by DAVID B. COE
The Qirsi was half a day ahead of him, no more. Jedrek could close the distance that remained tomorrow. By the time the moons were up tomorrow night, the gleaner would be dead.
The thought of it made his stomach tighten. He tried to convince himself that he always felt this way before a kill, but he knew better. Tossing the rest of the smoked meat he had been eating into the shadows cast by his small fire, Jedrek leaned back against the trunk of a large oak and pulled out his dagger, the one he had gotten in Thorald nearly two years before. He had used it quite often since then, but the Sanbiri steel glimmered like a mirror in the firelight, showing no sign of wear.
It was true that he had never killed a Qirsi, though he still was not certain why he had confided such a thing to the woman who had sent him after Grinsa. Even Cadel didn’t know. Cadel always handled the jobs involving Qirsi because he was better with a blade than Jedrek, and because he kept all the difficult jobs for himself. It was part of their arrangement, and Jedrek had never challenged it. But Cadel would have been surprised to learn the truth. On the other hand, he might have understood. Tracking a Qirsi was one thing. Killing one of the white-haired sorcerers was something else again.
Jedrek didn’t like to take a man in the back, without showing himself. That was a coward’s way. But in this case, he thought, carefully testing the dagger’s edge with his thumb, he’d have little choice.
“He’s just a gleaner,” she had said. “He shouldn’t be any different from others you’ve killed.”
Right. Except what if he knew Jedrek was coming for him? What if he had seen it, or dreamed it, or whatever they did? What then?
“He’s still just a man,” Jedrek said aloud. “Maybe he’ll have a blade of his own, or even a sword. But he’s still just a man, and a weak one at that.”
Still, his doubts remained. Despite the woman’s assurances, and those he offered to himself in the flickering light of the fire, he couldn’t help but think that a Qirsi, no matter how limited his powers, presented unfathomable dangers.
Take him quickly, in the back. Better a coward than a corpse.
It was as good a thought as any to carry with him to sleep. He returned his blade to its sheath and laid it on the ground beside him before closing his eyes. But sleep didn’t come easily, and when finally he drifted off, his dreams were haunted by strange images of the Qirsi and their magic.
He awoke before dawn, forced from sleep by his last dream. Daylight was just beginning to seep into the wood. A fine grey mist hung among the trees and a single jay called from far away, its cries echoing eerily through the still branches above him. Most of the images that had come to him in his slumber had left only vague, unsettling impressions. But this last one remained disturbingly clear. He had been here in the wood, the trees shrouded in darkness. The Qirsi woman had been with him, holding a flame in the palm of her hand as she had the night she came to his room. As he watched her, unable to move or even utter a sound, held, he realized, by magic, she came forward, smiling, the fire she held shining in her pale eyes. She raised her hand over her head, and in that moment, the shape of the flame changed, becoming a fiery dagger, which she plunged into his chest.
He stood, stretching out stiff limbs, and then stamped his feet. His clothes and hair were damp and the air felt too cold for Elined’s Turn. He knew he should eat something, but the knot in his stomach remained and there was a sour taste in his mouth. Instead, he stooped to retrieve his dagger, tucked it into his belt, and climbed onto his mount.
For an instant he considered abandoning his pursuit. He was no gleaner, and his dreams could not foretell the future. But he feared there was an omen in the vision that had awakened him. It no longer mattered that he was in the wood, or that he had gained so quickly on the Qirsi. His passion for the hunt was gone. Just a day before he had compared himself to a battle commander on the verge of a great victory. Now he felt like a foot soldier marching toward his doom.
But Cadel needed him, though he knew nothing of the gleaner’s approach. If the Qirsi managed to save Curgh’s son, all would be ruined and their gold lost. This was why Jedrek had remained with the Revel: to make sure that Cadel wasn’t followed. This was what Cadel expected of him, always: to protect his back, to guard against the unforeseen. With any luck at all, Cadel was already in Aneira, expecting Jedrek to join him at some point. The path to Aneira, it seemed, wound through Kentigern. Thrusting away his doubts, he kicked his horse into motion and resumed the hunt.
He picked up the Qirsi’s trail almost immediately. Just before midday—earlier than he had expected—he came upon the blackened ground on which the man had made his fire the previous night. For the rest of the day, Jedrek had to force himself to slow down, not wishing to overtake the gleaner before he was ready. Still, the marks Grinsa left on the trail grew fresher, until Jedrek half expected the Qirsi to jump out in front of him at every turn. Late in the day, when he suddenly flushed a covey of quail from a thicket, he nearly cried out.
He halted then, swinging down off his mount to catch his breath and calm his pounding heart. He had a feeling that the gleaner was close, though he was not certain how much faith he could place in his instincts at that moment. In the end, he decided to trust himself. Better to be wrong in this, than to give himself away by stumbling into the Qirsi too soon.
When twilight began to darken the wood, Jedrek started forward again. He left the horse tied to a tree, choosing to follow the Qirsi’s trail on foot. Thus far, Grinsa had stuck to the path except to rest and make camp, and Jedrek guessed that he would continue to do the same. Night fell, making the signs harder to read, but he followed the path, trusting that it would lead him to the Qirsi. After a time, Jedrek realized that his blade was in his hand, though he didn’t remember taking it out. Cadel would have laughed at him, arming himself to fight wraiths in the wood, but the feel of the smooth wooden hilt in his palm comforted him, and he held it ready as he advanced through the darkness.
At last, as Panya rose above the trees, softly lighting the leaves overhead, Jedrek spotted the orange glow of the gleaner’s fire. He froze in midstride for just a moment, his heart abruptly pounding in his chest until the sound of rushing blood filled his ears.
He hasn’t seen you. Be calm and be silent, and he’s yours. It was Cadel’s voice he heard, and like the dagger in his hand, it eased his fears.
He crept forward, sticking to the path as long as he could before easing himself into the shadows of the wood. The Qirsi was on the far side of the fire and Jedrek had to move in a wide circle to get behind him without being heard. A light wind was blowing, stirring the trees and helping to mask the sound of his approach, but still he took his time, taking slow, deliberate steps, and doing all he could to avoid dried leaves and twigs.
By the time he was close enough to ready himself for the attack, the gleaner was settling down beside the fire. Jedrek paused in the shadows lurking just beyond the light of Grinsa’s fire. The act of stalking the man had calmed him, but his right hand was sweating, and he had to shift his blade to the left for a moment to dry his fingers. This was no time for an uncertain grip.
Taking the dagger in his right hand again, he breathed in slowly and lowered himself into a crouch. Do it quickly. This time it was the woman’s voice, and it reached him as more of a plea than a warning. He nodded, as if she could see him, and then lunged at the man, intending to plunge the blade into the gleaner’s back as he landed on him.
It was not until his feet left the ground that he realized how badly he had miscalculated, and by then, of course, it was too late.
The Qirsi, lying on the ground beside the fire, rolled. Not away from him—that would have taken him into the flames—but toward him, so that Jedrek sailed over him, landing awkwardly on the hard ground and just missing the fire himself. It was as if the man had been expecting Jedrek’s attack, as if he had known all along that Jedrek was stalking him.
Jedrek scrambled to his feet and spun toward the gleaner, his dag
ger ready again, but now the Qirsi was on his feet, holding a blade of his own.
The woman had described him as tall and broader than most Qirsi, but still Jedrek had pictured a typical white-hair-tall perhaps, but frail and narrow in the shoulders. Certainly he had not expected the formidable, powerfully built man who faced him, his yellow eyes flashing with firelight, his long white hair stirring in the wind.
“Who in Bian’s name are you?” the gleaner demanded.
Jedrek said nothing, but dove at the man again, slashing at him with his dagger.
The Qirsi jumped back, dodging the attack. He waved his blade at Jedrek as he did, but without much effect. Jedrek grinned. The man might have been built like a fighter, but he had no skill with a weapon. Grinsa seemed to recognize this as well, for he began to back away slowly, circling the fire as Jedrek advanced on him.
“What is it you want from me?” he asked, his eyes flicking down toward Jedrek’s blade.
Jedrek lunged at him again, but the Qirsi danced away.
“I think you know,” Jedrek said.
The gleaner nodded and licked his lips, his eyes drawn repeatedly to the fire now, as if he was looking for a way to use it against Jedrek.
“Why?” the man asked. “You can at least tell me that.”
“It’s not my choice,” Jedrek said. “I was sent after you.”
“Sent?” he repeated, narrowing his eyes. “You’re one of the singers, aren’t you? From the Revel.”
The gleaner had halted, and rather than answering, Jedrek leaped at him again, his blade raised. He knew that this time he was close enough, that Grinsa, his eyes widening, knew it as well. The Qirsi was a dead man.
But in that instant, just before he buried his dagger in the gleaner’s heart, he heard a sound that reminded him oddly of his father’s hammer ringing on hot steel. At the same time, the gleaming blade of his weapon splintered, as though it were mere glass. His attack carried him forward so that he hit the Qirsi’s chest with the hilt of his dagger, but the man just staggered back a step. There was no blood on him.
Jedrek stared down at what remained of his weapon, unable to speak. After a moment he looked up at the gleaner, who was watching him with a grim expression, his own blade held before him again.
“How did you … ?” Jedrek trailed off, shaking his head. The answer was obvious. He probably should have run, but all he could do was stand there, his eyes drawn once more to the useless piece of polished wood that lay in his hand. “But she said you were just a gleaner.”
Grinsa was about to order his attacker onto his knees when the full import of what the man had said hit him. He felt cold suddenly, as though the warm wind moving through the wood had turned frigid.
She?
“Who told you I was just a gleaner?”
The sound of his voice seemed to jar the man into motion. He whirled as if to flee into the woods. But Grinsa grabbed him from behind and they both tumbled to the ground. The man was strong—stronger than Grinsa—and he almost got free. But when Grinsa pressed the edge of his dagger against the man’s neck, his struggles abruptly ceased.
Grinsa’s horse, that was tied nearby, snorted anxiously and stamped his feet.
“Who told you?” the Qirsi asked again. He was shivering. How had it turned so damned cold?
“A woman in Galdasten,” the man said. “A white-hair, like you.”
He didn’t want to ask. Qirsar knew he didn’t. But what choice did he have?
“What was her name?”
“She didn’t say.
Of course she didn’t. “What did she look like?”
“She looked like a Qirsi. I can’t tell one of you from another.”
He was lying. She was beautiful. Even an Eandi brute like this one could see that. He tightened his hold on the man, pushing his blade against his skin until blood began to seep out from beneath the steel edge.
“What did she look like?”
“Young,” the man said, his voice rising. “Pretty. Pale eyes, long hair. I swear, I don’t know how to describe you people!”
It explained so much. Everything, really. He should have known. He could sense a man tracking him through the wood without even seeing him, yet he could not see through the deceptions of the woman sharing his bed.
He must have relaxed his hold on the man, because before he could ask why she wanted him dead, the dark-haired man grabbed hold of Grinsa’s blade hand and at the same time dug an elbow into the Qirsi’s side. Grinsa gasped and tried to hold the man down, but it was too late. He was on his feet again and bounding into the wood. Grinsa jumped up as well, but rather than giving chase, he formed a thought in his mind—an image really—and propelled it forward as if with his breath. The effort tore a second gasp from his chest and left him feeling light-headed for just an instant. But it worked.
A large branch from an oak snapped and crashed to the ground just in front of the Eandi man, forcing him to stop.
“The next one kills you!” Grinsa called, though he wasn’t certain that he had the strength to do it again.
Fortunately, the man didn’t make him try. He turned and faced Grinsa, looking like a frightened child.
“Come here,” the Qirsi commanded.
Slowly, almost timidly, the man started back toward the fire.
Grinsa was lucky she had sent an Eandi. Another Qirsi would have better understood the limits of his power. The Eandi were too afraid of magic to learn its ways.
The man stepped back into the circle of light cast by the fire, eyeing Grinsa warily. There was a line of dark blood on his neck where the Qirsi’s blade had cut him, and his hair and clothes were covered with dirt, but otherwise he was unmarked.
“Sit,” Grinsa said, waving his dagger at the ground.
The man lowered himself to the ground, his gaze never straying from Grinsa’s face.
“What’s your name?”
He hesitated. “Honok.”
It had to be an alias. The man was an assassin; he wasn’t about to give his real name. But Grinsa merely nodded. It made little difference. He just needed something to call him.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, Honok. I’ll know if you’re lying, so you might as well answer me truthfully. You don’t want to make me angry.”
“Can’t you just read my thoughts?” the man asked. “Why bother with questions at all?”
“I can divine your thoughts, yes. But it would be quite uncomfortable for you. I thought you might want to avoid that.”
There was some truth in this. He did have the divining power, though it offered him little more than a indistinct sense of another’s emotions, and it could have been unpleasant, even painful, for Honok. This wasn’t why he chose not to use it, however. He was beginning to tire. He had shattered the man’s dagger and brought down the tree limb in the span of just a few moments. There were limits to a Qirsi’s magic, even his. The exertion of power necessary for a divining would probably leave him too weakened to do much more than just sleep.
Once again, though, Honok’s ignorance proved to be Grinsa’s ally. The man paled at the implied threat, and, after a moment, nodded.
“The woman who sent you—” He paused, gritting his teeth against a wave of nausea. “Did she say why she wanted me dead?”
“She didn’t want you reaching Kentigern,” Honok said.
“Why not?”
“She didn’t want you helping the boy.”
“The boy,” Grinsa repeated.
“The duke of Curgh’s son.”
Grinsa wasn’t surprised. Knowing what he did of Tavis’s fate, and remembering all the questions she had asked about his gleaning, he could hardly expect anything else. But still his chest ached, as though the man’s dagger had found its mark after all.
“Why did she send you?” he asked.
Honok looked away, saying nothing.
“You’re an assassin?”
He nodded, still not looking at Grinsa.
The Qi
rsi stared at Honok for several moments, trying to recall the times he had seen him at the Revel. The more he looked, the more familiar the man’s face appeared, until finally he began to nod.
“You have a partner, don’t you?”
Honok looked at him sharply.
“That’s why she went to you, because your partner is already in Kentigern. He’s the one who went after Tavis in the first place.”
“I work alone!” the man insisted. But Grinsa heard the lie in his voice.
Again the Qirsi nodded. He could see the other man in his mind. He could picture them singing together. “I remember him, too. Tall and thin. Built like me, wasn’t he? But with black hair and a beard.”
“No!” the man cried. Moving so fast that Grinsa was caught off guard, he jumped to his feet and hurled himself at the Qirsi. Somehow, he had a dagger in his hand—too late, Grinsa realized that he hadn’t searched him for a second weapon—and he raised it over his head, once again aiming a blow at the Qirsi’s heart.
Grinsa threw out a desperate hand, deflecting Honok’s arm at the last instant. But the dagger blade sliced into his left shoulder as the two men fell to the ground again, Grinsa on his back and Honok on top of him. The dark-haired man yanked the blade out of Grinsa’s shoulder and stabbed down with it again, this time trying to bury it in the Qirsi’s throat.
Grinsa formed the thought and forced it from his mind so quickly, with such blind desperation, that he could barely control it. As it was, instead of hearing the clear ringing of shattering steel, he heard something duller, like the muffled snapping of wood. Honok screamed out in pain, his dagger falling harmlessly to the ground as he rolled off of Grinsa and began to writhe on the dirt, clutching his arm to his chest.
Grinsa’s shoulder throbbed as though the blade were still in his flesh. He put a hand to the wound, exploring it gingerly as warm blood flowed freely over his fingers. The cut went all the way to the bone.
