by DAVID B. COE
He shivered, blaming it on the wind. Then he returned to the copse, packed up his sleeping roll, and ate a few more bites of dried meat. When the sun had set, and Torgan thought it was dark enough, he led Trey out of the trees and resumed his ride toward the Silverwater.
Over the course of the next two nights, Torgan encountered no more septs, and while he would have been willing to use another piece of the cursed basket against another settlement, a part of him was relieved that he didn't have to. He'd come too close to being found by the Fal'Borna sentries that night. He didn't want to take such risks again.
On the third night after his foray into the settlement, he woke in yet another copse, ate a small meal, and began to ride just as he had the previous nights. The sky had clouded over and a light snow had begun to fall. There was little wind, and the air was cold, but not frigid. Torgan's spirits were high-he liked snow, and though he knew he was still in danger, he knew as well that he'd covered much ground since leaving the company. He sensed that he was drawing nigh to the Silverwater.
With the sky clouded over, he couldn't navigate as he had in recent nights, nor could he see as well. He tried to keep Trey on a straight path toward what he thought was east. Eventually the moons would rise, and even through the clouds he'd be able to see their glow. Then he'd be certain. "The moons won't be up tonight."
He reined Trey to a halt and looked around wildly, his pulse abruptly racing.
"Who said that?" he called.
He saw no one, and when he received no answer he started to wonder if he'd been imagining things. Maybe he'd spoken the words himself without realizing it. It did occur to him now that it must have been late in the waning.
This might well be Pitch Night, the last of the turn, when neither moon would rise.
If so, the morning would bring a new turn-the Celebration Moon, the last turn of the moons of this year.
Torgan looked around for another moment before clicking his tongue at Trey. The beast started forward once more.
"If tomorrow begins the Celebration Moon, then what does that make tonight?"
Torgan stopped again, his hands shaking.
"Who's there?" he shouted. He tried to sound angry, but even he could hear the fright in his voice.
"A friend," came the reply. And then laughter. Not of one voice, but of dozens.
Had the Fal'Borna found him? Was he surrounded by warriors here in the dark of the plain?
He considered spurring his horse to a gallop in an attempt to get away. He couldn't ride as well as the Fal'Borna, but Trey was a strong animal and had been trained by the clanspeople. It might work.
"You can't escape us."
Three times the voice had done that, but only now did Torgan take note. They were reading his thoughts. Yes, it had to be the Qirsi. Who else could do that?
"Let me show you."
Suddenly the grass around him seemed to be gleaming, as if some magical mist were rising from the ground. At first the light was soft, silvery, diffuse, like Panya's glow seeping through clouds on a hazy Planting night. But it hardened quickly, growing brighter, taking form.
Wraiths. A horde of them.
And at the fore, surrounded by men and women who clearly were Qirsi, their long white hair radiant, nearly blinding, stood Jasha Ziffel. His eyes glittered like white gems and his head was tilted to the side, as if he were a child asking a question of his father.
The wraith gestured at his neck. "You did this," he said.
Torgan shook his head. "I'm dreaming. You're not real."
"You've forgotten what day it is, Torgan. You've forgotten your moon lore."
The realization stole his breath. If the turn of the Celebration Moon began with the morrow, then this was Pitch Night of the Memory Moon. Some in the north and beyond the Border Mountains in the Forelands called it Bian's Moon. The dead walked the land this night. The wronged dead. They haunted those who had caused their deaths or tormented them during their lives.
He should have expected to see Jasha, and Grinsa and Q'Daer as well. But who were these others?
"What are these people doing here with you?" Torgan narrowed his eyes. "Are they from S'Plaed's sept? Or C'Bijor's Neck? I didn't do anything wrong to them! At that point I didn't know that the baskets were cursed!"
"They're not from S'Plaed's sept or the Neck," Jasha's wraith said. "They're from Q'Rohn's sept."
Torgan frowned. "I've never-"
"Three nights ago," one of the Qirsi said, his voice like an icy wind. "You poisoned our grain, spread the plague through our village. Twenty-seven died. We're fortunate it wasn't more."
Torgan said nothing. He sat his mount, staring at the dead-at his dead-until at last his gaze came to rest once more on Jasha.
"Where are the two white-hairs? The Forelander and the Fal'Borna?" Jasha shrugged. "They're not dead."
"What? That's impossible! I gave them the plague. Q'Daer was dying. Grinsa was starting to get sick. I saw them!"
"They're not dead," the wraith said again, with maddening equanimity.
It made no sense. They had to be dead. But clearly they weren't here.
"So what is it you want of me?" Torgan asked. He glanced at the Fal'Borna wraiths again, but quickly turned back to Jasha. For some reason he couldn't bring himself to look into the eyes of those other dead. For better or worse, he had known Jasha. For a brief time they might even have been friends, although he wasn't sure that the young merchant-
"We were never friends," Jasha said coldly. "I don't think you've ever had a friend."
"Stop doing that," Torgan said.
"Doing what?"
"You know full well what I mean! Stop reading my thoughts!" A terrible grin spread across the wraith's face. "No," he said.
"I don't care what you do," Torgan said. He flicked the reins and Trey started forward again. The creature seemed perfectly calm. If the wraiths bothered him, he showed no sign of it.
"He can't see us. Only you can."
Torgan ignored him, staring straight ahead. He knew better than to think that the ghosts would leave him alone. But if they were going to haunt him throughout the night, he could at least cover some ground at the same time.
"What do you know about wraiths, Torgan?" Jasha asked him. "What do you know about this night?"
Torgan refused to answer. The young merchant seemed to be floating along with him, as did the wraiths of the Fal'Borna. They didn't appear to be moving, yet they kept pace with Trey. In fact, they appeared to be coming closer, pressing in on him.
"Do you know that if you touch us, you'll cross over into the god's realm and be lost forever to the world of the living? Do you know that you don't even have to mean to touch us? It can just be an accident. A chance encounter."
The other wraiths laughed.
"Leave me alone," Torgan said.
Their laughter grew, and immediately Torgan wished that he'd kept silent.
"Leave you alone?" Jasha repeated, sounding delighted, as if Torgan had just shared a joke. "That's the last thing we want to do! There's so much each of us wants to say to you. One night is hardly enough."
Torgan clamped his mouth shut, determined not to say anything more to any of them.
Still the glowing figures closed in on him, eyeing him hungrily. Torgan tried to ignore them, but he couldn't help but wonder if what Jasha told him was true. Would he die if he touched one of them? Could the wraiths make him touch them? Could they kill him, in effect, by giving him no choice but to touch them?
"Of course it's true," Jasha said. "The dead cannot lie, Torgan. Bian forbids it. Isn't that ironic? The god known as the Deceiver demands the truth of all who dwell in his realm." The young merchant leered at him. "Do you know what else? Since we can read your thoughts, you can't lie to us, either. All those times you lied to me when I was alive; the way you deceived all of us at the end, when you sickened Grinsa and Q'Daer. And now that I'm dead I can finally have an honest conversation with you." He shook his head. "Don't
you find that funny?"
Suddenly Jasha swung his fist at Torgan's face, making the merchant jerk away.
"I asked you if you thought that was funny," the wraith demanded, his voice so hard and cold that it could have been the god himself asking the question.
"No!" Torgan said. "I don't find any of this funny."
Jasha shook his head, grinning again. "No, I don't suppose you do. Aren't you going to beg for our forgiveness, Torgan?"
"Would it do me any good?"
Jasha laughed, a terrible sound, like boulders grinding against one another. "Now that's the Torgan Plye I know. Always looking to make that profit." He laughed again, then shook his glowing head. "No, Torgan. It wouldn't do you any good at all."
The moment he said this, two of the Fal'Borna wraiths broke away from the others, soaring up into the night sky, wheeling like hawks, and diving straight at Torgan's face.
Torgan ducked out of the way and pulled Trey's reins, making the horse veer off to the side.
Immediately two more wraiths did the same, coming directly at him again, so that once more he had to turn sharply. He'd barely recovered from that assault when a third pair swooped down at him. Soon they were diving toward him from every angle, so that he had to turn his horse repeatedly. It was as if he had stumbled upon a swarm of giant hornets. He did everything in his power to keep them from touching him, knowing that one mistake would mean his death. Torgan wasn't an accomplished rider, and he could feel the beast straining against his increasingly desperate attempts to turn. He also sensed that the horse was tiring. He tried reining the animal to a halt, but instantly the Fal'Borna wraiths altered their attacks and dove at him from the side. He had no choice but to spur his mount into motion again.
On and on it went. The wraiths, it seemed, were immune to fatigue, or perhaps by taking turns they kept themselves from growing weary. Torgan, though, could barely keep himself in the saddle. The muscles in his back, legs, and arms were on fire. His hands shook with exhaustion and terror. His breath came in great gasps and his clothes were soaked with sweat so that the cold night wind knifed through, chilling the merchant to the bone.
"You look tired, Torgan," Jasha called to him.
"Make them stop. Please."
"I could, you know," Jasha said.
"Then do. For pity's sake."
Abruptly, Jasha was beside him, matching Torgan's every movement as if the wraith were also on a horse. "Did you know that in the Deceiver's realm Eandi and white-hairs live together?"
Torgan dodged another assault, and then another.
"I hadn't known," Jasha went on, as if they were chatting over ales in some city inn. "I hadn't thought about it much, really. But if you'd asked me I would have told you that there must have been two underrealms; one for our kind and one for theirs." He shrugged. "I was wrong."
Two pairs of Fal'Borna ghosts dove at him simultaneously, one pair from the left, the other from the right. Torgan was forced to pivot first one way and then the other. Trey reared, nearly unseating him. And no sooner had Torgan righted himself than he saw another pair of ghosts streaking toward him. Again he turned the horse, and again it tried to throw him off.
"I can't help it!" he told the animal. "They're trying to kill me."
"No, we're not," Jasha said, beside him once more. "If we wanted to kill you, you'd be dead by now."
"Then what? What is it you're trying to do to me?"
Still more of the wraiths flew toward him. Torgan fought his mount, trying to make the animal respond. But apparently Trey had reached his limit. Torgan pulled hard on the reins, frantic now. Wraiths were coming at him from both sides. If he didn't move they'd surely hit him. He yanked back with all his might. Trey reared once, twice, kicking out with his front hooves.
And Torgan tumbled back, slamming into the cold ground, the force of his landing knocking the breath from his lungs. He heard Trey bolt away, but before he could raise his head to see where the beast had gone, he found himself surrounded by the wraiths once more. They pressed in around him, staring down hungrily, their pale eyes like flames, their hair gleaming as if lit by the white moon. They began to reach for him. One might have thought that they could pluck the life from his body, so eager did they seem to touch him. Torgan huddled in a ball on the ground, trembling, cold, terrified, certain that he was about to die.
"Enough."
Jasha didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The wraiths sighed as one. Torgan could tell without looking that they had backed away from him. He opened his eyes slowly and unfolded his body. He felt ungainly, thick, dull. The wraiths still stared at him, their hair stirring slightly, though for the moment the wind on the plain had died away. From what he saw in the ghosts' eyes he could tell that they had broken off reluctantly, that they had yet to satisfy their desire for vengeance.
"Thank you, Jasha," Torgan whispered. He sat up, and his head began to spin. He tried to look past the wraiths to see where Trey had gone, but they blocked his view.
"Don't thank me," the young merchant said.
Torgan climbed to his feet, staggered a bit, but managed to remain upright. He thought he could see Trey a short distance off to the… the south? Torgan turned a slow circle, peering over the heads of the ghosts. He tried to spot something-anything-that might allow him to orient himself. He looked up at the sky, but it was still covered over with clouds. What time was it? How soon until morning?
"You seem confused, Torgan."
He looked at Jasha. Had this been their purpose all along? What had he said before? If we wanted to kill you, you'd be dead by now.
"Where will you go?" Jasha asked him. "Which way to Eandi land?" Torgan shook his head. "It doesn't matter. It's just a few hours. As soon as the sun starts to rise I'll know which way to go."
"And where will you sleep? You don't travel by day. We know you don't. That's very clever, by the way: resting when it's light and making your way eastward after nightfall? Very clever indeed. But where will you pass the night?"
Torgan looked around again, but could see little. The wraiths were too bright and the land beyond them too dark. He strained his ears, hoping to hear flowing water. There had to be woodlands nearby.
"What if there aren't?"
Torgan looked at Jasha again, but the wraith's face revealed nothing. He wasn't smiling anymore. He didn't appear to be gloating or mocking him. If anything, he looked slightly sad.
"You don't want the Fal'Borna to find me, Jasha." Torgan eyed the others. "None of you do. I still have more of that cursed basket."
An angry murmur rose from the wraiths.
He forced himself to look the ghosts in the eye, one by one. "If your purpose tonight was to ensure that I'll be captured by your fellow white-hairs, then you've made a terrible mistake. I would have gladly ridden the rest of the way to the Silverwater without hurting anyone else. But if I can only survive by bringing the plague to more septs, then that's what I'll do."
"Do you have the basket with you, Torgan?" Jasha asked.
"Of course I do. How do you think-?"
Jasha shook his head. "I mean with you. In your hand or in your pocket?"
"No, of course not. It's…" He trailed off, looking past the wraiths once more. Had he really seen Trey, or had he imagined it? What if the horse hadn't stopped a short distance off? What if it was still running even now?
"You've been very clever," Jasha said again. "But what will you do without that basket? What will you do without your horse, without your food, without a sleeping roll or a blanket? What will you do if you don't know where you are or which way you're supposed to go?"
Torgan was shaking again. And this time he couldn't blame it on exhaustion or the cold. "I'll survive," he said, his voice quavering. "That's what I've always done." He nodded. "One way or another, I'll make it to the wash."
Jasha nodded once. "We'll see."
An instant later, the wraiths were gone. Torgan blinked several times, but he couldn't see anything. He fe
lt as if he'd been staring into a fire too long. He whistled. Nothing. He called out Trey's name, but the only sound he heard was the distant howl of a wild dog. He opened his mouth to shout for the horse again, but then stopped himself. What if there was a sept nearby? He took a step, stopped, looked around again. Which way was east? "Damn you, Jasha," he whispered.
Chapter 7
UPPER CENTRAL PLAIN, WEST OF TURTLE LAKE,
CELEBRATION MOON WAXING
It had been two days since the armies of Stelpana forded the wash, and they had yet to see even a single Fal'Borna rider, much less a white-hair army. Enly, who rode at the head of the force with Tirnya, Stri, Cries, and the two marshals, had expected that he would be in no rush for their first battle. He still doubted the wisdom of starting this war, and he feared their first encounter with Qirsi magic.
But to his surprise, he felt himself growing impatient with every hour that passed. This wasn't battle lust, or some sudden change of heart. On the contrary, he realized that one way or another he just wanted to get that first fight over with. If war was coming, then let it come; Enly had waited long enough.
So on the third morning, when two of the scouts regularly sent out by Jenoe returned so soon after they'd been dispatched, Enly knew a moment of relief, even as he felt his pulse quicken. The marshal had assigned scouts to ride ahead of the army, behind it, and on either flank. These two men had been sent forward.
Upon seeing them riding back toward the army, Jenoe called a halt. Tirnya, who as usual rode between Stri and her father, glanced at Enly, her cheeks flushed. He couldn't tell if she looked eager or frightened.
"Report," Jenoe said, as the two men stopped in front of him.
They were both young soldiers from Qalsyn-Enly assumed that they came from Stri's company, or maybe Tirnya's. One of them had a wispy beard and mustache that were blond, like his hair, and barely visible. The other one appeared too young to manage even that much.
"There's a village up ahead, Marshal," the bearded one said. "Very small. But a village jes' th' same."