Weavers of War

Chapter Twelve

The Moors of Durril, Aneira

“You know that she pursues you, even as we speak.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“And you know what you must do?”

Terror and grief warred within Fetnalla’s heart, threatening to rend it in two. She wanted to hide her feelings from the Weaver, but despair overwhelmed her; even if she had the wherewithal to try, he would have seen through her deception.

She hadn’t needed the Weaver to tell her that Evanthya was following her; she’d known for days. She hadn’t yet seen any sign of her beloved, but Fetnalla felt her presence in other ways: the tingling of her skin as she slept at night, dreaming of the unmistakably tender touch of Evanthya’s lips and slender hands on her back and her breasts; the hint of the woman’s voice in the cry of a falcon circling overhead; the elusive scent of her hair and skin riding the warm wind. Illusions, of course, brought on by her longing for Evanthya, and by her loneliness. When these sensations persisted, Fetnalla tried to tell herself that her fear of being caught and her guilt at all she had done were getting the best of her. But the feeling that she was being trailed remained with her, growing stronger with each passing day. And the more she considered the matter, the more certain she became that in fact Evanthya was following her. It made sense. Evanthya would never just let her go, particularly after Fetnalla killed Brall, duke of Orvinti, and revealed herself as a traitor to the realm.

The truth was, Fetnalla would have been devastated if Evanthya had not come after her. For her part, had their roles been reversed, Fetnalla would have followed her love to the farthest reaches of northern Eibithar and across Amon’s Ocean. She had fled not only to save her own life and find the conspiracy, but also to shield Dantrielle’s minister from harm. All of which made answering the Weaver’s question all the more difficult. Fetnalla knew what he expected of her, but the very idea of it made her tremble like a palsied child. She couldn’t even bring herself to speak of it.

“Do you still think she can be turned?” he asked her, his voice as close to gentle as she had ever heard it.

“No, Weaver.”

“A brave answer. I sense what it cost you to admit that.” He paused, seeming to search for the right words. “I need to ask you if you can do this-and I must have the truth.”

“You want me to kill her.” She sounded dull, but she couldn’t help herself, and for once the Weaver didn’t lose patience with her.

“She has to die,” he said. “She is a threat to you and to this movement.”

“She’s not interested in the movement. She only cares for me, and she’s no threat.”

“You know this?”

“I know her.”

Fetnalla saw him shake his head, the wild mane of hair, made black by his brilliant white sun, moving back and forth slowly, even sadly. “That’s not enough. A year ago, perhaps, but not now, when we’re so close. I can’t risk allowing her to live. And since you know her so well and you’re so near to her, you’re the one to kill her.”

She felt tears coursing down her face, but she didn’t bother to wipe them. “Isn’t there anyone else?”

“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.”

“Gods keep you safe, Fetnalla. I’ll look for you on the Moorlands.”

He clicked his tongue at his mount and the beast turned, resuming the journey toward Eibithar. Fetnalla watched him ride off for a time, until he was little more than a speck in the distance. Then she threw another branch on the fire and sat facing south, scanning the moors for her love.

Nightfall brought a sense of relief. Even early in the waning, the moons didn’t rise until several hours after dusk-they didn’t climb high enough to light the moors until well past midnight-and Evanthya wouldn’t ride far in the darkness. Fetnalla tried to eat, but she had no appetite. She unrolled her sleeping roll and lay down, staring at the low flames. Her clothes stank of smoke and horse and sweat. She could only imagine how she must look. How strange it was to worry about her appearance now, when she was waiting to kill her lover. Eventually, she fell into a deep, dreamless slumber, waking only when she felt the sun warming her face. Again, she had slept far into the morning.

Sitting up, she noticed that her fire had burned out. Zetya nickered and bobbed her head.

“Good morning to you, too.”

The horse whinnied again and stomped a hoof.

“What is it you-?”

She froze, her heart suddenly pounding. Not a hundred fourspans from where she lay, Evanthya sat on her horse, her sword in hand, her fine white hair stirred gently by the breeze. Their eyes met and locked, and for what seemed an eternity Fetnalla could do nothing but gaze back at her love, struggling to remember how to breathe.

Finally, she forced herself to her feet, running a hand through her ragged hair. She glanced at Evanthya’s sword and made herself grin. “Are you planning to use that on me?”

Evanthya looked down at it for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know.” Her voice sounded small and thin, as if the distance between them were much greater than it appeared.

“You know that I can shatter it if I must.”

“Is that what it’s come to, then? Are we to fight?”

“I’d rather we didn’t.”

Evanthya whispered something to her mount, and the beast began to step closer. She kept her sword out, and her eyes, bright as gold and as lovely as ever, never left Fetnalla’s face.

“You broke the siege,” Fetnalla said, watching her love approach.

“Yes, with help from the other dukes, and from Orvinti’s army.” Evanthya halted just in front of her and dismounted, her blade still in hand.

“Your duke survived?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I always liked Tebeo. Put your sword away, Evanthya.”

Her love had started to walk toward her, but now she faltered, appearing uncertain as to what she should do.

“I said, put it away.”

“And if I won’t?”

It was as easy as drawing breath, as immediate as thought. There was a sound like the chiming of a small bell, and in the next instant the blade of Evanthya’s sword lay shattered on the ground. Once more, as she had the night she killed Brall and his men, Fetnalla marveled at her own power, at the mastery with which she wielded her magic. The Weaver had given her this, simply by speaking to her of the wonders their people could accomplish working together, by forcing her to become more than she had been.

And gazing at her love as she stared at the broken weapon in her hand, Fetnalla realized that Evanthya could never truly understand. She still equated loyalty with fealty to the Eandi courts. She still measured strength by counting Eandi warriors and gauging the quality of their weapons. She could no more contemplate joining the movement than she could hacking off her own arm. Yet, standing on the plain, feeling the sun and wind on her face, feeling more alive than she ever had, Fetnalla also understood that the only way to save Evanthya’s life was to force the woman to become more than she was, just as the Weaver had done for her. Probably it wouldn’t work. Probably Fetnalla would have to kill her. But she owed it to herself and to Evanthya to try.

“You knew that I was a shaper,” she said, speaking softly, as to a frightened child.

Evanthya nodded, still looking at the hilt of her sword. A single tear rolled down her cheek, but she made no effort to wipe it away. “That’s how you killed Brall.”

“Evanthya-”

Her eyes snapped up, meeting Fetnalla’s once more, silencing her. “When did you join them?” she demanded. “How long have you been a traitor?”

Fetnalla’s anger flared, and she struggled to control it. She had to make Evanthya see the world as she saw it, which meant, at least for the moment, accepting what a limited notion she had of the Weaver’s cause.

“I’m not a traitor,” she said, pleased by how calm she sounded.

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not lying. I’m with the movement. I killed Brall and his men. But that doesn’t make me a traitor.”

“What kind of madness is that? The movement?”

“Yes. That’s what we call it. We’re led by a Weaver, Evanthya. He wants to unite all the realms of the Forelands and rule them as king. Think about that. A Qirsi king. Qirsi nobles. How long have our people been forced to serve the Eandi, to put up with their foolish wars and their limited minds? Isn’t it time we claimed the land as our own?”

“Would you listen to yourself? Less than a year ago you gave me all the gold you possessed in this world so that I could hire an assassin and strike at the conspiracy. You knew-both of us knew-that this movement, or whatever you want to call it, was a threat to all that we cared about.”

“We were wrong. I was wrong.”

“No, you weren’t! These renegades have been responsible for murders in every realm. They killed Chago and the king-”

“The king was a brute and a despot, and Chago was no better.”

“So they deserved to die? Did Brall?”

“Yes. You know how he treated me for the past half year.”

Evanthya gave a high, desperate laugh and threw her arms wide. “He treated you that way because he thought you had betrayed him. And I hated him, too, because I thought that he was mistaken, that he was treating you unfairly. But now…” She shook her head.

“Now you think he was justified.”

“You betrayed me, as well. You lied to me, and you nearly killed me.”

“I did not!”

“You murdered Brall to keep Orvinti’s army from reaching Dantrielle. You wanted the castle to fall-or rather, your Weaver wanted it. And if it had, I would have been executed, along with my duke and his family. You know that’s true.”

Fetnalla did know it, and she had known it at the time. “I assumed you’d get away,” she muttered, but she had little hope that her love would believe her.

“You never answered me. How long?”

She didn’t have to answer, of course, and yet she felt compelled to do so. “Not long,” she said, her voice low. “Four or five turns. The Weaver first came to me shortly before you and Tebeo arrived in Orvinti to speak of opposing the regent.”

“That makes sense. You acted so strangely when we were together. Just as you did later, when you and Brall came to Dantrielle.” She looked at her sharply. “You had that dream. You were dreaming of him, weren’t you?”

“That’s how he communicates with us. He walks in our dreams.”

“I remember that you were terrified of him. You cried out in your sleep. This is the man you want to lead the Forelands?”

“It’s not terror; it’s awe. Do you know what it’s like to be in the presence of one who is so powerful, to feel that power touching your own mind? All my life I’ve thought that I was fortunate to be the servant of an Eandi lord. But he’s shown me that I can be so much more than that. He’s promised me that I will be.”

“And he’s already making good on the promise. Only a short time ago you were just first minister of a great house. Now you’re a murderer and a fugitive. He must be very great indeed.”

“Stop it!”

“Do you love him?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I love him as I would a king, Evanthya. A true king. Or maybe even a god.”

Evanthya’s mouth twisted in disgust. “Please!”

“I still love you. That’s why I want you to join me and be part of this new kingdom the Weaver is making.”

“I can’t believe what you’re saying! Think of what this man has done, of what others have done in his name! Look what he’s made you do! This kingdom you’re helping him make will be built on a foundation of lies and betrayals and murders!”

“I told you to stop!” She leveled a finger at Evanthya’s heart, her hands trembling with rage. “I will not allow you to speak that way of the Weaver and his movement!”

“You won’t allow me?”

Once more Fetnalla fought to control her ire. She had known that Evanthya would say such things. It had to be difficult for those Qirsi who had spent their lives in the service of the Eandi, and who had yet to learn of the Weaver’s cause. He called into question all in which they believed and on which they had based their lives.

“You make him sound evil,” she said. “And he’s not. We’re living in a land ruled by despots. You can’t think that it would be easy to win our freedom.”

“Our freedom? We’re not slaves, Fetnalla!”

“We might as well be. But,” she went on, cutting off Evanthya before she could reply, “it’s not too late to change all that. He wants you to join us. He wants you to be part of his movement and the new world he’s creating.”

The color drained from her love’s face. “He knows of me?”

“Of course.”

“You told him about us?”

“He walks in my dreams, Evanthya. He can read my thoughts.” She smiled. “And many of my thoughts are of you.”

“Does he know that we hired the assassin to kill Shurik?”

“Well, yes.” She lied. She had yet to muster the courage to tell him this, and somehow he had yet to read it in her thoughts. “But he’s forgiven us for that.”

“He’s forgiven you.”

“He wants to forgive you, too. He wants you to join him.”

“I don’t believe you. He has no reason to forgive me, or to care for me at all. He only has reason to want me dead-indeed, he has several.”

“That’s not true!” Fetnalla spoke the words forcefully, but she couldn’t look her love in the eye as she did.

“You’re lying. I can always tell.” Evanthya looked about, as if noting their surroundings for the first time. “That’s why you’re waiting for me here, isn’t it? He’s ordered you to kill me, just as you did Brall.”

“If only you’d join us, everything would be all right.”

“Knowing me as you do, do you really think I could ever join you in serving this Weaver?” Her love actually managed a smile as she said this, though she still looked sad, and heartrendingly beautiful.

“You have to,” Fetnalla whispered. “It’s the only way.”

“No, it’s not. You and I have fought the conspiracy before and we can still fight it now. Renounce your Weaver and come back to me.”

“I can’t do that. He’ll kill me. And if he doesn’t, the Eandi will. I murdered Brall, Evanthya. I couldn’t leave the movement even if I wanted to. So long as the Eandi rule the Forelands, I have no future. Only the Weaver can save me now. But there’s room in his world for both of us, if only you’ll come with me.”

Evanthya shook her head. “No.”

“Don’t make me do this.”

“If you love your Weaver this much, you’ll have to prove it by killing me. Because I have no intention of letting you go any farther.”

Fetnalla felt panic well in her chest. In spite of all she knew of her beloved, she had continued to hope that Evanthya’s love for her would prove stronger than her loyalty to Aneira and her duke. “You know you can’t stop me,” she said. “Your magic runs deep, Evanthya, but I’m a shaper. If you force me to do this, you’ll die right here.”

That sad smile returned. “You won’t hurt me.”

“I will. The Weaver will kill me if I don’t. There’s no escaping him. I told you, he walks in my dreams. He can find me anywhere in the land, and he knows how to hurt me, how to punish me if I fail him.”

“He sounds like a fine man,” Evanthya said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “a worthy leader for this new world of which you dream.”

“I told you not to speak of him that way!”

“Yes, you did. But I don’t give a damn. You say that you won’t allow me to mock him. Well, I won’t allow you to join him.”

“And how do you intend to stop me? Will you raise a mist or summon a gale? Do you really believe that you can keep me from going north?”

“No. But I can slow you down.” She turned to Fetnalla’s horse and stared at her. An instant later Zetya reared, then bolted southward.

Language of beasts.

“Damn you!” Fetnalla said, running after her mount briefly. Realizing that she couldn’t catch the animal, she faced Evanthya again. “Call her back!”

“I won’t. And if you refuse to come back to Dantrielle with me, I’ll send her off to where you’ll never find her. You can walk to Galdasten.”

“Zetya!” Fetnalla called. The horse didn’t move. She whistled sharply, which nearly always brought the beast back to her. Still Zetya stood there, nibbling on grass and ignoring her.

“Call her back, Evanthya!”

“She’ll return eventually. The commands don’t work forever. But if you don’t want to lose her for good, you’re going to have to do as I say.”

“I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

“You’re supposed to kill me. If you really want to join the Weaver, you’ll do so now. As I say, your horse will come back to you after a time, and you can be on your way.”

“This isn’t a joke!” Fetnalla said, growing more desperate by the moment. “I will kill you if you force me. I have to. That’s what he wants.”

“Then do it.”

She felt tears on her face, and she wiped them away quickly. “Please, Evanthya. Just…” She took a breath, knowing how she would suffer for this when next she stood before the Weaver. “Just go. Leave me now and I won’t have to hurt you.”

“I thought he expected you to kill me.”

“He does.”

“But you can’t.”

“No. Now leave me.”

Evanthya smiled. “I knew it. You’re no traitor. I know how much Brall hurt you, with his mistrust and his accusations. But you’re still one of us. This Weaver can’t change that.”

“You’re wrong. I’m glad Brall is dead. I’ve pledged myself to the Weaver and to his movement. No matter what you say, or what you think you know about me, I’m not going back with you. Now leave-please-before it’s too late.”

“You have to come back with me.”

“I won’t.”

“Then you leave me no choice.” Evanthya turned toward Zetya, who was watching them now, still standing off amid the grasses.

“No!” Fetnalla shouted. And before she knew what she had done, the magic flew from her, hot and angry and wild. She heard the muffled crack of bone, saw Evanthya fall, crying out in pain, clutching at her shoulder.

“Demons and fire!” Fetnalla sobbed, rushing to Evanthya’s side. Her love writhed on the ground, gritting her teeth, her eyes squeezed shut. “Do you see what you made me do? I warned you!”

“Just finish it, damn you! He wants me dead, so go ahead and kill me.”

Fetnalla glared at her. So stubborn, even now. So be it. “No, I won’t kill you. I’ve done enough. Stay away from me, Evanthya. The next time I see you, I’ll have no choice.”

“Then you might as well do it now,” Evanthya said, her jaw clenched against the pain. “Because as soon as you ride, I’ll follow. You can no more escape me than you can your Weaver.”

Fetnalla stood, still staring down at her, still crying. “You’re a fool.” Reaching for her magic a second time, she shattered the bone in her love’s leg, wincing at the sound of cracking bone and at the scream she tore from Evanthya’s lips. “Try following me now.”

She whistled for Zetya again, and this time the horse trotted to her.

“You’re just going to leave me?” Evanthya asked in a ragged whisper.

“You’ve given me no choice.”

She started to swing herself onto her mount, but the horse reared again and danced away from her.

“Stop it, Evanthya!”

She reached for the reins, but Zetya evaded her again.

“Stop it!” she cried, whirling toward her love, tears flying from her cheeks. “Can’t you just let me go? Do you want me to have to kill you?”

“I won’t let you go to him. You’ve done enough damage.”

“Then I’ll have to end this now.”

“You have already. How long do you think I can survive out here with a shattered shoulder and leg?”

Fetnalla considered this. She wasn’t certain that it was true, but it did give her a way out, something she could tell the Weaver when he asked how she had dealt with Evanthya.

“Fine then.” She grabbed Zetya’s reins before her love could touch the beast again with her magic. Climbing into the saddle, she glanced back at Evanthya once more, cringing at what she saw.

Perhaps she should have ridden away then. She would never be able to explain to the Weaver why she hadn’t, though probably she wouldn’t have to. Already, he knew her quite well.

Dismounting again, she walked back to Evanthya and knelt beside her. Her love tried to flinch away, but Fetnalla placed her hands on the broken shoulder.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, probing the mangled bone with her mind. “This will hurt for just a moment.” With a quick jerk she set the bone back in place. Evanthya howled, but she managed to lie still. A moment later, Fetnalla began to pour her magic into the woman’s shoulder, mending the splintered bone. After a time, she moved to Evanthya’s leg and did the same. This was a cleaner break and setting the bone proved much easier.

She didn’t do much more than knit the bones together and start the healing process. If she healed Evanthya too thoroughly, the two of them would be right back where they began. This way, the leg and shoulder remained weak and tender. Perhaps that would be enough to keep Evanthya from following her, at least for a while.

“Why did you do that?” Evanthya asked, when she had finished.

Fetnalla stood. “I’ll leave that for you to figure out.”

“I’ll come after you.”

“I know. Don’t put too much weight on the leg or strain the shoulder. The bones need time to heal or they’ll just snap again.”

She walked back to Zetya, who stood perfectly still while she climbed onto her back.

Evanthya sat up, wincing.

“Don’t come to the Moorlands. The Weaver will kill both of us if you do.”

Her love said nothing.

“I know you won’t believe this, but I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

Expecting no response, unable to bear the silence, Fetnalla turned her mount immediately and kicked her to a gallop. The sun was high over the Moors of Durril by now, warming the air. But the wind felt cold against her tears, and for a long time she couldn’t swallow past the aching in her throat.

She rode Zetya hard for the rest of the day, resting only when she had to, eating nothing, drinking little. She kept her eyes fixed on the northern horizon, and her thoughts fixed on the Weaver and the war he had promised her. The past was lost to her; all that mattered now was the future-hers, that of the Qirsi, that of the Forelands. Not once did Fetnalla look back, not even when she thought she heard the pounding of hooves pursuing her.