“Actually, there are others who are near, who are making their way northward as you are, but I want you to do this. You and I have spoken of this before, and I’ve long believed that this would be the greatest test of your loyalty to our movement. If you can take the life of this woman you love, then you will have earned a place at my side. You will become part of the new nobility, the Qirsi nobility, that is to rule the Forelands.”
“And what if I can’t?”
“As I said, there are others. You won’t be saving her life, you’ll only be imperiling your own. You’ve done so much more than I ever expected you would. I had questioned whether you could kill your duke, or any of his men, for that matter. Don’t disappoint me now.”
He had been kind to her thus far, but Fetnalla knew that his generosity only went so far.
“Yes, Weaver.”
“You’re on the Moors of Durril.”
“Yes, in the northeast corner.”
“How far from the Tarbin?”
“Not very. A day’s ride at the most.”
“Very well. Remain there. Allow her to find you; build a fire if you must. I don’t want her to cross into Eibithar.”
Fetnalla wanted to plead for Evanthya’s life, or, failing that, to beg him to find another to kill her love. It was all she could do not to fall to the ground sobbing, berating him for his cruelty, cursing his tests and his promises and his threats. But somehow she managed it. She stood utterly still, afraid even to draw breath. She knew that he could read her thoughts, but there was little she could do about that.
“You’re brave,” he said at length. “And I sense your strength.”
“Thank you, Weaver,” she whispered.
In the next instant she opened her eyes, blinking several times to clear her sight. White Panya and red Ilias were climbing to the east, though they were still low enough in the sky so that their light did not obscure the brilliant stars overhead. The night was warm, but Fetnalla found that she was shivering. Her clothes and hair were soaked with sweat, as they always were after these encounters with the Weaver, and her face was damp with tears. Alone save for her mount, she removed her wet clothes and sat naked, allowing the mild breeze to dry her skin and soothe her heart.
Eventually she lay back down, pulling her blanket up to her chin and staring at the moons until she fell back asleep.
When next she woke, the sun was high in the eastern sky, warming the moor. She sat up quickly, cursing herself for sleeping so late into the morning. Then it all came back to her, crashing down like a wave, stealing her breath. Remain there, the Weaver had said. Allow her to find you.
But what if she didn’t? What if Fetnalla explained to him that in spite of her best efforts, Evanthya had passed her by? No sooner had she formed the thought, however, than she realized that such a transparent lie would never work. The Weaver would find Evanthya eventually and he’d kill Fetnalla, too.
What did it say about the love Fetnalla shared with Evanthya that she should choose to kill the woman herself rather than allow another to do it? She tried to tell herself that she feared another Qirsi might be too cruel in carrying out the Weaver’s command. She desperately wanted to believe that.
Not wishing to ponder the matter further, she rose, dressed, and gathered what wood she could find for a fire. No trees grew in this part of the moor, but there were enough low shrubs to feed a small blaze. The branches were fresh and gave off far more smoke than heat, but under these circumstances, that was just what Fetnalla wanted.
She spent much of the day sitting beside the fire, feeding more branches into its low flames, and foraging for additional fuel. All the time, she kept an eye on the southern horizon, searching for some sign of her love. As the hours stretched on, she began to wonder how long the Weaver would expect her to wait. Wasn’t it possible that Evanthya had taken another route northward? Even as she formed the question, however, Fetnalla knew that she hadn’t. Any farther east, and she would have had to climb onto the steppe; any farther west and she would have had to cross Harrier Fen, or worse, brave the waters near Kentigern, where there was war. Fetnalla had chosen to come this way because it was the quickest and safest path to Galdasten, and Evanthya would do the same.
Late in the day, at long last, a figure appeared in the distance, riding a horse, white hair flying in the wind. At first Fetnalla was certain that this was Evanthya, and her heart began to race, not with dread at having to kill her, but with the familiar thrill of knowing they would soon be together.
As the rider drew closer, however, she realized that this wasn’t Evanthya at all. It was a man, tall, with narrow shoulders and a thin face. Pronjed jal Drenthe, archminister of Aneira. Fetnalla stood. For just an instant she even considered drawing her sword.
“I saw your fire,” he said, as he approached. He reined his horse to a halt a few fourspans from where she stood, but he made no move to dismount. “You want her to find you?”
Fetnalla and Pronjed had never spoken of the conspiracy. After Carden’s death, she and her duke had speculated that the archminister might be a traitor, but they had never confronted him. Since joining the movement herself, Fetnalla had spent almost no time in the man’s company. Yet it seemed now that each knew where the other’s loyalty lay. Why else would Pronjed be riding northward? Why else would she?
“I’ve been instructed to wait for her.”
He nodded, showing no surprise. “She’s about a day’s ride behind me-she’s been following me almost since the moment I escaped from Dantrielle.”
There are others. “The Weaver sent you this way.”
“He didn’t have to. When I left Dantrielle, my only aim was to reach the Moorlands as quickly as possible. But when he learned that I could lead the first minister to you, he told me to go slowly enough to keep her close.” He hesitated. “Are you going to…? What is it he expects of you?”
“I think you know.”
His eyes widened slightly, but otherwise his expression didn’t change. “Can you do it?”
Fetnalla found herself wondering if Pronjed was asking for himself or on behalf of the Weaver, and she answered cautiously. “The Weaver has told me what needs to be done. What else matters?”
“I could do it for you. The Weaver need never know.”
She eyed him doubtfully. “Why would you take such a risk?”
“It’s the least I can do. You once healed me when I came to you in need, and you guarded my secret. I haven’t forgotten that.”
Fetnalla had, though hearing him speak of it, she remembered it all quite clearly. They had been in Castle Solkara for Carden’s funeral, not long before the poisoning that nearly killed her. The archminister came to her quarters early in the morning with a shattered bone in his hand, which, he said, had come from a fall he had taken the night before. And with the memory, came a sudden insight.
“The Weaver did that to you!” she whispered. “He broke your hand-it didn’t happen in some fall.”
He smiled weakly. “Very good, cousin.”
“But why did he hurt you?”
“It was punishment for something I did, something that angered him greatly.”
“What?”
The smile lingered, but there was a haunted look in Pronjed’s pale yellow eyes as he shook his head. “It’s not a matter I wish to discuss.”
“Yet you offer to risk angering him again by helping me.”
“As I say, I feel that I owe you this much. And if neither of us tells the Weaver, there is no risk.”
“I think we both know better. Keeping secrets from him is no small task.” She looked away from him, gazing southward once more, as if expecting to see Evanthya at any moment. “Besides, I think it’s best that I do this.”
“I believe I understand. Perhaps I should be on my way then.”
A part of her would have liked for him to stay. She had been alone for so many days that it felt good to talk to someone, even about this. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask him to remain with her, so she merely nodded. “May the gods treat you kindly, Archminister. I’m grateful to you for offering to help me.”