by DAVID B. COE
Torgan shook his head. "It won't fail. I've used it before. If we can spread it over enough of the city, it will do just what it's supposed to."
The captain stared at him for several moments. "What did you say?" he finally asked.
Torgan frowned. "I've used it-"
"Not that part. Something about spreading it over the city."
"Yes. It's a small scrap of basket, and we need to find a way to expose as many of the white-hairs to it as possible."
The man grinned. "We have a way. And I think we can convince the
marshal to use it."
Chapter 18
E'MENUA'S SEPT, CENTRAL PLAIN
They had retreated to the privacy of their z'kal early in the evening. Grinsa had nothing more to say to E'Menua or Q'Daer, or even to Besh and Sirj. Probably he should have gone to see the Mettai one last time, if for no other reason than to assure them that he would do all he could to win their freedom when he returned from battle. But such assurances would have been hollow, and both men deserved better from him.
More to the point, he had grown weary of putting the needs of others ahead of his own concerns. This one night, he chose to be selfish.
Once more, he and Cresenne were being forced apart. Once more, they had no guarantee that they both would survive to be reunited. They sought refuge in each other's arms from their fears and their despair. Grinsa wanted to promise her that he would return, that once this war was over they would find a new home where they'd be safe, where Bryntelle could grow up in peace. But that promise would have been empty as well.
At one point during the evening, still breathless and flushed with spent passion, Cresenne looked up at him, her pale eyes shining in the dim light of their fire, and said, "Next time, I get to choose where we live."
Grinsa had laughed and kissed her. But a moment later she was crying, clinging to him. He searched for something to say that might ease her mind, but the words wouldn't come. In the end he merely held her until her sobbing ceased and she fell asleep.
Some time later they were awakened by the sound of someone tapping on the outside of their shelter. Grinsa opened his eyes and sat up quickly, as did Cresenne. It was still dark, and the embers of their fire glowed dully.
"Forelander," a voice called softly from outside.
Grinsa and Cresenne shared a look. Then Grinsa stood and pulled on his britches.
"Forelander?" said the voice again.
"That sounds like the n'qlae," Cresenne whispered.
Grinsa pushed aside the flap of rilda skin that covered the z'kal's entrance. Cresenne was right. D'Pera stood outside the shelter, her white hair gleaming in the light of the moons. Even in the dim light, he could see the apprehension etched in her face.
"What's happened, N'Qlae?"
"It's E'Menua. He was speaking with another a'laq, Weaver to Weaver. I'm not certain what happened, but he's… something's not right. He told me to get you."
That, of all things, caught him by surprise.
"He wants me to come?" Grinsa asked.
D'Pera nodded.
"Very well," Grinsa told her. "Give me just a moment."
He ducked back into the shelter and began to dress.
"What is it?" Cresenne asked, glancing at Bryntelle, who hadn't awakened.
"I'm not sure. Something's happened to E'Menua. He wants to speak with me."
Cresenne frowned. "I don't like the sound of that."
"Neither do I. But I don't think that D'Pera would have a hand in actually harming me. I'll be all right."
She nodded, though she appeared to shiver as well. Grinsa forced a smile, then left the shelter and followed D'Pera back to the a'laq's z'kal.
The n'qlae didn't say anything, but she walked quickly, a rilda skin pulled tight around her shoulders to ward off the chill night air. When they reached the shelter she shared with E'Menua, she pulled aside the flap covering the entrance and motioned Grinsa inside.
A fire burned brightly in the middle of the z'kal. The a'laq sat on the far side of it, wrapped in a blanket, his face damp with sweat, as if he had a fever. He even seemed to be trembling slightly.
"A'Laq?" Grinsa said, stepping closer to him.
"Sit down, Forelander," E'Menua said. His voice sounded strong. Grinsa lowered himself to the ground.
"I have been speaking with other a'laqs," E'Menua began. "We'll be joining some on the plain in the next few days. Others have already led their warriors toward the Horn to meet the dark-eye army." He picked up a skin that had been lying beside him and took a long drink. "One of the a'laqs I thought would be heading north hadn't met up with the others yet. So I reached for him. His name is J'Sor; his sept is west of here." He paused again, shaking his head.
"When I entered his dreams, it was… it was like stepping into a fire. I could see him-he was surrounded by flame. He seemed to be in agony. I'm not sure if he could hear me or see me."
"The plague," Grinsa said quietly.
E'Menua nodded. "It took me several moments to understand what was happening, but eventually I assumed as much."
"I've seen it," Grinsa told him. "I stepped into Q'Daer's dreams when he was sick. I remember it being just as you described."
"I tried to heal him," the a'laq said. "I tried everything I could think of to defeat his fever, but it was as if the flames eluded me. I could no more put them out than I could teach him to fly."
Grinsa nodded, smiling slightly.
The a'laq narrowed his eyes. "You know what I'm going to say, don't you?"
"Isn't that why you called me here?"
E'Menua lowered his gaze so that he was staring into the fire. "I should be dead, or at least dying."
"Yes, you should. So should this man, J'Sor. But both of you are going to live long enough to fight the Eandi, aren't you?"
"After a few moments it was as if the flames around him started to recede on their own. Nothing I did worked. I know that. But I healed him just the same."
"You didn't. Besh did. The same spell that kept you from getting ill purged the plague from J'Sor's body."
E'Menua looked up again, meeting his gaze. "I've already said that they're free to leave their z'kal," he said, with just a hint of his usual bluster. "They're guests in my sept. That's what I said today, before you questioned them about their magic."
"You need to do more than that," Grinsa said. "You know now that they've been telling the truth, and that I have as well."
The a'laq shook his head, growing more agitated by the moment. "Nothing has changed. These two men may have acted in good faith, but their people are marching against us. I can't have warriors riding to war questioning whether the men they're fighting are truly their enemies."
"You also can't have these men put to death. You put those lies in Besh's mouth, and unless you tell the truth, no one else will believe that they're innocent."
"I'm not going to execute them, Forelander. Whatever you may think of me, I'm not that cruel."
"And what if you don't survive the war, A'Laq? I believe that you won't put them to death now, knowing what you do. But unless you tell the truth about them, your successor might."
E'Menua stared back at him, frowning as if he hadn't anticipated this line of argument.
"Why did you call for me, A'Laq?" Grinsa asked. "I know that Besh and Sirj were telling the truth about their spell. So what happened to you tonight doesn't surprise me. You knew it wouldn't. And yet you summoned me here in the middle of the night. Why?"
"I'm not sure," E'Menua admitted. "I was… After seeing J'Sor that way, and then seeing the fires die out… I didn't know what to do."
"Have you told your wife about what happened?" Grinsa asked.
"Not yet."
"You should. And you should tell Q'Daer, too. You've named him as your successor-others heard you do so. He should know the truth."
E'Menua continued to stare at him, and for a moment Grinsa thought he would refuse. But then the a'laq nodded.
; "Yes, all right. I'll tell them both. But for now I don't want the others to know. You understand?"
"Not entirely," Grinsa said. "But I'll honor your wishes."
The a'laq nodded. Grinsa stood, intending to leave. Before he could, E'Menua spoke his name.
"Did you have them put the spell on me?" the a'laq asked. "The Mettai, I mean. Is that why I'm immune now?"
"No," Grinsa said, shaking his head. "They didn't have to do anything. As I told you, the spell they created to fight the plague was as contagious as Lici's curse itself. Q'Daer passed it to you when he spoke to you in your dreams, before we returned to the sept."
He nearly added that he could have passed it to the a'laq as well, during their first confrontation after Grinsa's return, when they battled for control of E'Menua's magic. That contact would have been enough to make the a'laq immune to the Mettai plague. But he didn't believe that any good would come from mentioning that incident.
"Of course," the a'laq said, in a breathless whisper. "I should have remembered."
"Good night, A'Laq."
"Yes," E'Menua said. "I… thank you for… for coming so late." Grinsa nodded and left the z'kal. D'Pera stood alone in the darkness, gazing up at the moons. She turned at the sound of his footfalls. "Is he all right?" she asked.
"Yes, he is. He has things to tell you."
The n'qlae nodded, looking past him toward the shelter. "A Fal'Borna warrior does everything he can to protect his a'laq," she said, her voice low. "It's our way."
"I'll do what I can to keep him safe, N'Qlae."
She shifted her gaze, meeting his. "You and he-"
"I've sworn to fight for the Fal'Borna. I understand what that means."
He smiled faintly. "It's late, and I'd like to sleep a few more hours before we ride."
"Yes, all right," she said. "Good night, Forelander."
Grinsa stepped past her and walked back to his shelter, knowing that he had little hope of falling back asleep. He entered the z'kal as quietly as he could, undressed, and slipped under the blankets beside Cresenne.
"What was that all about?" she asked in a whisper, sounding very much awake.
He briefly related his conversation with E'Menua.
"So he knows that Besh and Sirj were telling the truth," she said when he was done, "but he refuses to admit as much to his people."
"That's basically right."
"And he felt compelled to tell you this in the middle of the night just before you're to follow him into battle."
"I think he was truly frightened by what happened. And I think he didn't know what to make of the fact that he was still alive. Even when he was using his magic to keep Besh from telling the truth, I don't think he believed that the Mettai spell could really work."
"I'm not sure that justifies any of what he's done," she said.
Grinsa was inclined to agree with her, but to his surprise and relief, he already felt himself getting sleepy. Sooner than he had expected, he fell back asleep.
Dawn came far too early, and before long Grinsa was dressed and outside the z'kal with Cresenne, who held a sleepy and fussy Bryntelle in her arms. He had expected that he would need to get his horse from the sept's paddock, but when he stepped out into the morning air, the bay was already saddled and waiting for him. Apparently preparing one's mount for war was one more thing the Fal'Borna didn't expect a Weaver to do for himself.
The other Weavers and their warriors were gathering at the eastern edge of the sept. Grinsa started in that direction, but after only a stride or two, he realized that Cresenne wasn't with him. He turned and saw that she still stood beside the shelter. Her eyes were dry, but she looked pale and sad in the grey light.
"You're not coming with me," he said.
Cresenne shook her head. "I don't want to say good-bye to you with everyone else there. And I don't want to be anywhere near E'Menua right now. I'm sorry."
He walked back to where she stood and kissed her. "I understand," he said. He kissed Bryntelle on the forehead, but she merely fussed at him. "She doesn't know what she's doing," Cresenne said.
"I know."
They stood for a moment, their eyes locked.
Grinsa brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. "I don't know what to say."
"Just come back."
"This is the last time-"
She held a finger to his lips, stopping him. "Don't," she said. She kissed him softly. "The one thing I've learned this past year is that we can't know what's going to happen. Just come back to me."
"All right. I love you."
That brought a smile to her lips. "We love you, too."
He turned and left them there, his chest aching.
When he reached the warriors and Weavers, he saw that he was the last to arrive. E'Menua was already sitting his horse, marking Grinsa's approach. L'Norr and Q'Daer were on either side of him, stony-faced. Most of the other Fal'Borna riders turned to look at Grinsa, some of them looking resentful, others merely curious. Grinsa expected the a'laq to comment on his late arrival, but E'Menua merely nodded once and, without a word, turned his mount and led his warriors away from the sept.
Several women and children had come to see the army off, but they didn't cry or cheer, or do any of the other things Eandi families in the Forelands might have done as their husbands or fathers marched to war. They stared after the men and then, one family at a time, turned and walked back into the sept, seemingly intent on their normal chores.
As the sun appeared on the eastern horizon, huge and golden, the men struck out northward. Grinsa would have liked to ride alone, at the back of the company, but before long Q'Daer dropped back to join him.
"You should be riding with the a'laq," said the young Weaver in a low voice.
Grinsa had expected this. He just nodded, and followed wordlessly as Q'Daer led him forward.
Theirs was a small company, especially compared to the armies Grinsa had seen during the war against the renegade Weaver in the Forelands. There were perhaps a hundred fifty Fal'Borna riders. No more. Some looked barely old enough to wield magic; others appeared too old for the rigors of battle. But all of them carried spears as well as the blades on their belts, and he sensed that all of them wielded at least one magic that would serve them well in this war: shaping, language of beasts, mists and winds, fire, and even healing.
Upon reaching the front of the company, Grinsa took a position beside Q'Daer, as far from the a'laq as he could manage.
Again, E'Menua said nothing to him, and that was all right with Grinsa. He didn't feel like speaking to anyone.
The Fal'Borna were skilled horsemen, and their mounts were as impressive as any Grinsa had seen. They rode at a good pace, and when they stopped to rest at midday, he estimated that the company had covered nearly three leagues.
While some of the men ate a small meal or drank from waterskins, Grinsa stood off on his own, scanning the eastern horizon. He wasn't sure what he expected to see. He hadn't heard anything to indicate that the Eandi army had made its way this far into Fal'Borna land, but he felt tense. The last time he'd ridden to war, he had nearly died. His disfigured shoulder throbbed with the memory.
"What are you looking for?" asked a familiar voice.
He glanced to the side. Q'Daer and L'Norr had joined him. He shrugged, facing forward again.
"I don't know," he said. "Does the a'laq have any idea how far the Eandi are from here?"
"Leagues, Forelander," Q'Daer said. "Relax. Eat something. Fal'Borna riders have been sent forward to meet the dark-eyes. We might not get to fight at all."
Grinsa nodded, remembering that E'Menua had mentioned this the night before. He looked at Q'Daer again. "You sound disappointed."
"It couldn't be helped. We got sick and so we were late returning to the sept with the Mettai. But I would have liked to be part of that first assault." Grinsa couldn't help thinking that Q'Daer sounded terribly young, like someone who had never actually seen war. But he kept this to himself
.
"So we'll be meeting others?" he asked after a few moments, more to keep the conversation moving than anything else.
"Yes," Q'Daer told him. "There are at least seven a'laqs coming to join us. We'll meet them at F'Qira's Rill, to the west of S'Vralna. Even if the dark-eyes defeat the first army, they won't get past us."
Grinsa nodded but said nothing, drawing a frown from the young Weaver.
"You don't approve of that plan?" Q'Daer asked.
"It's not my place to approve or disapprove. I just hope that it won't come to that. I'd rather not fight at all."
"The dark-eyes started this war!" the man said, his voice rising. "You can't think that we should do nothing, that we should simply lay down our blades and give them the plain!"
Grinsa sighed, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. "I never said that, Q'Daer. All I said was that I don't want to fight. I fought in a war before leaving the Forelands. A series of wars, really. Thousands died. I have no interest in being part of more carnage. And if you had any idea of what war is really like, you'd feel the same way."
He knew that he should have kept that last part to himself, but at that moment he couldn't help himself. Before the young Weaver could answer, Grinsa turned and led his horse away. He'd been apart from Cresenne and Bryntelle for less than half a day, and already he missed them both. For a moment he had to resist an urge to leap onto his horse, ride back to the sept, and carry them both away, leaving behind the Fal'Borna and their war.
Instead, when E'Menua called for the riders to resume their journey a few moments later, he swung himself onto his mount and took his place with the other Weavers, assiduously avoiding Q'Daer's gaze.
For the rest of that day and all through the next, E'Menua's warriors maintained their swift pace across the plain. They saw no sign of the Eandi, or, for that matter, of any other Fal'Borna riders. The skies remained clear, but a cold wind blew out of the north, and clouds darkened the northern horizon.
Grinsa kept to himself. Warriors brought him food and drink, as they did for the other Weavers, but none of them said more to him than courtesy required. Q'Daer and L'Norr ignored him, and though Grinsa noticed E'Menua watching him on more than one occasion, the a'laq left him alone, too. For his part, Grinsa made no effort to speak with any of them.