The Sorcerer's Plague bots-1

by DAVID B. COE

  He nodded, regarding the horses for another moment before looking at Grinsa again. "Are you bound to a clan, Forelander?"

  "Not yet, no."

  "But you intend to be?"

  "Perhaps."

  "You're a Weaver."

  The guard in Yorl also had known that Grinsa was a Weaver, and though Cresenne understood that Weavers were far more common here than in the Forelands, it still took her by surprise to hear people speak of them so openly. Weavers were feared in the Forelands. Here it seemed they were openly revered.

  "That's right."

  He glanced at Cresenne. "And is she as well?"

  Something in the way he asked this told Cresenne that he knew the answer already, but felt the need to ask, not for her sake, but for Grinsa's. An instant later she remembered the Eandi guard asking the same thing. Were Weavers here expected to be joined to each other?

  "No, she's not."

  Again, the man nodded. "The Qirsi of rival clans are not permitted to cross Fal'Borna land without leave from the Tesserate."

  "I've already told you: We belong to no clan."

  "But you also say that you might bind yourself to one."

  "We might bind ourselves to the Fal'Borna," Grinsa said.

  The man grinned, though not kindly. "That's not a decision for you to make. The Fal'Borna choose who we will and will not accept into our clan."

  "Fine then," Grinsa said coldly. "Where will I find this Tesserate of whom you speak?"

  "Thamia, on the north shore of the Ofirean. And the Tesserate isn't a person. It's a council. It could take several turns to gather all its members and the clanlord so that they can render a decision."

  "What is it you want?" Grinsa asked.

  "What makes you think I want anything?"

  Grinsa didn't answer, at least not directly. But an instant later Cresenne heard the splintering of wood, four times in rapid succession. And as she watched, the heads of the men's spears fell to the ground. It wasn't what she would have done in his position, and she could only hope that he hadn't provoked the men.

  Grinsa didn't appear concerned. He grinned, just as the Fal'Borna had done moments before. "As you say, friend: I'm a Weaver. And as such, I'm not someone to be trifled with."

  The man's grin had vanished, but he didn't look particularly troubled by what Grinsa had done. He nodded once more. "Good, Forelander. Very good. A Fal'Borna Weaver would have gotten to it faster, but you're a stranger here, and I'll assume that you were trying to show some patience."

  "He was testing you?" Cresenne asked, looking at Grinsa.

  "He's a Weaver, too," Grinsa said, his eyes never leaving the man's face.

  Another Weaver. At least she'd been right in assuming he knew without asking that she wasn't a Weaver. A Weaver could sense without asking what magics another Qirsi wielded.

  "My name is Q'Daer."

  He dismounted and stooped to pick up the head of his spear, which looked to be made of bone. His companions did the same, and a moment later Grinsa dismounted as well. He cast a quick look Cresenne's way, indicating that she should, too. He took Bryntelle from her, and she climbed off of her mount. Only then, facing the four Fal'Borna, did she realize how short they were. They looked formidable on their mounts, but even this Weaver, Q'Daer, was nearly half a head shorter than Grinsa. Q'Daer brushed the dirt and grass off his spear tip and slipped it into a small pocket on the side of his pants.

  "A Fal'Borna wastes nothing," he said. He extended both hands to

  Grinsa. When Grinsa put his hands out, the man gripped Grinsa's wrists in such a way that Grinsa could do the same. "That is a proper Fal'Borna greeting."

  "You honor us," Grinsa said.

  "You're a Weaver," the man said, as if that explained everything. "A

  Weaver with no clan-" He stopped himself and smiled thinly. "I'm getting ahead of myself. The a'laq will want to see you. We can talk after."

  "The a'laq?"

  "Every sept has an a'laq, a leader. Ours is named E'Menua, though you're to call him A'Laq."

  Q'Daer returned to his horse and swung himself onto the animal's back. "Follow," he said.

  The other Fal'Borna remounted and rode after the man, leaving Grinsa and Cresenne little choice but to do the same.

  "That went better than I thought it would," Cresenne said, as she got back onto her mount. "Particularly after you broke their spears."

  He nodded, handing Bryntelle up to her. "We're not safe yet. If this E'Menua doesn't like us we'll be lucky to get away. From what I hear, the Fal'Borna aren't gentle with those they consider their enemies."

  They rode after the four men, following them to the middle of the settlement. Once again, people stared at them-it seemed to Cresenne that since reaching the Southlands, they had been the objects of endless curiosity. But at least here, she sensed none of the hostility that she had felt in Yorl and the other Eandi villages. Men and women, young and old-they all stared at them, but for the most part their expressions were mild, and even those who looked at them warily did so seemingly without hatred.

  And in truth, Cresenne couldn't help staring back at them. She had never seen so many Qirsi in one place-there were hundreds of them, and not an Eandi face to be seen. Just white hair and pairs of pale eyes in more shades of yellow than she had ever known existed. Like the men who rode out to greet them, all of these Qirsi had light golden skin. They're beautiful, she thought to herself. They're the most beautiful people I've ever seen.

  Grinsa seemed to notice as well. "In all my years of living with the Eandi," he said to her in a whisper, "I never felt as conscious of how white my skin is as I do right now."

  She just nodded, and they rode on.

  Q'Daer dismounted before a large circular structure. It was made of wood, and it had animal skins pulled taut all around it. Cresenne saw Grinsa look the building up and down, admiration in his eyes. At last, he nodded.

  "Sturdy, secure against wind and rain, but light, and probably very easy to take down and carry."

  "All our z'kals are made so," Q'Daer told him. "We move with the herds. We can't spare time to build heavier homes and dismantle them. And as I told you, the Fal'Borna waste nothing."

  "Don't you get cold during the Snows?"

  "Each z'kal has a fire circle within, and a vent at the top for smoke." He grinned. "And if it grows too cold, well, that's why Qirsar gave us women, isn't it?"

  Grinsa smiled halfheartedly and glanced at Cresenne, who wasn't smiling at all.

  "I'll tell the a'laq that you're here," the man said. He entered the shelter through a flap that was held in place by a series of hooks, also made of bone.

  "What are we going to say to this a'laq?" Cresenne asked in a low voice, surveying the settlement. "I'm not ready to cast my lot with these people, but I'm not sure that we can tell him we'd like to speak with the other clans before deciding who we want to live with."

  "I don't know. We don't even know for certain that we'll be asked to join their clan. Let's just wait and see."

  Cresenne nodded, but she could feel her apprehension growing by the moment.

  Before long, Q'Daer emerged from the shelter and nodded to Grinsa. "He'll see you now."

  Both of them started forward, but the man held up a hand and shook his head. "Your concubine can wait out here."

  Cresenne gaped at him. "His what?" she demanded, her voice rising so that others in the settlement turned to look at her.

  Q'Daer glanced at her, his expression infuriatingly placid. Then he faced Grinsa again. "It would be best if she remained out here."

  But Grinsa shook his head. "I'm sorry, Q'Daer. If the a'laq wants to see us together, so be it. But I won't go in alone." "The a'laq doesn't give audiences to concubines." "I'm not his concubine!"

  "She's not my concubine!"

  They said these simultaneously, shared a brief look, then faced the

  Fal'Borna again.

  "She's not a Weaver."

  "No, she's not. But i
n the Forelands, that doesn't matter."

  Q'Daer shook his head, clearly unnerved by all of this. Cresenne wasn't certain whether he was merely offended, or if he actually feared delivering these tidings to the a'laq. "It's not wise to defy an a'laq, Forelander," he said at last. "Particularly a man like E'Menua."

  "Then perhaps it's best that we move on, without meeting him."

  "No," the man said. He looked at them both, his lips pressed thin. Then he went back into the shelter.

  "You knew about this concubine thing, didn't you?" Cresenne said quietly.

  A small smile crept across Grinsa's face. "You said you didn't want to hear."

  "Yes, I did. But I think you enjoyed that just a bit too much." He laughed.

  Q'Daer emerged again just seconds later, appearing relieved. "He'll see you both," he said. He watched them expectantly, no doubt wondering why they weren't more pleased.

  Wordlessly, they stepped past him and into the shelter.

  It was warm within, and it smelled strongly of smoke and cooked meat and sweat. A fire burned low within a ring of stones in the center of the space, and on the far side of the fire, directly opposite the entrance, sat an old Qirsi man. He was dressed much as Q'Daer had been, down to the thin necklace and white stone. Like the other men they had seen, he wore his long white hair tied back from his face. Even sitting, he appeared powerful, with a broad chest and thick neck. His eyes were large and round, like those of a cat, and his face tapered to a thin, sharp chin, giving him the look of some preternaturally intelligent beast.

  Cresenne and Grinsa stood just inside the entryway for several moments as the a'laq regarded them. The fire popped loudly and Bryntelle chattered as she stared at the flames, but otherwise no one made a sound. At last, the man motioned for them to sit.

  "I don't usually allow the concubines of other men into my z'kal," he said in a gravelly voice, once they had settled themselves beside the stone circle.

  Cresenne fully intended to fire back that she didn't usually tolerate being called a concubine, but Grinsa laid a hand on her arm and she managed to keep silent.

  "Cresenne isn't my concubine, A'Laq. She's my wife." "She isn't a Weaver. She can't be your wife."

  "Those are your customs, not ours."

  He grinned at that, his face harsh in the dim glow of the fire. "You're in the Southlands now, Forelander. Our customs are your customs. Have the two of you been formally joined?"

  Grinsa only hesitated for an instant, but it was enough. "In all ways that matter, Cresenne is my wife."

  "Ah," the a'laq said, nodding slowly. "I see. There is room, then, for discussion."

  "No," Grinsa said. "There's not."

  "Are you bound to a clan yet, Forelander?" the a'laq asked, as if the previous matter had been settled.

  "We've only been on the Qirsi side of the Silverwater for a few days. The Fal'Borna are the first clanfolk we've encountered."

  "How fortunate for you," the man said, seemingly without irony. "We look forward to exploring other parts of the land as well, and perhaps meeting other folk from other clans."

  The a'laq's smile faded slowly. "Why would you want to do that?" "We're new to the Southlands. We're curious."

  For a long time, the man said nothing. He held two fingers to his lips, tapping them absently. At last, he reached for a small log and threw it onto the fire, sending a flurry of bright orange sparks into the air.

  "I have some idea of how Weavers are treated in the Forelands. I know they're feared, even hated. I know that many have been put to death over the centuries. Isn't that so?"

  Grinsa nodded.

  "Perhaps you've noticed that their status here among the clans is somewhat different."

  "I've gathered as much, yes."

  "A Weaver who comes among us unbound to any clan is rare indeed. Weavers are something of a commodity, not like drel, mind you. They're not common chattel. They're gold. They're gems. They are prized by all. This is why we insist that Weavers join with other Weavers, so that they might beget yet more Weavers." His eyes flicked toward Cresenne. "Your… your wife is very beautiful."

  He said the word "wife" with such condescension that Cresenne almost wished he'd go back to calling her a concubine.

  "I can see why you chose her," he went on. "But she is far less likely to give birth to Weavers than another Weaver would be."

  "I understand the reasoning behind your custom, A'Laq."

  "I'm sure you do. But this is not my point. Unbound Weavers are rare, and to have one appear in our sept as you have is a great boon. You wish to leave, to explore other parts of the Southlands. But we're determined that you should stay."

  Cresenne felt icy fingers closing around her heart, and she clutched Bryntelle closer to her breast, drawing a low cry from the child. Grinsa's eyes, shining in the brightened glow of the fire, were fixed on the man, but his expression hadn't changed.

  "Are we to be your captives, then?" he demanded.

  The a'laq eyed him briefly. "What happened to your shoulder, Forelander?"

  Grinsa's good hand reached up to his deformed shoulder and rubbed it gently, as if he could feel the pain again. Cresenne knew what had happened, of course. It was shattered by the Weaver who led the conspiracy against the Eandi courts of the Forelands. Grinsa managed to destroy the Weaver despite his injury, but the shoulder, which had been broken once before by a servant of the Weaver, never healed properly.

  "I hurt it battling a Weaver," Grinsa answered, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  The a'laq nodded. "I thought as much. I sensed that the injury had been caused by magic. And who else other than another Weaver could do such a thing to you?" He gestured toward the entrance to his shelter. "There are three Weavers out there. And of course I'm one, too. We have four in our sept. Four Weavers. There are other Fal'Borna septs larger than ours, but few have so many. I have three children, and all of them may prove to be Weavers. And still I find myself wanting more. I'm an old man, with only a few years left. There should be Weavers to take my place."

  "You didn't answer my question," Grinsa said. "Are we captives?"

  But Cresenne had the sense that the man had answered. There were four Weavers here. How was Grinsa supposed to fight their way free past four Weavers?

  "You're our guests," the a'laq said.

  "Guests are free to leave whenever they wish."

  The a'laq's eyes flashed. "Captives are treated poorly. You won't be. We'll have a z'kal built for you by nightfall. You'll eat as the rest of us do. Have you tasted rilda?"

  "No," Grinsa said thickly.

  "Then this will be a night to remember. For both of you," he added, with a quick glance at Cresenne.

  For some time the two men sat staring at one another, neither of their gazes wavering.

  "Cresenne is to be accepted as my wife," Grinsa said at last. E'Menua seemed to consider this briefly. Then he nodded. "At least for the time being."

  Grinsa shook his head. "For as long as we're here. Or else I'll try to leave right now. The other Weavers may stop me, but you won't. And then your sept will only have three, rather than five."

  Cresenne expected the a'laq to rage at him. She wouldn't have been surprised if they'd started to do battle right there in the shelter.

  Instead, the old man began to laugh. "Very well then," he said. "You'll make a fine Fal'Borna, Forelander." He laughed again, gesturing at his crotch. "You have the stones for it." He waved a hand at the entryway. "Now, go. We'll speak again later."

  Cresenne and Grinsa looked at each other, then stood and left the shelter. Outside, the sun seemed overly bright and the air felt cold. A gust of wind made Cresenne shiver.

  "Now what?" she said.

  "Now we find something to eat."

  She looked at him sharply.

  "There's nothing else we can do, Cresenne. Not today. For better or worse, we're Fal'Borna now."

  "Which I suppose makes me your concubine."

  He raised an eye
brow. "True. Maybe there's an upside to this." She punched his arm, hard.

  Chapter 13

  CTIJOR'S NECK, SOUTH OF TURTLELAKE

  The skies above her had turned grey days ago, blotting out stars and sun, the red and white of the moons and the blue Harvest mornings. Occasionally it rained on her. Most times it was merely cold and windy. And grey. Color had vanished from her world, or so it sometimes seemed. But no, there was color still. The primrose yellow and fiery oranges, the lavenders and larkspur purple, the berry-stain reds and that startling indigo she'd found the previous year. And so many shades of brown-earth, straw, pale gold like the sunbaked grasses of the plain, warm brown like Mettai skin, flax and bay and chestnut and dead leaves and all browns in between.

  Yes, there was still color in her world. Not in the sky or in the villages or in the people she encountered. But there, in her baskets. A world of color, a lifetime of color, in the weaving she had done, in the spells she had cast, in the damage she had done thus far and would do again.

  She had gone farther west, beyond the Companion Lakes, deeper into Qirsi land. Always she remained to the north, though, because this was where the Y'Qatt had settled. It was hard land. Uncompromising cold during the Snows, stubborn winds that swept down off the mountains during the Harvest and the early Planting, and during the Growing a relentlessly hot sun that sucked moisture from the earth, just as the Y'Qatt believed magic sucked life from their bodies. The storms, when they came, their rain like mercy, were fierce, violent affairs. There was no sympathy in this land, no respite from its cruelty. How well she knew. This was the land that was left to outcasts. Of course the Y'Qatt would settle here. Their white-hair brothers and sisters to the south would think nothing of ceding this land to them. Just as the Eandi had ceded the land near the eastern Companion Lakes to the Mettai.

  It should have occurred to her long ago, as she prepared for this last great undertaking of her life. But only after leaving Kirayde had she started to understand what should have been so obvious. She'd seen only the differences-Y'Qatt and Mettai were to each other as wraiths of the night were to creatures of day, as death was to life, as bone and dust were to blood and flesh. But as she spoke to the man in Runnelwick, the one who'd called her "Mettai" the way he might have called another woman "whore," it had come to her like lightning on a steamy day. Y'Qatt and Mettai-opposites yes, but as two edges of the same sword. Both were outcasts from their own races, but also they were bridges to the other race: Eandi sorcerers, Qirsi who rejected magic.