is to rule the Forelands.”
“And what if I can’t?”
“As I said, there are others. You won’t be saving her life, you’ll only be imperiling your own. You’ve done so much more than I ever expected you would. I had questioned whether you could kill your duke, or any of his men, for that matter. Don’t disappoint me now.”
He had been kind to her thus far, but Fetnalla knew that his generosity only went so far.
“Yes, Weaver.”
“You’re on the Moors of Durril.”
“Yes, in the northeast corner.”
“How far from the Tarbin?”
“Not very. A day’s ride at the most.”
“Very well. Remain there. Allow her to find you; build a fire if you must. I don’t want her to cross into Eibithar.”
Fetnalla wanted to plead for Evanthya’s life, or, failing that, to beg him to find another to kill her love. It was all she could do not to fall to the ground sobbing, berating him for his cruelty, cursing his tests and his promises and his threats. But somehow she managed it. She stood utterly still, afraid even to draw breath. She knew that he could read her thoughts, but there was little she could do about that.
“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.
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
