Weavers of War

Chapter Twenty

Qirsi camp, north of the battle plain, the Moorlands, Eibithar

He had only to wait one last night. Dusaan had led his army to within just a league of where the Eandi forces had been doing battle, weakening themselves, spilling one another’s blood as if at his behest. Tomorrow, he and his warriors would sweep across the Moorlands, their white hair flying like battle flags, their pale eyes shining in the light of a new day. And drawing upon the vast power of those around him, Dusaan would destroy his enemies, his shaping magic cutting through their ranks like a scythe, his conjured fires eradicating them from the face of Elined’s earth.

All his life, he had waited for this moment, anticipating his victory and all that would come after it. One might have expected that this night he would be crazed with anticipation, unable to sit still, his mind tormented with worries about the soundness of his plans.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. Never had he felt so confident. The Eandi were nothing. Cresenne ja Terba, whose betrayal had plagued him for too long, would soon be dead, if she wasn’t already. Even Grinsa jal Arriet could not stop him from extending his rule over all the Forelands. Though the gleaner didn’t know it, he was surrounded by servants of the movement, and he faced a force that would easily overwhelm the few who remained loyal to the courts.

On this night, on the eve of war, Dusaan was more at peace than he could ever remember being-an irony that he would savor for the balance of the night.

This was not to say that he had nothing left to do. Jastanne and Uestem would continue well into the night to work with the Qirsi commanders, and before dawn, Dusaan would join them, so that he might make certain that his warriors were ready. And before then, there were conversations he needed to have with his other chancellors.

He reached for Abeni first, knowing that she was near, and that she would expect to speak with him this night. Twice he combed the Moorlands, seeking her mind, growing more agitated by the moment. When at last he was forced to conclude that she was dead or had left the battle plain for some reason-impossible! — he reached for the other Sanbiran woman. She wasn’t there either, nor was her lover, Norinde’s first minister. Then he tasted fear, acrid, like bile. How long had it been since he had truly been afraid, since he had doubted that he would win this war? He searched for the healer, but even he had vanished. He gritted his teeth, his apprehension now mingled with rage. Grinsa. It had to have been the gleaner.

Among his servants on the Moorlands, the only one he sensed was Keziah ja Dafydd, Eibithar’s archminister. Dusaan started to reach for her, then stopped. He still had doubts about this one. She had pledged herself to his cause, but what had she done on his behalf? He had ordered her to kill Cresenne, but she had failed, claiming that the opportunity never presented itself. He had commanded that she kill her king, the man who had spurned her, the man she now professed to hate. Yet as of their last encounter, Kearney still lived. And now, all those who served him and awaited his arrival on the Moorlands were dead, save this woman.

Had she betrayed him? Dusaan remembered now that she had not been surprised the first time he entered her dreams. Her father, she told him at the time, had been a Weaver and she had often communicated with him in that way. And the Weaver had believed her; he had been eager to do so. Fool! Had she joined his movement as an agent of the courts? Had she been deceiving him all this time?

Fear was gone now. He still had an army of more than two hundred. No one could stand against him, certainly not Grinsa and his paltry collection of faithless Qirsi. The Weaver had no cause for concern. But fury. Yes, he had ample justification for that.

He thrust himself into Keziah’s mind, intending to exact a measure of vengeance before he slaughtered her.

For a single disorienting moment, Dusaan thought that he had opened his eyes to daylight, that he had fallen asleep and dreamed it all-Abeni’s death, Keziah’s betrayal. But then he realized that there were two suns shining on the plain, his brilliant white one, and a second-golden, dazzling, oddly familiar.

All of these thoughts crossed through his mind in the time it took him to step into the woman’s mind-less than the span of a single heartbeat. Abruptly he felt someone grappling with him for control of his magic. His defenses failed him for just an instant, and suddenly he was on the ground, his head aching, blood flowing from a wound on his temple.

It’s the gleaner. Fighting Grinsa’s assault, staving off panic as best he could, Dusaan gathered his magic to him, wresting his powers from the gleaner’s control, grappling first for those that could be used against him. Fire, shaping, delusion-

He shrieked in pain, feeling the bone in his arm splinter, not as it would from an attack by shaping magic, but more insidiously, as if the bone were breaking apart from the inside. Healing.

“That’s how you attacked Cresenne, isn’t it?”

His first mistake, and the one that probably saved Dusaan’s life. In the time it took Grinsa to speak the words, the Weaver was able to wrest the last of his powers from the man. His arm was screaming, his head throbbed. But he was safe. In just a few moments he was able to heal his arm and the gash on his head.

He climbed to his feet, sensing Keziah. She was afraid. She knew how angry he was, how much he wanted to hurt her. But there could be no doubt as to where her loyalty lay. Probably there never had been.

“I’ll enjoy killing you, Archminister. When the time comes.”

Grinsa tried to take hold of his magic again, but Dusaan was ready this time, despite the agony in his arm.

“No, gleaner. You won’t catch me unawares again. You had your chance-I’ll give you that. Had you acted quickly enough, had you been a bit more precise with your magic, you might have killed me. But not now.”

And with that, Dusaan launched an assault of his own. For if Grinsa could control his magic, couldn’t he use the gleaner’s in turn? Grinsa was ready, though. He repelled the attack with ease, a feral grin on his face. The Weaver sensed no fear in him at all.

“Twice you’ve bested me, Dusaan, but not this night.”

“That remains to be seen, gleaner.” He turned to Keziah. “I’m disappointed, Archminister. I’d hoped that you would survive this war, so that I might make a noble of you, allow you to see what it is to rule, rather than just truckle to those with power. Speaking of which, I assume that your king still lives?”

She said nothing. She barely seemed willing to hold his gaze.

“You won’t be making nobles of anyone,” Grinsa said, sounding too confident, “nor will you be leading your army of traitors into battle.”

The Weaver raised an eyebrow. “You intend to kill me?” he asked with a laugh. “Don’t deceive yourself, Grinsa. You’re not powerful enough to destroy me here, not without killing the archminister as well.”

“The one has nothing to do with the other.”

“Not necessarily, no. I’m not saying it can’t be done. I may well kill you before this encounter is ended. But you haven’t the power or knowledge to do it. Unless you’ve been honing your abilities since the last time we spoke.”

This time the gleaner’s attack was entirely predictable. Dusaan was never in any danger at all.

“Tell me what you did to Abeni and the others,” the Weaver said, as if nothing had happened.

“They’re dead.”

“I guessed as much. But how is it you knew enough to kill them?”

For the first time, he sensed hesitation on both their parts. Here was their weakness, whatever it might be.

“They learned that I was a Weaver and moved against me.”

Dusaan shook his head. “I don’t believe you.” He stared at the woman, probing her mind with his own. “It was you they were after, wasn’t it? They learned that you were deceiving me.”

Grinsa tried once more to take possession of his magic. Healing, shaping, fire. But the Weaver had little trouble fighting him off.

“I told you,” the gleaner said. “They moved against me. Keziah refused to join them, and they turned on her.”

“Your hands have been healed recently. Both of them. I can feel it. There’s a residue of pain there. Did they torture you?”

Grinsa attacked again, even going so far this time as to step in front of Dusaan and strike him with his fist. The blow did nothing, however. It was as if the gleaner’s hand passed right through him.

“Why would they hurt you in this way?” Dusaan asked, looking past Grinsa to the archminister. To her credit, the woman held his gaze, but she said nothing, her face nearly as white as her hair. “If they had merely learned that you betrayed me, or that you were a threat to the movement, they would have simply killed you. But they didn’t, did they?”

Grinsa looked back at her.

This isn’t working. Wake up, Kezi!

At first Dusaan thought that Grinsa had said this aloud.

No! We have to keep trying!

It’s too dangerous!

It took him several moments to understand that they were sharing these thoughts, the words reaching him as the whisper of a gentle wind. And he used this opportunity to try again for Grinsa’s power. With his thoughts directed elsewhere, the gleaner was ill prepared for the assault. Still he held tight to his powers, the deeper ones in particular. But fire …

Grinsa’s sleeve suddenly burst into flame, and he cried out, batting at the flames with his other hand-the instinctive reaction. It took him but an instant to reclaim control of his magic and extinguish the flame in that way. But that was all the time Dusaan needed. With Grinsa’s attention diverted, he struck at Keziah.

Had she possessed healing magic, or shaping, he could have killed her instantly. But she didn’t, and that made hurting her much more difficult. Instead, he stopped her breathing, using his own delusion power to convince her that she couldn’t draw breath. Her eyes widened, and she clutched at her throat.

Breathe, Kezi. Just as you always do. He can’t do this to you if you don’t let him.

Dusaan felt her struggling with her terror, fighting to overcome the belief that he could actually strangle her. A moment later, with a shuddering gasp, she inhaled.

Grinsa attacked again, but Dusaan brushed the assault away as if it were a fly.

“You call her Kezi. You’ve known each other for a long time.”

He nearly laughed at what he saw on the gleaner’s face. “Yes, you fool, I can hear your thoughts. I’m as much in her mind as you are.” Dusaan looked at her again. “Kezi.” He nodded. “It suits you. Were you lovers once? Is that it? Was that tale about you and the king merely another deception?”

But even as he asked the question, he knew that this couldn’t be. He’d felt the power of her love for her king, as well as her heartache at losing him. Such things could not easily be feigned. Nor was there any memory of passion between these two.

“No,” he said, before either of them had time to lie. “You weren’t lovers. But then what?” Then it came to him, and he smiled broadly. “Of course! You lied to me that first night,” he said to the woman. “You told me your father had been a Weaver, and that was why you weren’t surprised by my presence in your mind. But it wasn’t your father, was it? It was your brother.”

The Weaver eyed them both, grinning at the dismay he saw in their eyes. He would never have said that they looked alike, but searching now for the resemblance, he saw it. The similarities were subtle-the high cheekbones, the shape of their eyes, even the way their jaws clenched in anger or fear-but knowing to look for them, he realized that they were unmistakable.

“The archminister of Eibithar is sister to a Weaver. How splendid!”

The onslaught came so swiftly, with such fury, that Dusaan was unable to ward himself. Grinsa didn’t make the mistake of throwing a punch this time. He remained perfectly still as he seized Dusaan’s magic with his mind. Not shaping, for that was the most dangerous, and thus the one the Weaver guarded first. Healing again.

Dusaan felt the skin on his face opening, wide gashes from which blood poured like rain-fed streams from the Crying Hills. He fought to regain control of his power once more, only to find that he had it without having struggled at all. Grinsa had relinquished the healing magic and had taken hold of the Weaver’s shaping power, lashing out with what would have been the killing blow. Dusaan actually felt pressure building on the bone in his neck.

Never in his life had he known such terror. It almost seemed that Bian was at his shoulder, waiting to carry him to the Underrealm. Had he faltered even in the least, he would have died then. But drawing upon all his strength, managing in that moment of abject fear to keep his mind clear, the Weaver fought, mastering first his fright and then the gleaner. It was over in but a moment, though it seemed an eternity.

His magic was his again. The gleaner stood before him, his chest rising and falling, his face flushed, as if he had just come through some great bloody battle.

Dusaan healed the wounds on his face with a thought, though he could do nothing about the blood that stained his surcoat. “As I told you,” he said, his voice raw, “you’ll not kill me tonight.”

“Then I’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

The Weaver grinned. “Brave words, but empty ones. You know that. You may be strong, Grinsa, and more cunning than I had credited. But you can’t defeat my army. You think that Abeni’s death will save you. You’re wrong. She was one chancellor among many. You killed four of my servants today. But I still command hundreds. How many are in your army, Grinsa? Ten? Twelve?” He shook his head. “I should have seen this attack coming. I understand that now. It was your only chance to defeat me. You’ve failed, and tomorrow I’ll destroy you.” He eyed the archminister, then made one last desperate attempt to turn his power against her, but Grinsa was ready. Dusaan grinned. “No matter,” he said, still looking at Keziah. “Come tomorrow, your life is forfeit. I’ll enjoy killing you almost as much as I will your brother. I wouldn’t sleep for the rest of the night, Keziah. It might not be safe.”

With that, he opened his eyes to the fire burning low before him. The world seemed to heave and spin, as if he were on some storm-tossed ship in the Scabbard, and he squeezed his eyes shut once more, fighting through a wave of nausea.

“Damn them,” he muttered, his teeth clenched.

Again he opened his eyes. The dizziness was subsiding. Neither his face nor his arm pained him anymore; he seemed to have healed fully, notwithstanding the dark bloodstains on his clothes.

He would enjoy killing them both.

It troubled him that Kearney lived still, but in past conversations with the archminister he had sensed her reluctance to carry out his orders. On some level he had expected this. Come the morrow, it wouldn’t matter.

“Weaver?”

He knew the voice immediately. Nitara. Better that she didn’t see him like this, bloodied and shaken.

“What is it?” he asked, not looking at her.

“We heard you cry out. We were … I wanted to make certain that you were all right.”

Dusaan had no idea that he had made any sound at all beyond Keziah’s mind. He turned just a bit, enough so that she would see his face. “I’m fine,” he told her. “Go to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a great day.”

Her eyes widened. “There’s blood on your face!”

The Weaver touched his cheek, felt the blood there, still sticky. He turned his back to her once more. “It’s nothing. I told you I was fine. Now leave me.”

“But you’re hur-”

“Go!”

Dusaan sensed her hesitation, then heard her withdraw. He lightly traced a finger over the places where Grinsa had cut him, feeling blood everywhere. He must look a mess. He ran a hand through his hair, knowing that he shouldn’t have yelled at Nitara. It was Grinsa who did this to him, who filled him with rage and clouded his mind.

He would have to clean himself and change his clothes. He would have to find some way to still his trembling hands. And then he would make himself sleep as well. What he said to Nitara was doubly true for himself. Tomorrow did promise to be a great day, the culmination of years of planning and a lifetime of dreams.

Tonight the gleaner had won, but his was a hollow victory. Dawn would bring the end of Eandi rule in the Forelands, and the ascension of a new Qirsi Supremacy.

* * *

“He wants his shapers and those with mists and winds on the flanks,” Jastanne said, her eyes flicking from Uestem to the three commanders sitting with him. “They’re our best defense against the Eandi archers. As long as we can guard ourselves from their arrows, we’ve nothing to fear.”

“So fire and language of beasts will take the center?” one of Uestem’s commanders asked. It took Jastanne a moment to remember her name: Rov.

“Yes. Neither magic offers much in the way of defense, and language of beasts, at least, is better suited to close fighting.”

“He was wise to divide us so,” Yedeg said, as if glimpsing the Weaver’s purpose for the first time.

“Did you have any doubt as to his wisdom, Commander?”

Yedeg’s face colored. “No, Chancellor, of course not. I just … It took me some time to grasp the intricacies of his plan.”

“He’s as brilliant as he is powerful, Commander. That’s why we’re destined to prevail.”

“Yes, Chancellor.”

“You’re not to use your magic on your own,” she went on, speaking to all of them again, “unless it’s the only way to save your life or that of one of your fellow warriors. You must make certain that those under your command understand this. The Weaver will be wielding power from over two hundred of us, and if all of us are using magic on our own, particularly if we’re using powers other than those to which we’ve been assigned, it will only make matters more difficult for him. Discipline and precision will win this war. The one exception is those with language of beasts. They may have to use their power individually. It’s simply the nature of the magic and I’ve explained as much to Nitara.”

As if responding to the mention of her name, Nitara came into view, striding back toward the fire. The chancellors and commanders had heard the Weaver call out a short time before, and the minister had gone to see whether he had been summoning one of them. As the woman drew nearer, Jastanne saw that her cheeks were ashen, her eyes wide with fright. This in itself was not cause for concern-the minister was young, and, of course, she remained quite taken with the Weaver, though as far as Jastanne could see, he had done nothing to encourage her in this regard. Still something in the woman’s manner troubled her.

“Commander? Is everything all right?”

Nitara met her gaze for a moment, then glanced nervously at the others. “I’m not certain.”

Jastanne cast a quick look at Uestem, who nodded to her.

“Why don’t you and I speak in private,” she said, standing and taking Nitara gently by the arm. They walked a short distance, until they were beyond the hearing of anyone in the Qirsi camp. “Now,” the chancellor said, “why don’t you tell me what happened.”

“I think the Weaver was hurt.”

“Hurt?” Jastanne frowned at the very notion. “By whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“What makes you think-?”

“There was blood on his face, and I think on his clothes also, but I couldn’t see very well. He refused to look at me.”

Jastanne just stared at her. Surely the woman had to be mistaken. “Blood? Are you certain?”

“Yes, at least about the blood on his face.”

“There must be some explanation.” Blood! On the Weaver!

“I tried to help him, but he sent me away.”

Of course he would. “As I say, there must be a reason for all this, and he probably didn’t want to alarm the rest of us.” She paused a moment, wondering what to do. “Whatever the truth of this, Nitara, we can’t risk allowing word of it to spread through the camp. Don’t mention what you saw to the others, not even your closest friends. I won’t say a word either. Agreed?”

The woman nodded. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll speak to him,” she said, making herself smile. “As I say, I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

Usually, Nitara would have bristled at the notion of Jastanne speaking with the Weaver in private. She had been slow to overcome her jealousy of the chancellor. But now she merely nodded.

They returned to where Uestem and the other commanders were sitting. Uestem looked up expectantly as they approached, but Jastanne shook her head, as if to say that there was nothing of substance to Nitara’s concerns. She and the merchant had told the commanders all they needed to know for the next day’s battle, so they dismissed them and watched them walk off.

Only then did Uestem ask about Nitara. “What was troubling the woman?”

“It was nothing.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

Jastanne smiled thinly. “Very well. I don’t know what to make of it, but I intend to handle it on my own.”

He opened his hands and shrugged. “That’s all you had to say.”

She laughed. She still wasn’t certain that she trusted the merchant, but she had begun to like him. “Good night, Uestem.”

He nodded and walked away.

Jastanne took a breath, then walked toward the south edge of the camp, where the Weaver usually ate his meals and slept in solitude. Chances were he would send her away, just as he had the commander. But if he really was wounded and their cause was threatened, someone needed to know. Best it be her.

When she reached his small fire, however, he was nowhere to be seen. For the first time, Jastanne found herself growing truly apprehensive.

“Weaver?” she called, pitching her voice to carry, but keeping it low enough that she wouldn’t draw the attention of the other Qirsi.

“Who is that?” he answered from the shadows.

“Your chancellor, Jastanne.”

He stepped into the firelight, and Jastanne’s breath caught at the sight of him. He was shirtless, his broad chest and shoulders gleaming like polished marble. His face appeared clean and unmarked, his golden eyes shining.

“Forgive me, Weaver. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was … I’ll leave you.”

“You came because of Nitara, because of what she saw.”

“She told me there was blood.”

He inhaled, straightening. “There was. But I’m fine. You’ve no cause for concern.”

She heard no anger in his tone, yet she felt compelled to apologize once more for her presence there, the doubts that it implied.

“I’m sorry.” She thought to say more, then decided against it, turning to go.

“Wait,” he said.

Jastanne faced him once more, gazing at his body, his hair, his eyes, wanting to touch him, wanting to feel him touching her.

“I won’t speak of this with anyone, Weaver. Neither will Nitara-I’ve sworn her to silence.”

“Good. But that’s not why I stopped you.”

She felt her pulse quicken.

“We ride to war with the dawn. Tomorrow we’ll remake the world. I don’t know yet who I’ll choose to be my queen, but I do know that of all who serve me, none has done more for this cause than you.”

Her skin seemed to burn with the anticipation of his caress. Her throat ached with desire of him. But she managed to say, “You honor me, Weaver.”

“This is not a night for either of us to be alone.”

He held out a hand to her then, and when she took it, he pulled her to him, taking her in his arms and lifting her off the ground to kiss her, long and deep.

After that, Jastanne lost all sense of time, surrendering utterly to his touch and the cadence of their movements in the cool grasses and the soft glow of the fire. His hunger seemed a match for hers, their passion bringing them together again and again, until at last they lay together beneath the star-filled sky, sated and exhausted.

Jastanne felt herself drifting toward slumber, happier than she had been in many years. She felt him beside her, restless and alert, and knew that he wasn’t ready for sleep. But she couldn’t help herself.

Just as she was about to give in to her weariness, he sat up.

Jastanne forced her eyes open. “Forgive me, Weaver,” she said. “But I’m so tired.”

He shook his head, his face somber in the dim light. “It’s all right,” he said. “You should sleep.” He smiled, though it seemed to take some effort. “Thank you for this night. My … my need was great.”

“As was mine.”

“I have one thing more to ask of you.”

“Of course, Weaver. Anything.”

“Tomorrow, when the fighting begins, I’ll be matched against another Weaver. You’ve heard me speak of him before, though others haven’t.”

She nodded. “Grinsa jal Arriet.”

“Yes. Defeating him will take much of my attention. But there’s another who has to die, and I want you to kill her for me. She deceived me and she seeks to destroy all for which we’ve toiled these last several years.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Keziah ja Dafydd. She’s the archminister of Eibithar. Her powers are considerable, and they include language of beasts, but she possesses neither shaping nor fire. You shouldn’t have trouble killing her.”

Jastanne nodded. “She won’t survive the day, Weaver. You have my word.”

Again he smiled, easily this time. “You serve me well,” he said, brushing her cheek with his fingers. He stood, naked, glorious, and began to dress. And Jastanne closed her eyes, allowing sleep to take her, hoping that she would dream of him and of what they had shared this night.

* * *

She sat alone by the small fire, staring into the darkness, waiting for Jastanne to return. Silence settled over the camp like a warm blanket-all around her, Qirsi slept, horses stomped and snorted, a gentle wind rustled the grasses and hummed as it moved among the boulders. And still Jastanne didn’t come back from her conversation with the Weaver.

Finally, Nitara realized that the chancellor wouldn’t return, at least not until dawn, and she feared that her heart would simply stop beating. She had expected this since the first time she saw Jastanne, with her exquisite face and lithe form, and her golden eyes, so like Dusaan’s that it seemed Qirsar had marked them for each other.

It would have been easier had she still hated the woman as she did that first day. But Nitara had come to respect her, even to like her. And how could she blame Jastanne for desiring the Weaver, when she herself had imagined a thousand times what it would be like to lie with him?

“The movement is everything,” he had said to her once, before they took the palace from Harel, as he was explaining why he couldn’t love her. “Devote yourself to our cause, and you devote yourself to me; give it your passion, and you give that passion to me.”

“But that’s not enough,” she said at the time.

And he replied plainly, though not without sympathy, “It will have to be.”

As far as she knew, he hadn’t loved any woman since then. That is, until tonight.

Wasn’t it possible then, that with victory within reach, with the Forelands about to be his, he was ready to take a wife? Or perhaps several. Just after joining the Weaver’s army Jastanne sensed Nitara’s jealousy and spoke to her of the possibility that Dusaan would have as many women as had Braedon’s emperor. “Do you really think that a man like that-a Qirsi king-will take but one wife?” Jastanne had asked her that day. Maybe, she suggested, he would choose to love both of them. In which case, didn’t the fact that he was with Jastanne tonight suggest that some time soon he might call Nitara to his bed?

It wasn’t exactly what she would have chosen-if she could claim Dusaan as her own, she would. But Jastanne was right. A man like the Weaver could never belong to but one love. Better she should be one lover among many than never know what it was to give herself to him. That would be too great a loss to contemplate.

So at last, reluctant to give up her vigil, but knowing that she needed to rest before the morrow’s battle, Nitara lay down on her sleeping roll and closed her eyes. She quickly fell asleep, and almost immediately found herself in a dream.

The minister was on a plain and a Qirsi man stood before her, wind whipping his hair around his face. She had heard some of the other Qirsi-the chancellors and a minister from Galdasten-speaking of dreams in which the Weaver came to them, walking in their sleep to give them instructions, and for one disorienting moment, she wondered if this was what was happening to her.

Then she recognized the man, and knew this wasn’t so. His eyes were brighter than Dusaan’s, his face leaner, more youthful. He was neither as tall nor as broad as the Weaver, though he did have a muscular build. She still remembered the smooth, solid feel of his back and chest from the nights they had spent in each other’s arms.

“I’m dreaming,” she said aloud, as if hoping to wake herself.

“Yes,” Kayiv jal Yivanne answered, walking toward her. As he drew near, she saw bloodstains on his ministerial robes and the dagger jutting from his chest. Her dagger.

“What do you want of me?”

He stopped just in front of her, so close that the hilt of the killing blade nearly touched her breasts. “You ride to war. There’s to be a great battle tomorrow.”

“What of it?”

“You expect to win. You think that your victory will justify what you did to me, what your Weaver has done to the Eandi in Curtell and Ayvencalde and Galdasten, what all of you will do to the armies of Eibithar and Braedon.”

“It does justify it. We’re going to change the world. You never understood that.”

“I understood. I just chose not to be a part of it.” He smiled, a dark, terrible smile. “And for that, I died by your hand.”

“I won’t listen to this.”

“Then send me away, if you can.”

She tried to wake herself, or she thought she did. It was so hard to know what she was dreaming and what was real.

“Do you remember what I said to you?”

“When?” she asked. But she knew. Gods, she knew. His last words, whispered on a dying breath.

The smile faded, chased away by a single tear, which was far worse. “I loved you so.”

Nitara closed her eyes. Or did she? Wasn’t she already asleep?

“That’s what I said. ‘I loved you so.’”

“I remember,” she said, shuddering.

“And now your Weaver loves another.”

“No!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have killed me after all.”

“I had to!”

“For him,” Kayiv said.

“Yes, for him.”

“Then I have to do this for all the others, all who would die if I didn’t.”

He pulled the dagger free from his chest, the blade emerging as clean and brilliant as the day she bought it. And raising it high, so that it gleamed in the morning sun, he plunged it into her neck.

Nitara screamed. Yet somehow she still heard him say, his voice so sad that it made her want to weep, “I loved you so.”

She opened her eyes to starlight and the dim glow of the moons. Her heart was pounding so hard that her chest hurt, and her clothes were soaked with sweat. She raised herself up on one elbow and looked around the camp. No one else appeared to be awake. Jastanne was nowhere to be seen.

“Damn,” she whispered, running a hand through her hair.

After a few moments she lay back down, staring up at the stars, knowing she should sleep, but afraid to close her eyes again.

“We’re going to change the world,” she said to the darkness, as if Kayiv might hear her. “That’s why I had to do it.”