Weavers of War

Chapter Twenty-two

Southeast of the battle plain, the Moorlands, Eibithar

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 much. It seems I was wrong.”

“That’s not-” Fetnalla shook her head. “This is ridiculous! Come here where I can see you. I feel like I’m speaking with a wraith.”

Evanthya took a long, steadying breath and sheathed her dagger. Then she limped into the firelight, her eyes fixed on her love’s face.

Seeing her, Fetnalla let out a small cry, her face contorting with grief and pity. “Look at you!” she whispered. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself!”

“Done to myself?”

Fetnalla hurried to where Evanthya stood and guided her to a spot beside the fire. “I told you to rest. I warned you that the bones needed time to mend.”

Evanthya sat, and Fetnalla knelt before her, placing her hands first on Evanthya’s leg, and then on her shoulder, her eyes closed, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“The bones have knitted poorly.” She opened her eyes again, shaking her head. “But they’re set now. I don’t think there’s anything I can do for you.”

“I wouldn’t want you to, even if you could.”

Fetnalla sat back on her heels, her expression hardening, her lips pressed thin so that her mouth was a dark gash on her face. After a moment she stood and walked to the other side of the fire. “You’re a stubborn fool.”

“Better that than-”

“Don’t say it!” Fetnalla said, whirling on her and leveling a rigid finger at her heart.

“Don’t say what? That you’re a traitor? A murderer?”

“Stop it!”

Evanthya almost said more. But she stopped herself, realizing that no good could come of it. Fetnalla had called her stubborn just a moment before, but the truth was that she, and not Evanthya, had always been the stubborn one. Even under the best of circumstances her love found it next to impossible to admit when she was wrong; she would never do so now.

“You look like you haven’t been sleeping,” Evanthya said at last, gazing at her across the fire.

Fetnalla shrugged, her arms crossed over her chest. “I sleep well enough.”

“I don’t. I dream of you every night, and each time, when I wake up alone, I can’t get back to sleep.”

Her love looked away, though a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You’re lying, but thank you.”

“I am not lying.”

“Of course you are. In all the time we were together you never dreamed of me. Why would you start now?”

It was true. She never used to dream of Fetnalla, though her love claimed to dream of her often. Fetnalla had teased her about it for years. But it was equally true that Evanthya had dreamed of her several times since last they spoke, dark visions in which her love shattered her bones one by one, while a shadowy figure-the Weaver, no doubt-stood nearby, laughing.

“I’m afraid for you.” I’m afraid of you.

Fetnalla’s smile vanished. “And I’m afraid for you. You should leave here, Evanthya. Tonight. If the Weaver finds you, he’ll kill you. He knows that you’ll never join his movement, and so he sees you as a threat, not only to me, but to him as well, and to everything for which we’ve worked.”

“I can’t just run away. You know me better than that. I hate him and all that he’s done to this land. I have to fight him.”

“Then you have to fight me.”

Her shoulder began to throb at the mere thought of it.

Fetnalla walked to her mount, reached into the leather bag hanging from her saddle, and pulled out a small pouch.

“You must be hungry,” she said. “I don’t have much-some hard bread and cheese-but you’re welcome to it.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve eaten already.” She smiled sadly. “And before long, I’ll either be able to get all the food I need, or it won’t matter what I have left.”

Evanthya was famished, and after a moment she stood, stepped around the fire, and took the food. Sitting, she began to eat, shoving bread and cheese into her mouth as quickly as she could, barely chewing one mouthful before taking another.

“You’re going to make yourself sick eating that way.”

She forced herself to stop, closing her eyes and slowly chewing what she had taken.

“Have some of this,” Fetnalla said, handing her a skin of water.

“Thank you.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a day or two.”

“Evanthya!”

“You didn’t stop. How could I?”

“You’re mad!”

“I thought I was a ‘stubborn fool.’”

“You’re all of that, and more. You should have just let me go.”

“Is that what you would have done had it been me?”

Fetnalla straightened. “Yes.”

“I don’t believe you,” Evanthya said, grinning.

“I wouldn’t have starved myself, and I certainly wouldn’t have…” She looked Evanthya up and down, her gaze lingering on Evanthya’s crippled shoulder. “You’ve sacrificed too much.”

“I’ve suffered less than others.”

Fetnalla opened her mouth as if to argue, then stopped herself and just shook her head.

Evanthya took another bite or two of bread and a few sips of water. Then she handed the food and skin back to Fetnalla. Hungry as she had been, she filled up quickly.

“Don’t you want more?”

“Not now. I’m grateful to you, though.”

Fetnalla returned the pouch and skin to her bag before facing Evanthya once again.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, firelight shining in her pale eyes. “I don’t want to fight you, and I know better than to think that I can turn you to the Weaver’s cause.”

“You could come away with me.”

Her beloved frowned. “This is no joke, Evanthya.”

“I know that. Leave here with me tonight.”

“Impossible. I’m a murderer, remember? I’m a traitorous minister who killed her duke. That’s what the Eandi will say. I can’t ever go back to Aneira.”

“Then we’ll go somewhere else. Wethyrn or Caerisse or Sanbira. We can join the prelates on Aylsa for all I care. As long as we’re away from the Weaver and his war.” She swallowed, trying not to cry. “As long as we’re together.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“A moment ago you said that you had to fight the Weaver. That you hated him too much to run away from this war.”

“My love for you is stronger by far than my hatred of the Weaver.”

“You’d leave Tebeo? You’d give up your service to Dantrielle?”

She nodded. “If it meant being with you.”

Fetnalla smiled at her, the tender, loving smile Evanthya recalled from so long ago, before they had ever heard of the Weaver and his conspiracy. Tears glistened on Fetnalla’s cheeks and she wiped them away. “I’d like that very much.”

“Then come with me.”

“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 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 upon her healing magic. She merely knelt beside Evanthya, sobbing until her throat ached, watching her love’s life bleed away.

“Fetnalla,” Evanthya said again, barely able to make herself heard.

Fetnalla leaned close to her, tears falling from her face and darkening Evanthya’s cloak like rain. “I’m right beside you.”

“Don’t let him win. The Weaver. Don’t let him.”

“You shouldn’t worry about him. You shouldn’t worry about any of it. We’ll go away. Just you and me, just like we talked about.”

“Look what he’s done to me, Fetnalla. He can’t win. He’ll do this to everything.”

She bent and kissed her love’s lips, which were as cold as mountain water. “Hush,” she said. “Save your strength.”

“No. My strength. Is for you. Fight him.”

Somehow, Evanthya managed to take Fetnalla’s hand in her own. The pressure of her fingers was so light that Fetnalla hardly felt it at all. Yet she sensed that Evanthya was squeezing with all her might.

“My strength to you,” she murmured.

“My love,” Fetnalla whispered, kissing Evanthya’s brow.

She made no reply.

“Evanthya?”

Fetnalla stared down at her. Evanthya’s eyes were still open, but her breast rose no more, and her hand had gone limp. Fetnalla kissed that hand, crying still, gazing at her love’s face. It remained just as she remembered from the day they met, her skin as smooth as a child’s, the small lines around her mouth making it seem that she was ready to break into a smile at any moment. After some time, Fetnalla let the hand fall, and closed her love’s eyes. She wiped her tears, but they wouldn’t stop.

At last, she looked up at Pronjed. He stood a short distance from her, still holding his sword, eyeing her warily.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly I am. But the Weaver…”

“Yes,” she said. “The Weaver.”

“I was prepared to let the two of you go, if it had come to that.”

“The Weaver wouldn’t have been so generous. He’d have found us, and he probably would have punished you, as well.”

“I’d like to sheath my sword.”

“I’m a shaper, Pronjed. If I wanted to avenge her, your sword wouldn’t stop me.”

“I’m a shaper, too. You should know that.”

Fetnalla climbed to her feet, shaking her head. “We’re not going to fight,” she said, and meant it.

Pronjed might have struck the killing blow, but Evanthya’s blood wasn’t on his hands any more than it was on hers. Or any less. Hadn’t she chosen not to save her? Didn’t that make her as responsible as Pronjed for Evanthya’s murder? In the end, neither of them had much choice. The Weaver had made it clear some time ago that he wanted Evanthya dead. Both she and Pronjed were merely following his commands. Don’t let him win.

She crossed her arms over her chest, shivering in the night air. “As you said, how else was this going to end?”

“Thank you for understanding,” he said, returning his blade to its sheath. “I was hoping that you and I would ride north together.”

Fetnalla found that she was staring at Evanthya again. She hadn’t meant to. In fact, she tried to look at anything other than her beloved’s body, but she couldn’t help herself. “North,” she repeated absently.

“Yes. To join with the Weaver’s army. He’s expecting us. We ride to war tomorrow, First Minister. Surely you knew that.”

She nodded. Tomorrow. Yes, she had assumed that it would be soon. It might as well be tomorrow.

“I think we should leave here,” Pronjed said.

She was still doing it. Staring at Evanthya. Shouldn’t they have built her a pyre? Didn’t her love deserve that much?

“First Minister? Fetnalla.”

It was her name that reached through the haze in her mind. She tore her eyes from Evanthya’s face and looked at the archminister. He was watching her, concern written on his bony features.

“You should saddle your horse,” he told her, “and gather whatever you need to take with you. I’ll … I’ll see to the rest.”

Somewhere, deep in her mind, a small voice cried out in protest. Who was this man to give her orders? Who was he to offer his sympathy and his friendship? But she hadn’t the will to resist. She stepped to where her saddle lay, put it on her steed, and began to fasten the straps. Once it was secured, she turned, glancing about her camp, feeling that surely she was forgetting something. All she saw, however, was Evanthya, blood staining her cloak, firelight warming her cheek.

After several moments, Pronjed returned, frowning as he glanced back into the darkness.

“Do you have language of beasts?” he asked.

“No. Evanthya did.”

“I can’t get her horse to leave or come with me. It just stands there. Could you-?”

“No. As long as she’s here, he’ll stay just where he is.”

“Someone may see it.”

Fetnalla glanced at Evanthya, then quickly made herself look away. “It can’t be helped.”

“No, I suppose it can’t.” He hesitated. Then, “Are you ready?”

She nodded and swung herself onto her horse, refusing now to gaze at her love.

“We’re part of a great cause, First Minister,” Pronjed said gently, as if he might comfort her with such words. “We’re going to change the world. Some, I’m afraid, simply weren’t ready for the future the Weaver has envisioned.”

Hadn’t she told herself much the same thing several times since leaving Aneira? Since murdering Brall? Evanthya could never understand all that the Weaver had given to Fetnalla and others devoted to his cause. She could never embrace the true meaning of the Weaver’s movement. Her view of the world was too narrow, too strongly tied to old notions of loyalty and service. Each time Fetnalla considered what it might mean to kill her love, that was how she justified it.

My strength to you, Evanthya had said, as the life bled from her body. Then why did Fetnalla feel so terribly weak?