“Wha’ should we do with ’er?” the other guard asked, still holding the woman, one hand pinning her arm to her body, the other gripping her hair.
Cresenne looked at him and then at the woman. After a moment she started walking to where her attacker stood. She nearly fell, but then managed to steady herself against the wall and make it the rest of the way.
“Who are you?” Cresenne asked, stopping just in front of her.
The woman just stared at her for several moments, looking like a waif beside the guard.
At last she dropped her gaze. “I was once first minister of Mertesse.”
“Mertesse?” the guard repeated, glowering at her, hatred in his eyes. An Aneiran as well as a Qirsi traitor. It was a wonder the man didn’t kill her where she stood.
“What’s your name?”
“Yaella. Yaella ja Banvel.”
The other guard returned, and with him came Nurle jal Danteffe, the healer who had saved Cresenne’s life after she was poisoned by yet another servant of the Weaver.
“Are you all right?” Nurle asked, frowning with concern.
“I’m well enough,” she said. “Help Trin.”
He nodded once and went to the gleaner.
“She deserves t’ die,” said the soldier who held Cresenne’s attacker. “With wha’ she’s done t’ ye and th’ child. Say th’ word an’ we’ll take care o’ her. No one need be th’ wiser.”
“Let them do it, Cresenne,” Trin called to her. “He’s right: she’s earned this death.”
Nurle cast a look her way, but said nothing.
Cresenne shook her head. “There were those who would have done the same with me when I first came here,” she said. “And it may be that the queen will put her to death before long. But I don’t want any more blood on my hands.”
The woman laughed. “You think yourself noble, compassionate. Let them kill me. That would be an act of mercy.”
“Certainly it would be an easy end for you.”
“Easy? You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m old. Nothing is easy anymore. A year or two ago, this brute holding me would be afire already, this corridor filled with a concealing mist as I made my escape. But I’ve nothing left. No magic, no strength. Nothing.”
“You had a dagger, and that was nearly enough,” Cresenne said, and started to turn away.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I tried to kill you?”
“I don’t have to ask. You’re here because the Weaver wanted me dead.”
“So did I. Your Grinsa jal Arriet was responsible for the death of the man I loved. I came here to avenge him.”
“What man? What was his name?”
“Shurik jal Marcine.”
Cresenne nodded. “I know that name. Kentigern’s first minister.”
“Another traitor,” the guard muttered.
The woman scowled at him. “Betrayal wears many faces, Eandi. He devoted himself to a great cause, just as I have.” She faced Cresenne again. “He’s the reason I came. I failed him today even more than I did the Weaver.”
Cresenne regarded her a moment, then laughed, short and sharp. “You’re a fool. You belong to the Weaver’s movement; nothing else matters. He wanted you to kill me and so you made the attempt. You’re deceiving yourself if you believe anything different. He controls those who serve him as a master controls a slave. It’s been half a year since I renounced him and still he governs my life, forcing me to live like some wretched creature of the night.” She gestured at the bloodstains on her clothes and the scars on her face. “Look at me. I’ve never truly met him, and yet he’s left scars all over my body.” She shook her head. “No, your thirst for vengeance had nothing to do with what happened today. All of this was the Weaver’s doing.”
The woman glared at her, her color high. “He hates you, you know. He’ll never stop trying to kill you. You might have survived today, but you’ll be dead soon enough.”
“That remains to be seen,” Cresenne said. “I’ve made it this far. And he hasn’t won yet.”
With that, she turned her back on the woman, listening as the guards led her away. There were tears on her face again, but she brushed them off with her sleeve and smiled down at Bryntelle, who had finally stopped crying.
“You need healing,” Nurle said.
Cresenne nodded. “Yes. And then we need to sleep. Already the day’s nearly half gone.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The Moorlands, Eibithar
The morning dawned bright and clear, the eastern sky aglow with fiery shades of red and gold, the western sky gradually lightening from black, to indigo, and finally to azure. The air was utterly still and the moons still hung overhead, white and red, bone and blood, as if awaiting the coming battle.
Nitara was awake at first light, as were the Weaver’s other warriors. Jastanne returned to her side of the camp soon after the minister awoke, but she would not meet Nitara’s gaze. It was all the confirmation Nitara needed that the chancellor had spent the previous night in the Weaver’s arms.
She had expected to be enraged and aggrieved, to feel jealousy gnawing like wood ants at her mind. But on this day no such emotions could reach her. Today, she rode to war, a soldier in the Weaver’s army, a servant of his movement, an apostle of his vision. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would lament that he had chosen to love Jastanne rather than her. Or maybe their victory today would purge her of envy and resentment.
The vision of Kayiv that had darkened her sleep remained fresh in her mind, but even this memory could not distract Nitara from her purpose. Jastanne had chosen to make her a commander in the Weaver’s force, a decision to which Dusaan himself had assented. She intended to justify the faith they had shown in her. The Weaver’s army might yet be defeated-although she could not imagine how or by what force-but it would not be through any failure on her part.
In many respects hers was the most dangerous command of all. The other powers-fire, shaping, mists and winds-could all be wielded to good effect from afar. Language of beasts worked best at close distance. The other magics lent themselves naturally to the Weaver’s power; the greater the number being woven into a single force, the more devastating the magic. But language of beasts had to be wielded with precision and usually was most effective when used individually, one Qirsi whispering to one animal. That was why Nitara and the Qirsi under her command would be positioned close to the center, as far as possible from the Eandi archers. Bowmen would not be on horseback, and Nitara and her soldiers could do little to block the enemy’s arrows. They would be at the heart of this battle, facing down Eandi riders, doing all they could to evade the steel of Eibithar and Sanbira’s warriors.
It was a role she relished and as she called her soldiers to her, she saw the same eagerness on many of their faces. She saw fear as well, but this was to be expected.
“You know what the Weaver expects of us,” she said. Several of them nodded, but most of them merely stared at her, waiting.
“Ours is a unique mission in this war. We cannot depend upon the Weaver’s magic to bolster our own, nor can we watch this battle unfold from a safe distance. We may not wield the deepest magic in the Weaver’s army, but we will stand at the core of his force and keep the riders of the Eandi at bay.”
A murmur of agreement and more nods. A few of them smiled, the fierce, courageous smiles of warriors.
“It will be dangerous work,” she said, feeling more and more like a commander with every word she spoke. “Some of us may not live to see the end. No doubt that frightens many of you. I’d be scared as well, were it not for one simple truth: I’d rather die in the service of our Weaver, wielding my powers on his behalf, than live out the rest of my days in a world ruled by the Eandi.”
She expected more nods and mumbled assent. Instead, these last words were greeted by a deafening cheer that startled Nitara and made her horse whinny and rear.
The minister glanced about and saw that the other commanders were watching her. So was Jastanne, an amused grin on her pretty face.