The Dark-Eyes War

Chapter 5

What do you think they're talking about?" Sirj asked, peering through the darkness at the other fire and the three Qirsi seated around it. Besh kept his gaze fixed on the fire and took another bite of hard cheese. "I don't know. It doesn't matter."

"They must be talking about us. That's why the Fal'Borna didn't want us there."

He was sure Sirj was right, but he said nothing. There was no sense in troubling him further.

For Besh, the Qirsi's conversation was the least of his concerns. His entire body hurt from riding that damned horse today. He'd told Grinsa that the Mettai were not horsemen, and he'd known that he was far too old to try to become one now. His back and legs were stiff, and he'd strained muscles he didn't even know he had.

Yet he could hardly argue with the Qirsi's decision to abandon the cart and make them ride. Q'Daer's people were under attack; had Besh been in his position, he would have been desperate to return to his sept. And having been away from his own family for far too long, the old man could imagine how keen Grinsa must have been to rejoin his wife and child.

For Besh and Sirj, however, this race southward couldn't have been more perilous. In the best of times, the old man would have felt vulnerable traveling across the plain. The Fal'Borna had a reputation as a hard and dangerous people. The necklace F'Ghara had given them seemed like scant protection. But now, with war coming, and with Mettai marching alongside the men of Stelpana, Besh feared that he and Sirj were riding to their doom.

Worse, he knew now that they had no choice. He'd been ready to leave Grinsa and Q'Daer, to ride back to Mettai lands and put the clans and their Eandi enemies behind them. He knew that Sirj wanted to. But Grinsa had argued that the danger to them was too great, and this evening's encounter with the Fal'Borna war party had convinced Besh that he was right. He'd had little experience with Qirsi magic, but he knew enough to understand that only Grinsa's and Q'Daer's intervention had kept B'Vril and his men from killing them. If Sirj and he had come upon the warriors on their own, they'd be dead already.

They were helpless. There was nothing they could do but follow Grinsa and Q'Daer back to the sept and hope that the Forelander would manage to keep them alive.

"I feel like a child."

"What?" Sirj said.

Besh looked at him, surprised by the question. It took him a moment to realize that he had spoken aloud. "Nothing."

"What if this new Fal'Borna is trying to turn them against us?" Sirj asked, still watching the Qirsi.

"Grinsa trusts us more than he does the Fal'Borna. Even if that's the Fal'Borna's intent, he won't betray us."

"But the other one-"

"Stop it, Sirj! We have enough to worry about without you imagining things!"

Sirj stared at him for a moment, then looked away. Besh shook his head, cursing his temper. He and Sirj had come a long way since leaving their home village of Kirayde. Eight years before, Sirj had married Besh's daughter, Elica. At the time, and in the years since, Besh had assumed that Sirj wasn't worthy of being her husband. He mistook Sirj's reticence for simplemindedness, and he would have preferred that Elica choose a more prosperous man; a wheelwright, perhaps, or a farrier, rather than a trapper. But since being forced to journey with him, Besh had come to realize that Sirj's reserved nature masked a keen mind and a courageous heart. The man didn't deserve to be spoken to in that way.

"I'm sorry, Sirj," he said after a long silence. "I really don't think that Grinsa or Q'Daer will break faith with us. I can't think that way, because I'm convinced that they're our only hope of surviving this war."

Sirj nodded, his gaze still lowered. "I know. That's why I want to know what they're saying."

Of course. Sirj wasn't being foolish. He was already a step ahead of Besh. "We can talk to Grinsa and Q'Daer later, after the other Fal'Borna are gone." As Besh said this, he glanced toward the Fal'Borna warriors, who had made their own fire. None of them had so much as looked toward the Mettai since he and Sirj had moved away from Grinsa and the others, but Besh continued to keep an eye on them. Grinsa had seemed concerned that the men might try to hurt them. Besh thought it possible, too.

"Do you think that this Weaver will let you use the spell on him?" Sirj asked.

"He'd be an idiot not to."

Sirj grinned. "I don't think that answers my question."

Besh laughed. Even as he did, though, he saw the Fal'Borna Weaver rise from his seat beside the other fire and start walking in their direction.

"Here comes your answer," he said.

Sirj looked up, instantly growing serious. Grinsa had stood as well, and was following the man. Clearly the Forelander had taken it upon himself to keep Besh and Sirj safe. And though Besh usually had confidence in his own ability to watch out for himself, under the circumstances, he was grateful.

B'Vril stopped a short distance from their fire and cleared his throat.

"I was wondering if I might have a word with you," he said.

Besh waved him on. "Of course. Please join us."

The Fal'Borna stepped into the firelight, and after a brief hesitation, sat down on the ground. Grinsa had halted just beyond the reach of the fire's glow, and he remained in the shadows, content, it seemed, to watch and listen. "I want to learn more about this spell you've offered to put on me."

"Not just on you," Besh said. "You need to understand that. This is a spell that you can pass on to any Fal'Borna, simply by using your magic on them."

"I'm a Weaver," the man said. "I can wield the magic of all my warriors as a weapon. Would that pass your spell to them?"

Besh looked up at Grinsa, who nodded.

"Yes, it would," Besh said, facing the Fal'Borna once more.

B'Vril exhaled. "I see."

"You fear that I intend to harm you and your men, that I'll place this spell on you and you'll be unable to stop it from spreading."

"The thought had occurred to me."

Besh nodded. "I understand. I expect that the Forelander has tried to put your doubts to rest and has failed. So I won't even make the attempt. If he can't convince you, I certainly can't."

"This plague that's been spreading through our lands has us scared."

"Yes," Besh said. "It should. But Lici didn't intend the plague for your people. She took it to the Y'Qatt."

The man frowned. "The Y'Qatt?" Clearly he didn't believe this, and Besh understood why. The Y'Qatt were aescetics, Qirsi who eschewed all use of magic because they believed that Qirsar, the god of the Qirsi, had never intended their powers to be used.

"I know. It made no sense to us, either. But years ago, when she was just a girl, the pestilence struck her village. She crossed N'Kiel's Span in search of help, hoping to find Qirsi who could heal her family and friends. Instead she found the Y'Qatt."

"Blood and bone," B'Vril muttered.

"Everyone in her village died, and Lici blamed the Y'Qatt." Besh leaned forward, making the man look him in the eye. "You believe the Mettai are your enemy. I understand that. This plague, this war; these are tragedies. But Lici didn't want to hurt you. She lost what remained of her sanity when she learned that her cursed baskets were headed out onto the plain. And the rest of us…" He shook his head. "You think that Sirj and I might be different from other Mettai and that therefore you can trust us. But you have it backwards. It's the Mettai who march against you who are different. I don't know why they're doing this, but I promise you that most of my people would want no part of your war.”

B'Vril didn't respond other than to nod. He didn't look at Besh. "You don't believe me," the old Mettai said, feeling weary.

"It doesn't matter if I believe you. Even if all you're telling me is true, it can't change the fact that these Mettai have allied themselves with the Eandi. They've made all of your people enemies of all of mine. That's simply the way of things."

Only to the Fal'Borna, Besh wanted to say. But he kept this thought to himself.

"But I can see why Q'Daer and Grinsa trust you," the man went on after a moment's pause. "And I'd be grateful to you if you would use your magic to make me immune to the plague."

"All right," Besh said. "In return, I'd ask that you tell other Fal'Borna what I've told you. You don't have to believe it, and you don't have to try to convince them of anything. I ask only that you repeat what I've told you and let others judge for themselves."

He didn't answer at first, and Besh started to wonder if the Fal'Borna would refuse him. But then B'Vril nodded again. "All right."

Besh smiled. "Thank you."

He pulled out his knife. But before Besh could cut himself Grinsa stepped forward into the firelight.

"You don't have to do that, Besh."

"What do you mean?" the Mettai asked.

"I used my magic on him," Grinsa said. "Or rather, I stopped him from using his magic on me. He's already immune."

"I don't understand," B'Vril said, looking first at Grinsa and then at the Forelander. "How can I already be immune?"

"The spell I created is as contagious as Lici's plague," Besh said. "When Grinsa used his magic against you he passed on the spell."

B'Vril eyed Besh doubtfully. "How will we know if it worked?"

Besh smiled weakly. "I hope we never will. I hope that the plague has run its course and all of Lici's baskets have been destroyed. But the only way we can be certain is if you're exposed to the plague."

Even in the firelight, Besh could see the man blanch.

"The spell worked when he used it on me," Grinsa said. "It'll work for you, too."

B'Vril looked back at the Forelander. "I can pass it to my men?"

"Q'Daer already did when he held their magic. You can pass it to others the same way. Any contact with your magic should make them immune, too." The Fal'Borna turned to Besh again. "Thank you."

Best shrugged. "It turns out I didn't do anything, but you're welcome. I'd ask that you remember our agreement."

"I will. You have my word."

B'Vril stood, thanked Besh again, and bade him and Sirj good night. He stepped past Grinsa, nodding to the Forelander as he did, and returned to his warriors.

Grinsa sat down beside Besh.

"You were ready to help him," the Forelander said. "You would have been justified in refusing, the way he spoke to you."

"No," Besh said, putting away his blade. "I wouldn't have been. How could I have justified allowing those men to die when I have the power to save them?"

"I don't know. But other-"

"Please, Grinsa," Besh said, cutting him off. "I know that you mean well. Sirj and I are grateful for your friendship and your protection. But I'm tired, and I'm sore, and I'm in no mood to talk. I want to sleep and tomorrow I want to ride as far as we can without it killing me."

Besh grimaced at what he heard in his own voice. This was no way to speak to a friend. But Grinsa merely smiled and placed a hand on Besh's shoulder.

"Sleep sounds like an excellent idea." He stood once again. "Dream well, my friend," he said, and walked away.

"He's a good man," Sirj said, and Besh thought he heard a gentle rebuke in the younger man's tone.

"I know." What else could Besh say?

They awoke the following morning with first light. B'Vril and his mer said quick farewells and rode off toward the rising sun and the war that was approaching from the east. A short time later, Besh and the others broke camp as well.

Besh's muscles had grown stiff overnight, and he could barely walk, much less climb onto his horse. He needed help from both Grinsa and Sirj; by the time he was sitting in his saddle, he was exhausted and humiliated.

The first step his mount took made him gasp with pain, and he nearly told the others to leave him there. Better to be found by another company of Fal'Borna warriors than to endure such misery. But as the morning wore on, his discomfort subsided a bit. He wasn't foolish enough to think that he wouldn't be sore again come morning, but he could feel his muscles loosening, and he decided that he could go on, at least for the moment.

The company rode farther during the course of this day than they had during any day since turning south toward E'Menua's sept. By nightfall, Besh was utterly exhausted and his muscles burned. He barely ate any supper and had no sooner lay down beside the fire than he fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

Morning seemed to come way too soon, and upon awaking again he could barely move. But once he was sitting his horse, he began to feel better. They rode even farther this second day than they had the one before.

So it went. Each day Besh's discomfort abated a bit more quickly. Each evening they stopped after having covered more distance than they had the previous day. They encountered no more Fal'Borna war parties, and they saw no sign of the Eandi army that was said to be on the march.

Besh could see Grinsa's spirits lifting with each league they covered. Even Q'Daer's mood seemed to be improving. He and Sirj, on the other hand, could not help but dread their arrival in the sept, and, ironically, by making himself a better rider, Besh was hastening that moment.

Sirj said little about his own fears, as was his way, but Besh could tell that he was growing increasingly anxious, even as his riding improved as well.

Several days after their encounter with B'Vril's company, as they were passing a series of low, grass-covered hills, Q'Daer suddenly glanced back at Grinsa and the two Mettai, a smile on his square face.

"We're close!" he said. "Another league and we'll be there."

Grinsa nodded, but otherwise none of them spoke. The Fal'Borna's grin faded, and after another moment he faced forward again, apparently disappointed by their response.

"What does he expect us to say?" Sirj muttered, turning just enough so that Besh could hear him.

"I don't think he was taunting us," Besh answered. "He must not think we have anything to fear from his a'laq."

"Or else he just doesn't care."

That seemed as likely an explanation as any. Besh said nothing.

Grinsa steered his horse over to theirs, a look of concern in his pale yellow eyes.

"You're afraid of what will happen when we reach the sept." He offered it as a statement.

Besh merely nodded.

"I am, too," Grinsa told them. "We didn't find Lici; we allowed Torgan to get away. In the strictest terms, I failed, and E'Menua would be within his rights to insist that I remain here forever and take a Fal'Borna Weaver as my wife.”

"That's hardly the same thing," Sirj said, his voice tight. "We're afraid we'll be killed."

Grinsa nodded, seemingly unaffected by what the younger man had said. Besh sometimes wondered if the Forelander ever lost his temper. Then he remembered watching him confront Torgan, hearing him threaten a Qirsi man in S'Vralna who had just used magic to shatter the bone in Besh's leg. Perhaps a man wielding as much power as Grinsa did couldn't afford to give in to rage. And thinking this, Besh had another thought as well: We're fortunate to have such a man as our friend.

"You're right, it's not the same thing," Grinsa said to Sirj. "My point is this: We both have cause to fear E'Menua. But we can help one another. I've sworn this to you before, and I swear it again today. I won't allow E'Menua to harm you, and if I have to I'll give my life to save yours. I owe you no less."

"We can give the same oath," Besh said. "But all three of us know that it's worth far less coming from Sirj and me."

Grinsa smiled. "I'm not as sure of that as you are. But I had something else in mind. As I said before, I've failed in nearly every task that E'Menua set before me. We did find you, however, and you not only killed Lici, you defeated her curse. If you and I make it clear to him that we're friends, and that the spell you used to defeat the plague grew out of our friendship, it might help both of us."

"You should tell the a'laq whatever you think you need to," Besh said. "The truth is, without your help I never would have come up with the spell, and you would have died. As far as I'm concerned you deserve as much credit as I for defeating the plague."

"It's not just defeating the curse, Besh," Grinsa told him. "You killed Lici. I know you don't like to talk about it, but the Fal'Borna will want to hear the story of her death. You'd be wise to tell it as often as you can."

Besh nodded, though he could feel his stomach tightening. To this day, he didn't like to think about killing Lici, much less talk about it. He'd had no choice in the matter. She had wounded him and was on the verge of killing him with a second plague that might have proved fatal to all Mettai. Still, he'd never killed before, and he hoped never to kill again.

But he knew that Grinsa was right. The Fal'Borna wouldn't care about his misgivings, and might well take them as an affront. Lici's death was more likely to save his life and Sirj's than anything else they had done since leaving Kirayde.

"I don't know if E'Menua will arrange to have a shelter built for you," Grinsa went on a moment later. "If he doesn't, Cresenne and I will make room for you in ours."

Besh laughed and shook his head. "No, Grinsa. You haven't seen your wife in a long time. If need be, Sirj and I will sleep beside a fire. But I have no desire to share your shelter tonight."

Grinsa's face turned crimson, drawing a snort of laughter from Sirj. Q'Daer glanced back at them, scowled, and faced forward again.

"He's speechless," Sirj said.

The Forelander smiled, then laughed. "I am."

They rode on, saying nothing. Occasionally Grinsa chuckled to himself and shook his head again. Soon, they topped a small rise and looked down upon the sept. It sat in a shallow basin and looked to be little more than a loose array of small triangular structures. Thin ribbons of blue-grey smoke rose from the top of several of them, as well as from perhaps a dozen fires burning outside. A narrow stream wound past the settlement and more than two hundred horses grazed in a large paddock just to the west of the structures.

As they drew nearer, Besh saw that the structures were made of skins and wood. Nothing more.

"They live like this through the Snows?" he asked.

"The z'kals are sturdier than they look," Grinsa said. "And with a fire burning within, they're quite comfortable. At least they were the few nights I spent here."

"The Fal'Borna are a hardy people."

"Yes, they are."

Grinsa sounded distracted. Looking his way, Besh saw him scanning the sept, no doubt searching for his wife.

Several children played near the paddock and now they spotted the riders. For an instant they stared. Then, with shouts of excitement, they sprinted back toward the settlement.

Men and women began to emerge from the shelters, all of them looking northward toward Besh and the rest of the company.

Abruptly, Grinsa spurred his mount to a gallop, thundering past Q'Daer and toward the heart of the settlement. Looking once more at the sept, Besh spotted the man's wife. She was taller and leaner than the Fal'Borna and her skin was bone white, not at all like the golden color of the clanspeople. She held a child in her arms and, like the others, she gazed in their direction.

Seeing Grinsa, she began to run toward him. They met at the edge of the settlement. Grinsa dismounted in one swift, fluid motion, covered the remaining distance in two great strides, and gathered her in his arms, kissing her deeply. She clung to him with one arm, and still clutched their baby in the other.

After a moment, Besh looked away, feeling that he was intruding on their privacy, even from this distance. Glancing back at Sirj, who sat behind him, he saw that the younger man was still watching them, a tear in his eye.

Besh wanted to tell him that it wouldn't be long before they returned to Kirayde and Sirj was reunited with Elica and their children, Mihas, Annze, and Cam. But it would have been an empty promise. They were a long way from Mettai land, and war was coming to the plain.

"I miss them, too," he said quietly. "Not as much as you do, but very much, just the same."

The younger man merely nodded.

By the time they reached Grinsa and his wife, others from the sept had joined them. There were several women and children, and one young man who looked a great deal like Q'Daer, to whom Grinsa spoke. Q'Daer had already joined the cluster of people, and had warmly embraced the young man who resembled him. Besh wondered if they might be brothers.

The Forelander was holding his child now, and he still held his wife's hand. Besh had never seen him look happier. He looked up as they drew near, and beckoned them over.

"This is Besh," he said to the woman, indicating the old man with an open hand. "And this is Sirj." He regarded the other Fal'Borna standing around them. "These are the Mettai who killed the woman and defeated her curse," he told them, raising his voice. "They're the reason Q'Daer and I are alive They're also the reason all of you are now immune to the plague that spread across the plain."

The others there looked up at them, their expressions guarded despite Grinsa's reassurances. But the woman stepped forward, stopping beside the mount and favoring them with a dazzling smile.

"Thank you for my husband's life," she said, her voice clear and stron_g, "My name is Cresenne ja Terba, and for as long as I live I'll be indebted to you both."

Besh had always considered the Qirsi a strange-looking people. The Fal'Borna were odd enough, with their white hair and yellow eyes. But their skin at least had a golden hue to it that made them look a bit less odd. Other clans-and apparently Qirsi from the Forelands-had skin so white that it looked almost transparent. Even Grinsa, with whom he had spent more time than any other person of the sorcerer race, still struck him as alien in appearance. But even with her pale complexion and ghostly eyes, this wom before him was as beautiful as anyone he had ever met. Her face was oval, with features delicate and perfect. There seemed to be long white scars on the cheek and along her jawline, but they were faint and didn't detract from her beauty. Her hair, which hung loose to the middle of her back, looked so fine and soft that Besh actually had to keep himself from reaching out to touch it.

"You honor us, my friend," he said, gazing back into those pale eyes. They were the color of sand or of dried plain grass.

The woman grinned. "Well, good. That was my intention."

Besh and Sirj climbed off their horse, but stayed near it, as if the beast might protect them if the crowd of Fal'Borna turned on them.

There had been a great deal of noise coming from all the people clustered around the company, but now a hush fell over them. Cresenne turned, as did Grinsa and Q'Daer.

A man and a woman were approaching from the middle of the settlement. The woman had a piercing gaze and a handsome square face. There were lines around her mouth and eyes, but otherwise she didn't appear to be particularly old. It was the man, however, to whom Besh's eyes were drawn. He was nearly a full head shorter than Grinsa, even a bit shorter than Q'Daer. But he was broad in the chest and shoulders, so that he looked bigger and more formidable than the young Weaver. With his large round yellow eyes and narrow, tapered face he resembled a cat, predatory and keenly intelligent. Like most Fal'Borna warriors he wore his white hair tied back. A whine stone, much like the one F'Ghara had given to Besh and Sirj, hung at his throat.

"The a'laq," Sirj whispered.

Besh nodded. E'Menua, Grinsa had called him. Besh noticed that Cresenne had retreated to Grinsa's side, and he sensed that she feared this man. Given the silence that now hung over the sept, it seemed that all of these people did. Even Q'Daer was eyeing the a'laq uneasily, and Besh hadn't known the young Fal'Borna to fear anyone.

Only Grinsa didn't seem cowed by the man. He stood straight, marking the a'laq's approach, his arm around Cresenne's shoulders.

The a'laq stopped a short distance from the Forelander, and for a moment they eyed each other in silence. Then the a'laq looked around, his gaze barely lingering on Besh and Sirj.

"Where are the merchants?" he finally asked, his eyes coming to rest on Grinsa. He had a rough voice, the sound of stone grating on stone.

"I think you know," the Forelander said. "Q'Daer would have told you already. He spoke to you in a dream several days ago."

The look that flashed in E'Menua's eyes could have kindled wet wood. "I'm asking you," he said.

"Jasha is dead, killed by Torgan."

"And Torgan escaped?"

Grinsa nodded. "That's right. He nearly managed to kill Q'Daer and me before he did."

"How is that possible? The man is Eandi. He's weak and a fool. And yet he nearly bested both of you."

The Forelander said nothing. At last the a'laq turned to Q'Daer.

"I… I told you, A'Laq. He had a scrap of cursed basket. From one of the villages we found that had been struck by the plague."

"Ah, yes," E'Menua said. He turned those bright yellow eyes on Besh and Sirj. "The plague."

Suddenly Besh understood. Grinsa was right: E'Menua had known all of this already. But he wanted to have it repeated aloud for all the rest of the Fal'Borna to hear, so that they would see Besh and Sirj as their enemies, despite whatever Grinsa had told them.

"E'Menua, son of E'Sedt," Grinsa said, "I present to you Besh and Sirj of the Mettai village Kirayde."

"We thank you for welcoming us to your sept, A'Laq," Besh said, knowing that he was taking a chance. "Three times now, your people have honored us so. You do so today. Q'Daer did so when he welcomed us into his company."

He pulled F'Ghara's necklace from his pocket. "And another a'laq, F'Ghara, who leads a sept east of here, gave us this stone as a token of his friendship and that of all your people."

E'Menua's eyes narrowed briefly. "F'Ghara gave you that?"

"Yes. After he learned that I had killed Lici, the woman who created the plague."

The a'laq regarded him for another moment. Then he turned to Grinsa again. "You were supposed to kill her."

"Yes, but Besh did. She's dead. That's what matters."

"You've made a mess of everything. And you've brought these Mettai to my sept in a time of war."

Grinsa gave no indication that the a'laq's rebuke troubled him. "I don't believe we've made a mess of anything," he said evenly. "But that's a matter you and I can discuss in private."

E'Menua glared at Grinsa, his jaw muscles bunched. After a moment he turned to Q'Daer.

"Find them a place to sleep," he said, his voice thick with anger. "Make certain they have food and wood." He cast a dark look Grinsa's way. "You, come with me."

E'Menua turned sharply and started back the way he had come.

Grinsa kissed Cresenne and smiled at her. "I'll be back soon." Then he looked at Besh.

"I'm sorry," the old Mettai said. "I've made matters worse for you."

The Forelander shook his head. "No, you haven't," he said, dropping his voice. "They were going to be difficult no matter what happened here. You said what you had to to save your life, and Sirj's. You did the right thing." He patted Besh's shoulder and turned to follow the a'laq.

"Come with me, Mettai," Q'Daer said. "We may have to build you a shelter. ',

Besh nodded, but still he stood there, watching Grinsa walk away, wondering what E'Menua intended to do to him.

Grinsa didn't want any part of this fight. Not now, so soon after returning to the sept. He'd been apart from Cresenne and Bryntelle for the better part of two turns, this after being apart from them for turn after turn while they were still in the Forelands. All he wanted was to hold them both, to kiss Cresenne and look into the beautiful pale eyes of his daughter. Instead he had already allowed himself to be drawn into E'Menua's foolish games. The a'laq wanted this confrontation. So be it.

Grinsa could tell how angry E'Menua was with him. He had heard it in the a'laq's voice and he could see it now in the way the a'laq stalked toward his z'kal. He had incurred the man's wrath on several occasions before leaving with Q'Daer and the merchants to search for Lici. Once, the a'laq had gone so far as to strike him. So he had some idea of what to expect when they reached E'Menua's z'kal.

E'Menua pulled back the flap of rilda skin that covered the entrance to his shelter and motioned Grinsa inside. Grinsa ducked into the z'kal and turned to face the entrance. As he had expected, as soon as the a'laq stepped into the shelter and straightened, he reared back and aimed a backhanded blow at Grinsa's face.

The last time this happened, Grinsa had anticipated the blow and allowed the man to hit him. He didn't allow it this time.

Grinsa reached up and grabbed the a'laq's wrist before E'Menua could strike him. The a'laq's eyes widened. He tried to wrench his arm out of Grinsa's grasp, but Grinsa held him firm. E'Menua was a powerful man, and in his youth he might have been able to defeat Grinsa in a battle of physical strength. But not anymore, not at his age, despite the old injury to Grinsa's shoulder that had left him slightly deformed. Grinsa sensed that E'Menua was gathering himself to use shaping magic against him, and he reached forth with his own magic to stop him, just as he had done to B'Vril.

"Let go of me!" the a'laq demanded, his voice low, menacing.

"No, not yet."

E'Menua threw a punch with the other fist, but Grinsa seized that arm, too. He felt the a'laq grappling for control of his other magics, and he blocked him. He had no doubt that the Fal'Borna were skilled warriors, but based upon his confrontation with B'Vril and now this encounter with the a'laq, he sensed that their command of Qirsi magic lacked precision. Or perhaps battling the renegade Weaver back in the Forelands had honed Grinsa's skills so well that few Qirsi anywhere could stand against him in a contest of magic. Whatever the reason, his mastery of the man's magic was even more complete than his physical advantage.

"I'll call for the others," E'Menua said. "D'Pera, Q'Daer, L'Norr. You can't defeat four Weavers."

Grinsa shook his head, though he kept his expression neutral. He didn't wish to humiliate the man. He only wanted to prove to him once and for all that he couldn't be controlled. "It's an empty threat," he said, "and we both know it. You don't want them to see you like this, and neither do I."

Still E'Menua fought him. He struggled to free himself from Grinsa's grasp. He fought for control of his magic. All to no avail.

"Damn you!" he finally said through clenched teeth. But an instant later he seemed to surrender. He stopped trying to pull his arms free, and he ceded all control of his magic to Grinsa.

Grinsa let go of the man's wrist and arm but held fast to E'Menua's magic. The a'laq continued to glare as he rubbed his wrist with the other hand. It was red where Grinsa had held him.

"You can release my magic, too."

"I don't trust you," Grinsa said. "If you'd care to throw down the blades you carry, I might consider it. Otherwise…" He shrugged.

E'Menua regarded him again, his eyes narrowing slightly and a faint smile touching his lips. "You'll be a Fal'Borna yet, Forelander." But he didn't pull out his weapons, and Grinsa didn't relinquish his hold on the man's magic.

The a'laq walked around the fire ring in the z'kal and sat. He gestured for Grinsa to do the same.

"What is it you want?" he asked as Grinsa lowered himself to the ground.

"You know what I want."

By Fal'Borna law, all Weavers were to be joined to other Weavers. E'Menua and his people didn't recognize Cresenne as Grinsa's wife; in the days immediately following their arrival in the sept, the Fal'Borna had referred to her again and again as Grinsa's concubine. The a'laq had demanded that Grinsa be joined to a Weaver, and of course Grinsa had refused.

"We had an arrangement," E'Menua said. "You were to find the Mettai witch who made the curse. You were to kill her and prove the innocence of those merchants. Instead, the merchants are gone and the woman was killed by the Mettai. You failed, and now you must live with the consequences of that failure. You're Fal'Borna. You're a member of this sept. That's what we agreed to. You'll marry a Fal'Borna Weaver, just as you said you would."

Grinsa shook his head and laughed. "The Mettai woman is dead. Besh and I found a way to defeat the plague, and Besh went so far as to make the cure contagious, so that soon every man and woman in your sept will be immune. You're the only man in the Southlands who could look at all this and conclude that we failed."

"What about the merchants?"

"The merchants are no longer your problem," Grinsa said. "As I told you, Jasha is dead. And Torgan is alone on the plain. You've met the man. How long do you think he can last on his own? He'll be killed by a Fal'Borna war party long before he reaches the Silverwater."

E'Menua stared at the fire ring. Whatever flames had burned there had long since burned out, but the embers still glowed faintly, and a thread of smoke rose from them, undulating each time one of them exhaled.

"I don't want those Mettai in my sept. We're at war with their kind. You shouldn't have brought them here."

"Those Mettai saved my life and Q'Daer's. And if we spread their new spell quickly enough, we can protect every Qirsi on the plain from the plague. Your sept will forever be remembered as the one that saved the Fal'Borna nation."

At that, E'Menua looked up. Grinsa felt him test his magic. He did it lightly, as if hoping that Grinsa wouldn't notice. The Forelander grinned, to show E'Menua that he had.

"You can't hold my magic forever," the man said.

"No, I can't. But I can defeat you in a battle of power any time I wish. I think we both know that."

"As I said before, you can't defeat all of my Weavers. We both know that as well."

Grinsa nodded, conceding the point.

"So we're at an impasse."

"Perhaps not," Grinsa said.

E'Menua regarded him with obvious curiosity. "What do you mean?"

"The Fal'Borna are at war. I wouldn't leave your sept now even if you let me. It would be too dangerous for Cresenne and our child. And if your people come under attack, I'll stand with you."

"Will you ride to war with us?"

Grinsa hesitated. But then he nodded. "Your people didn't start this war. The Eandi are taking advantage of the damage done by Lici's plague. There's no honor in that, no justification that I can see. I'll fight with you to drive them off the plain. But if Fal'Borna warriors cross into Eandi land, they'll do so without me."

"All right."

"But that's as far as I'll go. Cresenne is my wife. You'll treat her as such, and you'll drop your insistence that I marry a Weaver."

"How do I know you won't go back on your word?" E'Menua asked. "We had one arrangement, and I have nothing to show for it."

"I disagree. Q'Daer is alive. Your people are safe. You have much to show for it. Besides, I could easily ask you the same question. I'm still holding on to your magic because I'm convinced that as soon as I let go, you'll attack me."

"As I said: an impasse."

They stared at each other for several seconds. E'Menua's face was in shadow, but his eyes seemed to glow with the dim light cast by the embers.

At last, Grinsa relinquished his hold on the a'laq's magic, drawing a smile from the man.

"Does this mean you trust me now?" E'Menua asked.

"It's my way of saying that you can trust me. I have no desire to harm you or any of your people. And I know that you don't want to admit to any of your Weavers that you need their help to defeat me."

The a'laq's mouth twitched slightly. But he nodded again. "Very well, Forelander. You'll fight with us as a Fal'Borna warrior. And I'll accept that the woman is your wife."

"You'll acknowledge it in front of the others. Everyone in the sept is to know.

"Yes, very well," the a'laq said shortly.

Grinsa stood. "Thank you."

He turned, intending to leave, and as soon as his back was to E'Menua, he felt the power building behind him. He'd expected something like this, and had been prepared for the a'laq to attack him with shaping power. E'Menua chose fire instead, and his touch was light. It seemed the man could be trusted. He wasn't trying to kill or maim. He just wanted to make a point.

But if Grinsa, Cresenne, and Bryntelle were ever to leave this sept, Grinsa couldn't even allow the a'laq that much. Without turning to face him again, Grinsa took hold of E'Menua's magic once more and redirected it. He also amplified the power with his own, so that flames erupted from the fire pit, blazing brilliantly. He heard the a'laq cry out.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Grinsa saw E'Menua sprawled on his back, staring up at him.

Grinsa didn't say anything. He merely grinned. Then he left the z'kal, and went in search of his family.