by DAVID B. COE
Grinsa said something to Q'Daer before hurrying past the man to kneel at Besh's side. Sirj was just behind him.
"What did he do to you?" Grinsa asked. "The cuts. It looks like you've been burned, too. Your chest and arms? What else?" Before Besh could answer the man said, "Your leg. He broke your leg, didn't he?"
Besh nodded.
Without another word, Grinsa laid his hands gently on Besh's shattered leg and closed his eyes. For a moment there was a cooling sensation, as if cold water were moving over his skin. Then the pain came back, hot and intense, and Besh inhaled sharply through his teeth. And then it began to diminish, slowly at first, but more quickly with each passing moment, until at last all that remained was a dull ache.
A fine sheen of sweat had appeared on Grinsa's brow, but when he finished with Besh's leg he turned his attention to the burns on Besh's torso and arms. Eventually Besh's burns stopped hurting, and Grinsa moved his hands to the cut on the old man's arm. Finally, he healed the cut on Besh's face and sat back on his heels.
"There," he said, sounding weary.
Besh smiled. "Thank you."
Grinsa stood. "You're welcome. You probably want to rest," he said. "Really you should. But you can't. We're not going to kill this soldier, and so it won't be long before he returns with enough of his friends to make more trouble for us."
"I understand," Besh said. "And I've already sent one of his friends off. He has some hornets to get rid of, but once he does, I imagine he'll he looking for us, too."
"Hornets?" Grinsa said. "I'll look forward to hearing about that." He held out a hand to Besh.
The old man took hold of it and pulled himself up. The pain in his leg increased some once he was standing and he didn't think he'd be able to walk without support from Sirj. But he felt so much better than he had a few moments before that he didn't complain.
"Come on, Torgan," Grinsa said.
The merchant got up slowly. "What about me?" he demanded, gesturing at his burnt arm. "I need healing, too."
"And you'll be healed," Grinsa said. "Later. But for now you can walk, and we need to get going."
Before Torgan could argue the matter, a cry went out from far off. "What's that?" the merchant said, sounding frightened. "They're coming for us, aren't they?"
Grinsa frowned, looking back at Q'Daer. "I don't think-"
More cries went up. A strange sound overhead drew the gazes of all of them.
"What was that?" Jasha asked.
"Fire magic," Grinsa said.
"Why-?"
Grinsa spun toward Q'Daer. "It's another outbreak! We have to get out of here, now!"
"What do you mean 'another outbreak'?" the soldier asked.
"The pestilence has returned to your city," the Forelander said. "Go! Your people need you."
"You see?" the man said, pointing at Besh. "You see what he did? You claim he's different, but he brought the pestilence to our city again!"
"No, he didn't!" Grinsa said. "Most likely, someone came across the remains of one of the cursed baskets. That would have been enough to bring the illness back again. Besh had nothing to do with it. Now, go! Quickly!"
The soldier hesitated for just a moment, his eyes straying toward Besh. Then he turned and ran.
"This way!" Grinsa said, following the man toward the end of the alley.
The others fell in behind him, walking as quickly as they could, but clearly mindful of not leaving Besh and Sirj behind. Once clear of the alley, they paused long enough to help Besh onto one of the horses, so that he wouldn't have to walk. Then they retraced the route the n'qlae had taken through the city. Besh knew that there had to be a quicker way to the gate. That was the only way to explain the sudden appearance of the soldiers. But he didn't know the way, and he didn't want to become lost and lead them deeper into the city.
Before they reached the gate, they found their way blocked by the n'qlae and a small party of Fal'Borna soldiers. The woman looked pale and frightened, her eyes even wider than they had appeared when they first met her.
Now that they had been forced to stop walking, Besh could hear more cries echoing through the ruins. Behind them, great clouds of dark smoke billowed into the sky. Besh thought he could hear stone and wood breaking. He couldn't even begin to imagine what another full outbreak of Lici's plague would do to the city.
"Are you responsible for this?" the n'qlae demanded. She pointed at Besh and Sirj. "Did they do it?"
"No, N'Qlae," Grinsa said. "They've done nothing but protect themselves from the attacks of your men."
She looked at the Mettai again, seeming to notice for the first time the marks of Besh's face, the blood and burns on his shirt. "Then how did this happen?" she asked, looking once more at Grinsa and Q'Daer.
"We think some of your people must have come across the remains of the baskets while they were digging through the rubble."
The woman appeared stricken. "After all this time, they could still sicken us?"
"It would seem so," Grinsa told her. "We know nothing for certain. But that makes the most sense."
She shook her head. "P'Crath said that we should come back here after ten days. He wouldn't have told us to return if he'd thought we would get sick."
More screams reached them, more rending of wood and stone. The company's horses reared suddenly, including the one Besh was riding. He grabbed hold of the beast's mane, barely managing to keep himself from being thrown.
"It's coming closer, N'Qlae," Q'Daer said. "You and your men should get away from here while you can."
"That's what you're doing. You're running away."
There was a challenge in the words, and for a moment none of them answered. At last Grinsa nodded. "Yes, we are. I'm sorry for your city, N'Qlae. But I won't die here. I have a family on the plain, and I have every intention of seeing them again."
"We could keep you here."
Besh felt his blood turn cold.
Grinsa, though, merely shook his head. "You don't want to do that. You have no cause to want us dead. Q'Daer's right. Your only concern now should be getting yourself and as many of your people as possible away from here."
"No," the woman said. "I fled once. I won't do it again. It seems this is the fate of S'Vralna and her people. We are to perish here."
"That doesn't have to be true," Grinsa said, pleading with her. "Your city can still have a future. You might have to start over again. You might have to raze what remains of the city and rebuild it. But you don't all have to die here!"
The woman shook her head. "You're a stranger to the Southlands. You know nothing of the Fal'Borna. I wouldn't expect you to understand." She turned to Q'Daer. "But you do, don't you? You know that this is what I have to do."
"Yes, N'Qlae," the Fal'Borna said. "I understand."
She nodded, the ghost of a smile touching her thin, lined face. "You can go," she said. "May the gods keep you safe."
Grinsa bowed to her, as did Q'Daer. A moment later the others did as well.
"Thank you, N'Qlae," Grinsa said.
They hurried past her, the sounds of suffering and death and rampant magic at their backs. Once clear of the gates, Besh dismounted and joined Sirj on their cart, while the others took to their horses and started westward, away from the city and toward the banks of the Thraedes. They didn't speak, though all of them took turns glancing back over their shoulders at the walled city, where dark smoke belched into the sky. Occasionally Besh caught sight of a spear of fire soaring above the city, but he saw no people, and as they put more distance between themselves and S'Vralna, he heard no more cries.
They rode for a long time without stopping, until Grinsa finally raised a hand to call a halt. They were near a small rill, probably a tributary to the river, and they allowed the horses to drink and graze for some time. Besh found a small rock to sit on near the stream, and Sirj soon joined him there. The younger man said little other than to offer Besh some food, which he refused. In fact, the old man noticed that none of them ate. Not even
Torgan.
Grinsa approached the one-eyed merchant. "I can heal you now, if you'd like."
"Yeah. Yeah, all right," Torgan said.
Grinsa had him sit on the grass, and then the Forelander knelt beside him and placed his hands on the merchant's shoulder. After some time, Grinsa moved his hands down Torgan's arm. Eventually, he sat back, much as he had when he finished with Besh, and nodded once to the Eandi.
"Thank you," Besh heard Torgan say.
It sounded grudging and Grinsa responded with a thin smile before standing and walking away. He started toward his horse but then turned and came to where Besh and Sirj were sitting.
"How are you feeling?" the Forelander asked as he drew near.
"Tired," Besh said. "And sore. But I'm far better than I was before you healed me."
"I would hope so."
Besh grinned. "Does it make you tired to heal so many wounds in such a short time?"
"A bit," Grinsa said. "I'm a Weaver, so I tire less quickly than other Qirsi. But it's a strain."
"I would think so." He hesitated. Then, "Thank you. You saved my life before."
Grinsa shrugged. "You would have done the same for me."
Besh held his gaze. "Yes, I would have. And I will, if the need arises."
The Forelander smiled, a genuine, open smile, free of the cares that usually seemed to weigh on the man. It was a good smile, and it made Besh wonder what Grinsa was like when he was untroubled and with his family.
A moment later it was gone and the Forelander looked up at the sky, seeming to gauge the position of the sun.
"We should be moving again soon," he said. "I'm not proud to say this, but I want to put another league or two between us and S'Vralna."
"Of course," Besh said. "We're ready whenever you are."
"Thank you," Grinsa said before walking away.
"He's a good man," Sirj murmured as they watched him leave.
"He is," Besh said. He turned to his daughter's husband. "I know you're eager to go home, to see Elica and your children again. I am, too. But I don't want to leave the plain until we're certain that Grinsa and his family will be safe."
Sirj looked at him, his wild dark hair stirring in the cool wind. He nodded. "Yes, all right. We owe him that much, don't we?"
Besh smiled and put his hand on Sirj's shoulder, something he probably had never done before. Theirs had never been an easy relationship, mostly because Besh had been slow to accept that Sirj was worthy of marrying his daughter. Earlier, during their search for Lici, he finally realized that he'd been a fool to doubt him, and to doubt Elica for that matter. He should have been able to say as much, to tell Sirj that he, like Grinsa, was also a good man. In that moment, though, this simple gesture seemed enough.
He probably should have been grateful. Yes, he'd had to wait, but the Forelander had healed him eventually. And it seemed the white-hair had done an adequate job.
Riding once more, Torgan moved his shoulder and looked at the skin on his lower arm. His shoulder felt much better, and though the skin was still discolored, it wasn't tender anymore.
No doubt the others in the company expected him to be thankful that Grinsa had healed him. Besh couldn't have walked with his injuries; Torgan could. They'd needed to get away from the city as quickly as possible. Torgan knew all this, and he told himself these things again and again.
But still, he'd had to wait. He'd had to endure his pain for a long time, far longer than Besh. The only injuries that kept Besh from being able to leave the city had been the broken bone in his leg and the deep gash on his arm. Yet Grinsa had healed all of his wounds right away.
It shouldn't have bothered him; that's what Jasha would say. But it did.
To be more precise, it pointed to something that disturbed him a great deal: None in this company seemed to care whether he lived or died. Grinsa did what he could to keep Torgan alive for the time being, probably because he thought that the merchant might still help them in some way with their search for the rest of the cursed baskets. But he could tell the man didn't like him. And the rest of them spoke with unnerving frequency of killing him. Grinsa might swear that the young Fal'Borna Weaver had just been trying to mollify the n'qlae when he said that Torgan was to be executed. Torgan wasn't so certain.
The Mettai promised to kill Torgan if he tried to escape, and Grinsa and Q'Daer had said similar things in the past. Jasha seemed to have reached some sort of accommodation with the Qirsi, and Torgan could tell that Grinsa liked the Mettai. Torgan alone remained a prisoner among a company of free men.
More than ever, he now believed that his only hope for survival was to escape before they returned to E'Menua's sept. And more than ever he knew that he would have to find a way to flee on his own, without help from any of the other Eandi.
So be it.
S'Vralna had been a waking nightmare. He hoped never to see or hear or smell such horrors again. But their brief time there had also shown him beyond any doubt that the scrap of basket he still carried in the bottom of his travel sack remained a potent weapon. If the baskets in S'Vralna could bring on a second outbreak of the Mettai woman's plague, so could his. If the Qirsi riding a few paces in front of him refused to rule out killing him, he would continue to guard his secret so that he might strike back at them. He would be a fool to do less.
And Torgan Plye had never been a fool.
Chapter 20
QALSYN, STELPANA
It all happened much faster than she'd had any right to expect. The day after her second audience with His Lordship, Tirnya received word that
Maisaak had dispatched a messenger to Ofirean City. Within ten days of this man's departure the lord governor received a message back from the sovereign. She and her father had expected the exchange of missives to take close to a turn; instead they had taken less than half that time. By any measure, they had been remarkably fortunate.
And yet, for Tirnya, each day of waiting seemed an eternity. Whatever relief she had felt in learning that the lord governor had made his decision so quickly gave way to childlike impatience as she awaited the reply from Stelpana's royal city. She would go from being utterly certain one moment that the sovereign would approve their plan, to imagining in the next all sorts of reasons why Ankyr might say no. During this time she treated horribly everyone she knew. She knew it, and yet she could do nothing about it. She was far too rough on her men, pushing them so hard during their training sessions that afterward none of her lead riders would speak to her. At home, she was moody to the point of rudeness, speaking to her mother and father as if they were common servants. She avoided Enly entirely.
When at last His Lordship summoned Tirnya and her father to his palace to inform them of the sovereign's decision, Tirnya was so exhausted from the ordeal of waiting that she managed to convince herself she didn't care one way or another what Ankyr's message said. Of course, this didn't stop her from trembling with anticipation as she and Jenoe waited in the palace corridor to be admitted to Maisaak's chamber. She paced back and forth in front of Maisaak's door, muttering under her breath, reminding herself of all the reasons why the sovereign was bound to give his permission.
After some time, Jenoe said something to her, though Tirnya barely heard him.
She halted in front of him. "What?"
"I said, perhaps this time you should let me do the talking."
Tirnya frowned. "Why?"
Jenoe glanced at the two guards positioned on either side of the door. Both men were smirking.
"Because," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "I'm afraid of what you might say to His Lordship if this doesn't go the way you'd like it to."
She started to argue with him, then stopped herself. "I really have been dreadful, haven't I?"
Her father looked down at the floor, his lips pursed. After a moment he nodded. "Yes, you have."
"I'm sorry," she said. "By all means, speak for us. If His Lordship lets us go, you'll be in command anyway."
&nbs
p; A moment later, the door opened, and the two of them were ushered into the chamber. Once again, Enly was already inside, and while Tirnya steadfastly avoided his gaze, she realized that she was glad to have him there, although she wasn't exactly certain why.
She and her father stopped just inside the doorway and bowed to the lord governor.
"Come in," Maisaak said. He wasn't smiling, but there was something in his voice that put Tirnya's mind at ease. He sounded pleased, and given his eagerness to be rid of her father, Tirnya assumed this meant that the sovereign had granted their request. "I'm sure you know why I summoned you here, so I won't waste your time or mine. The sovereign has granted me authority to send our armies west into Fal'Borna land, provided we succeed in forging an alliance with the Mettai."
Tirnya could barely contain her glee; she had to resist an urge to rush forward and throw her arms around His Lordship's neck. Just the idea of it made her giggle.
"Is something funny, Captain?" Maisaak asked.
"No, Your Lordship. I'm… I'm pleased."
"I imagine you are. I mentioned in my message to the sovereign that this was your idea, Captain," His Lordship went on. "He told me to commend you for your imaginative thinking. But he also wanted me to make clear that if the Mettai refuse your overtures, you're to return to Qalsyn. He doesn't want to risk this war without their aid."
"I understand, Your Lordship," Tirnya said.
"Good." Maisaak stepped behind his writing table and sat. "You'll take all the companies under your command, Jenoe. I'll be sending Enly and his soldiers with you, as well. And the sovereign has ordered sixteen companies from the north and a dozen from the south to meet you along the wash at Enka's Shallows."
Tirnya wasn't certain that she had heard him correctly. "But, Your Lordship-"
"Don't worry, Captain. The northern army comes out of Fairlea, the southern companies from Waterstone, and the sovereign has made clear to them that they'll be under your father's command."
She frowned. "Yes, Your Lordship, but-"
"She wasn't concerned about the other armies, Father," Enly said, watching her with a slight smile on his lips. "She's wondering why you'd send me along, when I've made it clear from the start that I don't approve of this venture."