Weavers of War: Book Five of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  Yes, they had the Eandi warriors, and Grinsa spoke of them to the others as if they might actually balance the coming battle. But he knew they could not. He was a Weaver and so he knew what a wind summoned by so many sorcerers could do to the arrows of even the finest archers. He had healed wounds and burns and mangled limbs, and so he knew what Qirsi fire and shaping power could do to mortal flesh and bone. This war—and again, he wondered if the word was appropriate in this instance—would be quick and brutal. It would be a slaughter.

  He should have told Kearney and Sanbira’s queen and their soldiers to flee while they still could. Better to make Dusaan hunt them down. Perhaps a series of wars, scattered across the Forelands, would offer them some hope. Perhaps over time, they could whittle away some of the Weaver’s army. Then there might be a chance.

  But Eandi warriors didn’t think this way. They heard Grinsa speak of an army of two hundred Qirsi, and they tried their best to understand what that meant, how much power such a force might wield. But in their hearts, they scoffed at his warnings. They envisioned a puny army being overwhelmed by steel and muscle and courage, failing to realize that they would never get close enough to Dusaan and his servants to pull their blades free, much less fight. Keziah and Fotir and the other Qirsi understood, but though they might have spoken in support of retreat had Grinsa suggested it, their nobles would not have listened. Not now, after all that the Weaver’s movement had wrought.

  No, the war would be fought on the morrow. And by nightfall every person in these camps would probably be dead.

  Grinsa lay down, but he didn’t even try to sleep, staring up at the stars and the moons instead.

  “You’re alive,” Tavis said sleepily.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s all right. How’s the archminister?”

  “She wasn’t hurt. The Weaver’s still alive.”

  “I assumed that. You would have woken me had you managed to kill him.”

  “Probably, yes.”

  “What’s troubling you?”

  Everything. We’re all going to be killed. “I’m just tired.”

  “It’s more than that.” The young lord sat up. “Was he too powerful for you again?”

  “No,” Grinsa said, his voice flat. “Actually, I got the better of him this time. I couldn’t kill him, but I did hurt him.”

  “Then what’s the matter?”

  The gleaner shook his head. “Please, Tavis. Let it be.”

  He closed his eyes, hoping that the boy would lie down and go back to sleep, knowing that he wouldn’t.

  “You’re thinking about tomorrow, aren’t you? About the battle?”

  The gleaner sighed. “If you must know, yes, I am.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

  Something in the way he said this made Grinsa sit up as well, and eye the boy with interest. A year ago he wouldn’t have given much consideration to anything Tavis had to say on such a matter. But he had come to appreciate the young lord’s insights on all things, even Qirsi magic.

  “What have you been thinking?” he asked.

  “That it all comes down to numbers. The Weaver isn’t any smarter than you are, and despite your doubts, I’ve never thought that he was any more powerful. But he has far more Qirsi with him.”

  “Obviously.”

  “And that led me to a question. It might be foolish, but if it’s not, it could be of some help to you.”

  “What is it?”

  Tavis told him, and long after he had spoken the words, Grinsa merely continued to sit there, staring at the boy as if he had suddenly conjured golden flames or made his dark scars disappear.

  “Grinsa?” the young lord finally said.

  “It’s far from a foolish question, Tavis. It’s brilliant.” He stood. “We have to find the others.”

  “The others?”

  “Kearney, the queen, the other Qirsi. We have to tell them.” He smiled, daring to hope for the first time in so long. “You may have just saved us all,” he said.

  Tavis beamed.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Southeast of the battle plain, the Moorlands, Eibithar

  In all probability she had maimed herself for life. There hadn’t been time to allow her shoulder and leg to mend themselves properly, and though the bones hadn’t broken again as she rode northward, neither had they healed as they should. Evanthya couldn’t walk without limping, nor could she move her mangled arm as freely as before. Fetnalla’s treachery, which had scored her heart in ways none could see, had also left its mark upon her body.

  Still, she had managed to continue her pursuit, following as the woman she loved rode headlong toward her Weaver and his war. Nothing else mattered to her. She knew better than to think that she could turn Fetnalla from the path she was on. Whatever hope she once had of being able to reason with her love, of convincing her that she had erred in casting her lot with the Weaver, had died with the shattering of her shoulder and the snapping of the bone in her leg. She now meant only to stop Fetnalla, even if that meant killing her.

  Once they had struck at the conspiracy together, paying the assassin to kill Shurik jal Marcine. Since then, Evanthya had hungered for another opportunity to fight the renegades. Emboldened by their one success, she had imagined herself a warrior of consequence, someone who might tip the balance in the coming war. Not anymore. The fate of the Forelands would be decided by the powerful. Evanthya cared only that Fetnalla not join the Weaver’s horde. It wasn’t that she thought her love’s presence on the battlefield would matter much one way or another, or even that she sought to deny the Weaver as many of his servants as possible. Rather, she knew that history would remember those who had betrayed their realms to fight for the Weaver’s dark cause, and she didn’t want Fetnalla’s name listed among them. In a sense, she wished to save Fetnalla from herself. Already her love was infamous—the traitor who killed Brall, duke of Orvinti, as he marched to break Solkara’s siege of Dantrielle. That was bad enough. Evanthya couldn’t allow Fetnalla to do more.

  She owed Fetnalla that much. Whatever had become of their love, once it had filled her world with light and laughter and passion. That was how she intended to remember Fetnalla.

  She rode through heat and hunger and thirst. She rode through pain. Every step of her mount jarred her tender bones, until at times, thundering northward across Eibithar’s Moorlands, she felt lost in a haze of agony and was forced to rely on her horse to keep them headed in the right direction. Occasionally she thought she caught a glimpse of Fetnalla in the distance. Often at night, she spied a fire burning ahead of her, a tiny spark of light on the horizon. Sometimes in the morning, as she resumed her pursuit, she found the charred remains of the blaze or a patch of crushed grass where her love had bedded down for the night. These discoveries kept her moving, spurring her on when her body screamed for her to stop.

  Fetnalla had to know that she followed still; no one knew her as well as did her love. Yet Fetnalla made no more effort to stop Evanthya, nor did she quicken her pace. This, as much as anything, gave Evanthya some small cause for hope. She could almost imagine Fetnalla watching for her fires, fearing their next encounter, yet drawing comfort from her proximity.

  And Evanthya had to admit that she preferred it this way as well. Even had she been able to close the distance between them, she wasn’t sure that she would. Fetnalla had hurt her badly the last time they faced each other. Who knew what she would do next time, or what she would force Evanthya to do? Who could say how it would end? There was more than a little consolation to be found in this uncertainty. At least for a short while, they both lived knowing that the other was safe and nearby.

  All that had changed late this day, when Evanthya first saw the thin lines of smoke rising into the sky. It seemed a vast host was encamped ahead of her. The battle plain. What else could it be? Surely Fetnalla had seen the fires as well, and had turned so that she might skirt the edge of the plain and ride on to j
oin the Weaver. But would she turn west or east? After considering the matter for only a few moments, Evanthya turned east. Fetnalla would not risk the western course, where she might be seen by the Eibitharian warriors, a dark form against the fiery western sky.

  Evanthya rode on, even after the sun had set, her eyes fixed on the north, searching for some sign of her love. When the small fire jumped to life some distance ahead, she smiled grimly, steering her horse toward the light as if it were a beacon at sea, and she a lost ship.

  It was completely dark by the time she drew near to Fetnalla’s blaze. Stars glowed brightly in the night sky, but this late in the waning the moons were not yet up, and Evanthya could barely see the ground in front of her. She could see Fetnalla, though, sitting beside her fire, poking at the coals with a long stick, her face bathed in the warm light. Evanthya dismounted a short distance from the fire and covered the last bit on foot. A few strides from the fire, she reached for her sword, only to remember that Fetnalla had shattered it during their last encounter. She pulled her dagger free instead, continuing forward warily and silently. Or so she thought.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” her love called before Evanthya had reached the circle of light created by the flames.

  Evanthya hesitated, unsure of what to say or do.

  “Come on, Evanthya. Let me see you.” Fetnalla had stood and was peering into the darkness, trying to catch sight of her.

  “How do I know you won’t try to kill me again?”

  “If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. I healed you, remember? If either of us has murder in her mind, it’s most likely you. I’d wager you already have your weapon drawn.”

  “I don’t have shaping magic. I need to protect myself somehow.”

  “A dagger will do you no good, and you know it. I can break that blade as easily as I did your sword.”

  “As easily as you did my shoulder and my leg?”

  “You gave me no choice, Evanthya! I warned you time and again!”

  “Yes, you warned me. And I chose to believe that you wouldn’t be able to hurt me, that you loved me too much. It seems I was wrong.”

  “That’s not—” Fetnalla shook her head. “This is ridiculous! Come here where I can see you. I feel like I’m speaking with a wraith.”

  Evanthya took a long, steadying breath and sheathed her dagger. Then she limped into the firelight, her eyes fixed on her love’s face.

  Seeing her, Fetnalla let out a small cry, her face contorting with grief and pity. “Look at you!” she whispered. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself!”

  “Done to myself?”

  Fetnalla hurried to where Evanthya stood and guided her to a spot beside the fire. “I told you to rest. I warned you that the bones needed time to mend.”

  Evanthya sat, and Fetnalla knelt before her, placing her hands first on Evanthya’s leg, and then on her shoulder, her eyes closed, her brow furrowed in concentration.

  “The bones have knitted poorly.” She opened her eyes again, shaking her head. “But they’re set now. I don’t think there’s anything I can do for you.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to, even if you could.”

  Fetnalla sat back on her heels, her expression hardening, her lips pressed thin so that her mouth was a dark gash on her face. After a moment she stood and walked to the other side of the fire. “You’re a stubborn fool.”

  “Better that than—”

  “Don’t say it!” Fetnalla said, whirling on her and leveling a rigid finger at her heart.

  “Don’t say what? That you’re a traitor? A murderer?”

  “Stop it!”

  Evanthya almost said more. But she stopped herself, realizing that no good could come of it. Fetnalla had called her stubborn just a moment before, but the truth was that she, and not Evanthya, had always been the stubborn one. Even under the best of circumstances her love found it next to impossible to admit when she was wrong; she would never do so now.

  “You look like you haven’t been sleeping,” Evanthya said at last, gazing at her across the fire.

  Fetnalla shrugged, her arms crossed over her chest. “I sleep well enough.”

  “I don’t. I dream of you every night, and each time, when I wake up alone, I can’t get back to sleep.”

  Her love looked away, though a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You’re lying, but thank you.”

  “I am not lying.”

  “Of course you are. In all the time we were together you never dreamed of me. Why would you start now?”

  It was true. She never used to dream of Fetnalla, though her love claimed to dream of her often. Fetnalla had teased her about it for years. But it was equally true that Evanthya had dreamed of her several times since last they spoke, dark visions in which her love shattered her bones one by one, while a shadowy figure—the Weaver, no doubt—stood nearby, laughing.

  “I’m afraid for you.” I’m afraid of you.

  Fetnalla’s smile vanished. “And I’m afraid for you. You should leave here, Evanthya. Tonight. If the Weaver finds you, he’ll kill you. He knows that you’ll never join his movement, and so he sees you as a threat, not only to me, but to him as well, and to everything for which we’ve worked.”

  “I can’t just run away. You know me better than that. I hate him and all that he’s done to this land. I have to fight him.”

  “Then you have to fight me.”

  Her shoulder began to throb at the mere thought of it.

  Fetnalla walked to her mount, reached into the leather bag hanging from her saddle, and pulled out a small pouch.

  “You must be hungry,” she said. “I don’t have much—some hard bread and cheese—but you’re welcome to it.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve eaten already.” She smiled sadly. “And before long, I’ll either be able to get all the food I need, or it won’t matter what I have left.”

  Evanthya was famished, and after a moment she stood, stepped around the fire, and took the food. Sitting, she began to eat, shoving bread and cheese into her mouth as quickly as she could, barely chewing one mouthful before taking another.

  “You’re going to make yourself sick eating that way.”

  She forced herself to stop, closing her eyes and slowly chewing what she had taken.

  “Have some of this,” Fetnalla said, handing her a skin of water.

  “Thank you.”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been a day or two.”

  “Evanthya!”

  “You didn’t stop. How could I?”

  “You’re mad!”

  “I thought I was a ‘stubborn fool.’”

  “You’re all of that, and more. You should have just let me go.”

  “Is that what you would have done had it been me?”

  Fetnalla straightened. “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Evanthya said, grinning.

  “I wouldn’t have starved myself, and I certainly wouldn’t have…” She looked Evanthya up and down, her gaze lingering on Evanthya’s crippled shoulder. “You’ve sacrificed too much.”

  “I’ve suffered less than others.”

  Fetnalla opened her mouth as if to argue, then stopped herself and just shook her head.

  Evanthya took another bite or two of bread and a few sips of water. Then she handed the food and skin back to Fetnalla. Hungry as she had been, she filled up quickly.

  “Don’t you want more?”

  “Not now. I’m grateful to you, though.”

  Fetnalla returned the pouch and skin to her bag before facing Evanthya once again.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked, firelight shining in her pale eyes. “I don’t want to fight you, and I know better than to think that I can turn you to the Weaver’s cause.”

  “You could come away with me.”

  Her beloved frowned. “This is no joke, Evanthya.”

  “I know that. Lea
ve here with me tonight.”

  “Impossible. I’m a murderer, remember? I’m a traitorous minister who killed her duke. That’s what the Eandi will say. I can’t ever go back to Aneira.”

  “Then we’ll go somewhere else. Wethyrn or Caerisse or Sanbira. We can join the prelates on Aylsa for all I care. As long as we’re away from the Weaver and his war.” She swallowed, trying not to cry. “As long as we’re together.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “A moment ago you said that you had to fight the Weaver. That you hated him too much to run away from this war.”

  “My love for you is stronger by far than my hatred of the Weaver.”

  “You’d leave Tebeo? You’d give up your service to Dantrielle?”

  She nodded. “If it meant being with you.”

  Fetnalla smiled at her, the tender, loving smile Evanthya recalled from so long ago, before they had ever heard of the Weaver and his conspiracy. Tears glistened on Fetnalla’s cheeks and she wiped them away. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Then come with me.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “It can be.”

  “No, it can’t. The Weaver—”

  “Forget about the Weaver!”

  She shook her head, tears flying from her face. “You don’t understand! He’ll think that I betrayed him. He walks in my dreams, Evanthya. He can find me anywhere and kill me in my sleep.”

  A comment leaped to mind, another barb about the Weaver’s cruelty and Fetnalla’s willingness to follow him in spite of it. But Evanthya kept this to herself.

  Instead she asked, her voice as gentle as possible, “Are you certain that he would? Are you that important to him? Or is it possible that after this final war, should he survive, he won’t care enough to come after you?”

  She feared that Fetnalla might take offense, but her love merely stared at her. “I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it’s possible.”