“It’s more than that.” The young lord sat up. “Was he too powerful for you again?”
“No,” Grinsa said, his voice flat. “Actually, I got the better of him this time. I couldn’t kill him, but I did hurt him.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
The gleaner shook his head. “Please, Tavis. Let it be.”
He closed his eyes, hoping that the boy would lie down and go back to sleep, knowing that he wouldn’t.
“You’re thinking about tomorrow, aren’t you? About the battle?”
The gleaner sighed. “If you must know, yes, I am.”
“I’ve been thinking about it, too.”
Something in the way he said this made Grinsa sit up as well, and eye the boy with interest. A year ago he wouldn’t have given much consideration to anything Tavis had to say on such a matter. But he had come to appreciate the young lord’s insights on all things, even Qirsi magic.
“What have you been thinking?” he asked.
“That it all comes down to numbers. The Weaver isn’t any smarter than you are, and despite your doubts, I’ve never thought that he was any more powerful. But he has far more Qirsi with him.”
“Obviously.”
“And that led me to a question. It might be foolish, but if it’s not, it could be of some help to you.”
“What is it?”
Tavis told him, and long after he had spoken the words, Grinsa merely continued to sit there, staring at the boy as if he had suddenly conjured golden flames or made his dark scars disappear.
“Grinsa?” the young lord finally said.
“It’s far from a foolish question, Tavis. It’s brilliant.” He stood. “We have to find the others.”
“The others?”
“Kearney, the queen, the other Qirsi. We have to tell them.” He smiled, daring to hope for the first time in so long. “You may have just saved us all,” he said.
Tavis beamed.
Chapter Twenty-two
In all probability she had maimed herself for life. There hadn’t been time to allow her shoulder and leg to mend themselves properly, and though the bones hadn’t broken again as she rode northward, neither had they healed as they should. Evanthya couldn’t walk without limping, nor could she move her mangled arm as freely as before. Fetnalla’s treachery, which had scored her heart in ways none could see, had also left its mark upon her body.
Still, she had managed to continue her pursuit, following as the woman she loved rode headlong toward her Weaver and his war. Nothing else mattered to her. She knew better than to think that she could turn Fetnalla from the path she was on. Whatever hope she once had of being able to reason with her love, of convincing her that she had erred in casting her lot with the Weaver, had died with the shattering of her shoulder and the snapping of the bone in her leg. She now meant only to stop Fetnalla, even if that meant killing her.
Once they had struck at the conspiracy together, paying the assassin to kill Shurik jal Marcine. Since then, Evanthya had hungered for another opportunity to fight the renegades. Emboldened by their one success, she had imagined herself a warrior of consequence, someone who might tip the balance in the coming war. Not anymore. The fate of the Forelands would be decided by the powerful. Evanthya cared only that Fetnalla not join the Weaver’s horde. It wasn’t that she thought her love’s presence on the battlefield would matter much one way or another, or even that she sought to deny the Weaver as many of his servants as possible. Rather, she knew that history would remember those who had betrayed their realms to fight for the Weaver’s dark cause, and she didn’t want Fetnalla’s name listed among them. In a sense, she wished to save Fetnalla from herself. Already her love was infamous-the traitor who killed Brall, duke of Orvinti, as he marched to break Solkara’s siege of Dantrielle. That was bad enough. Evanthya couldn’t allow Fetnalla to do more.
She owed Fetnalla that much. Whatever had become of their love, once it had filled her world with light and laughter and passion. That was how she intended to remember Fetnalla.
She rode through heat and hunger and thirst. She rode through pain. Every step of her mount jarred her tender bones, until at times, thundering northward across Eibithar’s Moorlands, she felt lost in a haze of agony and was forced to rely on her horse to keep them headed in the right direction. Occasionally she thought she caught a glimpse of Fetnalla in the distance. Often at night, she spied a fire burning ahead of her, a tiny spark of light on the horizon. Sometimes in the morning, as she resumed her pursuit, she found the charred remains of the blaze or a patch of crushed grass where her love had bedded down for the night. These discoveries kept her moving, spurring her on when her body screamed for her to stop.
Fetnalla had to know that she followed still; no one knew her as well as did her love. Yet Fetnalla made no more effort to stop Evanthya, nor did she quicken her pace. This, as much as anything, gave Evanthya some small cause for hope. She could almost imagine Fetnalla watching for her fires, fearing their next encounter, yet drawing comfort from her proximity.
And Evanthya had to admit that she preferred it this way as well. Even had she been able to close the distance between them, she wasn’t sure that she would. Fetnalla had hurt her badly the last time they faced each other. Who knew what she would do next time, or what she would force Evanthya to do? Who could say how it would end? There was more than a little consolation to be found in this uncertainty. At least for a short while, they both lived knowing that the other was safe and nearby.
All that had changed late this day, when Evanthya first saw the thin lines of smoke rising into the sky. It seemed a vast host was encamped ahead of her. The battle plain. What else could it be? Surely Fetnalla had seen the fires as well, and had turned so that she might skirt the edge of the plain and ride on to join the Weaver. But would she turn west or east? After considering the matter for only a few moments, Evanthya turned east. Fetnalla would not risk the western course, where she might be seen by the Eibitharian warriors, a dark form against the fiery western sky.
Evanthya rode on, even after the sun had set, her eyes fixed on the north, searching for some sign of her love. When the small fire jumped to life some distance ahead, she smiled grimly, steering her horse toward the light as if it were a beacon at sea, and she a lost ship.
It was completely dark by the time she drew near to Fetnalla’s blaze. Stars glowed brightly in the night sky, but this late in the waning the moons were not yet up, and Evanthya could barely see the ground in front of her. She could see Fetnalla, though, sitting beside her fire, poking at the coals with a long stick, her face bathed in the warm light. Evanthya dismounted a short distance from the fire and covered the last bit on foot. A few strides from the fire, she reached for her sword, only to remember that Fetnalla had shattered it during their last encounter. She pulled her dagger free instead, continuing forward warily and silently. Or so she thought.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” her love called before Evanthya had reached the circle of light created by the flames.
Evanthya hesitated, unsure of what to say or do.
“Come on, Evanthya. Let me see you.” Fetnalla had stood and was peering into the darkness, trying to catch sight of her.
“How do I know you won’t try to kill me again?”
“If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. I healed you, remember? If either of us has murder in her mind, it’s most likely you. I’d wager you already have your weapon drawn.”
“I don’t have shaping magic. I need to protect myself somehow.”
“A dagger will do you no good, and you know it. I can break that blade as easily as I did your sword.”
“As easily as you did my shoulder and my leg?”
“You gave me no choice, Evanthya! I warned you time and again!”
“Yes, you warned me. And I chose to believe that you wouldn’t be able to hurt me, that you loved me too
