“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
