The Horsemen's Gambit bots-2

by DAVID B. COE

  Eventually, B'Asya's burst of magic ran its course, leaving the poor girl even more exhausted and ever closer to death. P'Crath was able to break free of their connection, but that was no consolation to him now. He'd failed; she'd passed her illness to him.

  "Both of you," Z'Feni muttered. "I'm going to lose both of you."

  He wanted to reassure her, to tell her that they'd find a way through. But she was right: She was going to lose both of them. And she deserved more from him than false hope and empty words of comfort.

  "You must leave here!" he said instead. He had found the strength to stop the flow of magic from his body, but already he could feel it building once more. It wouldn't be long until he lost control of it again. "It's the magic, Z'Feni. That's what will kill me. That's what will kill all of us. As soon as I touched her mind I was sick, too. It's the magic."

  She shook her head, her pale golden eyes wide, her skin as pale as starlight. "Then there's nothing we can do. We can't save her."

  "No," he said. "We can't. But you can save the rest of them, the ones who aren't sick yet."

  Z'Feni shook her head again, tears streaming down her face.

  "You have to listen to me," he said. The power was building quickly now. He couldn't hold it back much longer. "We haven't much time. The power…" He swallowed. No time to explain that now. "You can't help us. We're lost already. But the others. Get them away from here. Not together. And you have to keep your distance from them, too. You're not sick yet, but… but you probably will be soon." Gods, it was hard to keep his mind on what he was saying. All he wanted to do was unleash his magic, let it pour from him. "Send them away. Tell them that if they're still alive in ten days, they can return and start rebuilding the city. It's the only way. Otherwise we'll simply kill one another. Do you understand?"

  She nodded. "I think so."

  "Good. Then go."

  She looked at B'Asya, and P'Crath knew that she wanted only to go to the girl, to hold her, to stroke her hair and kiss her brow.

  "Go, Z'Feni. Please."

  She must have heard the strain in his voice, because she turned her gaze on him, the tender expression of a moment before giving way to a look of terror. "What is it?" she asked.

  "My magic. I can't hold it much longer. Go! Save yourself! Save our people!"

  Still on her hands and knees, she backed away from him, never taking her eyes off his face.

  "I love you," she said. "I have since the day we first met, when we were just children. Do you remember?"

  He nodded, and suddenly there were tears on his face, too. For just an instant, his hold on his magic slipped and a wind whipped through the courtyard. Gritting his teeth he clamped down on his power again, but he knew he couldn't hold out for more than a few seconds.

  "I love you, too," he said, his voice hoarse. "Always. Now go!"

  She stood, took a step toward the door, then stopped and looked one last time at B'Asya. The wind began to rise again. She stifled a sob and ran from him.

  With her gone, P'Crath surrendered to the power surging through him. A gale swept through the courtyard, keening in the stone, roughening the water in the pool so that it lapped over the sides. Fire flew from his hands, just as it had from the hands of his child. One of the stone walls shattered like glass at the touch of his mind. His was powerful magic, and now, for the first time, it was completely unbridled. There was no telling what he might do before he died.

  At the same time, the a'laq reached for B'Asya again. They would spend these last hours of their lives together. Perhaps she would draw comfort from knowing that her father was there with her, suffering as she did. She would grieve for him as he did for her, particularly if it occurred to her that he had gotten sick trying to help her. But at least she wouldn't be alone. And neither would he. The thought eased his mind, just a bit. It wasn't much, P'Crath knew, but it was all that either of them had left.

  Chapter 5

  FAL'BORNA LAND, THE CENTRAL PLAIN

  At times it seemed to Grinsa jal Arriet that the dark clouds hanging over the plain had no end, that this chill wind bending the grasses and scything through his damp clothing would never cease. The rain had stopped for the moment-a small grace that did little to raise his spirits or those of his companions. Their days were grey monotony, their nights tense and restless.

  The two Eandi merchants, Torgan Plye and Jasha Ziffel, kept to themselves, speaking in quiet tones or riding silently, side by side. What little Grinsa had seen of them prior to their departure from N'Menua's sept, had convinced him that they didn't like or trust one another. But they were prisoners now, their executions certain should this mission fail. And because their captors were Qirsi, because they were alone and friendless in Fal'Borna land, they could look only to each other for fellowship.

  Grinsa and the other Qirsi, a young Fal'Borna Weaver named Q'Daer, couldn't even take that much comfort. They trusted neither the Eandi nor each other. They had clashed several times before leaving the sept-Grinsa had gone so far as to strike the man the day before they began their journey-and though they had come to an accommodation that allowed them to speak civilly to one another, each remained wary of the other.

  They had been riding for six days, but they had not yet encountered any Eandi merchants, much less the baskets that supposedly had spawned the outbreak of pestilence on the plain. Nor had they seen any sign of the Mettai witch who was said to have spread this evil curse across the land. The Harvest winds were blowing. The rains were upon them. Grinsa suspected that by now those Eandi merchants who usually spent the warmer turns among the Fal'Borna would be headed back to the Eandi sovereignties. With each day that passed, his hopes of finding either the Mettai woman or the traders who had her baskets faded.

  The previous night, Q'Daer had given voice to similar doubts, even suggesting that they were wasting their time and should return to E'Menua's sept.

  "These winds are cold for a Hunter's Moon," he had said, his square, youthful face illuminated by their small fire. "The Snows will be coming early this year, and I have no desire to be out here when they arrive. It's time we turned back."

  Both merchants had looked toward Grinsa, gauging his response, fear in their dark eyes. Certain death awaited them back at the sept. Torgan, the older man, with his hulking frame and one eye, had sold cursed baskets in a Fal'Borna settlement on the Silverwater Wash, and hundreds had died. He claimed he hadn't known that the baskets posed any danger to the Qirsi, but under Fal'Borna law he was responsible for their deaths. Jasha had done nothing, but the law of the plain was merciless and unyielding. Because he traveled with Torgan, he too was held responsible.

  Grinsa had argued for both men's lives and that, in large part, was why they were out here now, searching for the Mettai woman. But that wasn't the reason Grinsa replied as he did. He had far more at stake than merely his sense of justice and his desire to save the lives of two innocent Eandi. He and Cresenne wished only to leave the Fal'Borna, to find another Qirsi clan among whom they might make a new life for themselves and their daughter. N'Menua, the a'laq, had made it clear that only if Grinsa found the Mettai witch and killed her would he and his family be allowed to leave. Otherwise they would live out the rest of their days as Fal'Borna, which meant, among other things, that Grinsa would have to marry a Weaver, for though he considered Cresenne his wife, their joining was not recognized under Fal'Borna law, which required that Weavers be joined to other Weavers.

  So, when Q'Daer suggested that they go back to the sept, Grinsa made it clear that he wasn't about to end their search for the Mettai so soon.

  "We told the a'laq that we'd find the baskets and the woman who made them," he said, keeping his voice low. "Once we've done that, we can turn hack."

  "We don't even know where to look," the young Weaver said. "She could be anywhere!"

  Grinsa glanced at the man. "All the more reason to find her. Your people are in danger, Q'Daer. That should mean more to you than a cold wind and some snow."
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  The Weaver cast a dark look his way. "You've never been on the plain when the Snows come, have you, Forelander?"

  "No," Grinsa admitted. "I haven't."

  "Then you have no right to mock me."

  "I'm not mocking you, Q'Daer. I'm merely telling you that we've yet to do what the a'laq asked of us. And until we do, I'm not turning back."

  That effectively ended their discussion. Grinsa wasn't certain that Q'Daer accepted him as the leader of their small company. But in the short time he had spent among the Fal'Borna, he had come to understand that E'Menua did not tolerate failure. No doubt the young Weaver knew this better than any of them. Grinsa didn't know for certain that the a'laq really wanted them to succeed in this endeavor-the man seemed to care little whether the merchants lived or died-but he was intent on keeping Grinsa in his sept. Grinsa thought it possible, even likely, that Q'Daer had been instructed to do what he could to keep Grinsa from earning his freedom. Clearly though, regardless of what Q'Daer's purpose might have been, he had yet to achieve it. That had to be why he stopped arguing for an end to their search.

  Grinsa shared Q'Daer's eagerness to return to the sept. He was cold and tired; he slept poorly every night and awoke each morning thinking only of Cresenne and Bryntelle, his stomach hollow and sour, his chest aching with longing for them. Occasionally, during the night, when sleep wouldn't come, he considered using his magic to reach hack to the sept and enter Cresenne's dreams, just to be with her, to hear how Bryntelle was faring, to make certain that N'Menua was honoring his promise to keep them both safe. But this was a poor substitute for actually being able to hold his daughter and kiss the woman he loved, and it robbed Cresenne of her sleep. Most nights he resisted the urge to speak with her.

  He also shared Q'Daer's frustration. Every day that went by made it more likely that others would fall prey to the Mettai curse that was sweeping across the plain. And if it truly was a pestilence, all of them were at risk, including every person in E'Menua's sept.

  When they broke camp this morning, Grinsa reminded the merchants of this, not bothering to mask his impatience.

  "You've probably been trading on this plain for twenty years," he said to Torgan.

  The Eandi, who was saddling his mount, didn't so much as glance at him. "More."

  "Fine. More than twenty. Then you must have some idea of where other merchants go this time of year."

  "They go where the gold is, as always."

  "And where is that?"

  "It depends."

  The Eandi could save themselves only by helping Grinsa and Q'Daer find the Mettai woman. Failing that, their best hope lay in stalling, in keeping to the plain long enough for them to be rescued or to escape. Like Grinsa, the two merchants were prisoners of the Fal'Borna. But despite this shared circumstance, Grinsa's interests and those of the Eandi often diverged, as they did now.

  His patience running thin, Grinsa used language of beasts to make Torgan's horse rear and kick out. The Eandi jumped hack, then whirled toward Grinsa, his face reddening.

  "You made her do that!"

  "Yes," Grinsa said mildly. "I take it I have your attention now."

  For a moment, Grinsa actually thought the man would take a swing at him. Then Torgan seemed to remember the other magics Grinsa could wield against him. He frowned, his gaze wandering, but he nodded.

  "Where are we most likely to find merchants this time of year?" Grinsa asked again. "Clearly they're not on the Central Plain."

  "Probably the rivers," Torgan said reluctantly. "Either the wash-"

  "The Silverwater, you mean?"

  "Right. Either there, or the area around the Horn."

  Grinsa frowned. "The Horn?"

  "It's a strip of land between the Thraedes and the K'Sand," Jasha told him. "Very fertile. Lots of cities. Many merchants pass the Snows there."

  "So that would be west of here?" Grinsa asked.

  Jasha nodded. "And north."

  "Do the Mettai trade there, too?"

  The younger merchant shrugged. "Some might. The Mettai don't usually stray far from their villages. That's why those baskets were in such demand. They're hard to find, particularly ones of such high quality."

  "So, the woman's not as likely to be at the Horn," Grinsa said.

  Jasha appeared to consider this. "No, probably not. She'd probably stay closer to the Silverwater. It would be unlike a Mettai to journey so far into Fal'Borna land."

  Discouraged, Grinsa shook his head. "Then I suppose we should just keep to the course we've been following."

  "I take it we're ready now?" Q'Daer said, in a tone that indicated he'd known all along where their conversation would lead. He was already astride his dappled grey, a rilda skin pulled tight around his broad shoulders.

  Grinsa didn't bother answering. He merely mounted his bay and started riding, following the same northeastern tack they'd been on for days. In a few moments, Q'Daer had caught up to him. He could hear the merchants' horses a short distance behind.

  "This is folly, you know," the Fal'Borna said. "You won't find the Mettai woman, and you probably won't find any of her baskets. This is a vast land; looking for a single person, or even a handful…" He shook his head. "You haven't a chance."

  "We," Grinsa said, staring straight ahead.

  "What?"

  "You keep saying 'you,' as if you're not a part of this. We're in this together." He looked at the man. "I don't know what E'Menua told you to do. And if your purpose is to keep me from succeeding so that I have to remain in your sept, I don't know how I'll manage to defeat you. But I will. I've faced down more formidable men than you. So you might want to consider whether you're on the wrong side of this."

  Q'Daer stared at him, tight-lipped and pale.

  "You want to save your people," Grinsa went on. "I know you do. I also know that you want to be rid of me. And I'm sure you want to return to the sept as soon as possible. I want all of those things as well. If we work together, we can see that all of them happen. But one way or another, we're not turning back until we've found the woman and saved these two men from execution."

  Q'Daer eyed Grinsa for another moment before facing forward once more. He looked as if he might speak, but said nothing. Grinsa thought, not for the first time, that he looked terribly young and unnerved, and utterly out of his depth.

  "I know that E'Menua is your a'laq," Grinsa said after a brief silence. "But I also know-"

  "Enough!" Q'Daer said. "You're right. E'Menua is my a'laq. There is no `but.' There's nothing else you can say beyond that. He is my a'laq. To us, that's everything." He shook his head, looking away again. "I wouldn't expect a Forelander to understand."

  "What did he tell you to do?" Grinsa demanded.

  He didn't expect that the man would meet his gaze, but Q'Daer surprised him, looking him right in the eye. "Nothing. He sent me with you to help you find the woman and the baskets, and to keep watch on the Eandi."

  "And to keep watch on me?"

  The man grinned, though the look in his pale eyes remained hard. "There's no need to watch you. Your woman and your child are back in the Sept. You're not going anywhere."

  Grinsa couldn't really argue the point. "No, I don't suppose I am. But the fact remains we both want and need the same things, at least for the most part."

  "I'm Fal'Borna, Forelander," Q'Daer said, his voice tight. "You're not. The a'laq offered you the chance to be one of us, to join our sept, commit yourself to our ways. You refused. What I want and what you want can't possibly be the same."

  He knew the man was wrong, but he also knew that nothing good would come of discussing the matter further right now. He held his tongue, and they rode side by side in uneasy silence.

  The wind hissed in the grasses and an occasional drop of rain darkened Grinsa's riding cloak. He could see squalls to the west, faint blurs of rain hanging from that unrelentingly grey sky, and he wondered how long it would be before he and his companions were soaked again.

  T
hey stopped at midday to eat some dried meat, drink a bit of water, and rest their mounts. As always, the Eandi took their food from Q'Daer, but otherwise kept to themselves. Though they said little to one another, it almost seemed that each took comfort in knowing that the other was nearby. Grinsa and the young Weaver ate without speaking a word. The Fal'Borna refused even to look at him. Soon they were mounted and riding once more.

  A light drizzle began to fall on them, coating their clothes and saddlebags with a silvery sheen, and chilling them further. Grinsa threw a hood over his head and huddled within his cloak, staring at the ground in front of him and merely trying to stay warm. He thought of Cresenne and Bryntelle and of the many friends he had left in the Forelands; he thought of his sister, Keziah, who served in a noble court in the kingdom of Eibithar. Not for the first time, he wondered if he and Cresenne had been wrong to leave their home for this strange, hard land. He felt a sudden longing for the simplicity of his old life in Bohdan's Revel, the traveling festival in which he had once done gleanings, using magic to determine the fates of the young boys and girls of each village the Revel visited. That was where he had met Cresenne.

  "Look at that!" he heard Q'Daer say.

  Grinsa's eyes snapped up. The Fal'Borna was a short distance ahead of him, pointing toward the northern horizon. Looking in the direction Q'Daer indicated, squinting in the soft rain, he could barely make out some odd, dark shapes.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  The young Weaver shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the distant forms. "I don't know." He glanced back at Grinsa and the Eandi. "Come on." He kicked his mount into a gallop.

  Grinsa did the same, looking back to make certain that the merchants were following.

  Even as they advanced on the dark shapes, Grinsa couldn't make them out distinctly. Ahead of him, Q'Daer drew a thin blade from his belt. "What is it?" Grinsa called.