The Dark-Eyes War

Chapter 18

They had retreated to the privacy of their z'kal early in the evening. Grinsa had nothing more to say to E'Menua or Q'Daer, or even to Besh and Sirj. Probably he should have gone to see the Mettai one last time, if for no other reason than to assure them that he would do all he could to win their freedom when he returned from battle. But such assurances would have been hollow, and both men deserved better from him.

More to the point, he had grown weary of putting the needs of others ahead of his own concerns. This one night, he chose to be selfish.

Once more, he and Cresenne were being forced apart. Once more, they had no guarantee that they both would survive to be reunited. They sought refuge in each other's arms from their fears and their despair. Grinsa wanted to promise her that he would return, that once this war was over they would find a new home where they'd be safe, where Bryntelle could grow up in peace. But that promise would have been empty as well.

At one point during the evening, still breathless and flushed with spent passion, Cresenne looked up at him, her pale eyes shining in the dim light of their fire, and said, "Next time, I get to choose where we live."

Grinsa had laughed and kissed her. But a moment later she was crying, clinging to him. He searched for something to say that might ease her mind, but the words wouldn't come. In the end he merely held her until her sobbing ceased and she fell asleep.

Some time later they were awakened by the sound of someone tapping on the outside of their shelter. Grinsa opened his eyes and sat up quickly, as did Cresenne. It was still dark, and the embers of their fire glowed dully.

"Forelander," a voice called softly from outside.

Grinsa and Cresenne shared a look. Then Grinsa stood and pulled on his britches.

"Forelander?" said the voice again.

"That sounds like the n'qlae," Cresenne whispered.

Grinsa pushed aside the flap of rilda skin that covered the z'kal's entrance. Cresenne was right. D'Pera stood outside the shelter, her white hair gleaming in the light of the moons. Even in the dim light, he could see the apprehension etched in her face.

"What's happened, N'Qlae?"

"It's E'Menua. He was speaking with another a'laq, Weaver to Weaver. I'm not certain what happened, but he's… something's not right. He told me to get you."

That, of all things, caught him by surprise.

"He wants me to come?" Grinsa asked.

D'Pera nodded.

"Very well," Grinsa told her. "Give me just a moment."

He ducked back into the shelter and began to dress.

"What is it?" Cresenne asked, glancing at Bryntelle, who hadn't awakened.

"I'm not sure. Something's happened to E'Menua. He wants to speak with me."

Cresenne frowned. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Neither do I. But I don't think that D'Pera would have a hand in actually harming me. I'll be all right."

She nodded, though she appeared to shiver as well. Grinsa forced a smile, then left the shelter and followed D'Pera back to the a'laq's z'kal.

The n'qlae didn't say anything, but she walked quickly, a rilda skin pulled tight around her shoulders to ward off the chill night air. When they reached the shelter she shared with E'Menua, she pulled aside the flap covering the entrance and motioned Grinsa inside.

A fire burned brightly in the middle of the z'kal. The a'laq sat on the far side of it, wrapped in a blanket, his face damp with sweat, as if he had a fever. He even seemed to be trembling slightly.

"A'Laq?" Grinsa said, stepping closer to him.

"Sit down, Forelander," E'Menua said. His voice sounded strong. Grinsa lowered himself to the ground.

"I have been speaking with other a'laqs," E'Menua began. "We'll be joining some on the plain in the next few days. Others have already led their warriors toward the Horn to meet the dark-eye army." He picked up a skin that had been lying beside him and took a long drink. "One of the a'laqs I thought would be heading north hadn't met up with the others yet. So I reached for him. His name is J'Sor; his sept is west of here." He paused again, shaking his head.

"When I entered his dreams, it was… it was like stepping into a fire. I could see him-he was surrounded by flame. He seemed to be in agony. I'm not sure if he could hear me or see me."

"The plague," Grinsa said quietly.

E'Menua nodded. "It took me several moments to understand what was happening, but eventually I assumed as much."

"I've seen it," Grinsa told him. "I stepped into Q'Daer's dreams when he was sick. I remember it being just as you described."

"I tried to heal him," the a'laq said. "I tried everything I could think of to defeat his fever, but it was as if the flames eluded me. I could no more put them out than I could teach him to fly."

Grinsa nodded, smiling slightly.

The a'laq narrowed his eyes. "You know what I'm going to say, don't you?"

"Isn't that why you called me here?"

E'Menua lowered his gaze so that he was staring into the fire. "I should be dead, or at least dying."

"Yes, you should. So should this man, J'Sor. But both of you are going to live long enough to fight the Eandi, aren't you?"

"After a few moments it was as if the flames around him started to recede on their own. Nothing I did worked. I know that. But I healed him just the same."

"You didn't. Besh did. The same spell that kept you from getting ill purged the plague from J'Sor's body."

E'Menua looked up again, meeting his gaze. "I've already said that they're free to leave their z'kal," he said, with just a hint of his usual bluster. "They're guests in my sept. That's what I said today, before you questioned them about their magic."

"You need to do more than that," Grinsa said. "You know now that they've been telling the truth, and that I have as well."

The a'laq shook his head, growing more agitated by the moment. "Nothing has changed. These two men may have acted in good faith, but their people are marching against us. I can't have warriors riding to war questioning whether the men they're fighting are truly their enemies."

"You also can't have these men put to death. You put those lies in Besh's mouth, and unless you tell the truth, no one else will believe that they're innocent."

"I'm not going to execute them, Forelander. Whatever you may think of me, I'm not that cruel."

"And what if you don't survive the war, A'Laq? I believe that you won't put them to death now, knowing what you do. But unless you tell the truth about them, your successor might."

E'Menua stared back at him, frowning as if he hadn't anticipated this line of argument.

"Why did you call for me, A'Laq?" Grinsa asked. "I know that Besh and Sirj were telling the truth about their spell. So what happened to you tonight doesn't surprise me. You knew it wouldn't. And yet you summoned me here in the middle of the night. Why?"

"I'm not sure," E'Menua admitted. "I was… After seeing J'Sor that way, and then seeing the fires die out… I didn't know what to do."

"Have you told your wife about what happened?" Grinsa asked.

"Not yet."

"You should. And you should tell Q'Daer, too. You've named him as your successor-others heard you do so. He should know the truth."

E'Menua continued to stare at him, and for a moment Grinsa thought he would refuse. But then the a'laq nodded.

"Yes, all right. I'll tell them both. But for now I don't want the others to know. You understand?"

"Not entirely," Grinsa said. "But I'll honor your wishes."

The a'laq nodded. Grinsa stood, intending to leave. Before he could, E'Menua spoke his name.

"Did you have them put the spell on me?" the a'laq asked. "The Mettai, I mean. Is that why I'm immune now?"

"No," Grinsa said, shaking his head. "They didn't have to do anything. As I told you, the spell they created to fight the plague was as contagious as Lici's curse itself. Q'Daer passed it to you when he spoke to you in your dreams, before we returned to the sept."

He nearly added that he could have passed it to the a'laq as well, during their first confrontation after Grinsa's return, when they battled for control of E'Menua's magic. That contact would have been enough to make the a'laq immune to the Mettai plague. But he didn't believe that any good would come from mentioning that incident.

"Of course," the a'laq said, in a breathless whisper. "I should have remembered."

"Good night, A'Laq."

"Yes," E'Menua said. "I… thank you for… for coming so late." Grinsa nodded and left the z'kal. D'Pera stood alone in the darkness, gazing up at the moons. She turned at the sound of his footfalls. "Is he all right?" she asked.

"Yes, he is. He has things to tell you."

The n'qlae nodded, looking past him toward the shelter. "A Fal'Borna warrior does everything he can to protect his a'laq," she said, her voice low. "It's our way."

"I'll do what I can to keep him safe, N'Qlae."

She shifted her gaze, meeting his. "You and he-"

"I've sworn to fight for the Fal'Borna. I understand what that means."

He smiled faintly. "It's late, and I'd like to sleep a few more hours before we ride."

"Yes, all right," she said. "Good night, Forelander."

Grinsa stepped past her and walked back to his shelter, knowing that he had little hope of falling back asleep. He entered the z'kal as quietly as he could, undressed, and slipped under the blankets beside Cresenne.

"What was that all about?" she asked in a whisper, sounding very much awake.

He briefly related his conversation with E'Menua.

"So he knows that Besh and Sirj were telling the truth," she said when he was done, "but he refuses to admit as much to his people."

"That's basically right."

"And he felt compelled to tell you this in the middle of the night just before you're to follow him into battle."

"I think he was truly frightened by what happened. And I think he didn't know what to make of the fact that he was still alive. Even when he was using his magic to keep Besh from telling the truth, I don't think he believed that the Mettai spell could really work."

"I'm not sure that justifies any of what he's done," she said.

Grinsa was inclined to agree with her, but to his surprise and relief, he already felt himself getting sleepy. Sooner than he had expected, he fell back asleep.

Dawn came far too early, and before long Grinsa was dressed and outside the z'kal with Cresenne, who held a sleepy and fussy Bryntelle in her arms. He had expected that he would need to get his horse from the sept's paddock, but when he stepped out into the morning air, the bay was already saddled and waiting for him. Apparently preparing one's mount for war was one more thing the Fal'Borna didn't expect a Weaver to do for himself.

The other Weavers and their warriors were gathering at the eastern edge of the sept. Grinsa started in that direction, but after only a stride or two, he realized that Cresenne wasn't with him. He turned and saw that she still stood beside the shelter. Her eyes were dry, but she looked pale and sad in the grey light.

"You're not coming with me," he said.

Cresenne shook her head. "I don't want to say good-bye to you with everyone else there. And I don't want to be anywhere near E'Menua right now. I'm sorry."

He walked back to where she stood and kissed her. "I understand," he said. He kissed Bryntelle on the forehead, but she merely fussed at him. "She doesn't know what she's doing," Cresenne said.

"I know."

They stood for a moment, their eyes locked.

Grinsa brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. "I don't know what to say."

"Just come back."

"This is the last time-"

She held a finger to his lips, stopping him. "Don't," she said. She kissed him softly. "The one thing I've learned this past year is that we can't know what's going to happen. Just come back to me."

"All right. I love you."

That brought a smile to her lips. "We love you, too."

He turned and left them there, his chest aching.

When he reached the warriors and Weavers, he saw that he was the last to arrive. E'Menua was already sitting his horse, marking Grinsa's approach. L'Norr and Q'Daer were on either side of him, stony-faced. Most of the other Fal'Borna riders turned to look at Grinsa, some of them looking resentful, others merely curious. Grinsa expected the a'laq to comment on his late arrival, but E'Menua merely nodded once and, without a word, turned his mount and led his warriors away from the sept.

Several women and children had come to see the army off, but they didn't cry or cheer, or do any of the other things Eandi families in the Forelands might have done as their husbands or fathers marched to war. They stared after the men and then, one family at a time, turned and walked back into the sept, seemingly intent on their normal chores.

As the sun appeared on the eastern horizon, huge and golden, the men struck out northward. Grinsa would have liked to ride alone, at the back of the company, but before long Q'Daer dropped back to join him.

"You should be riding with the a'laq," said the young Weaver in a low voice.

Grinsa had expected this. He just nodded, and followed wordlessly as Q'Daer led him forward.

Theirs was a small company, especially compared to the armies Grinsa had seen during the war against the renegade Weaver in the Forelands. There were perhaps a hundred fifty Fal'Borna riders. No more. Some looked barely old enough to wield magic; others appeared too old for the rigors of battle. But all of them carried spears as well as the blades on their belts, and he sensed that all of them wielded at least one magic that would serve them well in this war: shaping, language of beasts, mists and winds, fire, and even healing.

Upon reaching the front of the company, Grinsa took a position beside Q'Daer, as far from the a'laq as he could manage.

Again, E'Menua said nothing to him, and that was all right with Grinsa. He didn't feel like speaking to anyone.

The Fal'Borna were skilled horsemen, and their mounts were as impressive as any Grinsa had seen. They rode at a good pace, and when they stopped to rest at midday, he estimated that the company had covered nearly three leagues.

While some of the men ate a small meal or drank from waterskins, Grinsa stood off on his own, scanning the eastern horizon. He wasn't sure what he expected to see. He hadn't heard anything to indicate that the Eandi army had made its way this far into Fal'Borna land, but he felt tense. The last time he'd ridden to war, he had nearly died. His disfigured shoulder throbbed with the memory.

"What are you looking for?" asked a familiar voice.

He glanced to the side. Q'Daer and L'Norr had joined him. He shrugged, facing forward again.

"I don't know," he said. "Does the a'laq have any idea how far the Eandi are from here?"

"Leagues, Forelander," Q'Daer said. "Relax. Eat something. Fal'Borna riders have been sent forward to meet the dark-eyes. We might not get to fight at all."

Grinsa nodded, remembering that E'Menua had mentioned this the night before. He looked at Q'Daer again. "You sound disappointed."

"It couldn't be helped. We got sick and so we were late returning to the sept with the Mettai. But I would have liked to be part of that first assault." Grinsa couldn't help thinking that Q'Daer sounded terribly young, like someone who had never actually seen war. But he kept this to himself.

"So we'll be meeting others?" he asked after a few moments, more to keep the conversation moving than anything else.

"Yes," Q'Daer told him. "There are at least seven a'laqs coming to join us. We'll meet them at F'Qira's Rill, to the west of S'Vralna. Even if the dark-eyes defeat the first army, they won't get past us."

Grinsa nodded but said nothing, drawing a frown from the young Weaver.

"You don't approve of that plan?" Q'Daer asked.

"It's not my place to approve or disapprove. I just hope that it won't come to that. I'd rather not fight at all."

"The dark-eyes started this war!" the man said, his voice rising. "You can't think that we should do nothing, that we should simply lay down our blades and give them the plain!"

Grinsa sighed, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. "I never said that, Q'Daer. All I said was that I don't want to fight. I fought in a war before leaving the Forelands. A series of wars, really. Thousands died. I have no interest in being part of more carnage. And if you had any idea of what war is really like, you'd feel the same way."

He knew that he should have kept that last part to himself, but at that moment he couldn't help himself. Before the young Weaver could answer, Grinsa turned and led his horse away. He'd been apart from Cresenne and Bryntelle for less than half a day, and already he missed them both. For a moment he had to resist an urge to leap onto his horse, ride back to the sept, and carry them both away, leaving behind the Fal'Borna and their war.

Instead, when E'Menua called for the riders to resume their journey a few moments later, he swung himself onto his mount and took his place with the other Weavers, assiduously avoiding Q'Daer's gaze.

For the rest of that day and all through the next, E'Menua's warriors maintained their swift pace across the plain. They saw no sign of the Eandi, or, for that matter, of any other Fal'Borna riders. The skies remained clear, but a cold wind blew out of the north, and clouds darkened the northern horizon.

Grinsa kept to himself. Warriors brought him food and drink, as they did for the other Weavers, but none of them said more to him than courtesy required. Q'Daer and L'Norr ignored him, and though Grinsa noticed E'Menua watching him on more than one occasion, the a'laq left him alone, too. For his part, Grinsa made no effort to speak with any of them.

Late in the morning of their third day on the plain, as they rode on that same northerly line, Grinsa spotted thin plumes of smoke rising from the grasses ahead of them. He glanced at the a'laq and his Weavers, but though all of them appeared to have spotted the smoke, none of them seemed alarmed.

At least not at first.

As they drew nearer to the source of those plumes, Grinsa saw what appeared to be a large camp of warriors and horses. They were spread over a broad area, but the camp looked sparse.

"There should be more of them," E'Menua said in a tight voice. "How can there be so few?"

No one had to say a word. They all knew the answer.

They rode on and soon entered the camp, drawing the stares of nearly every man there. Looking from face to face, Grinsa sensed with his magic that several of the Fal'Borna who had gathered on the plain were Weavers. But in all, even with E'Menua's warriors, there couldn't have been more than four hundred Fal'Borna in the camp.

When the renegade Weaver in the Forelands had faced the combined might of the Eandi courts, he had commanded an army smaller than this one, and he had been only one Weaver. Still he had nearly prevailed. But Grinsa thought it likely that the Eandi of the Southlands were better prepared to fight against Qirsi magic than his Eandi allies in the Forelands had been. And he had no idea what the presence of the Mettai might mean when it came time to do battle.

Clearly, though, E'Menua was dismayed by what he saw.

"Where is H'Loryn?" he said, dismounting and scanning the camp. "And O'Tal. I want to speak with him, too."

After a moment two men emerged from the crowd that had begun to gather around the a'laq and his Weavers. Many of the Fal'Borna had been eyeing Grinsa warily, noting, no doubt, that he looked nothing like them. They parted to let the two men E'Menua had summoned step forward, but they didn't take their eyes off of the Forelander.

"We're here, E'Menua," one of the men said, his voice tinged with annoyance.

Grinsa realized that he recognized this man. He was one of the a'laqs he had spoken to while spreading Besh's spell across the plain. The man was younger than E'Menua, probably closer in age to Grinsa. He was also taller than the a'laq, with a leaner build. His eyes were a soft yellow, and like so many of the warriors there, he wore his hair pulled back from his face. Grinsa didn't know the other man, but he sensed immediately that he was also a Weaver. He assumed that he was an a'laq as well. This second man looked to be closer in age to E'Menua, whom he also resembled in stature and build. He had pale eyes and a round face that might have been friendly had he smiled.

"These are all the men you brought with you?" E'Menua demanded.

The younger of the two men glanced past E'Menua to those who had arrived with him. "I brought no fewer than you did. H'Loryn's sept has always been smaller than ours. You know this."

"We need more warriors," E'Menua said, as if the man had been arguing to the contrary.

The man named O'Tal shrugged. "I agree. But I can't conjure them out of the air." His eyes flicked toward Grinsa for just an instant. "Can you, E'Menua?"

The a'laq scowled at him before turning to H'Loryn. "Have you heard anything from the others?"

The second Weaver shook his head. "Nothing new from the ones who rode forward. We're still waiting for J'Sor and his warriors."

E'Menua shook his head. "I don't think J'Sor will be coming. Not for a few more days."

"Why not?" O'Tal asked.

"The plague struck his sept."

Both men blanched, and murmurs rippled through the mass of warriors standing around them.

O'Tal glanced at Grinsa a second time. "You're certain of this?"

"Yes," E'Menua said.

O'Tal kept his gaze fixed on Grinsa. "You walked in my dreams, and you made me immune to the plague. At least you claimed to. Didn't you do the same for J'Sor?"

"No, A'Laq," Grinsa said. "I tried to reach as many septs as I could, but I began with septs near the Horn, to the south toward the Ofirean, and to the east. That's where I believe the danger was greatest. I hadn't yet gotten to those septs in the west."

"You know this man?" H'Loryn asked, looking from O'Tal to Grinsa. The young a'laq nodded. "He came to me a few nights ago. He told me that E'Menua had sent him to pass on a… some magic that would make us all immune to the plague."

H'Loryn's eyes widened. "What?"

"I'm sorry, A'Laq," Grinsa said, addressing the older man. "I didn't get to your sept, either. You must live in the west."

H'Loryn nodded. "Yes, I do." He gave a slight frown. "Who are you?"

"My name is Grinsa jal Arriet. I come from the Forelands and I now live in E'Menua's sept."

"The Forelands," the a'laq repeated. "Well, that explains your accent and your appearance. But why would you come here?"

"We have other matters to discuss," E'Menua broke in. "We need to make plans for what we'll do if other septs don't join us here. And I want to hear anything you can tell me about S'Bahn's men and the others who have ridden to the Horn to face the dark-eyes."

H'Loryn eyed Grinsa for another moment, but then faced E'Menua. "Yes, of course, E'Menua. You're right."

For once, Grinsa was grateful for E'Menua's impatience. He had no desire to explain his past to any of these men. And he, too, was curious about the men E'Menua had mentioned. S'Bahn, he remembered, was the father of B'Vril, the leader of the company he and Q'Daer had encountered while still journeying back to the sept with Besh and Sirj.

E'Menua instructed his a'jeis and their warriors to make camp beside the other two armies. As they carried out his orders, he began to ask questions of the two other a'laqs. How many warriors had ridden forward to meet the Eandi army? Which a'laqs were leading them? How many Weavers did they have?

He didn't appear particularly pleased with any of their answers, but O'Tal and H'Loryn gave every indication that they thought the Fal'Borna army formidable enough to take on the invaders.

"They hadn't found the dark-eyes yet?" E'Menua asked, still looking unhappy.

O'Tal shook his head. "Not the last time I spoke with P'Rhil. But that was two nights ago."

"We should reach for him again tonight," E'Menua said.

"I intend to," O'Tal told him.

The tension between the two men was palpable. Clearly E'Menua thought of himself as the leader of these Fal'Borna. It seemed just as clear that O'Tal saw himself the same way. In the Forelands, rival dukes would have taken the measure of one another based upon the power, influence, and wealth of their houses. From what Grinsa had learned of the Fal'Borna, it seemed that septs judged their rivals by how many Weavers they had. If that was the case here, Grinsa's presence by E'Menua's side couldn't have been welcomed by O'Tal or his warriors.

"Well," H'Loryn said, clearly desperate to ease what had become an uncomfortable situation, "I suppose that means we have nothing to do but wait."

O'Tal and E'Menua continued to eye each other, like combatants at the outset of a battle tournament.

"We spotted some rilda earlier today," said one of the other Weavers. "Stragglers that haven't gone south yet. We could have a hunt."

H'Loryn's face brightened. "Excellent!" he said. "We'll feast tonight to celebrate the coming together of three great armies." He looked hopefully at the other two a'laqs, neither of whom appeared to take much notice of him. "O'Tal?" the older man said, a plea in his voice.

"Yes, all right," O'Tal answered. He turned away from E'Menua, a brittle smile on his lips. "A hunt sounds like an excellent idea."

H'Loryn looked so relieved it was almost comical. "Good. We'll get started right away. You and your warriors will be joining us, won't you, E'Menua?"

The a'laq's smile could have curdled milk. "Of course we will."

"I'll stay behind and keep an eye on the camp," Grinsa said. "I don't think I'd be of much use on a hunt."

"Have you ever hunted rilda, Forelander?" O'Tal asked, though it seemed to Grinsa that he already knew the answer.

"No, I haven't."

"Then perhaps you should join us. A Fal'Borna can't truly be considered a warrior until he's hunted on the plain."

He heard the challenge in O'Tal's words, and his first reaction was to refuse. He wanted no part of the man's feud with E'Menua, and he had no interest in initiating a feud of his own. But seeing the way the other Fal'Borna were looking at him, including Q'Daer and L'Norr, Grinsa began to realize that there was more at stake here than O'Tal's challenge. Most of these men didn't know him; many of those from E'Menua's sept still didn't trust him. Yet they were about to go into battle with him. Reluctant as he was to be part of this war, he knew that he needed to have the trust of the men who would be fighting beside him, whose magic he would be wielding as a weapon.

"All right," Grinsa said, looking O'Tal in the eye. "But you'll have to show me what to do."

The young a'laq looked surprised. "Yes, of course."

Q'Daer caught Grinsa's eye and nodded, a rare smile on his face. E'Menua didn't look quite so pleased.

They gave him a spear and then a large group rode southward away from the camp. It had quickly become something more than a hunt. It was a rite of passage for Grinsa, and also a diversion for the young warriors. Grinsa felt himself growing nervous and excited. He hadn't done much hunting since he was a boy growing up on the Caerissan Steppe near Eardley in the Forelands, but he still remembered fondly the hunts of his childhood.

"How is it you wound up with E'Menua?"

He turned to find that O'Tal had pulled abreast of him on his dappled grey. "His was the first sept we found," Grinsa said, choosing his words with care.

The man's eyebrows went up. "We?"

"I came to the Southlands with my wife and my daughter."

"I see. Is your wife a Weaver, too?"

"No," Grinsa said flatly.

A small smile flickered on the man's face and then vanished. "I'd imagine that's been difficult for you both."

Grinsa regarded the man briefly, trying to determine if he was mocking their difficulties. But he saw no sign of this.

"Actually, it has been," he admitted. "But I think E'Menua has come to accept that Cresenne is my wife."

"Really?" O'Tal asked with obvious surprise. "One day you'll have to explain to me how you convinced him."

Grinsa grinned, deciding in that moment that he liked O'Tal. "You and E'Menua don't get along, do you?" he asked.

"E'Menua is a strong leader," O'Tal said immediately. "His sept has many Weavers." He glanced at Grinsa slyly. "More even than I knew."

"I'm not sure that answers my question."

"Do you like him?" O'Tal asked.

Grinsa hesitated, then gave a short laugh.

"Forget that I asked."

O'Tal smiled, but quickly grew serious again. "You've managed to win a measure of his trust, and you seem like a man who can take care of himself, so I won't presume to offer counsel where none is needed. But E'Menua is a hard man, and a clever one. Watch yourself."

"I have been," Grinsa said. "But I appreciate the warning."

A shout went up from some of the men who had ridden ahead. Both of them scanned the plain. After a moment, O'Tal pointed toward the southwest.

"There!" he said, sounding eager. "It's a small herd, but it will do."

Grinsa's first thought was that a large herd of rilda must have been a wonder to behold. There had to be at least a hundred of the animals in this "small herd." They had been grazing, but seeing the horsemen they had broken away. They looked like the antelope Grinsa had seen in the southern Forelands, but they were bigger, with sleek coats of short tan fur and white markings on their flanks and heads. Their eyes were large and dark, and many of the animals had short, pale antlers.

"What do we do?" Grinsa asked, his pulse quickening at the sight of the creatures.

O'Tal spurred his mount to a gallop. "We ride!" he called over his shoulder.

Grinsa followed, pleased to find that the horse he had bought in Yorl when he and Cresenne first arrived in the Southlands was able to keep pace with the stallions of the Fal'Borna. He was suddenly conscious of the spear he still carried in his right hand, and of the sweat on his palm.

As swift as the Fal'Borna were, the rilda were faster. They appeared to move as one, turning first one way and then the other in perfect unison, sunlight flashing on their silken flanks and then darkening again as they swerved once more.

"We can't catch them!" Grinsa shouted over the rush of wind in his ears. O’viral looked at him, grinning. "Watch!" he said.

Almost as soon as the young a'laq said this, a second group of riders appeared, as if out of nowhere. The rilda were forced to reverse course, so that abruptly they were headed straight for Grinsa and the other warriors.

Grinsa wasn't certain that his situation had improved much. He'd never killed an animal while on horseback, and he'd never seen a creature as fast as these rilda.

"Now what?" he called.

"The easiest way is from behind," O'Tal said. "Choose an animal, ride at it from an angle, and strike when you're close."

Right. Because it was certain to be just that easy.

The herd had turned again, angling away from Grinsa and the others while still being pursued by the second set of riders. As Grinsa watched, a young Fal'Borna did exactly what O'Tal had described. He charged at the herd, and at the last moment appeared to choose one rilda. Turning as that animal approached, he positioned himself just behind and to the left of it. Then, leaning to the right, he lifted his spear and threw it. His weapon struck the rilda in the back of the neck, just above its shoulders. The animal went down in a heap, and the warrior triumphantly raised a hand over his head.

A second Fal'Borna rider had already started his run at an animal. This one took a different approach, angling toward the herd from the front and forcing several of the rilda to peel away from the rest of the group. Dropping down low so that he hung from his saddle, this warrior threw his spear into the chest of one of the rilda. This animal fell immediately as well.

"That's how it's done," O'Tal called to him, still smiling.

"That's how it's done by a Fal'Borna," Grinsa said. "Couldn't I just use language of beasts?"

O'Tal's expression grew deadly serious. "Fal'Borna law forbids the use of magic against the rilda. Kebb forbids it."

Kebb: the god of beasts.

Grinsa nodded. "Forgive me. I meant it as a joke."

O'Tal smiled again. "Apology accepted. Now go! Hunt!"

Swallowing hard, Grinsa turned his mount so that he angled toward the herd as the first hunter had done. The rilda turned again, so that they were headed toward him, and he had to adjust his line. His horse was starting to labor-Grinsa couldn't remember ever riding this fast-and he knew he'd only have the one chance. There seemed to be rilda and horses and Fal'Borna all around him. It was as chaotic as any battle he could remember from his war with the renegade Weaver. But soon enough he had positioned himself just behind a doe. He raised himself up in his saddle, drew back his spear, and threw.

He saw the spear hit the animal, saw the rilda stumble, but then he was too far past. He tried to wheel his mount around, was nearly rammed by several rilda, and came dangerously close to falling out of his saddle. When at last he righted himself, he saw the animal he had struck. It was alive still, struggling to climb to its feet. The spear was embedded in its shoulder, and blood stained its golden brown coat.

Grinsa winced at the sight. "Damn!"

He started back toward the creature, but before he reached it, O'Tal rode up to it and halted. He looked down on the rilda for a moment. Then he hefted his spear and plunged it into the rilda's neck. The animal spasmed and was still.

"Thank you," Grinsa said, stopping beside the doe.

"You did well," O'Tal told him.

Grinsa laughed mirthlessly. "Right."

"For your first hunt? The first hunt you'd ever even seen? You did well."

Grinsa inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment. "Again, my thanks."

"It's too bad you chose a doe," O'Tal said. "Most Fal'Borna men would have chosen a buck for their first kill."

"Why?"

"The bucks have… certain delicacies that are given to a warrior at the feast after his first hunt."

Grinsa's laugh this time was sincere. "You should have told me earlier."

"You're right," O'Tal said. "I should have." He dismounted. "Come on. Let's get her back to camp."

With O'Tal's help, Grinsa lifted the rilda onto his horse in front of the saddle, and tied it in place. By the time they were done, most of the rilda herd had moved on. The Fal'Borna had killed nearly two dozen of the animals; they'd eat well this night.

As Grinsa was riding back to the camp, Q'Daer joined him. He carried a rilda as well, a large buck.

"I saw you hunt," the young Weaver said. "You did well for a Forelander."

"Thank you," Grinsa said, assuming that he had meant this as praise. "I'm sorry: I missed your kill."

Q'Daer waved off the apology. "It wasn't my first; it won't be my last." He paused. Then, "I noticed that you were riding with O'Tal."

Something in his tone told Grinsa that he'd erred. Too late, it occurred to him that he hadn't seen E'Menua on the hunt.

"Is that a problem?" he asked.

"Tell the a'laq you didn't know you were supposed to hunt with me. He'll understand that."

Grinsa nodded. But his mood, which had finally improved after several days of missing his family, began to darken again. He'd grown weary of having to worry about offending E'Menua at every turn.

"Thank you," he said, his voice low.

"E'Menua will expect you to ride to battle with him. He's your a'laq, and you're his Weaver."

I'm no one's Weaver, he wanted to say. Except Cresenne's. But he kept this to himself. "I know," he told the man. "I've pledged to fight beside E'Menua. That's what I'll do."

Q'Daer nodded once. "Good." He spurred his mount forward.

Grinsa watched him ride ahead before looking down at the rilda he'd killed. "Tried to kill," he corrected in a whisper.

He shook his head and took a long breath. For just a few moments he'd felt more like a true Fal'Borna than he ever had before, than he'd ever thought possible.