“Your army should arrive at nearly the same time as the Solkarans,” he had said. “With so many of the Foreland’s powers there, making war on one another, our task grows simpler by the day. By convincing the queen to fight you’ve made our victory that much more certain. You’re to be commended.”
Abeni explained that she had little to do with the queen’s decision, but he continued to praise her, particularly after learning that the first ministers of Macharzo and Norinde, both of whom served his movement as well, rode with her.
“Three of you together,” he said. “Truly the gods must be with us.”
There was little she could say, except, “Yes, Weaver.”
“Don’t reveal yourselves yet. Do nothing to delay your queen’s arrival at the battle.” She could hear the excitement in his voice, and she found that she felt it, too. They were approaching the culmination of their efforts, the final battle for which they had been preparing these long years. Yet, even recognizing this, she hadn’t been prepared for what he said next.
“Look for me when you reach the battlefield.”
“What?”
“I’ll be there. I’m not going to reveal myself to you now, but you’ll know me, you’ll feel me as I reach for your power. Be prepared to give your magic to me so that I can wield it as my own against the enemy. Tell the other two to do the same. Our time is at hand. The Forelands will soon be ours.”
The archminister had nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.
“One more thing. There’s a man with Eibithar’s army, a Qirsi named Grinsa jal Arriet. He claims to be a mere gleaner, but he’s far more. This man is dangerous. Keep away from him. When the time comes, I’ll deal with him myself. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Weaver,” she whispered. “Do we also have allies among the Eibitharians?”
For a moment the Weaver said nothing, and Abeni wondered if she had angered him. When he did answer, however, his tone was mild. “Actually, yes. Usually, I don’t reveal such things, but it may be time that I started to bring together those who serve me in different realms. There is a woman-your counterpart actually.”
“The archminister?”
“Yes. But don’t approach her unless you absolutely must. The risks are far too great.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“The hour of our victory approaches. Until then.” An instant later, she was awake, shivering in the darkness, though with excitement or fear or simply the cold, she couldn’t say. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have another take hold of her magic, to give herself over to a man so completely. Though she had never taken a husband, she had shared her bed with many, both men and women. She wondered if it would be anything like the act of love.
Since learning that the queen intended to ride to war, and listening as Olesya speculated as to whether this conflict was connected in some way with the conspiracy, Abeni had feared that the Eandi might yet find a way to thwart the Weaver’s plans. In the wake of her dream, however, she was reassured. The Weaver had spoken of the coming war with such confidence that she couldn’t help but take heart. There was a portent in this dawn she was witnessing, the promise of a new era in the singing of the larks and the earliest golden rays of sunlight. For the first time since leaving Yserne with the Sanbiri army, she was anxious to be riding. When at last the soldiers and nobles and other ministers began to stir, she rose, bundled her sleeping roll, and saddled her mount with the exuberance of a young warrior riding to her first battle.
Olesya, the queen, expected Abeni to ride with her, just as the dukes of Brugaosa and Norinde, and the duchess of Macharzo assumed that their ministers would ride with them and their armies. The nobles of Sanbira had long since lost faith in their Qirsi, their trust shaken by the attempts on the life of duchess Diani of Curlinte and the death of Kreazur jal Sylbe, her first minister-or, more precisely, his murder, for which Abeni was responsible. Eager as the archminister was to tell Craeffe and Filtem of her dream, she would have to await an opportunity, or create one. Diani herself had ridden with the queen as well, and seemed to have taken it upon herself to keep watch on the archminister. Whether she expected Abeni to make an attempt on Olesya’s life or to flee the war party at her first chance, the minister couldn’t say, but as their journey into Eibithar continued, she had found the woman’s constant presence increasingly bothersome. On this day, she no longer cared. Let Diani of Curlinte indulge her suspicions and her lust for vengeance. Abeni had nothing to fear from her, nor did the movement. The woman would be crushed with the rest of them, destroyed by the combined might of the Weaver and those who served him.
Abeni actually smiled at the duchess as they began to ride.
“Good day, my lady. I trust you slept well?”
Diani frowned, as if confused by Abeni’s courtesy. “Yes, thank you. And you?”
“Very well, thank you.” The lie came to her with such ease that she nearly laughed aloud.
Even the prospect of another lengthy ride was not enough to dampen her spirits. They had come a great distance already-the ride from Yserne to Brugaosa alone had been over forty leagues-and Abeni, who had spent little time riding before then, was in agony day and night, her muscles aching.
Once the duke of Norinde and the duchess of Macharzo reached Edamo’s castle with their warriors, the journey began in earnest. After fording Orlagh’s River into Caerisse, the Sanbiri army rode northwest, between the duchies of Aratamme and Valde. They then forded the headwaters of the Kett River and began the arduous climb into the Glyndwr Highlands, crossing into Eibithar in the midst of a violent storm. Throughout their travels, Olesya had assured the minister that she would grow accustomed to riding, that her body would soon learn to move with her mount, but Abeni’s discomfort only grew worse, until she wondered how she would ever make it all the way to Eibithar’s Moorlands.
Over the past few days, however, as they made their way through the highlands passing close to Glyndwr Castle and its sparkling jewel of a lake, her pain had finally begun to subside.
Hearing the cheer with which Abeni greeted Curlinte’s duchess, the queen slowed her mount, allowing the two of them to catch up with her. Her master of arms, Ohan Delrasto, slowed as well, though he didn’t look pleased. Abeni had noticed that he often seemed to resent those who intruded upon his time with the queen, and she wondered if the old warrior fancied himself a suitor for Olesya’s affections.
“You’re in a fine mood today, Archminister,” the queen said. “I take it you and your mount have reached an understanding.”
Abeni grinned. There were times when she did like Olesya. “I suppose you could say that, Your Highness. It may be more accurate to say that my horse has finally succeeded in training me.”
The queen laughed. “Well said! I’ve long believed that the first step in becoming a true rider is giving up the illusion of control. As my mother used to say, we may hold the reins, but the horse holds us.”
Diani frowned again. “I’ve been riding since I was a child, and I always have control over my mount.”
“My mother also used to speak of the arrogance of youth,” Olesya said, a conspiratorial tone in her voice.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“It seems I’m outnumbered,” the duchess said, raising an eyebrow.
They crested a small rise, and beheld a sight that took Abeni’s breath away. Ahead, less than half a league off, the earth seemed to fall away, as if Elined had carved a great hole in the surface of her world. They had reached the edge of the Caerissan Steppe. To the east, the waters of Binthar’s Wash churned and rumbled, glimmering like a river of sapphires, toward a great waterfall from which rose a fine white mist. Beyond the rim of the steppe and a thousand fourspans below them, the Moorlands stretched toward the horizon. Brilliant green, they were bounded on the east by the wash, which looked like little more than a thin blue ribbon, and on the west by the great Sussyn River. Farther to the east, so dark that it looked almost black, stood Eibithar’s North Wood, nearly as vast as the Moorlands and divided by yet another river, the Thorald, if she remembered correctly.