The Horsemen's Gambit

Chapter 24

Besh had always considered himself an accomplished conjurer. Whenever he needed to use magic, he found the correct spell to achieve what he set out to do. He couldn't recall the last time he had tried a spell that failed. Even when he was fighting Lici, having to meet her assaults with his defenses, he had managed to ward himself and, ultimately, to defeat her.

Unlike some Mettai he knew, however, he had never considered himself a student of blood magic. Some Mettai spent goodly amounts of both time and blood experimenting with spells, teaching themselves new conjurings, perfecting the magic they already knew. Besh had never done any of that; to his knowledge, neither had Sirj.

Now, suddenly, they not only needed to create a new spell that would combat Lici's plague, but they needed to do so quickly, before the young Fal'Borna succumbed to the disease. Besh wasn't even sure he knew where to begin, though he did have an idea.

Once more Grinsa entrusted the two Mettai with keeping watch on Torgan, and for good measure the Forelander instructed Jasha to go with them as well.

"I'll join you soon," Grinsa told Besh. "I still believe our best hope for finding a magical cure lies in combining our powers. But I need to try this first," he went on, nodding toward Q'Daer. "I may be able to give us a bit more time."

Besh frowned. With all that he had seen in S'Vralna, he couldn't help thinking that Grinsa should remain as far from the Fal'Borna as possible. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked.

"I told you, I won't go near him. But my healing magic can work at a distance. I can help him without endangering myself."

The man sounded very sure of himself, and Besh knew almost nothing about Qirsi magic. But still, something about this troubled him. He remembered hearing… something. He couldn't recall the words, though he could almost make out the voice.

"Besh?" Grinsa said.

"I wish you wouldn't do this," the old man said, cursing his faulty memory.

"I wish I didn't have to. But I do."

Besh shook his head slowly, trying to remember. But at last he gave up. "All right then," he agreed. "We'll do what we can to undo Lici's curse."

He beckoned to Sirj, intending to go back to their cart and the small fire they had built beside it. Torgan followed reluctantly, and Jasha turned to leave the Qirsi's fire. But as he did he appeared to lift his hand, as if to toss something into the flames.

"No, don't!" Besh called to him, realizing just in time what it was the man was holding.

Jasha hesitated, looking first at the Mettai and then at the scrap of basket he still held. "Shouldn't I destroy it?"

"It might help us to have it," Besh said. "It's the only piece of Lici's spell that remains."

The young merchant turned to Grinsa. "What do you think?"

"I'd like to see it destroyed," the Forelander said, "but Besh is right. If he thinks it can help, we should keep it."

Jasha stared down at the thing he held and after a moment closed his fist around it. When he walked over to where Besh and the others were waiting, he kept a good distance between himself and Grinsa.

"We have a chance now to get away," Torgan said quietly as they walked. "The Forelander will be busy with Q'Daer. Neither of them will be watching us."

Besh opened his mouth, intending to tell the man to be silent, but to his surprise, Sirj beat him to it.

"One more word out of you, Torgan," Sirj said, sounding more menacing than Besh had ever heard him, "and I swear I'll cut your throat."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," the merchant said. "Somehow the white-hairs trust you both, despite the fact that this is a Mettai curse that's killing their kind. Magic may he the only thing that matters to any of you, but Jasha and I-"

The blow came so swiftly that at first Besh didn't even understand what had happened. One moment Torgan was walking beside them, and the next he was on his back, his hands raised to his face, blood running over his fingers. Sirj stood over him, both of his fists clenched.

"Say something else," the young Mettai said. "Give me another reason to hit you."

Torgan made no move to get up. Instead he pulled his hands away from his face and stared at the blood covering them. "Look what you did to me!" he said, his voice sounding so thick that Besh wondered if Sirj had broken his nose. "You Mettai bastard!"

Sirj pulled his knife from his belt.

"Sirj, no!" Besh said.

"After all he's done, he deserves to die!"

Besh nodded. "Yes, he probably does. But that's for the Qirsi to decide. If you kill him, you'll have to live with that for the rest of your life."

"I could live with killing this man."

Besh had no doubt that he meant it. But after a moment Sirj resheathed his blade. Then he leaned over and hauled the merchant to his feet.

"Next time I will kill you," he said looking Torgan in his good eye. "Even Besh won't be able to stop me."

"Next time I won't try to stop him," Besh said.

Torgan glared at him. Sirj grinned darkly.

They started walking again, but had only taken a few steps when they heard someone cry out behind them.

Besh and Sirj shared a look.

"Was that the Forelander?" Sirj asked.

Before Besh could answer he heard someone coughing. No. Retching. Besh closed his eyes, the memory coming to him at a last. It was the n'qlae. That's whose voice he had been hearing in his mind, the words unclear, the warning wasted.

My husband believed that the disease struck at our magic.

Of course. That was how the plague had spread. That was why the children had been spared. That was Lici's genius.

"Yes," Besh said, turning and breaking into a run. "That was Grinsa."

He'd been prepared for Q'Daer to fight him. They had been rivals since the day they met, and though at times it seemed that they had reached some sort of understanding, their interactions remained difficult, to say the least. Healing a fever required that he enter the man's mind, and that demanded a level of trust that he and Q'Daer had never reached. He'd also thought it possible that the illness might rob the young Weaver of his senses, so that even had he wanted to be healed he would be unable to recognize Grinsa's touch or understand that the gleaner was trying to help him. He'd even prepared himself for the possibility that it was already too late, that even if Q'Daer allowed him into his thoughts, the disease had already progressed too far to be defeated.

But it never occurred to Grinsa that this would happen. It should have, of course. He knew that the plague attacked Qirsi magic; one needed only see the wreckage that once had been S'Vralna to understand that much. Who would have imagined, though, that Lici's curse could be so insidious?

He had called out to Q'Daer before beginning.

"I'm going to try to heal you," he said, sitting on the ground several fourspans from the Fal'Borna and the fire that burned beside him. "I'm going to try to cool your fever. Perhaps I can even stop the illness from getting any worse."

The young Weaver hadn't responded.

"Q'Daer? Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

He knew the Fal'Borna couldn't be dead. Not yet. Not until his magic poured from his body, and with it his life. There seemed nothing left for him to do but make the attempt.

Closing his eyes, Grinsa reached forth with his healing magic and touched Q'Daer's mind.

He knew instantly that he had made a terrible mistake. Entering the young Weaver's mind was like stepping into fire. Abruptly it seemed that his flesh was burning. Grinsa opened his mouth to scream and he felt his lungs being seared by the flames. Q'Daer stood before him amid the blaze, his skin red and shining with sweat, but not blackened as it should have been, as Grinsa felt certain his own must be.

"You shouldn't be here," the Fal'Borna said.

"I was trying to heal you."

"I can't be healed. And now you've killed yourself."

"Not yet I haven't. We can heal each other. We can pit our magic against the curse."

But Q'Daer shook his head, looking like a ghoul standing amid Bian's fires. "Don't you think I've tried," he said. "I'm a Weaver, too, remember? Our magic does nothing against this plague."

Grinsa refused to give in. He turned his healing magic onto himself, trying to grapple with the fever that already gripped his mind. He had healed others who were ill, fevered, near death. He knew how to quell the flames that might ravage a febrile mind.

But nothing he tried worked against this pestilence. It wasn't that Lici's magic was stronger than his own. It didn't resist him, it didn't overpower him. It simply eluded him. Every time he reached out with his power to take hold of the illness, it seemed to slither from his grasp, like some demon serpent from the Underrealm. He tried to pour healing magic over his entire mind, his entire body, as if dousing a fire with a torrent of water. But the serpent wrapped itself around him, withstanding the deluge. When he had exhausted himself, the beast was still there. The flames still raged around him.

"You see?" Q'Daer said. "We're helpless against this plague. The Mettai witch knew what she was doing. She did what all the Eandi armies of the last thousand years couldn't do. She defeated the Fal'Borna. And now more of her kind march with a new dark-eye force. Our people are doomed."

"Not yet," Grinsa said again. But despair lay heavy on his heart. He thought of Cresenne and Bryntelle and felt that he might weep. How could he have failed them this way? He couldn't even reach for his beloved to apologize, to say good-bye, for surely that touch of his magic upon her mind would sicken her, too.

"There's nothing more you can do here, Forelander," Q'Daer said. "Leave me. Let me die in peace."

He wanted to refuse, but he hadn't the will. Not anymore. He merely nodded.

"Die well, Grinsa. We'll see each other in the Deceiver's realm. May he be kind to both of us."

Grinsa briefly met the man's gaze. He said nothing, feeling that to wish Q'Daer a noble death was to surrender, which he still refused to do. He withdrew from the man's mind.

As soon as he was free of the Fal'Borna's thoughts, Grinsa felt his stomach heave. He opened his eyes, twisted himself onto his hands and knees, and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the grass. By the time he had finished being sick, he could hear Besh calling his name. He looked up and saw the two Mettai running toward him.

"You've got it, too," Besh said, stopping in front of him, looking stricken.

Grinsa nodded, not yet trusting himself to speak. An instant later his body was racked by another spasm of illness.

Besh hung his head for a moment and spat a curse. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should have realized. It's the magic. That's how it spreads."

Grinsa shook his head, clamping his mouth shut against another wave of nausea. "I have no power to fight this illness," he said, when he could talk again. His voice sounded raw, and his throat ached. "I don't understand your magic. I can't touch it. Neither can Q'Daer."

"I'm not certain that anyone can," Besh said. "I've told you before: Lici said that her spell couldn't be undone. I hoped she was lying to me, or that she was simply wrong. But… but I haven't much hope."

"You have to try," Grinsa told him, closing his eyes again. He felt so weary suddenly. All he wanted was to sleep.

"I intend to. I'll bleed myself weak if I have to. I'll do everything in my power to defeat this plague."

Sirj nodded once. "So will I."

Grinsa smiled weakly. "Thank you both."

"We'd like to stay with you if we may, Grinsa," Besh said. "We may need to try different cures on you until we find one that works."

"Yes, all right."

Besh turned to Sirj. "We'll need that piece of basket, too."

Grinsa looked at him. "Don't you have it?"

"No. Jasha still has it. We heard you getting sick before I could take it from him."

Grinsa was still on his hands and knees, but now he straightened and looked around, though the effort made his head spin. "Where is Jasha? For that matter where's Torgan?"

Besh and Sirj glanced at one another. "When we heard you we came running," the old man said. "I assumed that they'd follow."

"Damn," Grinsa muttered. He wanted to lie down, but instead he tried to stand, fully intending to search for the merchants.

"Stay there," Sirj told him. "Rest. I'll get them."

"Be careful of Torgan," Grinsa said, forcing himself to his feet and staggering toward the fire.

"He'd best be careful of me," Sirj answered, and walked away.

Torgan watched the two Mettai run off in Grinsa's direction, dabbing gingerly at his nose. It was tender and it still bled. "I think that bastard broke my nose," he said.

Jasha was staring after the Mettai, looking scared and very young. "We should go over there. They'll need our help."

He started to walk toward the others.

"Wait a moment, Jasha."

The young merchant turned, eyeing him with manifest distrust. "Why?"

"Look, I have a pretty good idea of what you think of me right now. I'll even admit that I feel bad for what I've done to the white-hairs."

Jasha smirked. "Sure you do, Torgan."

"I don't care if you believe me. It's the truth. But it's also true that I begged them again and again to let us go. I told them that we'd be killed if they didn't, and they wouldn't listen. They left me with no choice."

"If you say so." Jasha started away again.

"My point is," Torgan said, striding after the younger man, "nothing's changed."

Jasha stopped again. "What do you mean?"

"They're still going to kill us."

"Yes, well you saw to that, didn't you?"

"They were still going to kill us anyway, you fool! Haven't you been paying attention? There's a war coming! We're Eandi; they're white-hairs! If we stay with them we're dead men!" He glanced in the direction the Mettai had gone. "But this is our chance. The two Qirsi are sick; the Mettai are so concerned with saving them that they've left us alone. We can get away right now."

"We're not going anywhere, Torgan. This is your doing, and we're going to help them in any way we can. And if Grinsa and Q'Daer die, you'll be judged for their murders."

Torgan shook his head. "No. You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. I won't die for a white-hair, or for a Mettai, and I certainly won't die for you." He started to walk away, looking up at the sky briefly to gauge how much longer the moons would light the plain. "Good-bye, Jasha. I hope your death is painless."

He heard the young merchant coming after him, but he didn't slow down, at least not until Jasha took hold of his arm. He halted then, looking the young man in the eye.

"Let go of me, Jasha. I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm not letting you go. Not after what you've done."

Torgan laughed, and then punched him in the face. Jasha staggered back but righted himself quickly. He lunged at Torgan again. The older merchant swung at him a second time, but this time Jasha ducked under the blow, wrapping his arms around Torgan's middle and knocking him to the ground.

They wrestled for several moments, breathing hard, grunting with the effort. Jasha was stronger than Torgan had expected, and he was lithe and quick. But Torgan was bigger and more powerful. In short order he had managed to get the younger man in a choke hold.

"That's enough, lad," he said, as Jasha continued to struggle. "Give up now. I'm leaving and there's nothing you can do to stop me."

Jasha flailed at him with his fists.

"Stop it!" Torgan said. He adjusted his grip on the man so that he held him more firmly, his forearm locked around Jasha's throat, his other hand wrapped in the younger man's hair.

"Let me go, Torgan!"

"I won't until you stop fighting me!"

"Never! You've as good as killed those men! You have to pay for that!"

He had no time for this. Any moment now, the Mettai would realize that he and Jasha weren't there, and then they'd come looking for them. If he had chance of getting away, this was it, and he wasn't going to waste it on Jasha.

"I'm gonna let you go," he said. "No more fighting, you hear me? No tricks either."

He began to relax his grip on the lad, and immediately Jasha went into a frenzy, punching blindly with his hands, kicking his feet, trying to twist his body out of Torgan's grasp.

The one-eyed merchant tightened his hold again. "Damn you!"

It wasn't something he would have done a turn or two before. He wasn't certain that he would have done it yesterday. But circumstances had changed. He had changed. War was coming, and he refused to die here on this blasted plain.

"Forgive me, lad," he whispered.

It took little effort really-it amazed him how fragile the human body could be. A sharp tug with the arm at Jasha's throat; a similar motion but in the other direction with the hand that gripped the young man's head. He heard the snap as clear as a bell and abruptly the man's body went limp in his arms. Torgan released him, and watched the young merchant's form roll onto the grass, where it lay still.

One of the lad's hands fell open, revealing something dark against his skin. Torgan knew immediately what it was.

He started to reach for it, but before he could he heard a voice calling out, "Jasha? Torgan?"

The merchant looked up. Sirj was walking in their direction, though Torgan could tell that the man hadn't seen him yet. He would have liked to kill this one, too; a measure of revenge for the broken nose. But he had no answer for the Mettai's magic, and he sensed that this young, dark-haired man would be a more dangerous opponent than Jasha had been.

Instead, he reached down for that dark scrap of cursed basket, tucked it into his pocket, and crept off into the darkness as quietly as possible, edging toward his mount. He'd be away before they could find him. Given a choice between pursuing him and trying to save the Qirsi, the Mettai would choose the latter. It was their curse; they'd do all they could to keep it from taking any more victims.

That curse was also his greatest weapon. And that piece of Mettai basket would get him back to Stelpana alive.

Besh sat cross-legged on the grass, his knife in his hand, but his hands resting in his lap. He didn't know how to begin. He hoped that that small scrap of basket might help him. There was an old spell, one he'd learned as a young man, that would allow him actually to see Lici's magic as light. Perhaps it would also allow him to measure any effect his own spells were having on her curse. It wasn't much, but it was all he had just now.

"Are you awake, Forelander?" he asked, looking at the man. Even in the firelight, the Qirsi's face looked ashen. His hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his mouth was open, slack. "I want to try some spells on you and I want you to tell me whether they're having any effect. Can you do that?"

After a moment, the Forelander nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yes. I'm awake. I can help you. How's Q'Daer?"

Besh looked across the fire at the Fal'Borna. He looked much as Grinsa did, though there was little doubt but that he had lost consciousness some time ago. The old man didn't know for certain, but he guessed it wouldn't be long before the magic began to flow from his body.

"He's just as he was before," Besh said.

Grinsa responded with another weak nod. "Where's Sirj?"

"He's gone to get the merchants." He hesitated. Then, "Can you tell me what it feels like, Grinsa?"

"It feels like I'm on fire," the man whispered. "Everything's burning, but I haven't the strength to put out the flames. I can't do anything."

Besh nodded and lifted his blade to the back of his hand. He cut himself, caught the welling blood on the flat of the blade, and picked up a handful of dirt. Mixing the blood and the earth, he began to speak a spell. "Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought, balm to fire."

As he said this last, he made a motion with his hand and opened his fist, as if spreading seed. The mud in his hand became a fine mist that settled

over the Forelander's chest and face and then appeared to vanish into him.

Besh waited a moment or two and then asked, "Did you feel that?"

"I felt something cool touch my face," Grinsa answered. Besh had to lean closer to the man just to hear him, so weak was his voice.

"Did it soothe your fever?"

"No. It just touched my face. That's all."

Besh sat back and nodded. He hadn't really expected it to be that easy. He peered into the darkness toward where he had left Jasha and Torgan. Where was Sirj?

He took a breath, then cut himself again, mixed the blood with more earth, and started a second spell. If he couldn't cool Grinsa's fever, perhaps he could purge his magic of the curse.

"Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought, healing to magic." Again he threw the mud; again it became a silvery mist. It touched the Forelander and was absorbed into his skin.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Nothing more than last time. Was that the same spell?"

"No, though it might as well have been."

Besh heard footsteps behind him and turned. Sirj was walking back in his direction, his blade drawn. He was alone.

"What happened?" Besh asked. "Where are Jasha and Torgan?"

"Jasha's dead," the younger man told him in a low voice. "I don't know where Torgan's gone. I thought I heard a horse at one point, but I didn't know if you wanted me to follow him, or come back here."

"Blood and bone." He shook his head slowly, staring off into the night. Meeting Sirj's gaze again he said, "You did the right thing coming back. We have to heal these two. That's the most important thing. Did you bring that piece of Lici's basket?"

"I couldn't find it," Sirj said. "It's too dark to look for it in the grass. Maybe when the sun comes up."

"Torgan took it."

They both looked at Grinsa, whose eyes were open and shining with firelight.

Besh knew he was right. Torgan wanted only to get away from the Fal'Borna, to make his way back to Eandi land without being killed as an enemy of the white-hairs. He'd think nothing of using Lici's plague to that end.

"I know a spell," he told Grinsa. "One that reveals magic, lets me see it. I was going to use it on that scrap. Obviously I can't do that now, but I can put the spell on you, that is, if you'll let me."

"Is there any danger?"

"I don't think so. But I wanted to ask you first."

Grinsa nodded, closing his eyes again. "Of course, go ahead."

For a third time, Besh cut himself. "Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought, magic revealed." This time he spread the mist over all of Grinsa's body. As soon as it touched the man it flared brilliantly. Besh and Sirj shielded their eyes.

Upon looking at him again, Besh inhaled sharply and then exhaled through his teeth. He'd known it would look bad, but he hadn't been prepared for this. Grinsa was enveloped in a baleful green light, the color of disease and rot, that flickered softly and seemed to lick at his skin like flame.

"May the gods save us all," Sirj whispered.

"Did it work?" Grinsa asked.

"Yes."

The Forelander opened his eyes again and lifted his hands so that he could look at them. "I don't see anything. What does it look like?"

Besh faltered, but only for a moment. "Like you're on fire, just as you said. ''

Before any of them could say more, they heard a low groan come from the far side of the blaze. Q'Daer stirred, groaned again, shook his head. And then fire burst from both of his hands, streaking into the night sky, and seeming to burn through the clouds overhead.

"It's starting," Grinsa said. "It's not safe for the two of you to be here." Besh shrugged. "We have no choice. This is where you are."

"That was just fire magic," the Forelander told him, his voice rising.

"And it could have been much worse. He also has shaping magic. Even healing can kill if used the wrong way. There's no telling the damage he ccould do. You could both be killed before you have a chance to help either of us."

"I'll control it," Q'Daer said in a strained voice.

All of them looked his way.

"Can you?" Grinsa asked.

"I think so. Language of beasts, fire, a wind. I'll keep it from touching my shaping or healing power. And I'll direct the fire into the sky."

Even as he spoke, flames flew from his hands again, bright and angry. "You haven't much time," Grinsa said, dropping his voice. "He may be a Weaver, but his power won't hold out forever."

Besh nodded. He cut himself yet again, gathered the blood on his blade, and mixed it with the dark fertile earth of the plain.

"Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought…" He faltered, unsure of what to try next.

"Damn," Q'Daer said, the word seemingly ripped from his chest.

A wind rose, building from a mere breeze to a keening gale in just moments. The fire sputtered, and even sitting, Besh had to brace himself with a hand to keep from being blown over.

Q'Daer began to shout, a terrible, inarticulate sound that mingled with the cry of the wind. He thrust a hand into the air and for a third time fire streamed from his fingers.

"Try anything," Sirj said, his voice barely carrying over the wind and Q'Daer's roar.

Besh nodded. "Plague to health," he said, throwing the bloody mixture again. It transformed itself into a glittering cloud of dust and settled over the Forelander. The green flame surrounding the man wavered for just an instant, as when a sudden gust disturbs a candle flame. But nothing more happened. The magic around him looked just as it had. His face remained ashen.

"Anything?" Besh asked, knowing already that he'd failed again. Grinsa simply shook his head.

Besh rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. Sirj stared at the ground, saying nothing. After some time, the wind began to die away and the Fal'Borna fell silent.

"Q'Daer?" Grinsa called to him, sounding alarmed.

"I'm all right," the man said, his voice little more than a breath.

Besh cast a despairing look at Sirj. "If you have ideas I'm open to them. I'm at a loss."

"There may be nothing you can do," Q'Daer whispered. "I know you're trying, Mettai. But this isn't a battle you can win. The witch who did this was too clever."

"There must be a way," Sirj said. "No spell can be perfect; I refuse to believe that Lici was that powerful."

Besh stared at the fire. "She thought she was. She told me I'd never defeat her spell. She even threatened to make a second spell that would do the same to the Mettai."

"You never told me that," Sirj said.

At the same time, Grinsa raised his head. "Say that again."

Besh looked at him. "What?"

"What you just said; say it again."

"She threatened me with a second spell that would sicken the Mettai."

"And what was the other thing she said?" Grinsa asked. "Her exact words."

Besh closed his eyes, trying to recall just what Lici had said. "She told me that her spell couldn't be undone. And then she said that there was no spell I could make that would defeat it."

"That's it!" Grinsa said. "Don't you see?"

Besh shook his head, wondering if the fever had robbed the Forelander of his senses.

"How would that-?"

"Think for a moment, Besh," the man said. "You can't defeat her spell. You can't undo it. But maybe you can create a second spell that has the opposite effect. It doesn't have to destroy hers. It might just be enough to… I don't know, to guard us from her spell. To cover hers, as it were."

Besh considered this for several moments, his brow furrowed.

"Could that work?" Sirj asked.

"I don't know. It would take more than a simple conjuring-eight parts rather than four, I would think. But it might work."

Q'Daer shouted out again. Besh heard the horses whinny and stomp. A moment later he began to hear the howling of wolves and the cries of a wildcat. Owls called to one another. It seemed all the darkness had come alive.

"Language of beasts," Grinsa said. "You have to try it, Besh. Q'Daer will be dead before long. And then it'll be my turn."

Besh nodded. He looked down at the back of his hand, which was scored with fresh, raw scars. Usually the cuts a Mettai made for conjurings didn't hurt, but his hand had begun to throb. What choice did he have, though, but to cut himself yet again? He reached for another handful of dirt.

"Blood to earth," he said. "Life to power, power to thought, earth to mist, mist to magic, magic to plague, plague to shield, shield to Qirsi!" With this last he flung the mud from his hand, watching as it changed to that familiar mist and fell over Grinsa. Once more, the green flame around the Forelander flickered, but that was all. It didn't go out or even dim. From what Besh could see, it didn't change at all.

"Damn!" he said. "Damn! Damn! Damn!"

He had allowed himself to hope that this might work, that perhaps the Forelander had hit upon the one approach that would defeat Lici's evil spell. He should have known better. He looked away, staring off into the darkness. The owls still called to one another; the wolves continued to howl.

What had become of his people? This Mettai curse that couldn't be defeated was sweeping across the land, killing indiscriminately. Mettai soldiers were marching to war with the Eandi, bringing a new Blood War to the Southlands. Everywhere, it seemed, people were in peril, all because of blood magic. Throughout his life, Besh had known how the Eandi and the Qirsi thought of his people. But he had lived his life-a good life, filled with love, marked by loss, to be sure, but happy nevertheless. He had never allowed the prejudice of others to touch him. He had never been ashamed to be Mettai. Until now.

Lici had done all of this. One old woman, bent on vengeance, had brought war and suffering to all the land. She might have intended her curse for the Y'Qatt, but the damage she had done to her own people was far greater than any injury she had dealt the white-hairs. The Mettai had been feared, even hated, but mostly they had been shunned. Now they might very well be destroyed, all because Lici had been so terribly clever with her magic; all because her curse killed every Qirsi it touched, just as it would soon kill these two good men lying here on the plain.

Enraged, aggrieved, frustrated beyond words, his hand aching, his energy spent, Besh felt a tear slide down his cheek.

"I feel something."

He looked at Grinsa again. The Forelander's eyes were open and he was staring up into the night sky.

"What did you say?"

"I feel… I think it might be working."

Besh leaned closer to him, eager now, daring to hope. "What do you feel?" he whispered

"I don't know. Something. It's… it's changing."

"Besh, look!" Sirj said.

He saw it, too. That sheath of light surrounding the Forelander had indeed started to change color. It was subtle still, a slight lightening of the hue at its base, but there could be no mistaking it. Lici's malevolent green was giving way to a soft, pale yellow, something akin to the color of Grinsa's eyes.

"The fever is lessening," Grinsa said. He actually smiled and turned to look at Besh. "I can feel it leaving my body."

Besh turned to Sirj. "You listened? You heard the spell?"

Sirj nodded. "I think so. Earth, mist, magic, plague, shield, Qirsi." Besh repeated the words to himself. "Yes! That's it!" He nodded toward the Fal'Borna. "Go! Heal him!"

Sirj grinned and then practically leaped across the fire to Q'Daer's side. Besh turned his attention back to Grinsa. The flame around him was now more yellow than green.

"How are you feeling?"

"Weary still, but better. Much better." The Forelander sat up, though clearly it took a great effort. "You did it, Besh. Thank you."

Besh nodded, his relief so great that he wasn't certain whether to laugh or weep. For so long he'd regretted ever coming on this journey and had despaired of doing anything to undo all that Lici had wrought. Yes, he'd killed the woman, exacting a measure of vengeance for those who had perished by her plague, and keeping her from loosing another curse upon the land. But he had feared that her death would be his only success, a dark victory that would have counted for little had Grinsa and Q'Daer died. Now, though..

"Actually," he said, "if it really is working, I've done more than you know."

Grinsa frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

Besh said nothing; he glanced down at his hand and licked away the blood. Then, facing the Forelander again, he smiled.