“Of course I understand, Weaver. I just-”
A hand covered her mouth, and a second closed around her throat, though thankfully it didn’t squeeze too hard.
“It’s the woman, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice dropping. “The other minister? Answer me honestly, or you’ll die right here.”
Evanthya. Of course she was part of this. Every day that the siege at Dantrielle went on increased the chances that she might be wounded or killed. But the truth was that Fetnalla feared for herself as much as she did for her love. Perhaps more. She wasn’t proud of this, but with the Weaver’s hand at her throat, pride was the least of her concerns.
“I do fear for her, Weaver.”
His hand relaxed its grip, though he didn’t release her. “She’s of even less importance to me than you are. Her life was forfeit the moment she agreed to serve her duke. If you could have turned her to our cause, I might have spared her.”
“But surely it’s not too late!” Fetnalla said without thinking.
“If you haven’t turned her by now, you never will.”
“But we’re together so seldom. If I had another chance-”
He tightened his fist again, this time making it impossible for her to breathe. “See that? You don’t understand. There will be no more chances. The two of you can only be together if the regent’s siege fails, and I don’t want that. I’d rather have Dantrielle fall to the Solkarans, bringing the duke’s execution, and, yes, your beloved minister’s as well, than have the siege broken. Do I make myself clear?”
She nodded, still unable to speak.
“Good. I must know right now if you can continue to serve me under these circumstances. If you can, you’ll live to see the dawn. If you can’t, I’ll kill you. And believe me when I tell you that no matter your answer, I’ll know the truth. So don’t lie to me, or your death will be agony.”
For the second time he released her, removing the hand from her mouth as well. As before, he didn’t appear to move at all.
It was actually an easier question to answer than the Weaver might have thought. When she thought of losing Evanthya, her heart throbbed as though pierced by a blade. But more than anything, she had feared being forced by the Weaver to kill Evanthya herself. On more than one occasion he had warned her that it might come to that before this ended. At least now she knew that it wouldn’t be she who struck the fatal blow. Indeed, if the siege went as the Weaver wished, Evanthya need never even know of her betrayal. This was a small consolation to be sure, but it was all she had left.
“Yes, Weaver,” she said, trying to keep her voice strong. “I can continue to serve you.”
There was a brief silence, during which the minister felt that she was suspended over a yawning abyss.
Then the Weaver said, “I’m pleased to hear it,” in a tone that told her he had not expected her to pass his test. “How will you slow your duke’s progress toward Dantrielle?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’ll find a way.”
“See that you do.”
She opened her eyes to the dim yellow glow of firelight and the breathing and murmurs of a thousand sleeping soldiers. All her encounters with the Weaver left her sweaty and trembling, and this one had been no different. She would have liked to change her clothes, but with so many men sleeping around her, and her duke nearby, she didn’t dare. She merely lay still, staring up at the few stars she could see through the canopy of the wood, and trying to ease her racing pulse.
She had never thought that it would come to this. Even when her duke’s suspicions were driving her toward the Weaver and his movement, even when she hoped that the Weaver’s first assignment for her would be to kill Brall, she never imagined that she would have to choose between the Qirsi cause and her love for Evanthya.
For several turns, Fetnalla had held out hope of drawing her love into the movement. If only Evanthya could be made to see the future that the Weaver envisioned. If only she could have known what it was like to serve an Eandi noble like Brall. As dukes went, Tebeo was a decent man who had given his first minister little cause to question her loyalty to him. But surely Evanthya could see how Fetnalla suffered. Surely she understood that most other Eandi nobles were brutes and fools, undeserving of the loyalty they demanded from their Qirsi.
Only recently had Fetnalla come to realize that her love was blind to all of this, and that she would never allow herself to be drawn into the movement. Evanthya had too narrow a view of the world. She could never accept that there were different shades to loyalty, that some betrayals could be justified. True, she had been willing to pay gold for Shurik’s death. She had, in fact, grown bolder since then, speaking of striking more blows against what she called the conspiracy. But this served only to define the limitations of her thinking. The world, in her mind, consisted of Eandi nobles and Qirsi ministers. She couldn’t see any possibilities beyond that. Now, it seemed, her lack of vision would bring her to ruin.
Panic seized Fetnalla, making her stomach heave. “Perhaps there’s still a way,” she muttered, clenching her teeth against a wave of nausea. “Maybe, I can still convince her.” If she survives the siege.
She thrust away an image of Evanthya’s face, forcing herself to consider instead how she might slow Brall’s progress toward Dantrielle. Again. Already she had delayed their departure from Orvinti no less than three times, twice by arguing for an increase in the number of soldiers in Brall’s war party. The first time, she had been aided by the arrival of a messenger, who brought word that Rassor’s army had joined Numar’s in laying siege to Castle Dantrielle. As a result, Brall had agreed to march with an additional two hundred men. The second time she hadn’t been nearly so fortunate, but she had managed to convince Traefan Sigrano, Orvinti’s master of arms, that another hundred men, archers all, would aid in their efforts to break the siege. With both increases, of course, came greater demands on the quartermaster, which, in turn, prolonged their preparations.
She had then misinformed the weapons makers as to the proportion of archers to swordsmen in the duke’s company, so that just before they were finally ready to leave Orvinti, Brall’s master of arms discovered that his archers hadn’t enough to arrows to fight effectively.
Brall had been livid, of course, but had not known whether to believe the craftsman when he said that Fetnalla misspoke, or his first minister when she swore to him that the weapons maker heard her incorrectly. This did nothing to lessen Brall’s suspicions of her, but Fetnalla cared little about that. What mattered was that it added another day and a half to their preparations.
Once they were on the move, however, there wasn’t much more Fetnalla could do to slow them. Brall set the pace for the march and expected all in his company to match it, particularly those on horseback. Moreover, he knew of her relationship with Evanthya, and expected that she would be anxious to reach Dantrielle, end the siege, and save Tebeo’s minister. Anything Fetnalla did now to impede their progress would make it clear to all concerned that she had betrayed her duke.
Yet, that was precisely what the Weaver expected of her. Simple deception wouldn’t work this time. She needed to do more.
It came to her so suddenly, with such force, that she had to resist an urge to jump up and see to it immediately. Instead, she turned over on her sleeping roll, sighing heavily. A few moments later she did so again, and then a third time. At last, as if unable to sleep, she sat up, stretched, and stood. One of the sentries was watching her, but he merely nodded, saying nothing.