had stalked her these past months. It was an anger that seemed to spring fully formed from the grief she felt in the stones around her. She had been set onto this path by powers she did not comprehend, impelled and enabled by the death of her own mother, into a game whose rules and objectives were unknown and unknowable, and where the only certainties were blood, sorrow and horror. And death, death, always more death.
Her jaw ached from clenching it as she tried to fight down the surging rage that swelled within her. Losing the battle, she reached for the statue of Elanor, not with the hand of a supplicant but with the hand of an interrogator.
“What foul-tempered god,” Tess asked coldly, “would create a world of pain and misery, and lay upon its frail children the burden of creating joy and hope?”
None, my child.
The voice coursed through her like the shock from a cold stream, and for a moment Tess nearly yanked her hand from the statue. Then, as if steeling herself for battle, she placed her other hand on it.
“Then make yourself known,” Tess said, a firmness in her voice that shocked even herself. “The times are too dire and our hearts too troubled for more riddles. We grow weary of your games. Make yourself known!”
With a crack like the opening of the world itself, the temple flooded with a light so intense that Tess had to turn her face away. Elanor’s presence filled the room, causing the hair on the back of Tess’s neck to rise and her heart to thunder.
You have wielded the sword of the Weaver, but do not dare challenge me!
“I dare and I do!” Tess shouted. “Look at my sister, in tears on the day after her wedding, when she ought to be lying in the arms of her true love, coming here to learn more of that which we need for our journey! Look at my other sister, her heart filled with love and longing for one who cannot know love through the scourge of battle. Look at us and tell us that we have not bled and wept and walked in this path that you have set for us! Look at us and tell us that we are not worthy of even the barest comfort!”
Worthy? Elanor raged back. Would the worthy have rent the world asunder at the start? Would the worthy have set upon this world a race too weak to protect their sons and daughters from the slaver’s block? Would the worthy have gone into the service of Chaos? You speak to me of worthy? ‘I dare and I do,’ you say? Then dare it and do!
“Tess,” Sara said urgently, taking her hand. “Tempt her not.”
“No!” Tess cried, jerking her hand away. “This must be! Too long have we watched our brothers and sisters slain, our hopes dashed against the rocks like so much worthless pottery. Too long have we quailed before gods, only to see those gods leave us to the wrath of our own kind. We sisters, cursed to see the deaths of our own mothers, that we may become pawns in the games of those gods. No more! No more, I say! I command you, make known yourself!”
You command me?
“Yes,” Tess shrieked, her voice rising above the rushing roar around her. “I command you!”
In an instant it felt as if all of the air had been sucked from the temple. The light swirled and compacted, growing brighter moment by moment, until it distilled into the form of a shimmering snow wolf.
“It cannot be,” Sara said, aghast.
“Aye,” the wolf replied, amber eyes flashing. “Tell me of commands now, Weaver. Tell me that I have not walked beside you, seen what you have seen, borne what you have borne, and more, more than you will ever know? Tell me that my sisters and I have not succored you in your need, from your first battle with the minions of Glassidor to your battles in these mountains to your entreaty to the host within your midst just this morning. Tell me that I have left you alone, and that alone you have faced these hardships. Tell me that I have not guided your steps to this day. Then, and only then, I will attend to your commands.”
Tess, shaken to her core, fell to her knees. The rage and anger born of danger and fear gave way to racking sobs. “I did not know. I did not know.”
The wolf stepped closer, and its muzzle nudged her cheeks, its delicate tongue drawing out her tears. “Faith is found when we do not know, my child. Faith and courage alone can carry you through this time of trial. Never would you have found it had you known.”
Tess nodded, shame and anguish rolling through her in equal measure. Finally spent, she felt her sisters’ hands upon her, stroking her shoulders. The wolf sat before her, its face impassive, patiently waiting.
“You must not tell any other of this,” the wolf said. “None but Ilduin blood may know it, and none but Ilduin blood would believe. You must find your sisters, those whom the Enemy has not yet taken. You will know them when they see me.”
“And you will stay with us?” Tess asked.
The wolf smiled. “We are of different worlds, my child. I can no more stay with you than can the wind. I—we—will be with you as we have always been.”
“May I never see another snow wolf pelt,” Sara whispered, remembering the trappers in the mountains around her native Whitewater.
“We forgive them, for they do not know,” the wolf said to Sara. “Do likewise. Always.”
And then the wolf was gone as if it had never been, save for a single, snow-white hair on the statue of Elanor. Tess, as if bidden by an unknown force, took the hair with trembling fingers and tucked it into the pouch with the Ilduin stones.
Rising unsteadily to her feet, she took a moment to gather her determination and will once again. “Come, sisters. There is work before us. And hope.”
“One thousand, three hundred and sixty,” Topmark Tuzza said, looking across the table at Archer. “Twelve strong companies, enough to form a single regiment. That is how many men I have fit for battle. Perhaps another four hundred could be ready in a month. The rest…”
Tuzza sighed. He had brought six thousand men into the Anari lands. More than half now lay in unmarked graves along his route of march, victims of disease, hunger, the incessant Anari raids, and the final battle in the canyon. He had presided over the worst disaster in the history of the Bozandari Empire.
As if reading his thoughts, Archer said, “And your men are willing to follow you again.”
Tuzza shook his head. “They are loyal to the Weaver, because they have witnessed her miracles. They are loyal to their Topmark—whomever that might be—because of their training. But I have no illusions of their loyalty to my person, Lord Archer. Whatever loyalty I might have inspired was bled white along their journey here.”
“Personal loyalty is a fickle thing,” Archer said. “Only our Enemy can rely on absolute loyalty, and only because his magicks have broken the wills of his minions. No man should ask for such.”
“That much is true,” Tuzza said.
“What of your officers?” Archer asked. “Do they still trust in your judgment?”
Tuzza nodded. “What few remain, though I worry of them as well. Too many of my best officers—those inspired by their deeds rather than their words—fell with their men. And too many of those who remain have come to me petitioning for promotion. They assert claims of noble blood, spin tales of their courage, and whisper against their comrades.”
“Such
