by DAVID B. COE
The eldest's mouth twitched. "Yes, I was. But as a leader who is risking all to regain his people's homeland, I'd think that you'd understand, Marshal. My people have been suffering under this curse for a hundred years. You presented me with an opportunity to start over, to leave our afflicted land and build a new life. I would have been mad to turn you down, or to say anything that would jeopardize that chance. Surely you understand that."
For a long time Jenoe didn't answer. Tirnya had spent most of her life gauging her father's moods by subtle changes in his expression or the sound of his voice. But for the life of her she couldn't tell in those moments what he was thinking.
"I do understand it," he finally said. "But you have to understand that I can't allow this to continue." He looked at Tirnya. "You know what we have to do, don't you?"
She nodded, surprised by how calm she felt. Yes, she'd fought long and hard to convince her father and Qalsyn's lord governor to let this invasion go forward. But she'd already seen and done enough during this war to make her balk at the prospect of additional battles.
"We have to stop relying on Mettai magic," she said. "And that means that we have to head home."
"But we've come so far!" Fayonne said. "We're on the Horn. Sivralna is already defeated. All that remains is Deraqor!"
Gries stepped forward, so that he stood just in front of Tirnya's father. "I have to agree with the eldest, Marshal," he said quietly. "One city remains. And if we use Torgan's basket, we can take it without risking the lives of any more of our men."
"You haven't been listening!" Mander said. "The only way that basket can help you defeat all of Deraqor is if you use our magic to spread it over the city. And with this curse, we have no guarantee that it won't lead to another disaster."
"And I've already told you, Captain," Jenoe said, and this time there could be no doubt as to his thoughts, or his mood. "More than once as I remember it. I will not be using the merchant's basket. I want nothing to do with the man, and I don't want him anywhere near my army."
Gries's face colored. "Yes, Marshal."
Jenoe held the man's gaze for another moment before facing Hendrid.
Waterstone's marshal, though usually a formidable man, looked broken. His shoulders were hunched and there was a dusting of snow on his uniform. His face was ashen.
"Marshal, your soldiers have suffered greatly today," Jenoe said, his voice softening. "What is it you'd have me do?"
Hendrid shook his head. "I don't have the stomach for another battle, Jenoe. It's time I took the few men I have left and returned to Waterstone." Jenoe nodded and turned to Stri, Enly, and his other captains. "What do the rest of you say?"
"Without the magic of the Mettai, we can't win," Stri answered. He hesitated, his glance flicking toward Fayonne. "And I no longer trust the magic of the Mettai."
"I agree," Enly said. "I believe continuing this war would be too dangerous."
"And you're all right with this decision?" Jenoe asked, facing Tirnya again. "I know how much you wanted to take back Deraqor."
"Yes, I did," Tirnya said. "But the cost of this magic is too high. And His Lordship made it clear that we weren't to go on without the Mettai."
Jenoe smiled, looking as proud of her in that moment as he had the day she almost bloodied Enly in the Harvest Tournament a few turns before.
"All right then," he said, raising his voice so that all could hear. "We start back now. Muster your men into their companies. I want our march back toward the Silverwater to be orderly and disciplined. We're still in Fal'Borna land, and we may still face more battles before we reach the wash. I want to be on our way within the hour."
"What about us, Marshal?" Fayonne asked.
Tirnya's father regarded the woman soberly. "I hope you and your people will march with us, Eldest. You may need our protection along the way. And though I may regret this before all is done, we might well need yours."
Chapter 21
E'MENUA'S SEPT, CENTRAL PLAIN
The freedoms E'Menua granted Besh and Sirj just before he led his warriors out of the sept did much to improve the spirits of both Mettai men. It bothered Besh that the a'laq had not actually spoken to them again before leaving and that the man had said nothing about their future beyond the end of this war. But Besh had faith in Grinsa, and that faith had been bolstered by the fact that he and Sirj were no longer prisoners in their shelter.
The two Mettai had spent the first several evenings after the warriors' departure with Grinsa's wife and their beautiful daughter. She spent her days working with the Fal'Borna women in their tanning circle. But late on that first day, when her work was through, she retrieved her child from the girls who cared for the sept's young children, and walked to Besh and Sirj's shelter.
"I understand you're free to leave your z'kal now," she said, after they had greeted her.
"Yes," Besh said, exchanging glances with Sirj. "I believe we have your husband to thank."
"Probably," she said. "I was wondering if you'd like to eat your meals with Bryntelle and me. The Fal'Borna give us food now, because Grinsa's a Weaver. And I'd enjoy the company."
"We'd enjoy that as well," Besh said.
He and Sirj followed her to the shelter she usually shared with Grinsa, where they ate a small meal and chatted deep into the evening.
Cresenne appeared to enjoy their company, and being around the woman and her child was a balm for Besh's heart. He'd been away from Elica, his daughter, for too long, and he missed his grandchildren, Mihas, Annze, and Cam, terribly.
In many ways, Cresenne reminded him of Elica. She was strong, with a sharp wit and a keen mind. Even her laugh was similar to Elica's, low and strong, as if it came from her heart.
He and Sirj ate with her again the following night. Sirj was quiet during their evenings with the woman, though he, too, seemed to enjoy himself.
Still, Besh could only imagine how much the man missed Elica and their children, and he wondered if being with Cresenne and the baby brought him some comfort or made him feel even worse.
On this third day, as the sun started its slow descent in the west and they waited for Cresenne to come to their shelter again, Besh asked Sirj if the two of them should have their supper alone that night.
"Why?" Sirj asked, clearly puzzled by the suggestion.
Besh shrugged. "I thought that maybe…" He stopped, frowning slightly. "I don't know if it's hard for you to be with Cresenne and Bryntelle. If it makes being apart from Elica and the children even worse."
"Nothing could make that worse than it already is," Sirj said in a low voice, staring off across the sept.
Besh put his hand on the man's shoulder. "No," he said. "I don't suppose it could."
"I like going," Sirj said. "She's a good woman. She and Grinsa… they belong together."
For a moment Besh thought that Sirj would say more. But he didn't and Besh didn't see any need to belabor the point. When Cresenne appeared in the distance a short time later, he raised a hand in greeting and when she neared, he and Sirj stood to greet her.
They didn't talk about much as they walked back to her z'kal. Besh asked her about what work she had done that day, but she didn't have much to say. She seemed quieter than usual, though her daughter was chattering enough for all of them. Since the first night they had supped together, the girl had taken a special interest in Sirj. Cresenne said that she thought that it was Sirj's dark, wild hair and beard, which were so different from the white hair of the Qirsi and even from Besh's grey. She didn't think that the babe had ever seen anyone who looked like the young Mettai.
Whatever the reason, the girl peered at Sirj as they walked, her pale eyes as wide as they could be, a faint smile on her perfect little mouth.
After a few moments of this, Cresenne said, "Would you like to hold her?"
Sirj looked at the woman, a slightly panicked expression on his face. "Hold her?"
"You have children, right?" she said. "You've held babies before." Besh fought
hard to keep from laughing.
Cresenne stopped walking and held out her daughter for Sirj to take. He hesitated a moment and then took the child in his arms. She let out a delighted squeal and immediately grabbed hold of his beard with both hands.
"Bryntelle!" Cresenne said, laughing.
"It's all right," Sirj said, looking up from Bryntelle's face. "It doesn't hurt. At least not much." He grinned, but there were tears in his eyes.
"All right," Cresenne said. She glanced at Besh, her expression pained.
They walked on, and had nearly reached Cresenne's shelter when the woman abruptly halted.
"Damn," she said under her breath.
Looking in the same direction she was, Besh saw the n'qlae standing in front of the shelter, her arms crossed over her chest.
"What do you think she wants?" Besh asked in a whisper.
Cresenne shook her head, her lips in a tight line. "I don't know. But she and her husband don't seem to like any of us very much. Better let me do the talking."
He nodded. Cresenne took the baby back from Sirj and they walked on.
"Good evening, N'Qlae," Cresenne said, stopping in front of the woman.
The n'qlae nodded to Cresenne and then, after hesitating for just a moment, nodded to the two Mettai as well.
"Is something wrong?" Cresenne asked. "Has something happened?"
"I've had no word from the a'laq, if that's what you mean."
Cresenne appeared to relax somewhat. "Then what can I do for you?"
"I've noticed that the three of you sup together each night," the woman said.
"What of it?" Cresenne demanded, her voice hardening. "Is that why you've come? You think we're plotting against your sept? I would have thought that after the a'laq's dream the other night you'd know better." She shook her head. "You and your people will never trust me, will you? Just as you'll never trust these men, though they've saved your life and that of every person in this sept."
Besh had some idea of how the Fal'Borna honored their a'laqs and n'qlaes, and he feared that Cresenne had pushed the woman too far. But the n'qlae's expression hardly changed, except for a vague smile that touched the corners of her mouth.
"Are you through?" she asked.
Cresenne blushed. Abruptly she seemed unwilling to look the woman in the eye. "Yes."
"I've noticed that the three of you sup together each evening, and I was wondering if you would join me tonight in my z'kal. The food would be little different from what you've been eating. And like you," the n'qlae said, looking at Cresenne, "I'm without my man right now. I grow tired of supping alone every night."
There was a lengthy silence. Sirj caught Besh's eye and raised his eyebrows. The n'qlae was smiling again.
"I owe you an apology, N'Qlae," Cresenne said at last.
"Yes, I believe you do. But I also believe that settles an old debt. We won't speak of it again."
"Thank you, N'Qlae."
"Come along then," the n'qlae said after another brief silence. "I'm hungry, and it's too cold to be standing out here doing nothing."
They followed the woman back to her shelter. A fire already burned within, and there were several bowls of food arrayed on the far side of the shelter… Some of it was similar to the food Besh and Sirj had eaten with Cresenne in recent nights: smoked rilda meat, boiled roots, and flat bread. But there were also dishes that Besh didn't recognize, including some sort of dried fruit that smelled wonderfully sweet.
They sat by the fire and the n'qlae began to pass the bowls around, urging her guests to take as much as they wanted.
As the bowls made their way around the circle, the n'qlac pulled out a small flask, unstoppered it, and poured a small amount of golden liquid into four cups.
"What is that?" Sirj asked.
The woman grinned. "Sweetgrass whiskey," she said. "Usually I only drink it with E'Menua. But you're guests, and I've been thinking about it all day."
She passed a cup to each of them.
When Cresenne took hers, Bryntelle reached for it and looked down into the cup.
"She wants some, too, eh?" the n'qlae said, and laughed.
Besh sniffed at the cup and was entranced. It smelled like sweet clover and honey and wine all mixed together. "What did you say this was?" he asked in amazement.
"Sweetgrass whiskey," the n'qlae said. "It's the one thing we Fal'Borna won't trade with the Eandi or even with another Qirsi clan. Our people make it here on the plain and only a few know how it's done. We have to trade for it with other septs, because no one in this sept can make it. We rarely share it with outsiders. Few who aren't from our clan have even tasted it."
"You honor us, N'Qlae," Besh said.
She waved off the remark. "I wanted some, and I didn't want to drink it alone." She winced. "I didn't mean that as it sounded."
Besh smiled. "I think I understand."
Sirj lifted his cup to his lips, but before he could drink, the n'qlae raised a finger.
"Slowly," she warned. "It's very strong."
Sirj nodded, took a sip, and nearly choked.
Cresenne was the next to try it, and though she managed not to cough or spit it out, her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed. Bryntelle tried to grab hold of the cup, but Cresenne held it beyond her reach.
"You next, Mettai," the n'qlae said to Besh, a friendly smile on her face.
Besh took a sip and made a face that he imagined must have been very similar to Cresenne's. The whiskey was pleasantly sweet, but the flavor was nearly lost in the burning sensation on his tongue and throat.
The n'qlae nodded approvingly and then sipped from her cup. She swallowed and inhaled deeply through her teeth, but otherwise seemed unaffected.
"I think I need to try that again," Sirj said. He took another sip and this time had no trouble with it.
They began to eat, taking occasional sips of the whiskey throughout the meal. While they ate, the n'qlae asked Besh and Sirj about Kirayde, their village, and the lands surrounding it. As usual, Sirj deferred to Besh most of the time, leaving the old man to answer. He chose his words with care, though he sensed no dark intent in her questions. The n'qlae seemed most interested in the animals that the Mettai trapped in the Companion Lakes area, and after some time Besh finally turned to Sirj, who knew far more about trapping than Besh ever had.
At first Sirj spoke reluctantly, his eyes fixed on the fire and his voice low. But after a time he became more animated.
Eventually, the n'qlae seemed to run out of questions and it grew quiet in the shelter. Besh had finished his food and his whiskey, and he felt both full and slightly light-headed. Bryntelle had fallen asleep in her mother's lap, and Cresenne appeared weary as well.
"It's getting late," the n'qlae said, climbing to her feet. She grinned. "And if the whiskey hasn't made you tired yet, it will."
The others stood as well, Sirj taking Bryntelle for a moment as Cresenne got up. They stepped out into the night, and immediately Besh shivered. The sky was clear and a cold wind blew from the north. Both moons hung low in the eastern sky, casting long pale shadows across the sept.
"Thank you for inviting us to your z'kal, N'Qlae," Cresenne said. "And thank you as well for allowing us to taste the sweetgrass whiskey. It was wonderful."
The n'qlae nodded. "You're welcome." She turned to Besh and Sirj. "You may not know this, but you saved my husband's life a few nights ago."
Besh frowned. "What?"
"A Weaver can walk in the dreams of other Qirsi. That's how the a'laq of one sept speaks to other a'laqs elsewhere on the plain."
The old man nodded. "This I knew from Grinsa."
"The night before he left, E'Menua entered the dreams of an a'laq who was sick with the plague. He should have fallen ill himself, but he was immune. And the spell you conjured spread to the other Weaver and cured him, too."
Besh wasn't sure what to say. This explained the freedoms he and Sirj had enjoyed in recent days. But a part of him wondered why the woman had
waited so long to tell him all of this.
"Anyway," the n'qlae went on after a moment, "I wanted to thank you for saving him. For saving all of us."
"You're welcome," Besh said.
She nodded and started to duck back into her shelter.
Before she could, however, someone called to her by her title. She straightened and turned, searching the darkness. After a few seconds a warrior appeared. He was an older man, broad in the shoulders and chest, but also thick in the middle. Nearly all the younger warriors had ridden to war with the a'laq. The men who were left were either old, like this man, or just barely of age to wield magic. The man stopped in front of the n'qlae and bowed to her.
"What's the matter, I'Yir?" the woman asked.
The man eyed Cresenne and the Mettai as if unsure of whether he could speak freely in front of them.
"It's all right," the n'qlae said. "Tell me."
"We're not sure what it is, N'Qlae," the warrior said. "G'Hirran and we were on patrol-and we thought we heard horses to the west of camp. That was earlier, and when we didn't hear anything more we decided we'd been imagining it. But just now we heard it again, and this time we're sure."
"Horses?" the n'qlae said, clearly unnerved. "You're certain?"
"Yes, N'Qlae," the man answered.
"What does this mean?" Besh asked.
The n'qlae stared westward into the darkness, as if trying to see what the warriors had heard. "I don't know. The Eandi army is largely on foot. They wouldn't send horsemen, and I don't think they'd approach a sept by night. But the J'Balanar would."
"The J'Balanar are the ones who have markings on their faces, right?" Cresenne asked.
The n'qlae nodded, still gazing into the gloom. "Yes."
"They'd attack when we're at war with the Eandi?"
At that, the Fal'Borna woman faced her, smiling slightly. "You said 'we.' Are you Fal'Borna now?"
"I'm Qirsi," Cresenne said, "just as I always have been."
"The answer is, yes, they would. The Fal'Borna and the J'Balanar have been rivals for centuries, and though we fought together during the Blood Wars, they probably want to take advantage of our weakness, just as the dark-eyes have done."
