“Is he still so suspicious of you?” she asked, concern in her bright golden eyes. “I had hoped matters might improve. You and he do agree when it comes to opposing the regent.”
“Yes, we agree, but that can’t undo so many turns of mistrust.”
“I know that. But you’re not going to regain his trust by defying him either. If we go off to the city, and then they summon us back to my duke’s chamber only to find us gone, it will do nothing to improve matters between you and Brall.”
She sounded like the worst kind of Qirsi servant, a lackey to the Eandi court who cared more for the noble she served than for her own people. Fetnalla had to bite her tongue to keep from saying as much. She could only imagine how the Weaver would have responded hearing Evanthya speak so.
“You think I’m wrong,” Evanthya said, after a lengthy silence.
“I think it’s possible to worry too much about offending our dukes, even Brall.”
“Maybe. But with the realm on the cusp of civil war, I think it best to err on the side of restraint.” The guards had passed, and after glancing about to make certain that no one was watching them, Evanthya took her hand once more. “We’ll be together later. I promise.”
Fetnalla nodded, made herself smile. She couldn’t help thinking, though, that winning Evanthya over to the Weaver’s cause would be nearly impossible.
As it happened, the dukes did summon them just before the ringing of the prior’s bells. The ministers returned to the presence chamber, where they spoke with their dukes and Dantrielle’s master of arms about strategy for the civil war. With Evanthya possessing mists and winds, and Fetnalla being a shaper, both of them would be expected to play important roles in any battles fought against the Solkarans. In the midst of the discussion, Fetnalla realized that she didn’t know what the Weaver wanted her to do if Brall called upon her to wield her magic on Orvinti’s behalf. She would have to ask when next he walked in her dreams.
Once more, they took their meal in the presence chamber, their conversation continuing well past sunset and nearly to the ringing of the gate close. When finally Tebeo stood and stretched, giving them leave to go, Fetnalla feared that Evanthya would be too tired to do more than go to sleep. To her surprise and pleasure, however, the minister took her hand outside the presence chamber and led her back to her bedchamber.
Once there, they fell into each other’s arms, kissing deeply before slowly, gently undressing one another. After that, Fetnalla lost all sense of time. Thoughts of the Weaver and his war faded from her mind, leaving only the cool smoothness of Evanthya’s skin, the taste of her lips, the moist warmth she found between her love’s legs. The urgency of her own hunger seemed to be matched by Evanthya’s as the woman’s mouth traveled her body. And when they had sated themselves, their pulses easing, their limbs entangled beneath the candlelight, Fetnalla pulled away, intending to dress and return to her chamber.
“Not yet,” Evanthya whispered. “Lie with me for a while.”
She hesitated. The Weaver hadn’t entered her dreams in some time, and she expected that he would soon, perhaps this night.
Evanthya’s fingers wandered gently over her back.
“All right,” she said, lying back down. “Just for a while.”
It began to rain, slowly at first, then harder. Lightning flashed, and thunder rumbled in the distance.
“A storm in Amon’s Turn,” Evanthya murmured sleepily. “Just like the day we met. Remember?”
“Of course,” she whispered. It seemed like a lifetime ago. They had been so young, so devoted to their dukes and the realms they served. How could she have changed so much, and Evanthya not at all?
She lay in the bed, listening to the rain, and to the rhythm of her love’s breathing, which slowed gradually as sleep came to her.
Fetnalla didn’t realize that she had fallen asleep as well until she found herself on the Weaver’s plain. A cool wind brushed her skin and she remembered that she was naked.
Not now, she thought. Can’t this wait until tomorrow night?
To which the Weaver’s voice replied, “Why should I wait?”
Usually she had to walk a distance to find him, but on this night the Weaver appeared before her immediately, the brilliant light behind him burning her eyes.
“You’re not alone, are you?”
She shook her head, crossing her arms over her breasts.
“Dantrielle’s minister is with you?”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“Are you any closer to turning her?”
She had already felt what he could do to her if she angered him, and so she didn’t dare lie. “No, Weaver, not yet.”
“You still think it’s possible, though.”
“I want to believe it. I’m not ready to give up yet.”
She saw him nod. “A good answer. Very well. Tell me of your duke and his plans to defy the regent.”
“He remains convinced that the war with Eibithar is a bad idea. He fears a civil war, but he believes that with the support of the other houses, he can prevail against the Solkarans.”
“Tounstrel and Bistari are with you?”
“No, Weaver. Only Tounstrel. Bistari’s new duke refuses to take sides in the matter.”
“Ah,” the Weaver said, nodding again. “He aspires to the throne.”
“That’s what the dukes think.”
“Did Dantrielle win over Kett and Noltierre?”
“Yes, Weaver. In all, five houses have pledged themselves to stand against the regent.”
“Good. Very good. Bistari might have tipped the balance too far. I’m pleased.”
She lowered her gaze. Already she had learned what the Weaver expected of her. “Thank you, Weaver. I wanted to ask you, when war comes, shall I wield my power on my duke’s behalf?”
“You’ll have to. If you refuse, you endanger yourself and the movement. But if your duke is like most Eandi, he knows little of Qirsi magic. You can use your powers on his behalf without using them well. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“Good. I’ll leave you now, since you’re with the minister.”
“Thank you, Weaver.”
“Time runs short. You know that. If you don’t turn her soon, it will be too late. We’ll have no choice but to kill her.”
He may as well have reached into her chest and taken hold of her heart.
“Yes, Weaver,” she managed, and woke.
The candle flame beside the bed flickered and danced. Evanthya was sitting up, staring at her, a single crease like a scar in the middle of her forehead.
“You were dreaming.”
Fetnalla’s throat felt dry. “Was I?”
“Yes, and you spoke in your sleep.”
She pulled up the bed linens, covering herself. “What did I say?”
“It was hard to make sense of it. But you said something about a Weaver.”
“A Weaver.” She tried to make herself laugh as she said this, but it came out sounding breathless and desperate to her own ears.
“What was it you were dreaming about?”
“Honestly, Evanthya, I don’t remember.”
“Was it a vision?”
Fetnalla shook her head. “I’d remember a vision.”
Evanthya looked as if she wanted to ask more, but Fetnalla didn’t allow her the chance.
“What’s the hour?” she demanded, kicking off the linens and swinging herself out of the bed.
“I’m not certain.”
She began to dress. “I should return to my chamber.”
“Have you had this dream before, Fetnalla?”
“I told you, I don’t remember it. How should I know if I’ve had it before?” She winced at what she heard in her voice. Even in the dim light, she could see the hurt in Evanthya’s eyes, the color seeping into her cheeks.
“You seemed frightened,” her love said, low and sad. “Whatever you were dreaming seemed to terrify you.”
It did. He’s going to kill you. Fetnalla stopped buttoning her shirt and sat beside her on the bed. “We all have dreams that scare us, Evanthya. You can’t tell me that Shyssir has never brought demons to your sleep.”