Weavers of War

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The touch of his mind on hers was as gentle as the Weaver’s had been brutal, as tender and loving as the Weaver’s had been vengeful and cruel. She sensed in that touch his passion, his longing to be with her, his hope that he could shield her from the pain that seemed to have enveloped all the land. And she wanted nothing more than to hold him in her arms-really to hold him, beyond this haven he had created so that he might speak with her as she slept-to show him that she yearned for him, too.

Theirs was the most unlikely of loves, having overcome deception, betrayal, and her devotion to the Weaver’s conspiracy. But feeling the caress of his thoughts, Cresenne could not question the power of what they shared.

“Tell me about Bryntelle,” Grinsa whispered, still holding her close amid the sun-warmed grasses of the plain he had conjured for this dream.

How could she not smile at the mention of their daughter? The girl had been the lone spark of light in a darkness that had consumed her days and nights over the past several turns.

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