by DAVID B. COE
The captain hesitated, but only briefly. He pulled his sword free and strode toward Antal. The merchant shrank away from him, but he was held fast by the guards standing on either side. There was nothing he could do to save himself.
"No!" Lark said, released for the moment from the a'laq's magic. She was crying again. "You bastard!" she said, flinging the word at P'Crath. "The merchant's name is Brint HedFarren. He's from Tordjanne. He said that he bought the baskets in a village near the Silverwater. He didn't tell us more than that. I swear it."
It was a betrayal, she knew. The Fal'Borna would be after Young Red now, but what could she do? Antal had nothing to do with any of this, and it seemed likely that he'd be dead before the night was out. She couldn't allow him to be tortured, as well.
"Us?" the a'laq asked.
"What?"
"You said, 'He didn't tell us more than that.' He sold baskets to others?" She nodded, struck dumb by the realization of what this meant.
"Their names. Quickly."
The anger she had felt moments before was gone, replaced by guilt and panic. What had she done? What had all of them done? "Yes, of course. There was Stam Corfej, and me, and… and Barthal Milensen. There were two others, but I don't know their names. I'd never seen them before and I haven't seen them since. They were headed east, into Eandi lands. I don't think you have anything to fear from them. But Barthal and Stam were going south, toward the Ofirean."
"What other cities have you visited? Where else have you sold these baskets of yours?"
"This is the first place."
The a'laq frowned.
"It's true, A'Laq. I've had them for some time now, but I didn't sell them anywhere else. I didn't even display them before today. I don't remember all the septs I visited between the bend and here, but there were several, and I never showed anyone the baskets."
P'Crath narrowed his eyes. "So you did this to get at me? At my city?"
"No!" Lark said, taken aback by the question. "I told you before, I had no idea that the baskets would hurt anyone!"
"Then why would you wait to sell them?"
"I didn't know how…" She shook her head, certain that he wouldn't understand or believe her explanation, wondering if it really mattered anymore. "I wasn't sure how much to ask for them, and I was afraid that they'd make the rest of what I sold look common by comparison."
"So you just carried these baskets with you, ignoring the gold you'd spent to get them, thinking nothing of the gold you'd make when you sold them. Is that what you want me to believe?"
"I can't make you believe me, A'Laq. But that's the truth. You can use your mind-bending magic on me and I'll tell you the same thing."
He stared at her a moment longer, perhaps considering whether or not he should do just that. But then he turned to Antal. "How did you end up with this woman, dark-eye?"
In a flat voice, the merchant briefly related how he and Lark had met that day.
"What did she tell you about the baskets?"
"Basically the same thing she told you. She'd been carrying them for a while, but had yet to sell them. She said that she was reluctant to display them here. Seems she had an encounter with one of your gate guards that scared her off of them. I encouraged her to put them out. I thought she'd get a good price for them, and she did."
Lark closed her eyes and shook her head. What little doubt might have remained as to Antal's fate was gone now.
"What about that?" the a'laq asked, turning back to Lark. "How did you convince the guard to let you through?"
"I told him that I'd had the baskets when I visited other septs, and that nothing had happened to make me believe they posed a threat to your people."
"You lied to him, didn't you?"
A denial sprang to her lips and she nearly gave it voice. But she could see from the look on P'Crath's face that he understood as well as she what she had done.
"Yes," Lark said. "I lied to him."
Antal whirled on her. "What?"
"I tried to tell you before," she said. "I did take the baskets to other septs-that's what I told the guard," she added, glancing at the a'laq. "But I didn't take them out while I was in any of those places. I didn't display them. The guard assumed, because of what I said, that the baskets were safe, but they weren't."
"And you knew that," P'Crath said.
"No," she said. "I didn't know that they were dangerous. But I didn't know that they were safe, either."
"Surely that's not her fault," Antal said, looking first at Lark and then at P'Crath.
"Not entirely, no," said the a'laq. "The guard will be punished for his carelessness. But there is a price to be paid for her crime, as well."
"And mine?" Antal asked. He looked pale, but he didn't shy from the a'laq's gaze.
"Yes," P'Crath said. "And yours." He glanced at the captain. "What have you done with their wares?"
"Their carts have been burned, A'Laq. Their wares are gone. That seemed the prudent course to take."
P'Crath nodded. "Very well." He regarded Antal, looking thoughtful. Then he nodded again. "Yes, very well. You can go, dark-eye. The loss of your wares and cart seems punishment enough. Return the man's horse to him," he said to the captain. "When the gates are opened again, he's free to leave the city. For now… take him back to the marketplace."
"Yes, A'Laq." The captain sheathed his sword again. "What of the woman?"
"Leave that to me."
The soldier's eyes flicked toward Lark, but then he bowed. "Yes, A'Laq." He turned to leave the chamber. "Bring him," he said to the guards.
Antal's guards started to lead him away.
"Wait!" the merchant called, twisting his neck to look back at Lark and the a'laq. "What are you going to do to her?"
The a'laq didn't answer.
"Just go, Antal," Lark said. "Get away while you can."
"She didn't mean any harm! You know she didn't." He fought to break free, but the guards held him firmly and dragged him out of the building. "You bastards! She's done nothing wrong! You have no right to do this to her!"
Even after the guards had taken him out of the building, Lark could still hear him shouting. For several moments the a'laq said nothing, and Lark realized that she could also hear the wretched cries of the sick and grieving, the terrified, unearthly screams of horses, the harsh rending of wood. The pestilence had not relinquished its grip on the city; if anything, matters had worsened in the time Lark had been in P'Crath's home.
"My people are dying," the a'laq finally said, his eyes fixed on a small glazed window that overlooked his gardens. The sky above his home still glowed with that same malevolent orange. "For all I know my daughter is dead already." He faced Lark again. "You understand: Someone must pay for what's been done to us this night."
"Are you asking me to forgive you for killing me?"
His expression hardened. "No. I don't give a damn if you forgive me or not. When the time comes I'll answer to Bian, and to him alone."
"There's no need to be angry with me, A'Laq," she said, surprising herself with her calm. "I'm just trying to understand what it is you were trying to say."
He looked away again. "This pestilence has moved across the plain faster even than my people feared it would. It was set upon us by the Mettai and spread with aid from Eandi merchants like you and your friend." He glanced at her before averting his gaze again. "My people are warriors. In all our history, we've never hesitated to defend ourselves. We've never surrendered to any foe. But with this…" He opened his hands, then let them drop to his side again.
His eyes met hers again, and this time he didn't look away, though it seemed to take some effort. "Perhaps I am seeking forgiveness. You tell me that you had nothing to do with the poisoning of these baskets, that you mean us no harm. And I believe you. But you're Eandi, and no matter your intentions, you brought this illness into our city."
A door behind the a'laq opened and a small, white-haired woman with wide, pale eyes appeared. Lark couldn
't be certain, but there seemed to be tears on her face.
P'Crath turned at the sound, stared at the woman for several moments, and nodded once. She withdrew and closed the door.
"I have no more time for this," the a'laq said. "Draw your blade."
Once more, Lark found that she hadn't the power to disobey. It seemed as if her hands were no longer hers, that they were guided by some other will, stronger than her own. She felt tears flowing down her face again, and she couldn't even wipe them away.
"Please," she said, her voice quavering.
"I'm sorry." The a'laq didn't sound contrite, but he wore a troubled expression. "This will be quick. I promise you that much."
Lark stared at him, her entire body trembling. All except her hands, which were perfectly still. "I don't deserve this."
"My daughter doesn't deserve her fate, either. Turn the blade and place the tip over your heart."
She did as she was told, though she fought the man's magic with every bit of strength she possessed. Never in her life had she felt so powerless.
"I hope your daughter lives," she said. "I hope that one day, you'll have to explain to her what you're about to do."
The a'laq opened his mouth, then closed it again. "She's Fal'Borna," he finally said. "I won't have to explain." He exhaled and looked away. "Take your life."
She battled as she never had before. She tried to release the blade, to let it fall to the ground. She tried to move its tip so that her heart wouldn't be pierced. She tried to flee the chamber. But her hands were not her own, her feet, it seemed, were held by invisible shackles, her aim was perfectly, lethally true.
"No!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the ceiling and walls.
And still, her hands, steady, strong, sure, guided the blade into her chest, as if they had been waiting to do so all her life.
It hurt less than she thought it would. Mostly she felt cold. Her legs gave out and she dropped to the floor.
"Damn you," she managed to mutter, as darkness took her.
But already the a'laq was getting to his feet and leaving the chamber. He gave no indication that he had heard.
The guards were at the door before he reached it, concern etched on their faces.
"We heard a scream, A'Laq," one of them said. "Are you all right?"
P'Crath nodded. He had no time for this. He wanted only to find Z'Feni, his wife, and see his daughter. Z'Feni had looked so frightened a few moments before, when she came to the chamber seeking him. Was their beloved child dead already? Or was there still time to save her?
"I'm fine. The Eandi woman is dead. Have her removed from the chamber."
"Yes, A'Laq," the man said.
P'Crath was already past him, striding toward the inner courtyard. He quickly navigated the corridors of the old Eandi palace, until he came to the arched entranceway to the court. Cold air crept into the hallways through the open door, but P'Crath didn't care. Z'Feni stood just outside, tears on her face reflecting the glow of a bright fire that burned on the far side of the court. The small pool at the center of the space reflected the flames and the dark orange sky, the waters rippled by the wind. Between the fire and the pool lay B'Asya, covered by several blankets, her face damp with sweat, her eyes closed.
"She's finally asleep," Z'Feni said, her eyes fixed on their child. "We have to do this now."
"The healers gave her a tonic?" P'Crath said, looking at her.
"It was the only way. As it was, she nearly killed the man who gave it to her. And now he fears that he'll become ill as well."
"Did he get that near to her?"
Z'Feni grimaced and nodded.
"Where is he now?" P'Crath asked.
"I sent him away and told him not to return for ten days."
The a'laq nodded. "Good." He looked out at B'Asya again. "Let's get started then."
"What if it doesn't work?" his wife asked, taking his hand. "What if you can't heal her? Maybe she needs to be awake."
"I don't know," the a'laq said. He was leader of the sept. He was a Weaver; he could wield all forms of Qirsi magic. But in the face of this pestilence, P'Crath felt utterly helpless. It was an unsettling sensation for him, One that he felt compelled to hide from his wife, though as a Weaver herself, she probably felt much the same way. "I choose to believe that it will work."
She nodded, giving his hand a squeeze. "Yes, all right."
P'Crath released her hand and closed his eyes. He took a long, steadying breath, and then reached to his daughter with his mind and magic. Sensing her, feeling immediately how weak she had grown, he stepped into her dreams.
He had done such a thing many times before. Weavers often communicated with each other in this way, reaching forth with their minds over many leagues to enter the dreams of those who led other septs. In this way, the a'laqs of all the Fal'Borna could work together against a common enemy or alert one another to approaching danger. This was how he had first learned of this pestilence that was sweeping across the plain.
But never before had P'Crath experienced anything like this. His daughter's thoughts were disjointed and alien, as if the fever that gripped her body had also addled her mind. He saw and heard things he didn't understand. B'Asya stood before him surrounded by a blazing, swirling cloud, as if she were in the midst of a storm of flame. She writhed, her mouth open as if she were howling in pain, though P'Crath heard not a sound from her. Her eyes were open, panicked, unseeing. He called to her, but she didn't respond.
He took a step toward her, but before he could draw nearer, without warning, it struck at him. He doubled over, the abrupt pain in his gut enough to bring tears to his eyes and make him gag. He dropped to his knees and retched until his throat ached. He knew this was not some image conjured by his daughter's fever; this was real. He tried to break away from her, to sever the connection he had forged between his mind and hers, but he couldn't. It seemed that she clung to him, though whether she did so blindly or out of fear or out of some delusion-induced malice, he couldn't say. He knew only that however weak she had seemed a moment before, her grip on him was impossibly strong.
He forced his eyes open, but still could see only the vision in B'Asya's mind. Z'Feni was calling his name, sounding terrified. That much he knew.
"Get away from here!" he shouted.
He felt her hand on his back and he shrugged her off.
"Get away from me! Now! While you still can!"
Gods! His stomach hurt! But more, he felt it creeping through his body, like molten rock in his veins. And he knew. Bian help him, he knew.
B'Asya had only just come into her power. She might well have wielded all the magics of a Weaver someday, if only the pestilence hadn't taken her. But P'Crath remained at the height of his powers. Fire, shaping, healing, mists and winds, language of beasts. He had them all, and he sensed that all of them were being unleashed. He tried to resist, to hold back his magic, at least until Z'Feni could heed his warnings and get away. But he felt as if he were standing in the middle of a river, attempting to block the current. He hadn't the strength or the will; he didn't even know how to make the attempt.
"Get away!" he called out again.
Nven as the words crossed his lips, he felt the magic slip out. Shaping. He heard the stone wall of the house collapse, heard Z'Feni, his wife, his love, cry out in terror.
Too late, he understood. Just as this pestilence struck at Qirsi magic, as well as at the body and the mind, it was passed along by magic. That was why this was happening to him. He hadn't gone near B'Asya-B'Asya, who was lost to him!-but he had touched her mind with his own, her magic with his. And in forging that bond, he had opened himself to her affliction.
P'Crath felt the power building inside him again, terrible and immense, overwhelming and irresistible. He tried to steer the power into one of the less destructive magics; away from shaping or fire or even wind, which, if uncontrolled, would do nearly as much damage as the other two. Before he'd even made a conscious choice, he felt t
he air around him growing cold and damp. Yes, a mist. What harm could come from a mist?
"P'Crath, stop it!" Z'Feni cried out. "You're killing the fire! You're going to kill her!"
It was getting colder and colder. Z'Feni was right. Still linked to his daughter, he could feel her shivering, and worse, he could feel her reaching for her fire magic again, even as she slept. The urgency she felt as she tried to access her magic was almost a match for the force of power within him. How could he hope to stop her when he couldn't even stop himself? All this from his mist. What harm, indeed. He forced his eyes open, trying again to break free of B'Asya's mind.
"Can't you stop?" Z'Feni asked him.
"No!" he managed to say. "I can't! Don't you see? It's got me as well. You have to get away from me; away from us!"
His wife gaped at him. She seemed so far away already, though he knew that she was right there with him, close enough to breathe the air he breathed, to feel his magic, to be killed by this disease that would surely kill him.
"You… You mean you have it now?"
"Yes. I have it. You will soon enough."
"What about B'Asya? Can you save her?"
He felt the pulse of magic building and knew from his daughter, from the bond they shared now, just where it would go. "Get down!" he shouted, dropping to the ground. "Z'Feni, get down!"
She did, just in time. Fire burst from B'Asya's hands, lashing out at the walls surrounding the courtyard like bright, angry serpents, burning through his mist, which continued to build. He turned his power to something else: language of beasts. It would make matters worse for those beyond his home, but what choice did he have? The power was still inside him, clamoring to get out. Nventually he'd weaken and die, but he was a Weaver; his power went so deep. Always he'd seen this as a boon, a gift from Qirsar, the god of Qirsi magic. Now it was his curse, and that of the people he loved most.