She nodded. Tomorrow. Yes, she had assumed that it would be soon. It might as well be tomorrow.
“I think we should leave here,” Pronjed said.
She was still doing it. Staring at Evanthya. Shouldn’t they have built her a pyre? Didn’t her love deserve that much?
“First Minister? Fetnalla.”
It was her name that reached through the haze in her mind. She tore her eyes from Evanthya’s face and looked at the archminister. He was watching her, concern written on his bony features.
“You should saddle your horse,” he told her, “and gather whatever you need to take with you. I’ll … I’ll see to the rest.”
Somewhere, deep in her mind, a small voice cried out in protest. Who was this man to give her orders? Who was he to offer his sympathy and his friendship? But she hadn’t the will to resist. She stepped to where her saddle lay, put it on her steed, and began to fasten the straps. Once it was secured, she turned, glancing about her camp, feeling that surely she was forgetting something. All she saw, however, was Evanthya, blood staining her cloak, firelight warming her cheek.
After several moments, Pronjed returned, frowning as he glanced back into the darkness.
“Do you have language of beasts?” he asked.
“No. Evanthya did.”
“I can’t get her horse to leave or come with me. It just stands there. Could you-?”
“No. As long as she’s here, he’ll stay just where he is.”
“Someone may see it.”
Fetnalla glanced at Evanthya, then quickly made herself look away. “It can’t be helped.”
“No, I suppose it can’t.” He hesitated. Then, “Are you ready?”
She nodded and swung herself onto her horse, refusing now to gaze at her love.
“We’re part of a great cause, First Minister,” Pronjed said gently, as if he might comfort her with such words. “We’re going to change the world. Some, I’m afraid, simply weren’t ready for the future the Weaver has envisioned.”
Hadn’t she told herself much the same thing several times since leaving Aneira? Since murdering Brall? Evanthya could never understand all that the Weaver had given to Fetnalla and others devoted to his cause. She could never embrace the true meaning of the Weaver’s movement. Her view of the world was too narrow, too strongly tied to old notions of loyalty and service. Each time Fetnalla considered what it might mean to kill her love, that was how she justified it.
My strength to you, Evanthya had said, as the life bled from her body. Then why did Fetnalla feel so terribly weak?
Chapter Twenty-three
City of Kings, Eibithar
Cresenne held Bryntelle in her arms, watching the morning dawn from the ramparts atop Audun’s Castle. A light wind sweeping down off the Caerissan Steppe rustled the pennons above them. The eastern sky glowed pink and orange, like the flames conjured this past night by the sorcerers who came to the castle.
The Revel was in the City of Kings, chased south from the coastal cities by invasion and war. Usually the festival would be in Thorald now, having arrived there from Galdasten. But with the Braedony invasion, the performers had fled across the Moorlands to the safety of the City of Kings. Here they had remained for the better part of a turn, awaiting word that the invaders had been repelled so that they might resume their journeys across Eibithar.
It seemed the people of the city had grown weary of the performances, for last night the fire sorcerers and tumblers had come to the castle, where they performed for the queen and those soldiers who had remained behind when Kearney marched to war. For Cresenne, who remained a prisoner in the castle, and who had spent countless nights in solitude, walking the corridors of the fortress or the empty paths of the castle gardens, the performers provided a welcome diversion. For Bryntelle, they were a spectacle.
The babe squealed with delight at every somersault turned by the tumblers. She stared with rapt attention at the hands of the Qirsi, watching as flames of gold and red, blue and purple, orange and green crept over their skin. She grinned, wide-eyed and enthralled, at the songs of bards and pipers. Most nights, the child napped at least once, usually twice. She hadn’t slept at all this night. Long after the performers left the castle, she continued to laugh and coo.
For Cresenne the night was spoiled only by the appearance of a face from her past. While holding Bryntelle so that the baby could see one of the bards, she spied a bald, fat Qirsi standing near the other musicians. She recognized the man immediately. Altrin jal Casson, one of the gleaners with whom she had worked in Curgh just over a year ago, when she first met Grinsa and began plotting the murder of Kentigern’s Lady Brienne. Seeing him, she quickly turned away, so as to hide her face. Bryntelle, of course, began to cry, because she could no longer see the singer, and thus drew more attention to her. When Cresenne faced the musician again, Trin had vanished. She didn’t see him again for the rest of the night. But she suspected that he had noticed her and remembered, and she dreaded having to speak with him. He had been kind to her during their brief friendship, but the Revel was a small community, and she had little doubt that he had heard of her betrayal.
With the sky brightening and the castle beginning to wake, Cresenne knew that she should return to her quarters and sleep. As long as the Weaver still lived she needed to take her rest during the day. But like Bryntelle, she was wide awake, her mind alive with visions from the previous night. So she remained where she was, watching the sun rise, feeling the air grow warmer.
It had been several days since she last spoke with Grinsa. No doubt he was occupied with other matters-for all she knew he and the Weaver had already met in battle. She shuddered at the thought. Her magic ran no deeper than that of most other Qirsi, but she felt that if Grinsa had died, she’d have sensed it somehow. This was what she chose to believe, what she would continue to believe until she heard tidings to the contrary.
She thought it likely that he knew how difficult it was for her to have him in her mind, to feel his caresses and kisses in that way. He was brilliant and he knew her better than did any other man she had ever known. He couldn’t have helped but notice how, in the aftermath of the Weaver’s last assault, she shied from his touch. Cresenne was desperate to believe that all this would change when they were truly together and he could hold her in his powerful arms. The Weaver had violated her mind far more than her body. Perhaps when Grinsa could touch her without having to enter her dreams she would rediscover her passion for him. But until then, until she knew for certain that the Weaver was dead, she preferred that Grinsa didn’t disturb her sleep, though this meant having no word from him at all.
At last, as the sun began to grow hot against her face, and the night guards, weary and bored, were replaced by rested men, Cresenne carried Bryntelle to the nearest of the tower stairways and descended to the lower corridor, intending to eat a small breakfast and then return to their quarters.
Before she reached the kitchen, however, she saw a familiar form walking toward her, a warm smile on his round face.
“Cresenne ja Terba,” Trin said, opening his arms in greeting. “I thought it was you last night, though I thought I’d inquire of the soldiers before I approached you.”
She smiled in spite of herself and allowed him to embrace her.
“And who is this lovely young lady?”
“Her name is Bryntelle.”
Trin regarded her for a moment, his yellow eyes dancing. “Bryntelle ja…?”
Cresenne had to laugh. How could anyone be so transparent? “Bryntelle ja Grinsa,” she said.
The fat man grinned. “Ah! I thought so. I always knew that the two of you were destined for one another. I believe I told you so at the time.”
“Yes, you did, much to Grinsa’s embarrassment.”