by DAVID B. COE
The young merchant scrambled to his feet. "Of course," he said, heading off toward Besh and Sirj's cart.
"Get up, Torgan," Grinsa said for a third time.
The merchant stood slowly. "What is it you want with us?"
Grinsa gave a small shrug. "I told you: Q'Daer's sick. I need help caring for him."
Torgan actually took a step back away from him. "How can we help you with that?"
"There's only the six of us," Grinsa said. He sensed the kernel of an idea forming and he followed his instincts. "We'll need everyone's help."
"Well, the Mettai-"
"Besh, Sirj, and I will have to start working on a cure. It's probably not the plague, but just in case it is…" He shrugged again.
"What about Jasha and me?"
"I'm going to send Jasha for help. You'll stay with Q'Daer. He'll need water, a compress on his head to keep his fever down. And you'll need to keep the fire burning."
"Jasha can do that! I can get help just as easily…" He trailed off seeing that Grinsa was shaking his head.
"You're determined to escape, Torgan. You've made that clear. I can't send you off anywhere." He started walking back to the fire and Q'Daer, leaving Torgan with little choice but to follow. "No, you have to be the one to care for him."
"But I can't be!" Torgan said. "The plague… his power will be out of control! You saw what happened in S'Vralna! I'll be killed!"
"We don't know that it's the plague, Torgan."
The merchant opened his mouth, but quickly clamped it shut again. Grinsa halted and grabbed the man's arm. "Or do we?"
Torgan wrenched his arm out of Grinsa's grasp. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice quavering.
"What did you do to him, Torgan?"
"I didn't do anything!"
Grinsa summoned a bright flame to the palm of his hand and held it just in front of the merchant's face. Torgan flinched, but before he could step back Grinsa took hold of the front of his shirt, wrapping his fist in the cloth.
"You're lying!" he said. "You did it this past morning, when my back was turned and you were rooting around in Q'Daer's things. Now tell me what you did!"
"Nothing! It must have been the Mettai! They're the ones with magic! It was their curse to begin with!"
Grinsa moved the flame closer to his face, so that it singed some of the man's hair. Torgan closed his eyes and turned his face away, wincing at anticipated pain.
After a moment Grinsa let the fire die out and took hold of Torgan's arm again. "Come on," he said, dragging the merchant to where he'd left the young Weaver. This time Torgan didn't fight him.
Besh, Sirj, and Jasha were already standing beside the fire, all of them looking down at the Fal'Borna who had made his way to his sleeping roll. Q'Daer lay on his side, huddled in his blanket, his legs drawn up so that he looked more like a child than a warrior. His face was bathed in sweat and he appeared to be trembling. He had his eyes open and he merely stared at the flames dancing before him.
When Grinsa and Torgan stepped into the firelight, the three who were standing looked up at them. Jasha frowned at the way Grinsa was holding on to the merchant.
"What's going on?" he asked Grinsa. "What's he done now?"
Grinsa indicated the Fal'Borna with a small nod. "I think he's responsible for what's happened to Q'Daer."
"I'm not!" Torgan said. He pointed at the Mettai. "It's them! They created this plague! They're the ones-"
Grinsa slapped his face, silencing him, and leaving a livid imprint of his hand on the merchant's cheek. "Say that again, and you'll get worse."
"You should back away, Forelander," Besh said. "If this is the plague, you can't be anywhere near the Fal'Borna."
"It is the plague," Q'Daer said, his voice even weaker than it had been before. "What else can it be?"
"Please, Grinsa," Besh said.
Grinsa stared down at Q'Daer for several moments. Finally he nodded, releasing Torgan and shoving him toward the Mettai. "Watch him," he said. "He did this. I'm sure of it." He backed away from the fire, but he didn't go far. "Jasha, I want you to search Q'Daer's carry sack."
"For what?" the young merchant asked.
Grinsa shook his head. "I don't know. Anything that might explain this."
Jasha nodded and walked over to where the young Weaver's belongings were piled. But Grinsa watched Torgan, who just stared at the fire, not looking particularly concerned.
Whatever it was wouldn't be in the carry sack. And since Grinsa and Q'Daer had eaten from the sack of food, it wouldn't be in there, either. Which left…
"Damn," Grinsa muttered. "Stop looking, Jasha. It's not in there. It's wrapped up in Q'Daer's sleeping roll or his blanket."
Torgan's eyes snapped up to Grinsa's face. He looked away a moment later, but that one instant was enough to tell Grinsa that he was right.
Q'Daer twisted his head to look up at Grinsa, this simple action seeming to take a great effort. "You're sure he did this?" he asked hoarsely. "It could have been the Mettai."
"You see?" Torgan said. "He knows!"
"It wasn't the Mettai," Grinsa said, sensing that Besh and Sirj had both bristled. "Torgan was in your things this morning. He said he wanted food and I let him get something from your bag. At least that's what I thought I was letting him do. I'm sorry. This is my fault."
"Here it is."
They all turned toward Jasha, who was holding up what appeared to be a small scrap of basket. It was burned at the edges-blackened, like that shadow Grinsa had seen on Torgan's hand-and it was small enough to be hidden in the merchant's fist.
"Where did you get that?" Grinsa demanded glaring at Torgan once more.
"I told you, I didn't-"
"Don't say it, Torgan!" Grinsa leveled a rigid finger at the man. "I swear I'll snap your neck if you do! Besh and Sirj wouldn't do something like this. But if they had, they'd have used magic. They'd have no need to use a piece of one of those baskets. Now, where'd you get it?"
Torgan said nothing.
"It's from that village we found," Jasha said, examining the scrap in the firelight. "I remember seeing this one."
"Is that true?" Grinsa asked.
Torgan had the look of a cornered animal. His eyes flicked back and forth between Jasha and Grinsa, and his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, as if he wanted to speak but feared what would happen if he did.
"I can compel you to answer," Grinsa said. "I have magic-mind-bending it's called-it will make you tell the truth."
"Don't do it that way," Q'Daer said, closing his eyes. "Use shaping. Break his fingers one at a time. Break his ribs."
Grinsa nodded. "All right."
"No!" Torgan said. He licked his lips. "It's true. That's where it came from. That village. I knew you were going to kill me eventually. This was the only chance I had."
"You bloody idiot," Jasha said, shaking his head, a look of disgust on his face. "You're a dead man for sure. And good riddance to you."
"We can punish him later," Besh said, turning to Grinsa. "And whatever you decide in that regard will be fine with us. But what are we going to do to save your friend?"
Grinsa gazed at the Fal'Borna. He seemed to be fading by the moment. And Grinsa knew that it was only a matter of time before he lost control of his magic. Once that began to happen, they'd have little hope of keeping the man alive.
"You and Sirj need to find some way to combat this curse of Lici's. No one here blames you for any of this, but the magic that created it was Mettai, and so the answer is going to lie in your powers, not mine."
Besh nodded. "Very well. You'll stay away from him?"
Grinsa nodded. He didn't feel at all sick. He'd been fortunate beyond measure; he had no intention of endangering himself by getting too close to Q'Daer. "Yes, I'll stay as far away as I am now. But even from this distance, I can use my healing magic on him. It may be that I can cure him, or at least keep him from getting worse."
Chapter 24
&nbs
p; Besh had always considered himself an accomplished conjurer. Whenever he needed to use magic, he found the correct spell to achieve what he set out to do. He couldn't recall the last time he had tried a spell that failed. Even when he was fighting Lici, having to meet her assaults with his defenses, he had managed to ward himself and, ultimately, to defeat her.
Unlike some Mettai he knew, however, he had never considered himself a student of blood magic. Some Mettai spent goodly amounts of both time and blood experimenting with spells, teaching themselves new conjurings, perfecting the magic they already knew. Besh had never done any of that; to his knowledge, neither had Sirj.
Now, suddenly, they not only needed to create a new spell that would combat Lici's plague, but they needed to do so quickly, before the young Fal'Borna succumbed to the disease. Besh wasn't even sure he knew where to begin, though he did have an idea.
Once more Grinsa entrusted the two Mettai with keeping watch on Torgan, and for good measure the Forelander instructed Jasha to go with them as well.
"I'll join you soon," Grinsa told Besh. "I still believe our best hope for finding a magical cure lies in combining our powers. But I need to try this first," he went on, nodding toward Q'Daer. "I may be able to give us a bit more time."
Besh frowned. With all that he had seen in S'Vralna, he couldn't help thinking that Grinsa should remain as far from the Fal'Borna as possible. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked.
"I told you, I won't go near him. But my healing magic can work at a distance. I can help him without endangering myself."
The man sounded very sure of himself, and Besh knew almost nothing about Qirsi magic. But still, something about this troubled him. He remembered hearing… something. He couldn't recall the words, though he could almost make out the voice.
"Besh?" Grinsa said.
"I wish you wouldn't do this," the old man said, cursing his faulty memory.
"I wish I didn't have to. But I do."
Besh shook his head slowly, trying to remember. But at last he gave up. "All right then," he agreed. "We'll do what we can to undo Lici's curse."
He beckoned to Sirj, intending to go back to their cart and the small fire they had built beside it. Torgan followed reluctantly, and Jasha turned to leave the Qirsi's fire. But as he did he appeared to lift his hand, as if to toss something into the flames.
"No, don't!" Besh called to him, realizing just in time what it was the man was holding.
Jasha hesitated, looking first at the Mettai and then at the scrap of basket he still held. "Shouldn't I destroy it?"
"It might help us to have it," Besh said. "It's the only piece of Lici's spell that remains."
The young merchant turned to Grinsa. "What do you think?"
"I'd like to see it destroyed," the Forelander said, "but Besh is right. If he thinks it can help, we should keep it."
Jasha stared down at the thing he held and after a moment closed his fist around it. When he walked over to where Besh and the others were waiting, he kept a good distance between himself and Grinsa.
"We have a chance now to get away," Torgan said quietly as they walked. "The Forelander will be busy with Q'Daer. Neither of them will be watching us."
Besh opened his mouth, intending to tell the man to be silent, but to his surprise, Sirj beat him to it.
"One more word out of you, Torgan," Sirj said, sounding more menacing than Besh had ever heard him, "and I swear I'll cut your throat."
"I wouldn't expect you to understand," the merchant said. "Somehow the white-hairs trust you both, despite the fact that this is a Mettai curse that's killing their kind. Magic may he the only thing that matters to any of you, but Jasha and I-"
The blow came so swiftly that at first Besh didn't even understand what had happened. One moment Torgan was walking beside them, and the next he was on his back, his hands raised to his face, blood running over his fingers. Sirj stood over him, both of his fists clenched.
"Say something else," the young Mettai said. "Give me another reason to hit you."
Torgan made no move to get up. Instead he pulled his hands away from his face and stared at the blood covering them. "Look what you did to me!" he said, his voice sounding so thick that Besh wondered if Sirj had broken his nose. "You Mettai bastard!"
Sirj pulled his knife from his belt.
"Sirj, no!" Besh said.
"After all he's done, he deserves to die!"
Besh nodded. "Yes, he probably does. But that's for the Qirsi to decide. If you kill him, you'll have to live with that for the rest of your life."
"I could live with killing this man."
Besh had no doubt that he meant it. But after a moment Sirj resheathed his blade. Then he leaned over and hauled the merchant to his feet.
"Next time I will kill you," he said looking Torgan in his good eye. "Even Besh won't be able to stop me."
"Next time I won't try to stop him," Besh said.
Torgan glared at him. Sirj grinned darkly.
They started walking again, but had only taken a few steps when they heard someone cry out behind them.
Besh and Sirj shared a look.
"Was that the Forelander?" Sirj asked.
Before Besh could answer he heard someone coughing. No. Retching. Besh closed his eyes, the memory coming to him at a last. It was the n'qlae. That's whose voice he had been hearing in his mind, the words unclear, the warning wasted.
My husband believed that the disease struck at our magic.
Of course. That was how the plague had spread. That was why the children had been spared. That was Lici's genius.
"Yes," Besh said, turning and breaking into a run. "That was Grinsa."
He'd been prepared for Q'Daer to fight him. They had been rivals since the day they met, and though at times it seemed that they had reached some sort of understanding, their interactions remained difficult, to say the least. Healing a fever required that he enter the man's mind, and that demanded a level of trust that he and Q'Daer had never reached. He'd also thought it possible that the illness might rob the young Weaver of his senses, so that even had he wanted to be healed he would be unable to recognize Grinsa's touch or understand that the gleaner was trying to help him. He'd even prepared himself for the possibility that it was already too late, that even if Q'Daer allowed him into his thoughts, the disease had already progressed too far to be defeated.
But it never occurred to Grinsa that this would happen. It should have, of course. He knew that the plague attacked Qirsi magic; one needed only see the wreckage that once had been S'Vralna to understand that much. Who would have imagined, though, that Lici's curse could be so insidious?
He had called out to Q'Daer before beginning.
"I'm going to try to heal you," he said, sitting on the ground several fourspans from the Fal'Borna and the fire that burned beside him. "I'm going to try to cool your fever. Perhaps I can even stop the illness from getting any worse."
The young Weaver hadn't responded.
"Q'Daer? Can you hear me?"
Nothing.
He knew the Fal'Borna couldn't be dead. Not yet. Not until his magic poured from his body, and with it his life. There seemed nothing left for him to do but make the attempt.
Closing his eyes, Grinsa reached forth with his healing magic and touched Q'Daer's mind.
He knew instantly that he had made a terrible mistake. Entering the young Weaver's mind was like stepping into fire. Abruptly it seemed that his flesh was burning. Grinsa opened his mouth to scream and he felt his lungs being seared by the flames. Q'Daer stood before him amid the blaze, his skin red and shining with sweat, but not blackened as it should have been, as Grinsa felt certain his own must be.
"You shouldn't be here," the Fal'Borna said.
"I was trying to heal you."
"I can't be healed. And now you've killed yourself."
"Not yet I haven't. We can heal each other. We can pit our magic against the curse."
But Q'Daer shook his
head, looking like a ghoul standing amid Bian's fires. "Don't you think I've tried," he said. "I'm a Weaver, too, remember? Our magic does nothing against this plague."
Grinsa refused to give in. He turned his healing magic onto himself, trying to grapple with the fever that already gripped his mind. He had healed others who were ill, fevered, near death. He knew how to quell the flames that might ravage a febrile mind.
But nothing he tried worked against this pestilence. It wasn't that Lici's magic was stronger than his own. It didn't resist him, it didn't overpower him. It simply eluded him. Every time he reached out with his power to take hold of the illness, it seemed to slither from his grasp, like some demon serpent from the Underrealm. He tried to pour healing magic over his entire mind, his entire body, as if dousing a fire with a torrent of water. But the serpent wrapped itself around him, withstanding the deluge. When he had exhausted himself, the beast was still there. The flames still raged around him.
"You see?" Q'Daer said. "We're helpless against this plague. The Mettai witch knew what she was doing. She did what all the Eandi armies of the last thousand years couldn't do. She defeated the Fal'Borna. And now more of her kind march with a new dark-eye force. Our people are doomed."
"Not yet," Grinsa said again. But despair lay heavy on his heart. He thought of Cresenne and Bryntelle and felt that he might weep. How could he have failed them this way? He couldn't even reach for his beloved to apologize, to say good-bye, for surely that touch of his magic upon her mind would sicken her, too.
"There's nothing more you can do here, Forelander," Q'Daer said. "Leave me. Let me die in peace."
He wanted to refuse, but he hadn't the will. Not anymore. He merely nodded.
"Die well, Grinsa. We'll see each other in the Deceiver's realm. May he be kind to both of us."
Grinsa briefly met the man's gaze. He said nothing, feeling that to wish Q'Daer a noble death was to surrender, which he still refused to do. He withdrew from the man's mind.