by DAVID B. COE
“What choice do we have, Fetnalla? If we remain here, either you’ll have to kill me or I’ll have to kill you. Failing that, one of us is likely to die. Is that what you want? For one of us to be alone for the rest of her days? Wouldn’t it be better to take this chance? At least we’d be together, with a chance at a new life. If the Weaver finds us, so be it, but at least we’d have some hope.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“I’m not as foolish as you think I am. I’m not saying that escape will be easy. Merely the choice.” She grinned. “That is, if you don’t mind living out your days with a cripple.”
She meant it to be humorous, but abruptly Fetnalla was bawling, tears coursing down her face.
“I’m so sorry,” she managed to say, her body quaking with her sobs. “Hurting you that way … That was the worst thing I’ve ever done.”
Evanthya should have gone to her. She should have taken Fetnalla in her arms and told her that she was forgiven, that all she cared about was being with her, that none of the rest mattered. She wanted to, yet she couldn’t bring herself to move her feet. For the first time, it dawned on her that she might not be able to love this woman anymore. She was still in love with the Fetnalla she knew a year ago, before any of this began, but could she ever really trust her again? She was in love with an idea, a memory. For as long as she lived, she would be. But for the rest of her life, she would also remember the sound of her bones shattering, the pain tearing through her shoulder like a battle-ax. How could she ever love someone who had assaulted her? Yes, Fetnalla had healed her bones, but for all her talents with such magic, her love couldn’t mend the wound on Evanthya’s heart.
“You were angry,” Evanthya offered, feeling that she had to say something.
“That doesn’t justify it.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Fetnalla’s sobbing began to subside. “Can you forgive me?”
Evanthya stared down at the fire. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I want to try.”
“But you speak of going away with me. How can we do that if you can’t forgive what I’ve done?”
“I’m sure I can with time.”
“But—”
“Can’t we just go? It’s harder with the Weaver so close and war in the air all around us. We’ll leave here together, go someplace safe. Everything will be better then.”
But Evanthya could feel her hope slipping away. For just an instant she had believed that this might work, that Fetnalla would go with her, that they could escape the darkness that was blanketing all the Forelands. Not anymore. The moment had passed, and once more she found herself face-to-face with an enemy she loved, a lover she could never trust again.
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?
To the archminister’s profound relief, it was not a decision he was forced to make. Within moments the women abandoned their plans, perhaps sensing, as he did, that the Weaver would find them no matter where they went. Or maybe they realized that all that divided them from each other had grown too powerful to be overcome.
Whatever the reason, he took this latest turn in their conversation as an indication that the time had come to act. He started forward as stealthily as possible, circling their fire until he was directly behind Evanthya. He pulled his sword free as he crept toward them, sliding the blade free of its sheath slowly and silently. Neither of the women appeared to take any notice of him at all, and within moments he was close enough to hear the settling of the embers in their fire and to see the tears on Fetnalla’s face.
He was close enough to have killed Evanthya with his magic, but the Weaver had made his wishes quite clear, and so Pronjed crept closer. At last Fetnalla did see him, faltering in what she had been saying and straining to recognize the shadowy form lurking behind her love, but by then he was close enough.
“You,” the minister said, catching a glimpse of his face, and alerting Evanthya to his presence.
He saw her begin to turn, but he didn’t give her the chance to ward herself. His heart suddenly pounding in his chest—was it fear, or the exhilaration of the kill?—he drew back his weapon, and plunged it into her back.
* * *
Fetnalla saw Pronjed pull his arm back, saw as well his sword glinting in the firelight. Then he struck at her love. Evanthya’s back arched violently, her mouth opening in a sharp, abbreviated cry, and the blade burst from her chest, gleaming still, stained crimson.
They remained in that pose for what seemed a lifetime, Evanthya’s eyes wide and raised to Morna’s darkened sky, Pronjed lurking at her shoulder like some demon sent by Bian himself, his teeth bared, his free hand gripping her neck. Fetnalla wanted to scream. She wanted to run to Evanthya’s side and free her from the archminister’s grasp. But she couldn’t move, she couldn’t even make a sound. All around them was silence and blackness, as if all the world were holding its breath.
Then it seemed that the world exhaled. Pronjed pulled his sword free, allowing Evanthya to topple to the ground. Somehow Fetnalla shook off her stupor and rushed to her love’s side.
“Why did you do that?” she screamed at Pronjed, her vision clouded with tears and grief and rage.
“The Weaver commanded it of me. I’m sorry.”
It made sense, of course. Surely the Weaver knew that she had failed to kill Evanthya on the Moors of Durril. No doubt he knew that she would never be able to fulfill her oath to him.
“Fetnalla?”
Her love’s voice sounded so weak. A growing circle of blood stained the center of her riding cloak. Her eyes were glazed, as if she were half asleep.
“Yes, I’m here,” Fetnalla whispered.
“Who was it? Who killed me?”
Fetnalla looked up at Pronjed briefly, then placed a finger lightly on Evanthya’s lips.
“Shhh. I can heal you,” she said, not at all certain that she really could.
Pronjed stepped farther into the firelight. “Please don’t, First Minister. If you do, I’ll have no choice but to kill you as well.”
“I don’t care.”
She placed her hand over Evanthya’s bloody wound, but her love put her own hand over Fetnalla’s, shaking her head with an effort that seemed to steal her breath.
“Don’t, Fetnalla. It’s too late.”
She choked back a sob. “No, it’s not! It can’t be!”
“First Minister, please,” Pronjed said. “Don’t make me do this.”
“You want me to just let her die?”
“How else was this going to end? Did you really think that the two of you could find some way to end this war? Or did you intend to go your separate ways, thinking that the Weaver would accept that? Evanthya had to die, and since you couldn’t kill her, I did.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. She looked down at Evanthya again. There still might be time. Her love’s breathing had slowed so much it was difficult even to see the rise and fall of her breast. Yet she was alive, and so might be saved. But wasn’t it easier this way? She would never have found the strength to kill Evanthya herself. That Pronjed had done it for her was a blessing of sorts, a gift, to both of them really. And so, despite her tears, despite the voice within her mind that screamed for her to do something—anything—to save the woman she loved, despite the grief that struck at her own heart, as if Pronjed’s sword had pierced her flesh as well, she didn’t draw upon her healing magic. She merely knelt beside Evanthya, sobbing until her throat ached, watching her love’s life bleed away.
“Fetnalla,” Evanthya said again, barely able to make herself heard.
Fetnalla leaned close to her, tears falling from her face and darkening Evanthya’s cloak like rain. “I’m right beside you.”
“Don’t let him win. The Weaver. Don’t let him.”
“You shouldn’t worry about him. You shouldn’t worry about any of it. We’ll go away. Just you and me, just like we talked about.”
“Look what he’s done to me, Fetnalla. He can’t win. He’ll do this to everything.”
She bent and kissed her love’s lips, which were as cold as mountain water. “Hush,” she said. “Save your strength.”
“No. My strength. Is for you. Fight him.”
Somehow, Evanthya managed to take Fetnalla’s hand in her own. The pressure of her fingers was so light that Fetnalla hardly felt it at all. Yet she sensed that Evanthya was squeezing with all her might.
“My strength to you,” she murmured.
“My love,” Fetnalla whispered, kissing Evanthya’s brow.
She made no reply.
“Evanthya?”
Fetnalla stared down at her. Evanthya’s eyes were still open, but her breast rose no more, and her hand had gone limp. Fetnalla kissed that hand, crying still, gazing at her love’s face. It remained just as she remembered from the day they met, her skin as smooth as a child’s, the small lines around her mouth making it seem that she was ready to break into a smile at any moment. After some time, Fetnalla let the hand fall, and closed her love’s eyes. She wiped her tears, but they wouldn’t stop.
At last, she looked up at Pronjed. He stood a short distance from her, still holding his sword, eyeing her warily.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly I am. But the Weaver…”
“Yes,” she said. “The Weaver.”
“I was prepared to let the two of you go, if it had come to that.”
“The Weaver wouldn’t have been so generous. He’d have found us, and he probably would have punished you, as well.”
“I’d like to sheath my sword.”
“I’m a shaper, Pronjed. If I wanted to avenge her, your sword wouldn’t stop me.”
“I’m a shaper, too. You should know that.”
Fetnalla climbed to her feet, shaking her head. “We’re not going to fight,” she said, and meant it.
Pronjed might have struck the killing blow, but Evanthya’s blood wasn’t on his hands any more than it was on hers. Or any less. Hadn’t she chosen not to save her? Didn’t that make her as responsible as Pronjed for Evanthya’s murder? In the end, neither of them had much choice. The Weaver had made it clear some time ago that he wanted Evanthya dead. Both she and Pronjed were merely following his commands. Don’t let him win.