by DAVID B. COE
Again the Fal'Borna riders stopped a short distance from where Sirj stood. The a'laq dismounted and stepped a bit nearer, but he seemed as leery as the others of coming too close. He appeared older than the warriors. His face was lined, his white hair somewhat thinner than that of the other men. But he stood taller than the rest, and was broader in the chest and shoulders. Even from this distance Sirj saw no tokens of his authority in his clothing, save for a small white stone that he wore at his throat on a thin cord.
"My name is F'Ghara," he said. "This is my sept. I understand that you wish to buy food from us."
Sirj nodded, wondering if custom demanded that he do more. Should he bow, or drop to one knee? "Yes, A'Laq. I've come a long way and have far to go. I need a good deal of food and will pay well for it."
"My warriors have told you why you can't enter the sept?"
"Yes. And I've told them that I mean your people no harm. You can use your magic to confirm that if you like."
"I intend to."
Sirj took a breath and nodded. "All right, then. What do I I… how does this work?"
"Where are you headed?" the a'laq asked.
He considered how to answer without giving away too much. To say simply that they were headed west would hardly satisfy the man. Sirj knew this.
It took him a moment to realize that he was already responding, that his mouth and his mind were no longer connected to one another.
"West," he said, unable to stop himself.
The a'laq frowned. "Where in the west?"
"I don't know."
The frowned deepened. "You don't know?"
"No."
"What is your business here?"
Sirj felt panic building inside him, like floodwater against an earthen dam. But somehow, through force of will, or, more likely, sheer dumb luck, his answer revealed nothing at all.
"I need food," his mouth said.
The a'laq opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. "Have you come here to spread the pestilence that's striking at my people?"
"No."
"Do you have any items with you that could harm us?"
"I carry a knife. All Mettai do."
"That's not.." The man shook his head again. "Are any of the items you carry cursed or poisoned or enchanted in any way?"
"No.,,
"So, you've just come here to buy food?"
"Yes."
"All right then," the a'laq muttered.
Other than finding that he had no control over what he said, Sirj hadn't been aware of the a'laq's hold on his mind. But when F'Ghara released him, he recognized the sudden absence of magic.
"You have a light touch, A'Laq," he said.
Abruptly the magic was on him again, more forceful this time, more intrusive.
"What are you doing here?" F'Ghara demanded, his expression deadly serious. "Why have you come to the plain?"
"We're looking for a merchant," Sirj said, again unable to stop himself.
"A merchant? Why?"
"Because he's selling cursed baskets. We have to stop him."
The a'laq blinked. "Who's 'we'?"
Sirj cringed, wondering how his mouth would answer. "Besh and me." "Besh?"
"My wife's father."
"And where is he?"
"In the hollow, east of here."
"Why didn't he come with you?"
And that's when Sirj knew he was a dead man. The other questions he'd somehow been able to answer honestly, without revealing too much. But not this one.
"He's with Lici."
"Who is Lici?"
"A madwoman, also Mettai."
F'Ghara's eyes widened and he took a step back, as if staggered by a blow. "A Mettai witch! Is she the one?" he asked. "Did she curse the baskets you're after?"
"Yes."
"And you're protecting her."
It wasn't a question. Sirj said nothing.
The a'laq appeared to realize his error. "Are you protecting her?"
"No. Well, yes. We captured her. We went after her to stop her from doing more harm. Now we're hoping she can help us find the merchant and undo her curse."
The a'laq rubbed a hand over his face. After a moment he glanced back at his warriors. "Leave us," he said.
"But, A'Laq-"
"I said, leave us. He can't hurt me, and I want to speak with him in private."
The warrior hesitated another moment, then inclined his head and steered his horse away. The other warriors followed him.
Once the others were away, the a'laq released Sirj from his magic once more.
"You know what you've told me," F'Ghara said. "And you know that I can control you again if I need to."
Sirj nodded, too frightened to speak.
"I want to understand. You and this… this Besh, you went after the woman because you knew what she was doing?"
"We didn't at first. Besh figured it out. She left our village one night, without anyone knowing why. Besh spent almost two turns trying to figure out where she had gone. It only came to him when word reached us of what was happening to the Y'Qatt near the Companion Lakes."
"It started with the Y'Qatt?"
"Yes. She-Lici, that is-she had cause to hate them, and this was her vengeance."
"And now her curse has spread to us."
"Has it already?" Sirj asked. "We know there's a merchant who's carrying her baskets, but we didn't know that it had already struck at your people. I'm… I'm very sorry."
"My warriors will expect me to kill all three of you. That's our way."
An image of Elica and the children flashed in Sirj's mind, and suddenly he was blinking back tears. "We're trying to do the right thing," he said, his voice wavering. "We guard her night and day to keep her from doing more harm. We've left our family behind so that we could stop more Qirsi from dying. Doesn't that count for anything?"
"No. Not to the Fal'Borna."
"Then you're a cruel people," Sirj said, his grief giving way to anger.
"What you see as cruelty, we see as strength," the a'laq said, pride in his voice. "The Fal'Borna rule the Central Plain because we have never shown mercy to our enemies. We didn't during the Blood Wars and we don't now."
"But we're not your enemies. Lici might be, but not me, and certainly not Besh. If it wasn't for him, she might still be spreading her plague across the land."
The a'laq looked as if he might argue the point further, but he stopped himself and looked away, his lips pressed thin. He appeared older in profile, his forehead steep, the hint of loose skin beneath his chin.
"We are a small sept," he said after some time. "I've no sons, though both of my daughters will be Weavers. I hope to marry one or both of them to Weavers before I die, so that my people will be assured of having an a'laq after I'm gone." He faced Sirj again. "I can't do anything to disgrace my sept or weaken it in the eyes of other a’laqs."
Sirj shook his head. "You mean to tell me that I'm going to die so that your daughters can marry well?" He closed his eyes not certain whether to laugh or cry. "Fathers really are idiots, aren't they?"
F'Ghara's expression hardened. "Judge me if you will, but it changes nothing. You will lead my warriors and me to your companions."
"And if I refuse?"
"You'll die where you stand and we'll find them anyway."
There was nothing Sirj could say. He'd known from the start that the task Besh had given him was beyond his abilities. And now his failure had doomed them all.
So, you think you can kill me."
"What are you doing, Lici?" Besh asked, holding her gaze. He eased his hand toward the hilt of his blade.
Lici noticed the movement and shook her head. "Don't."
Besh didn't stop. "Where's the fairness in that, Lici?" He found the smooth wood of the knife handle and wrapped his fingers around it. "Why should you be the only one of us with access to magic?"
"I said don't!" Her eyes widened, and she began to mumble to herself-a spell, no doubt-though she al
so took a step back.
Besh dropped to one knee and grabbed a handful of dirt. Before he could cut the back of his hand, though, Lici threw the blood-soaked dirt at him, yelling, "Earth to dagger!"
The mud coalesced into a single blade and Besh barely had time to wrench himself out of the way, sprawling onto his back and dropping both his knife and the dirt he'd picked up. The dagger flew just past his head and buried itself in the ground.
Besh crawled to his knife and grabbed another handful of earth. He sensed that Lici was getting more dirt as well.
"Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought, earth to sleep!" He threw his dirt at her, watching as it transformed itself to something akin to sand.
"Earth to fire!" he heard her shout.
Flames erupted from her slender hands, forming a wall that guarded her from his spell. When his magic struck the fire she had conjured, it flared like sunlight, forcing him to shield his eyes and shy away from the sudden heat.
An instant later, the blaze had vanished, leaving them both blinking in the somber gloom of the morning. At the same time, both of them reached for more of the dark brown soil. Besh cut himself and Lici clawed at the back of her hand with the stubs of her finger nails, which were already stained with blood. Besh backed away slowly, drawing a grin from the witch.
"Frightened, Bash?" she asked, giving him that odd, coy grin he found so disturbing.
"I don't want to hurt you, Lici. I certainly don't want to kill you."
"Funny. I want very much to hurt you, before I kill you."
"All I've done is try to help you find that merchant you've been looking for."
She laughed mirthlessly. "Is that all?" She held up her bloodied hand. "Look at me. Where's my knife? What have you done with it?"
"You tried to hurt us. You nearly killed Sirj. We had to take your blade."
"Damn you both! And damn the white-hairs, too! I don't care about that merchant! I don't care if my baskets kill every Qirsi on the plain!"
"You don't mean that," Besh said, because he knew he should. But he couldn't help thinking that she did mean it, that again, as when she had spoken to him with such malice the day before, when she set Sirj on fire, he was seeing the true Lici. Whatever she had once been-a frightened orphan alone in the world, her family taken from her by the pestilence; a strange old woman taunted by Kirayde's children and shunned by its adults; a conjurer driven nearly to madness by guilt for all the darkness she had unleashed upon the world-this woman before him, this creature of anger and vengeance, was all that remained.
She muttered to herself again, and Besh began his own incantation, preparing to defend himself against any conjuring she might try next.
This time, though, she didn't throw anything at him. One moment she held a fistful of blood and dirt; the next she held a spear. She jabbed it at him, aiming for his heart. He stumbled back, just beyond her reach. She advanced on him, looking more like a warrior from one of the sovereign armies than an old Mettai witch. This time, rather than trying to stab him, she slashed at his leg with the spearhead, catching him just below the knee.
Besh grunted at the pain and collapsed to the ground, dropping both his blade and the dirt he held in the other hand. Lici grinned darkly and thrust the spear into his other thigh. Again Besh cried out, clutching at his leg, feeling warm blood run over his fingers.
"You made me your captive," Lici said. "Now I've made you mine."
And just for good measure, she stabbed him again, this time high on the chest, just below his shoulder. It wasn't a killing blow. It was simply meant to hurt, and to show Besh that he was at her mercy. It did both.
He gritted his teeth, reaching now for that wound, his hand stained crimson.
"I remember everything, you know," Lici said, standing over him, menacing him with the bloodied spear. "I remember how you stared at me when you were just a boy. You thought me beautiful then. I know you did. Later, after you married that woman-what was her name?"
He didn't answer her. After a moment she swung the spear so that the butt end struck him across the temple. For a second he could see nothing but white light, and he nearly toppled onto his side.
"What was her name?" she asked again.
"Ema," he said thickly.
"Yes, of course. Ema. I remember her, too. Pretty thing. But after you married her, you stopped looking at me. You pretended I wasn't there, just like the others. How does that happen? How does a man go from lust to indifference so quickly?"
Again, Besh didn't say anything, but this time she didn't seem to care. "I'd wager you even warned your daughter away from me," she went on, "and your grandchildren as well."
Besh's legs and shoulder screamed at him, and his head hurt as well, though dully, unlike the searing pain of the stab wounds. He'd lost a good deal of blood, and the world around him was beginning to spin. He couldn't help thinking that a younger man would have borne the injuries better.
"What were you thinking you'd do with me?" Lici asked him. "After we found the baskets, I mean. Were you going to kill me? That's what the others told you to do, isn't it? They sent you to kill me."
"No, they didn't," Besh said, closing his eyes to keep from growing any dizzier. He understood immediately that this wouldn't work, that with his eyes closed he felt even more light-headed. He opened them again, blinking to clear his vision. Doing so, he braced himself against the ground with his hand. Dirt. Earth. Power. "They merely sent me to stop you from killing anyone else," he said. "They were concerned about you. We all were."
One hand on the earth and the other gripping his bloodied shoulder. How to switch without Lici noticing?
"That's a lie," she said. "They want me dead. If they didn't before, they will now, to punish me for what I've done."
He let the bloodstained hand drop to his lap, and then began to slide it toward the ground.
"Stop," Lici said. She shifted the spear point so that it hovered like a hornet just before Besh's eyes. "If you move that hand anymore, I'll kill you."
"That's what you plan to do anyway, isn't it?"
"Perhaps not," she said, coy again. "You still think I'm beautiful, don't you?"
Besh shuddered. He couldn't help himself. "Of course," he said.
She laughed, harsh and high-pitched. "Liar. But that was good. You almost sounded like you meant it."
"What do you want from me, Lici? Do you want to go back to Kirayde? Do you want me to plead for your life before the eldest and the rest of the council? I can…"
He trailed off. She was laughing again, though her eyes held nothing but rage.
"Why would I go back there? To be taunted again by the children of fools? To be looked down upon by people whom I hold in contempt?" She shook her head. "No, I don't want you to plead for my life. But before this day is through, I'll hear you plead for your own."
"Then what?" Besh asked, his voice sounding weak and thin to his own ears. How long could a man his age endure torture? "You don't want to go back? You don't care about finding the merchant anymore? What's left?"
"I could make more baskets," she said softly. "I could start again. There are more Y'Qatt, you know."
Besh shook his head. "You don't want that. You sold all your baskets. I know you did, because you told me so. And I think you did it because you were tired. You don't want to go hack to that."
It was a guess on his part, and nothing more. But he could see by the way her brow creased and her eyes strayed off to the side, that he was right. Once more he began to ease his hand toward the earth.
The spearhead flashed past his eye so quickly that he had no time to react. Only when the blood began to flow down his face did he understand that she had cut him high on his cheek.
"I told you not to move that hand. Next time you lose an eye." She regarded him briefly, then examined the weapon she held, nodding her approval. "It's a good spear, don't you think? I've come to realize that I'm very good at conjuring. Better even than I am at making baskets." She g
rinned. "You're right," she went on a moment later. "I don't want to go back to baskets and the Y'Qatt."
"How did you create this pestilence, Lici?"
"It doesn't matter. It can't be undone, if that's what you're thinking. There's no spell you could make that would defeat it."
Besh didn't want to believe her. So much of what Lici said could be dismissed as nonsense or false pride or pure vitriol. But he sensed that she was telling him the truth about this, and he despaired. It struck him as odd that the harm she had done to so many nameless white-hairs should disturb him more than his own impending death.
"But it occurs to me," the woman said, "that I could create a similar plague for the Mettai."
He felt himself growing cold. "Why would you do such a thing?"
"Why wouldn't I?" she asked. "It would have to be a bit different from this one: a plague of the blood rather than the mind. But in other ways it would be much the same."
"If you're doing this to torment me, there are other ways. Cut me again. Hit me, burn me. But don't harm our people."
"The trick would be to keep myself from being afflicted as I spread it to others. But I'm certain there's a way. With magic, there's always a way."
"Sylpa would be angry with you," he said. "She wouldn't want you to speak of it, much less do it."
Her eyes flashed dangerously, her attention fully on him once more. "What do you know about Sylpa?"
"I know how much she cared about you. But I also know that she loved our village and our people. She devoted her life to leading us. How do you think she'd feel about this magic you're talking about?"
It was a gamble, he knew. Sylpa had been like a mother to Lici, taking her in when she was just a girl, only a turn or two removed from the death of Lici's entire family. But Lici guarded her memories of the woman; the one other time Besh had even mentioned Sylpa's name to her, Lici hadn't reacted well. He hadn't dared reveal to her that he carried Sylpa's daybook with them. He had discovered it in Lici's but after she left Kirayde, and he had read through a good portion of it, trying to learn what he could of Lici's past.
"Sylpa's been dead a long time," Lici said. "There's much that she doesn't know, that she couldn't possibly understand."
"Like what?"