the minister, and she allowed herself to be followed.”
Again, Pronjed wanted to ask how the Weaver could be certain of this, not because he doubted that it was true, but rather because he longed to understand better the power this man wielded. He kept silent, however, knowing how dangerous it would be to question the Weaver a second time.
“When I reached for the one to enter her dreams,” the Weaver said, apparently reading his thoughts, “I sensed the presence of the other.”
“They’re together?”
“No, though the distance between them is little enough for the minister to know that the other pursues her.”
Pronjed couldn’t help thinking that Fetnalla’s love for the woman had to be powerful indeed to make her defy the Weaver in this way. “Is it possible that Dantrielle’s minister might still be turned to our cause? If they love each other that much…”
“Were that possible, they’d be together. No, the woman from Dantrielle is determined to stop her, perhaps even to oppose the movement. She must be killed.”
“I understand, Weaver.”
“You may have to fight both of them. Fetnalla couldn’t kill her. She may be relieved to have this task fall to you. But it’s also possible that she’ll try to stop you. Like you, she’s a shaper. Her other powers are of no consequence. The other woman has language of beasts and mists, but nothing that can harm you.”
“Very well. Where do you want me to do this?”
“Fetnalla should come within sight of the Eandi encampment tomorrow, and when Dantrielle’s first minister sees how close she is to the battle plain, she’ll make every effort to catch up to her. You shouldn’t have to journey far to find them.”
“I’ll see to this, Weaver. I give you my word that Dantrielle’s first minister will never live to see your victory.”
“Good,” the Weaver said.
Pronjed expected the dream to end then. But the Weaver seemed to hesitate.
“I don’t want you to use magic, if you don’t have to,” the man said at last.
“Weaver?”
“I want any who find the minister’s body to think this the work of Eandi soldiers. There will be enough killing of Qirsi by Qirsi on the battle plain. Fetnalla will know the truth, of course, but the rest need not know that we had to kill this woman. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“Ride north when she’s dead, with Fetnalla if at all possible.”
An instant later, Pronjed awoke.
That was the previous night. As the Weaver predicted, Fetnalla appeared on the southern horizon this very day, just as the sun began its descent into the west. Pronjed marked her progress northward, but made certain to keep out of sight. He watched her stop for the evening and make camp, and, soon after darkness fell, he heard a second rider approaching, drawn to her fire as if a moth.
He watched the two women together and could see how powerfully they were drawn to one another. He strained to hear their conversation and was able to make out most of it. At first, he believed that they might leave the plain together and he struggled with himself, unsure of what he would do. Surely these two, if they fled, intending to make a new life for themselves elsewhere in the Forelands, were no threat to the Weaver and his movement. But would the Weaver view them that way, or would he see such a choice on Pronjed’s part as yet another failure, and reason to deny him a place of honor in the new world he was shaping?
To the archminister’s profound relief, it was not a decision he was forced to make. Within moments the women abandoned their plans, perhaps sensing, as he did, that the Weaver would find them no matter where they went. Or maybe they realized that all that divided them from each other had grown too powerful to be overcome.
Whatever the reason, he took this latest turn in their conversation as an indication that the time had come to act. He started forward as stealthily as possible, circling their fire until he was directly behind Evanthya. He pulled his sword free as he crept toward them, sliding the blade free of its sheath slowly and silently. Neither of the women appeared to take any notice of him at all, and within moments he was close enough to hear the settling of the embers in their fire and to see the tears on Fetnalla’s face.
He was close enough to have killed Evanthya with his magic, but the Weaver had made his wishes quite clear, and so Pronjed crept closer. At last Fetnalla did see him, faltering in what she had been saying and straining to recognize the shadowy form lurking behind her love, but by then he was close enough.
“You,” the minister said, catching a glimpse of his face, and alerting Evanthya to his presence.
He saw her begin to turn, but he didn’t give her the chance to ward herself. His heart suddenly pounding in his chest-was it fear, or the exhilaration of the kill? — he drew back his weapon, and plunged it into her back.
* * *
Fetnalla saw Pronjed pull his arm back, saw as well his sword glinting in the firelight. Then he struck at her love. Evanthya’s back arched violently, her mouth opening in a sharp, abbreviated cry, and the blade burst from her chest, gleaming still, stained crimson.
They remained in that pose for what seemed a lifetime, Evanthya’s eyes wide and raised to Morna’s darkened sky, Pronjed lurking at her shoulder like some demon sent by Bian himself, his teeth bared, his free hand gripping her neck. Fetnalla wanted to scream. She wanted to run to Evanthya’s side and free her from the archminister’s grasp. But she couldn’t move, she couldn’t even make a sound. All around them was silence and blackness, as if all the world were holding its breath.
Then it seemed that the world exhaled. Pronjed pulled his sword free, allowing Evanthya to topple to the ground. Somehow Fetnalla shook off her stupor and rushed to her love’s side.
“Why did you do that?” she screamed at Pronjed, her vision clouded with tears and grief and rage.
“The Weaver commanded it of me. I’m sorry.”
It made sense, of course. Surely the Weaver knew that she had failed to kill Evanthya on the Moors of Durril. No doubt he knew that she would never be able to fulfill her oath to him.
“Fetnalla?”
Her love’s voice sounded so weak. A growing circle of blood stained the center of her riding cloak. Her eyes were glazed, as if she were half asleep.
“Yes, I’m here,” Fetnalla whispered.
“Who was it? Who killed me?”
Fetnalla looked up at Pronjed briefly, then placed a finger lightly on Evanthya’s lips.
“Shhh. I can heal you,” she said, not at all certain that she really could.
Pronjed stepped farther into the firelight. “Please don’t, First Minister. If you do, I’ll have no choice but to kill you as well.”
“I don’t care.”
She placed her hand over Evanthya’s bloody wound, but her love put her own hand over Fetnalla’s, shaking her head with an effort that seemed to steal her breath.
“Don’t, Fetnalla. It’s too late.”
She choked back a sob. “No, it’s not! It can’t be!”
“First Minister, please,” Pronjed said. “Don’t make me do this.”
“You want me to just let her die?”
“How else was this going to end? Did you really think that the two of you could find some way to end this war? Or did you intend to go your separate ways, thinking that the Weaver would accept that? Evanthya had to die, and since you couldn’t kill her, I did.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. She looked down at Evanthya again. There still might be time. Her love’s breathing had slowed so much it was difficult even to see the rise and fall of her breast. Yet she was alive, and so might be saved. But wasn’t it easier this way? She would never have found the strength to kill Evanthya herself. That Pronjed had done it for her was a blessing of sorts, a gift, to both of them really. And so, despite her tears, despite the voice within her mind that screamed for her to do something-anything-to save the woman she loved, despite the grief that struck at her own heart, as if Pronjed’s sword had pierced her flesh as well, she didn’t draw