Abeni grinned, knowing that she was enjoying herself far too much.
A short time later, the soldiers returned with food for the evening meal. Gradually the nobles returned as well. Diani and Naditia gave no indication that they had gleaned anything from Craeffe’s insolence, but they did seem to have forged a bond at the river, and once more Abeni found herself cursing the minister’s recklessness.
The balance of the evening passed without incident, as did the next several days. Now that the army had reached the moors of Eibithar, Olesya pushed them harder than ever. They covered nearly ten leagues each day, riding due north toward Galdasten, where the empire’s army was said to have made land. On the third day after their descent from the steppe, as they drew nearer to the central moorlands, they began to see columns of smoke rising into the sky far off toward the horizon. Sensing that they were near the warring armies, Olesya began to send out scouting parties, several at a time ranging to the east and west as well as to the north.
Early the following morning, just after they had set out from camp, the western party returned, bearing news of a great army marching from the southwest.
“Is it Kentigern?” Olesya asked the lead rider as he steered his mount next to hers.
“No, Your Highness. They’re burning crops and homes as they go. This is an invading army.”
“What colors do they fly?”
“Gold and red, Your Highness.”
The queen cast a dark look at Ohan and Diani.
“What would the empire be doing down here?” the duchess asked.
“It’s not the empire. Think, Diani. Braedon isn’t the only realm that flies banners of gold and red.”
Diani’s eyes widened. “Solkara! It’s the Aneirans.”
Olesya nodded. “Yes.” She faced the rider again. “How many are they?”
“More than a thousand, Your Highness. But they’re on foot.”
“We can stop them,” Ohan said. “Keeping to our mounts and using our bowmen wisely, we can defeat an army that size.”
“No!” Abeni bit her tongue, furious with herself for speaking so rashly. Both Olesya and Diani were staring at her as if she had just told them of the Weaver.
“You have something to say, Archminister?” the queen demanded. Abeni could hear the distrust in her voice.
“Forgive me, Your Highness. I was merely going to suggest that we might be better off joining with Kearney’s army first. We’re on horseback. Aneira’s men aren’t. We’ll reach Eibithar’s army well before they do, and we can warn the king of Aneira’s approach. That way, Kearney won’t be caught unawares, and we won’t have to risk fighting a larger army.”
The master of arms appeared to weigh this. “Actually, she makes a good point.”
The duchess continued to glare at her as if she hadn’t heard.
“Did they see you?” the queen asked her scout.
“I don’t believe so, Your Highness, but I can’t be certain.”
“All right. Go tell the dukes and Lady Macharzo what you’ve seen. Tell them we’ll continue to ride through the day and well into the night. By the time the sun sets we’ll be far enough from the Aneirans to light torches. Except for brief rests, we won’t stop again until we find Kearney and his army.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Once you’ve delivered that message, I want you and your party to ride west again. Keep pace with us, and watch the Aneirans for as long as you can. If they change direction or do anything unexpected, return here immediately and inform me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” He bowed to her as best he could atop his mount before riding off toward the other nobles.
Abeni gazed straight ahead, revealing nothing with her expression, but inside she was smiling with relief. The Weaver wanted both armies at the battle on the Moorlands. And he would have them.
The queen, with Ohan at her side, had pulled ahead of the archminister again. It took Abeni a moment to realize that the duchess wasn’t with them.
“You’re one of them.”
The archminister started at the sound of Diani’s voice. Somehow the woman was right beside her, hatred in her black eyes.
“That’s why you didn’t want us to attack. I’m sure of it now.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” But Abeni could hear the flutter in her own voice.
“Yes, you do. You got your way this time. I commend you for that. Somehow you convinced the master of arms that you had the army’s interests at heart. But I’ll be watching you as never before. And at the first move you make against the queen, I’ll kill you.”
She kicked at her mount and rode ahead of Abeni, her back straight, her dark hair dancing in the wind.
Despite the pounding of her heart, Abeni nearly laughed aloud. At the first move … By then it would be too late.
Chapter Twelve
The Moors of Durril, Aneira
“You know that she pursues you, even as we speak.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“And you know what you must do?”
Terror and grief warred within Fetnalla’s heart, threatening to rend it in two. She wanted to hide her feelings from the Weaver, but despair overwhelmed her; even if she had the wherewithal to try, he would have seen through her deception.
She hadn’t needed the Weaver to tell her that Evanthya was following her; she’d known for days. She hadn’t yet seen any sign of her beloved, but Fetnalla felt her presence in other ways: the tingling of her skin as she slept at night, dreaming of the unmistakably tender touch of Evanthya’s lips and slender hands on her back and her breasts; the hint of the woman’s voice in the cry of a falcon circling overhead; the elusive scent of her hair and skin riding the warm wind. Illusions, of course, brought on by her longing for Evanthya, and by her loneliness. When these sensations persisted, Fetnalla tried to tell herself that her fear of being caught and her guilt at all she had done were getting the best of her. But the feeling that she was being trailed remained with her, growing stronger with each passing day. And the more she considered the matter, the more certain she became that in fact Evanthya was following her. It made sense. Evanthya would never just let her go, particularly after Fetnalla killed Brall, duke of Orvinti, and revealed herself as a traitor to the realm.
The truth was, Fetnalla would have been devastated if Evanthya had not come after her. For her part, had their roles been reversed, Fetnalla would have followed her love to the farthest reaches of northern Eibithar and across Amon’s Ocean. She had fled not only to save her own life and find the conspiracy, but also to shield Dantrielle’s minister from harm. All of which made answering the Weaver’s question all the more difficult. Fetnalla knew what he expected of her, but the very idea of it made her tremble like a palsied child. She couldn’t even bring herself to speak of it.
“Do you still think she can be turned?” he asked her, his voice as close to gentle as she had ever heard it.
“No, Weaver.”
“A brave answer. I sense what it cost you to admit that.” He paused, seeming to search for the right words. “I need to ask you if you can do this-and I must have the truth.”
“You want me to kill her.” She sounded dull, but she couldn’t help herself, and for once the Weaver didn’t lose patience with her.
“She has to die,” he said. “She is a threat to you and to this movement.”
“She’s not interested in the movement. She only cares for me, and she’s no threat.”
“You know this?”
“I know her.”
Fetnalla saw him shake his head, the wild mane of hair, made black by his brilliant white sun, moving back and forth slowly, even sadly. “That’s not enough. A year ago, perhaps, but not now, when we’re so close. I can’t risk allowing her to live. And since you know her so well and you’re so near to her, you’re the one to kill her.”
She felt tears coursing down her face, but she didn’t bother to wipe them. “Isn’t there anyone else?”