It seemed that Fetnalla sensed this as well. “It sounds nice,” she said quietly.
For some time neither of them spoke. A soft wind blew across the grasses, and an owl called from far off, sounding ghostlike and lonely.
“Do you remember the first night we … we lay together?” Fetnalla asked, breaking the silence.
“Of course I do.”
“You told me that you’d gone to Dantrielle hoping to join the Festival, that you’d never intended to serve in an Eandi court.”
“It was true. I never did intend it. But I feel fortunate to have found my way to Tebeo’s castle.”
“I know you do. But I never felt that way about my life in Orvinti.”
“I don’t believe you. You always told me that serving Brall-”
“I know what I told you. And I’m telling you now that it wasn’t true. I wanted it to be. I always hoped that someday I’d be as content serving my duke as you were serving yours. But it never happened, and then he started growing suspicious of me.”
She stared at Fetnalla, fighting back tears she couldn’t explain. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to understand.” She held up a hand, silencing Evanthya before she could speak. “I know it doesn’t excuse what I’ve done. But even before I joined the Weaver’s movement, I was unhappy in my life as a minister. I thought you should know that.”
Evanthya shook her head. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I don’t want you to say anything. I’m just…” She trailed off, a puzzled look on her face. She was looking past Evanthya, her eyes narrowed, as if she were straining to see something in the darkness beyond the firelight. “You…” she whispered.
Before Evanthya could turn and look for herself, she heard a footfall just behind her, light and sure, and far too close.
* * *
He hadn’t expected the Weaver to walk in his dreams again. They had spoken only a few days before, and the Weaver had told him then all that he needed to know. War was at hand. In another few days they would meet on the battle plain and the Weaver would reach for his magic-mists and winds as well as shaping. He would have to be prepared for this. He would have to open his mind to the Weaver’s power. This was no time for any Qirsi in his army to be hesitant, or to resist the Weaver in any way.
All this and more the Weaver had explained to Pronjed the last time they spoke. The archminister understood perfectly. He might have made some mistakes during his service to the movement-he still shuddered to think of how close the Weaver had come to killing him after he decided on his own to murder the king of Aneira, whom he had served-but Pronjed was determined not to fail on the battle plain. By good fortune and the Weaver’s mercy, he remained a chancellor in the movement, which meant that he would likely be one of the Weaver’s nobles once the Eandi were defeated and Qirsi ruled the Forelands. He had no intention of squandering his claim to nobility. He had pushed himself to the limits of his endurance and now he was within a day’s ride of where the Eandi armies had gathered, and only two days’ journey from joining the Weaver’s company.
Which was why he had been so surprised to find himself walking the familiar plain again soon after falling asleep only two nights after the previous dream. This time the Weaver didn’t force him to climb that torturous incline, or even to wait for his appearance. Pronjed opened his mind’s eye to the dream, and there was the Weaver, framed by the familiar radiant light.
“Weaver-”
“We’ve spoken before of the woman from Orvinti, the first minister.”
“Yes, Weaver. I remember.”
“She follows you still. She’s but a day’s ride behind you. I want you to find her.”
“Of course, Weaver. Is she in danger?”
“Not as you mean, but yes. There was a task I wished her to complete, and she’s failed, to the peril of us all.”
“Are you certain?” he asked, without thinking. He knew of this task. She was to kill Evanthya ja Yispar, Dantrielle’s first minister, who had also been her lover. The last time Pronjed saw Fetnalla, she had been waiting for Evanthya on the Moors of Durril, intent on doing the Weaver’s bidding though clearly the very notion of it pained her deeply. Still, Pronjed should have known better than to question the Weaver’s word. As soon as he spoke, he regretted it, wincing in anticipation of punishment.
It never came. Fortunately, the Weaver appeared to understand his response. “I believe she wanted to succeed, but her love for the woman overmastered her judgment. She rode north from Aneira without having killed the minister, and she allowed herself to be followed.”
Again, Pronjed wanted to ask how the Weaver could be certain of this, not because he doubted that it was true, but rather because he longed to understand better the power this man wielded. He kept silent, however, knowing how dangerous it would be to question the Weaver a second time.
“When I reached for the one to enter her dreams,” the Weaver said, apparently reading his thoughts, “I sensed the presence of the other.”
“They’re together?”
“No, though the distance between them is little enough for the minister to know that the other pursues her.”
Pronjed couldn’t help thinking that Fetnalla’s love for the woman had to be powerful indeed to make her defy the Weaver in this way. “Is it possible that Dantrielle’s minister might still be turned to our cause? If they love each other that much…”
“Were that possible, they’d be together. No, the woman from Dantrielle is determined to stop her, perhaps even to oppose the movement. She must be killed.”
“I understand, Weaver.”
“You may have to fight both of them. Fetnalla couldn’t kill her. She may be relieved to have this task fall to you. But it’s also possible that she’ll try to stop you. Like you, she’s a shaper. Her other powers are of no consequence. The other woman has language of beasts and mists, but nothing that can harm you.”
“Very well. Where do you want me to do this?”
“Fetnalla should come within sight of the Eandi encampment tomorrow, and when Dantrielle’s first minister sees how close she is to the battle plain, she’ll make every effort to catch up to her. You shouldn’t have to journey far to find them.”
“I’ll see to this, Weaver. I give you my word that Dantrielle’s first minister will never live to see your victory.”
“Good,” the Weaver said.
Pronjed expected the dream to end then. But the Weaver seemed to hesitate.
“I don’t want you to use magic, if you don’t have to,” the man said at last.
“Weaver?”
“I want any who find the minister’s body to think this the work of Eandi soldiers. There will be enough killing of Qirsi by Qirsi on the battle plain. Fetnalla will know the truth, of course, but the rest need not know that we had to kill this woman. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“Ride north when she’s dead, with Fetnalla if at all possible.”
An instant later, Pronjed awoke.
That was the previous night. As the Weaver predicted, Fetnalla appeared on the southern horizon this very day, just as the sun began its descent into the west. Pronjed marked her progress northward, but made certain to keep out of sight. He watched her stop for the evening and make camp, and, soon after darkness fell, he heard a second rider approaching, drawn to her fire as if a moth.
He watched the two women together and could see how powerfully they were drawn to one another. He strained to hear their conversation and was able to make out most of it. At first, he believed that they might leave the plain together and he struggled with himself, unsure of what he would do. Surely these two, if they fled, intending to make a new life for themselves elsewhere in the Forelands, were no threat to the Weaver and his movement. But would the Weaver view them that way, or would he see such a choice on Pronjed’s part as yet another failure, and reason to deny him a place of honor in the new world he was shaping?