Weavers of War (56 page)

“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?

Chapter Twenty-three

City of Kings, Eibithar

Cresenne held Bryntelle in her arms, watching the morning dawn from the ramparts atop Audun’s Castle. A light wind sweeping down off the Caerissan Steppe rustled the pennons above them. The eastern sky glowed pink and orange, like the flames conjured this past night by the sorcerers who came to the castle.

The Revel was in the City of Kings, chased south from the coastal cities by invasion and war. Usually the festival would be in Thorald now, having arrived there from Galdasten. But with the Braedony invasion, the performers had fled across the Moorlands to the safety of the City of Kings. Here they had remained for the better part of a turn, awaiting word that the invaders had been repelled so that they might resume their journeys across Eibithar.

It seemed the people of the city had grown weary of the performances, for last night the fire sorcerers and tumblers had come to the castle, where they performed for the queen and those soldiers who had remained behind when Kearney marched to war. For Cresenne, who remained a prisoner in the castle, and who had spent countless nights in solitude, walking the corridors of the fortress or the empty paths of the castle gardens, the performers provided a welcome diversion. For Bryntelle, they were a spectacle.

The babe squealed with delight at every somersault turned by the tumblers. She stared with rapt attention at the hands of the Qirsi, watching as flames of gold and red, blue and purple, orange and green crept over their skin. She grinned, wide-eyed and enthralled, at the songs of bards and pipers. Most nights, the child napped at least once, usually twice. She hadn’t slept at all this night. Long after the performers left the castle, she continued to laugh and coo.

For Cresenne the night was spoiled only by the appearance of a face from her past. While holding Bryntelle so that the baby could see one of the bards, she spied a bald, fat Qirsi standing near the other musicians. She recognized the man immediately. Altrin jal Casson, one of the gleaners with whom she had worked in Curgh just over a year ago, when she first met Grinsa and began plotting the murder of Kentigern’s Lady Brienne. Seeing him, she quickly turned away, so as to hide her face. Bryntelle, of course, began to cry, because she could no longer see the singer, and thus drew more attention to her. When Cresenne faced the musician again, Trin had vanished. She didn’t see him again for the rest of the night. But she suspected that he had noticed her and remembered, and she dreaded having to speak with him. He had been kind to her during their brief friendship, but the Revel was a small community, and she had little doubt that he had heard of her betrayal.

With the sky brightening and the castle beginning to wake, Cresenne knew that she should return to her quarters and sleep. As long as the Weaver still lived she needed to take her rest during the day. But like Bryntelle, she was wide awake, her mind alive with visions from the previous night. So she remained where she was, watching the sun rise, feeling the air grow warmer.

It had been several days since she last spoke with Grinsa. No doubt he was occupied with other matters—for all she knew he and the Weaver had already met in battle. She shuddered at the thought. Her magic ran no deeper than that of most other Qirsi, but she felt that if Grinsa had died, she’d have sensed it somehow. This was what she chose to believe, what she would continue to believe until she heard tidings to the contrary.

She thought it likely that he knew how difficult it was for her to have him in her mind, to feel his caresses and kisses in that way. He was brilliant and he knew her better than did any other man she had ever known. He couldn’t have helped but notice how, in the aftermath of the Weaver’s last assault, she shied from his touch. Cresenne was desperate to believe that all this would change when they were truly together and he could hold her in his powerful arms. The Weaver had violated her mind far more than her body. Perhaps when Grinsa could touch her without having to enter her dreams she would rediscover her passion for him. But until then, until she knew for certain that the Weaver was dead, she preferred that Grinsa didn’t disturb her sleep, though this meant having no word from him at all.

At last, as the sun began to grow hot against her face, and the night guards, weary and bored, were replaced by rested men, Cresenne carried Bryntelle to the nearest of the tower stairways and descended to the lower corridor, intending to eat a small breakfast and then return to their quarters.

Before she reached the kitchen, however, she saw a familiar form walking toward her, a warm smile on his round face.

“Cresenne ja Terba,” Trin said, opening his arms in greeting. “I thought it was you last night, though I thought I’d inquire of the soldiers before I approached you.”

She smiled in spite of herself and allowed him to embrace her.