The Sorcerer's Plague bots-1

by DAVID B. COE

  "Not long. A matter of days. You should also know," she said, "that most of those who survived were children, just as with the outbreak in Tivston."

  "It has to be the magic," S'Doryn said. "That's the only way to explain it."

  "The only way?" asked one of the council members.

  "I believe so. This is a disease that kills Qirsi adults but spares their

  children, and the Eandi who spread it. How else could that be possible?"

  "Then it must be the Mettai," said another member of the council.

  "A curse of some sort. The Eandi couldn't do such a thing on their own."

  "I told you this would lead to war."

  S'Doryn looked at T'Noth, who was eyeing him closely, his expression grim.

  "I told S'Plaed about Jynna," U'Selle was saying to them all, quieting the rising din in the room. "I also told him about the Mettai woman. It seems our people are under attack, though in a way that none of us has seen before, or even considered. Well, fine then. Our foes will find that the strength of the Fal'Borna hasn't slackened at all in the years since the last Blood Wars. Others will be watching now for the Mettai witch who struck at our friends in Tivston, just as we are, just as we will also be watching for this demon merchant, this Torgan Plye. If they're on the plain, they won't live long." A dark smile touched her face and was gone. "Enemies of the Fal'Borna never do."

  Chapter 18

  FAL'BORNA LAND, THE CENTRAL PLAIN

  Grinsa and Cresenne's first days among the Fal'Borna weren't quite as difficult as Grinsa had feared they might be. Yes, they were captives; there could be no denying that. Had their welcome from E'Menua, the sept's a'laq, been friendlier, had they been given the option of staying with the sept or moving on as they saw fit, Grinsa and Cresenne might very well have chosen to remain, at least for a time. From all they had heard from R'Shev, D'Chul, and the other merchants, it seemed the Fal'Borna were a hard, uncompromising people, and certainly their captivity seemed further evidence of this. But the Fal'Borna could also be friendly, open, and generous.

  As the a'laq had promised, their shelter was up and ready for them before nightfall on that first day they reached the sept. They were given food and wine, including roasted rilda, which might have been the most delicious meat Grinsa had ever tasted. And over the course of those first few days family after family came to welcome them to the village. The women cooed at Bryntelle and spoke to Cresenne of their own children and all they had learned over their years of caring for infants. The men ignored both Cresenne and Bryntelle, instead vying with one another for Grinsa's attention. There could be little doubt that all the attention they received, perhaps even the kindnesses shown to Cresenne, whom all thought of as merely Grinsa's concubine, was due to the fact that he was a Weaver. It was unclear whether the Fal'Borna hoped to convince him to remain with the sept of his own accord, or merely assumed that he would remain and were seeking to curry favor with their newest Weaver.

  In the end, the Fal'Borna's motivations mattered little. Knowing that they were not permitted to leave made Grinsa and Cresenne think of leaving nearly all the time. The courtesies shown them by the men and women of the sept were particularly hollow for Cresenne, who knew that had Grinsa not been a Weaver, they would have ignored her completely. Indeed, even as they complimented her on how beautiful Bryntelle was, and how healthy the babe appeared to be, some of the younger women also cast looks at Grinsa, as if hoping that they might find a way into his bed as well. This at least is what she told him their second night in the village, as they lay alone in their shelter, listening to Bryntelle's steady breathing and the distant howling of a wolf.

  Under other circumstances, he might have thought that she was imagining this. But one of the men who had been speaking to him earlier in the night had as much as offered Grinsa his daughter.

  "Many of our Weavers have taken two, even three concubines," the man told him, explaining the offer as he might have explained the Harvest weather or the rising and falling of the price of grain in the marketplace. "A Fal'Borna Weaver spreads his seed as he pleases. For the good of our people, of course."

  "Of course," Grinsa had said, smiling pleasantly. "But Cresenne isn't my concubine. She's my wife."

  The man's eyes widened. "Oh! Forgive me! I didn't know she was a Weaver as well. I thought… Well, I was mistaken."

  Grinsa should have let it go at that, but regardless of whether they were to remain, he didn't want to have any of them thinking him a liar.

  "She's not a Weaver," he told the man. "Where we come from, Weavers are free to be joined to whomever they choose."

  "Well," the man said, smiling in return, "you're here now."

  It was much the same thing E'Menua had said to them the day before.

  "I have you," Grinsa told Cresenne that night, kissing her brow. "Why would I need another concubine?"

  She laughed, though she also kicked him under the blanket.

  "You're finding all of this far too amusing," she said, and while she was still smiling, he could hear the tightness in her voice.

  "I'm sorry. Really. This can't be easy for you."

  "Half the time, it's like I'm not even here. They talk about finding a wife for you from one of the other septs, about how your arrival here means so much to them all."

  "It seems that some of the women have been kind to you."

  She nodded. "Some of them have. But I'm starting to suspect that the ones who are nicest are the ones who have been concubines themselves. And they're kind to me right up until I insist that I'm not just your concubine. As soon as I say anything to that effect, they grow cold, distant." A bitter smile touched her lips. "It seems like I'm better off playing along. Maybe I should help them find you a wife."

  "I have a wife."

  She looked at him. "No, Grinsa, you don't. I know that you love me, and I love you, too. But the fact is we were never joined. With all that happened in the turns before we left the Forelands, we never found the time. And even if we had, I'm not certain that it would count for much here."

  He felt a tightness in his throat. "What are you saying?" he asked.

  She smiled at what she saw on his face, and kissed him softly on the lips. "Nothing terrible. I may not be a Weaver, but I'll fight with every bit of strength and magic I have if they try to take you away from me. I'm just saying that we're going to have to tread carefully here. We might even have to play along for a time, let them think that you're open to being joined."

  "Cresenne-"

  She held a finger to his lips, then kissed him again. "It's all right. We can do this. Just for a little while, just long enough for us to figure out how to get away. It might be the only hope we have."

  "That all sounds fine for me," he said. "But what about you? Can you bear being treated as a concubine for that long?"

  "I'll manage it." She shrugged, a small grin lighting her face. "I may have to convince some other Weaver that I'd be willing to become his concubine. Just to keep up appearances, of course. Although the men here are very handsome."

  Grinsa smiled. "Is that so?"

  She nodded, giggling as he started to kiss her neck.

  "If you ask me," he said, "they're just short."

  Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. "They're tall enough."

  He kissed her again, and this time she held him, kissing him back deeply.

  "We'll get out of here," he whispered, as she nestled against him and closed her eyes. "I'm not sure how yet, but we will."

  "I know," she said, sounding sleepy. "I just hope we can find a way to leave without making the Fal'Borna our enemies. I have a feeling that would be dangerous."

  The next few days were much like their first among the Fal'Borna. As time went on, and they were accepted into the community, they came to feel less like curiosities. Several of the women made clear to Cresenne that she was expected to work with the rest of them at various tasks, be it tanning rilda skins, or grinding wild grain into meal for breads, or gat
hering roots and greens from the small copses that covered the nearby hills. Other women with young children, even those with babes younger than Bryntelle, left them in the care of some of the girls who were not yet old enough for such work, and they told Cresenne to do the same. At first, she later told Grinsa, she was reluctant, but seeing how happy all the children appeared to be, she eventually relented.

  For his part, Grinsa was not expected to do any labor. Instead, the other Weavers expected him to sit with them outside the a'laq's shelter, smoking pipeweed and watching as the other men and women of the sept went about their daily tasks. The idea of it troubled him and at first he demurred, offering to help some of the other men, who were stretching finished skins over wooden poles for a new shelter. He quickly realized, though, that he was merely making these men uncomfortable and actually hindering their efforts. After just a short time, he returned to where the other two Weavers sat.

  Neither of them said anything to him as he sat back down, and that suited him fine. He didn't much feel like talking. He could only think how eager he was to get away from this sept, indeed, from all of the Fal'Borna. More to the point, he had nothing to say to the two young Weavers. Though others in the sept had attempted to win his friendship, these two, Q'Daer and L'Norr, had not. Instead, they'd been hostile, as if Grinsa had given offense in some way and they had yet to forgive him. It hadn't taken Grinsa long to realize that they were jealous of him. While others in the sept were eager to welcome another Weaver into their community, seeing his arrival as a boon, Q'Daer and L'Norr saw only a new rival who, because he was older, and perhaps because he came from a distant land, might eventually form a close bond with the a'laq. On the one hand he would have liked to assure them that he had no interest in remaining here long enough to pose a threat to their standing. But it had also occurred to him that having the a'laq's closest advisors eager for him to leave might help him do just that.

  As he returned to the a'laq's shelter, the Weavers were speaking of nothing in particular, at least nothing that interested him. They seemed to be reminiscing about a previous hunt. After a time, though, they fell silent. For several moments, they just sat there. Then Q'Daer, the first Fal'Borna Grinsa and Cresenne had encountered, turned to him, a puzzled look on his tanned, chiseled face.

  "Why do you do that, Forelander?"

  Grinsa didn't even look at him. "Do what?"

  "Deny what you are. We tell you that Weavers do not labor with the others; that your place is here by the a'laq's z'kal. But you don't listen. You go off and try to do common work anyway, and I'd imagine that all you did was get in the way of the others. I doubt they even spoke to you."

  "They spoke to me," he said, which was true, though in fact, the men had said precious little. They'd been courteous to a fault, but beyond that, they hadn't spoken at all, not to him, not to each other.

  "You had an actual conversation with them?" Q'Daer asked. "What's your point?"

  "Simply this. You are a Weaver. Whatever that meant in the Forelands, it means here that you are one of the select, chosen by Qirsar to be a leader among the Fal'Borna." He raised a hand, as if anticipating an argument. "And before you object, this is by no means unique to our clan. The J'Balanar, the Talm'Orast, the T'Saan, the M'Saaren and A'Vahl-nearly every clan in the Southlands treats its Weavers so."

  "Nearly every one?"

  He shrugged. "The B'Qahr may not. To be honest I don't know. They're a strange people-even if the a'laq consents to let you leave us, I'd suggest you avoid them. Unless you're hopelessly wedded to the sea and its ways."

  The brief hope Grinsa had felt at the mention of this clan faded, leaving him discouraged. Joining a clan of sailors would be just about the last thing Cresenne would want.

  L'Norr was watching them, listening to their exchange, but saying nothing. He and Q'Daer could have been brothers, so much did they resemble one another. They had the same rugged good looks, bronzed skin, long hair, and clear eyes that all the Fal'Borna men seemed to have. But as Grinsa sat with the two men now, it occurred to him that there should have been women here as well.

  "I thought Fal'Borna Weavers were only joined to other Weavers." Q'Daer nodded. "That's right."

  "So neither of you is joined yet."

  The man straightened. "Not yet. But L'Norr here has a concubine already, and… and U'Vara, the a'laq's eldest child, who is just coming into her power, shows signs of being a Weaver. Before long, she'll be wed to one of us." He offered this last as if a challenge. She's ours, he seemed to be saying, though Grinsa sensed that it had yet to be decided which of the two men would be joined to her. He gathered as well that this last question was a matter of great import, certainly to Q'Daer, and most likely to L'Norr, too.

  "But the a'laq told me that his sept has four Weavers."

  "It does," L'Norr said. "E'Menua is joined to the fourth, of course. Her name is D'Pera."

  "So does she labor with the other women?"

  "No," Q'Daer told him, as if he were simple. "She oversees the work of the others, but she doesn't labor."

  "It sounds, though, as if your sept will soon have five Weavers." L'Norr nodded, but Q'Daer merely laughed, though not kindly.

  "We already have five Weavers, Forelander. Soon it will be six." Grinsa didn't argue the point.

  A moment later, the flap of animal skin covering the shelter entrance was pushed aside, and E'Menua stepped into the sunlight. Immediately,

  Q'Daer and L'Norr were on their feet. After a moment, Grinsa stood as well.

  "Well met, A'Laq," Q'Daer said. "How may we serve you?"

  Grinsa had spoken with E'Menua only one time since their initial conversation, but then, as the first time, the a'laq had seemed a genial man, quick to smile, despite his willingness to use threats to get his way. On this morning, however, he looked grim and deadly serious. He was shorter than the younger Weavers, but broader as well, which somehow gave him the appearance of being larger than they were.

  "I see you're finding your place, Forelander," he said. "I'll trust Q'Daer and L'Norr to show you what it means to be a Weaver in a Fal'Borna sept."

  "Yes, they already have been. It seems I'm not allowed to work or leave. Do all your Weavers enjoy such… freedom?"

  The a'laq shook his head. "I haven't time for this today."

  Q'Daer cast a dark look at Grinsa. "What's happened, A'Laq?"

  "I've had word from the north," he said, eyeing the two younger men. "More talk of the pestilence?"

  "In a sense." The a'laq glanced at Grinsa, as if deciding whether he wanted him to be party to this discussion. "They have the pestilence in the Forelands, don't they?" he finally asked.

  It wasn't the first time he'd been asked this since arriving in the Southlands, and once more he thought of Pheba, whom he'd lost to the disease many years ago. He didn't think it wise to mention her, though. He wasn't certain how the Fal'Borna would react to learning that he had once been joined to an Eandi woman. "Yes, of course" was all he said.

  "Have you ever heard of it afflicting Qirsi… differently?"

  Grinsa frowned. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

  The a'laq exhaled slowly. "To be honest, I'm not entirely certain myself. It seems that this pestilence is striking at Qirsi magic, making our people so sick that they can't control their power. It pours out of them, destroying all in its path and exhausting them until they die."

  "Demons and fire! I've never heard of such a thing."

  "None of us has," E'Menua said. "And there may be a reason for that. It seems that this is a disease contrived for us by the Mettai." "What?" Q'Daer said, his pale eyes widening.

  Grinsa was nearly as amazed as the young Weaver, though for a different reason. "The Mettai?"

  "You've heard of them?" the a'laq asked.

  "Yes, in legend. But I thought the Mettai died out centuries ago."

  "Oh, no. They're still very much alive. There are small Mettai settlements throughout the northern reaches of Stelpana and Ael
ea. They live apart from other Eandi-it seems the dark-eyes don't like magic, even when it comes from the blood of their own kind."

  "So, they really use blood magic?"

  E'Menua nodded again. "To great effect, it seems. According to some of the other a'laqs, a Mettai woman has cursed us, and with help from an Eandi merchant is spreading the disease throughout Qirsi lands."

  "A merchant?" Q'Daer repeated.

  "Not just any merchant. Torgan Plye." Q'Daer's mouth dropped open.

  L'Norr just shook his head. "Torgan? Are you certain?" "S'Plaed was certain."

  "But Torgan wouldn't do anything to destroy his profits. You know that. He cares about gold and nothing else."

  "It seems something has changed, L'Norr," the a'laq said, a hint of annoyance in his tone. "Unless you think the other a'laqs are lying to us."

  "No, of course not, A'Laq!"

  "I don't understand," Grinsa said. "How could one Mettai and one merchant spread a disease throughout Qirsi lands?"

  The a'laq eyed him briefly, as if he thought Grinsa was questioning their strength or their intelligence. "We don't know," he said after a moment. "But clearly it has something to do with our magic. The only survivors have been children too young to have come into their power." "So the merchant is Mettai as well?"

  E'Menua looked at the other men, who both shook their heads.

  "I didn't think he was," the a'laq answered. "Now I'm not certain." "So it's possible that the merchant had nothing to do with it."

  "He refused to meet with S'Plaed," E'Menua told him. "He spent only a few hours in the sept, long enough to make his share of gold and spread this venom the Mettai have contrived. Then he left. The pestilence struck later that day. He knew what he was doing."

  "You don't know that for certain," Grinsa said.

  It meant nothing to him. Of course, the notion of a pestilence outbreak frightened him. He feared for Cresenne and Bryntelle, as well as for himself. But the rest of it he barely understood. Certainly, he didn't care a whit for this merchant of whom they spoke. So then why did he continue to argue? Was it just in his nature? Back in the Forelands he had argued similarly on behalf of a young lord falsely accused of killing the daughter of a rival house. He had risked his life to save the boy, though at first he'd thought him nothing more than a spoiled noble. Later, the boy proved himself a true friend and valuable ally in the fight against the dark conspiracy that almost consumed the Forelands. But Grinsa had hardly glimpsed the lad's potential when he fought for his release. What was it, then, that drew him to fight every injustice, no matter the cost to himself? He couldn't answer, nor could he explain why he risked angering the a'laq.