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.”
“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
