The Dark-Eyes War

Chapter 19

After speaking with Gries about his scrap of basket, Torgan hardly saw the man for the better part of a day. He had thought that he and the captain had come to some sort of agreement as they rode together, but Gries spent that evening with his men, leaving Torgan on his own. The next morning Fairlea's lord heir took his place at the head of the Stelpana army, leaving Torgan with little choice but to ride alone. Gries nodded to Torgan as he rode past the merchant, but he offered no greeting and gave no sign that he wanted Torgan to join him. The other captains, Tirnya and Enly in particular, had made it clear that they wanted nothing to do with him; the soldiers of Stelpana were on foot and seemed no more inclined than their commanders to welcome Torgan as a marching companion; and Torgan had no interest in riding alongside the Mettai.

Instead, as they made their way westward, Torgan merely sat astride Trey, shivering within his riding cloak, cursing Gries and the rest of the soldiers. For a brief moment Torgan had managed to convince himself that he might actually profit from this invasion. He had even found some satisfaction in knowing that the piece of cursed basket he carried would help Stelpana's army defeat the white-hairs. He remained eager to strike back at the Fal'Borna for all they had done to him, and Gries had made it sound like he would have that opportunity.

Now Torgan wondered if the captain had been humoring him. His misgivings only increased when shortly after midday, as the army rested and ate, he spotted Gries speaking with the Mettai woman who had as much as called Torgan a liar the day he joined the company. The woman didn't look pleased about whatever it was Gries was telling her, which gave Torgan some small hope. But after Gries left her, he didn't approach the merchant. In all likelihood, whatever the captain discussed with the Mettai woman had nothing to do with Torgan. Soon Jenoe had them all on the move again. Torgan seethed. Late in the day the army came within sight of a broad, swift river. The marshal and his captains halted briefly and huddled together at the head of the company, though they didn't dismount. Torgan could see them speaking, but of course couldn't hear a thing they said. He guessed that they were trying to determine exactly where they were, and Torgan could have told them. They had reached the Thraedes River. S'Vralna lay only a short distance to the south. If Gries intended to use the basket, they'd have to act soon.

After a few moments, the marshal and captains rode on, and the army followed. But they stopped on the eastern bank of the river and made camp there for the night. Still Gries kept his distance, and Torgan cursed him in silence.

"I'll leave them come morning," he muttered to himself, chewing on a tough piece of salted meat and washing it down with cold river water. If they weren't smart enough to use the basket and win, he wasn't going to ride with them to his doom.

Darkness fell and clouds began to cover the sky. Torgan sat beside a fire built for him by a few of the Fairlea soldiers, who apparently had heard snippets of his story about Widlyn Crane. He showed them the hat and answered a few questions about the man from whom he'd won it-Was he big? Had Torgan ever seen him fight? Was it possible he was lying about how he'd gotten the hat?-before they left him alone again.

He was about to pull out his sleeping roll and blankets when he heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw Fairlea's lord heir step into the firelight, a grin on his handsome face.

"Well, that proved a bit harder than I thought it would," the captain said, sitting on the grass and helping himself to a pull of water from Torgan's skin.

Torgan glared at him. "What are you talking about?"

"What do you think I'm talking about?" Gries asked, his brow creased, though a faint smile remained on his lips.

The merchant shook his head, feeling his face redden.

"Do you even remember what we discussed yesterday, Torgan?"

"Of course I do! But then you didn't say anything more to me, and I… I thought that you… that maybe you'd changed your mind."

Gries's frown deepened. "What did the Fal'Borna do to you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The Torgan Plye I know would have understood that these things take time. If I came to you looking for A'Vahl woodwork, you wouldn't just have it there waiting for me. You'd be the first to tell me that if you want the best goods, you need to be patient." He shrugged. "Alliances of the sort we're after are no different. We can't rush this. And it can't seem to the marshal that you and I have been working together. At least not immediately." He glanced around them. "That's why I circled around the camp to get to your fire. I told my men to build it for you here. I didn't want any of the others to see us together."

"You told your…?" Torgan broke off, shaking his head slowly. "I don't understand. What alliances? What is it you've been doing?"

"I've been trying to convince the eldest that she needs to work with us on this."

"The eldest," Torgan repeated, still confused. "Who are you-?" He stopped, his mouth agape. The eldest. Finally he understood. "You're trying to get the Mettai to help us?"

"Yes! I thought I made that clear to you yesterday."

Torgan shook his head. "No. You just said that you'd figured out a way to expose as many Fal'Borna as possible to the plague, and then you rode away."

"I thought it would be clear," Gries said. "We need magic to do this, Torgan. And the eldest has agreed to help us."

"But the eldest hates me."

Gries nodded. "Yes, she does. I didn't realize quite how much until I spoke with her earlier today. But she's agreed to help us."

Torgan wasn't certain how he felt about this. He'd never really liked the Mettai. Even when he traveled to the villages around the Companion Lakes, trading for baskets and blankets and the fine pelts sold by Mettai trappers, he did his best to be on his way before nightfall. He distrusted magic of any sort, be it the strange powers of the Qirsi or the blood conjurings of the Mettai. He understood that by using the poisoned basket to sicken the Fal'Borna, he was relying on Mettai magic. Somehow, though, the fact that they'd need the help of the Mettai to spread the plague bothered him.

"You don't look pleased, Torgan," Gries said, narrowing his eyes.

He shook his head. "No, I am. I just…" He stopped, shook his head again. "Never mind."

"Good." Gries stood and stepped beyond the firelight for a moment. "She's coming," he said, returning to where he'd been sitting. "I think she's got her son with her."

The two of them sat in silence for several moments, until at last two Mettai appeared in the firelight. One of them was the old woman, whose dark eyes found Torgan immediately. She had a narrow face and short white hair that made her look like a half-starved child, despite the lines around her eyes and mouth. The young man with her had a harder look. His features were sharp, and his dark, stringy hair made his face look even longer than it was. He was short, but wiry looking. If Torgan had passed this man on a lonely stretch of road while driving a cart filled with goods, he would have kept his knife within reach.

Gries stood to greet them, casting a look at Torgan that all but commanded the merchant to do the same. After a moment's hesitation, Torgan climbed to his feet.

"Thank you for coming, Eldest," Gries said. He indicated the merchant with an open hand. "I believe you've met Torgan Plye."

"I still don't believe that the plague was created by Mettai magic," she said to Torgan. "You may believe that blood magic is evil, but my people have long refused to do such dark conjurings."

"Eldest-" Gries began.

She turned, leveling a rigid, bony finger at the man. "I know what you'd say, Captain. These are extraordinary times. The magic we've done on the marshal's behalf are wartime spells. Most Mettai don't know how to do this magic, and even if they did, they'd refuse."

"I saw the woman who created this plague," Torgan said, drawing the gazes of the two Mettai and Gries. "I told you as much the first day we spoke. I also met two Mettai who came from her village. They acknowledged what she'd done. They were trying to stop her plague from spreading."

"What village was this?" the eldest asked.

"I don't remember." But even as Torgan said this, he recalled something he'd overheard the night he escaped the Fal'Borna, the night he killed Jasha. "You don't have to believe me," he went on after a moment. "You have the power to prove me right."

"What do you mean?" the young man asked. "What power?"

"There's a spell your kind do," Torgan said. "It can make magic visible. Isn't that right?"

The eldest and her son shared a look. After a moment, the woman faced Torgan again. "You have the basket here?" she asked.

The merchant smiled thinly and walked to where Trey was tethered. "It's not a full basket," he called over his shoulder, as he dug into his travel sack, searching for the scrap of half-burned osiers. He found it, pulled it out, and carried it back to the fire.

He held it out for the others to see. It barely covered the palm of his hand.

"That's it?" Gries asked, clearly disappointed. "That's going to help us destroy the Fal'Borna?"

Torgan nodded. "Yes, that's it. And yes, it will help you win this war." He was watching the woman, who stepped forward, her eyes fixed on the osiers.

"That is Mettai work," she said, her voice low. "Even in the darkness I can see that much. Look at that weave."

"They were some of the finest baskets I've ever seen," the merchant said. "Whatever her intent, she was obviously talented."

After another moment, the woman looked up into Torgan's eyes. "To answer your question from before, yes, there is such a spell. It would allow us to see the magic on it. I'd be able to tell if it's a Mettai conjuring."

"And the spell won't weaken the magic in that basket?" Gries asked.

"Not at all," she said.

Gries hesitated, clearly beyond his depth. Torgan smiled, taking some satisfaction in seeing the brash captain humbled, at least for the moment. "Well, all right then," Gries said. "Go ahead."

The eldest nodded and pulled her knife free. She stooped to pick up some earth. Then she cut the back of her hand, gathered some blood on the blade of her weapon, and mixed it with the dirt.

"Blood to earth," she said, her voice dropping. "Life to power, power to thought, magic revealed."

With the last word she tossed the mud toward Torgan's outstretched hand. The moment she let go of the mixture of blood and earth, it changed, becoming so fine, like mist from a cascade, that Torgan could barely see it in the dim light. He felt it on his hand though, cool and damp. And at the same time, he saw it flare like Qirsi fire. It was so bright that he had to look away, and it took his eyes several moments to recover. When at last he looked at the basket again, he saw that it had changed. It was glowing now; it almost looked like it was on fire. But this was no ordinary flame. It was a malevolent green, as if the fire itself were diseased.

"Blood and bone," Gries whispered.

The eldest's son inhaled sharply through his teeth. Torgan couldn't feel that green fire burning on his hand, but still he had to resist an urge to fling the basket away.

"Well?" he asked shakily, looking at the two Mettai.

The woman almost seemed to flinch away from the flame. But she nodded and said, "Yes, that's Mettai magic. You can tell by the fire. The power of the Qirsi would look more like it was glowing rather than burning." She appeared to shudder. "I never thought I'd see a blood conjuring so… wicked."

"Can you spread it?" Gries asked her, seeming to ignore the last comment.

"What?" the young Mettai man said, turning to look at the captain. When he realized that Gries was speaking to his mother, the Mettai faced her. "What is he talking about?"

The eldest glanced at her son. "We'll discuss this later." Looking at Gries, she straightened, then nodded. "Yes, I believe that we can help you with this."

"Mama-"

"Later!" she said sharply.

The young man pressed his lips in a tight line, his gaze sliding toward Torgan's fire.

"It would be a difficult conjuring," she went on after a moment. "I'd first want to reduce that piece of basket to something akin to dust. Then, with the second part of the spell, we'd send it to the Fal'Borna, as you've seen us do with the finding and sleeping spells."

"And the magic that's on it now would still work?" Torgan asked.

"It should. We'd do nothing to weaken it. We'd just make it possible to reach more of the Fal'Borna than it could otherwise."

Gries nodded. "That's exactly what we want. How near to them would you have to be for this magic to work?"

The eldest shrugged. "As near as we've been when we used these other magics."

Gries nodded. "And how long does it take for the plague to kill them?" he asked Torgan.

"I don't know, exactly. It takes several hours before they show signs of being ill. And then they lose control over their magic. As I've already told you, that's what kills them ultimately."

"We'd need to be far away by then," the captain said, as much to himself as to the rest of them. "If we're still close by, they might unleash their power on us."

"We can attack and then retreat," Torgan said. "Let them believe that their magic drove us off, or that we didn't like the way the battle was going."

Gries frowned at him, almost as if he resented the merchant's attempt to come up with a strategy for battle. "Thank you, Torgan. The marshal and I will work out the details."

Torgan made no effort to conceal his surprise. "So you've spoken to him about all of this?"

The captain's cheeks appeared to redden, though it was hard to tell in the firelight. "Not yet, no," he said. "But I will." He faced the Mettai woman again. "Thank you, Eldest. We'll speak of this again soon. I'd imagine we'll save Torgan's scrap of basket for D'Raqor. But it's possible that Marshal Jenoe will have different ideas."

"All right," she said. She looked once more at the green flame burning in the palm of Torgan's hand before starting back toward the Mettai camp. Her son followed.

"Wait!" Torgan said, stopping her. "Are you just going to leave it looking like this?"

"It won't harm you," the woman said.

"No. But it… I don't want everyone to know I have it. And…" He licked his lips. "I don't like the way it looks."

The eldest regarded him with disdain, but after a moment she walked back to where he stood, picked up more dirt, cut her hand again, and mixed the earth with her blood.

"Blood to earth," she said with obvious impatience. "Earth to power, power to thought, magic concealed."

Once more, she threw the mud over his hand, this time turning away even as it became that same delicate mist and settled over the scrap of cursed basket. Torgan felt it cold on his hand and saw with relief that the green fire died away instantly.

He looked up, intending to thank the woman, but she and her son were already gone.

"They're strange, even for Mettai," Gries said.

Torgan had to agree, but he was concerned with other matters. "You're sure the marshal will agree to this?" he asked.

"I'm not certain of anything," Gries told him. "But we have a chance to take D'Raqor-the prize that he and his daughter want most of all-without losing a single man. He'd be mad not to do this."

"What about Tirnya? And Enly?"

Gries shook his head. "Enly doesn't matter. This is Jenoe's decision. And I'll make sure he gets it right. As for Tirnya, she'll be so glad to have D'Raqor that she won't care how we won it."

Torgan wasn't so sure.

Have you stopped to think what the curse might do with this bit of magic you're contemplating?" Mander asked from behind her as they walked back to where the other Mettai were sleeping.

Fayonne didn't look at him. She wished she hadn't asked her son to come with her to speak with Captain Ballidyne and the merchant. Yes, the curse was real. It still haunted them, even out here. She was willing to concede that much. But what did he expect her to do? Abandon magic completely?

"Did you even mention to them that it might not work? Or worse, that it might kill their own men?"

"It's a white-hair plague," Fayonne said, her voice toneless. "It won't kill the soldiers, or us."

"You don't know that. You don't know what the curse will do to it. It could make all of-"

"That's enough!" she said, whirling on him. He halted and staggered back away from her, his eyes wide.

"None of our magic is immune to the curse!" she said. "We both know that! So any spell we use will carry consequences. Eagles, wolves, poison-all of them are threats to us. This spell isn't, at least not the same way. It could deliver D'Raqor to the marshal and end the war. Will the curse do something to the spell? Of course it will. But that's a risk I'll take."

Mander nodded, looking frightened of her.

Fayonne made herself smile. "It's good that you worry about these things," she said. "You'll lead our people well when I'm gone. But you can't always let your concern for others get in the way of what has to be done. Sometimes we have to come first. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mama."

She turned and started walking again. Mander fell in beside her. "Who would have made a spell like that?" he asked after some time.

"I don't know," Fayonne said. "I've been wondering the same thing." That flame had been as evil looking as anything Fayonne had ever seen in a conjuring. It seemed to emit pure malice. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought that another Mettai village had declared war against the white-hairs just as hers had done.

"The merchant said it was an old woman," she said eventually. "He was right about the rest, so I'll trust his word on this, too. But I wouldn't have thought there were more than a handful of Mettai who could have conjured such a plague. I wonder why she did it."

Mander said nothing. Fayonne sensed that he was still hurt by her outburst, but she could think of nothing to say that might make him feel better. And she had more pressing concerns.

"The captain wants us to keep this quiet for now," she said. "He hasn't spoken of it with Marshal Onjaef, and he's not certain that the marshal or his captains are ready to go so far."

"All right," Mander said softly.

"He'll have to decide soon," she told him. "We're close to S'Vralna and it won't be long before we reach D'Raqor. He'll make up his mind in the next day or two. I'm sure of it."

Mander might have nodded; she wasn't certain.

They walked the rest of the way in silence and before long had unrolled their blankets and were settling down to sleep. Fayonne felt exhausted, as she did after every march. She was too old to be out here on the plain with the Snows coming on. But on this night sleep didn't come easily. A north wind was rising, and the air smelled like snow. She lay awake for a long time trying to think of ways the curse might make the spell she was contemplating go wrong. But none of the possibilities she considered seemed too terrible, and this actually frightened her. The truth was, the curse never affected magic the way she and her people anticipated. It was almost always worse.

She fell at last into a deep slumber, and though she knew that she dreamed of terrible, bloody battles, she could remember nothing specific when she woke to the first faint glimmerings of dawn.

The Eandi soldiers had started to stir, and even at a distance Fayonne sensed both their excitement and their trepidation. She well understood what they must have been thinking. The armies had reached the Thraedes. Beyond it lay the Horn; to the south lay Sivralna. This war was about to begin in earnest.

It was a chill morning, and that north wind had grown stronger. A light snow fell upon them, clinging to the grass and dampening Fayonne's hair. The eldest wasn't certain where Jenoe intended to lead them from here, but she didn't relish the idea of braving those swirling waters. She folded away her blankets and walked to the Eandi camp. She sensed that Mander was watching her, perhaps waiting for her to ask him to join her. She didn't.

The marshal stood with his captains, surveying the river, his face still puffy with sleep, his expression grim. Seeing her approach, he nodded a greeting, but at first he didn't say anything.

"If we go straight on, we leave ourselves open to an attack from the rear," the marshal from Waterstone said, seeming to continue a conversation that Fayonne hadn't heard.

"I tend to agree," Jenoe said. "Deraqor is the prize, but we can't risk ignoring Sivralna. And I don't wish to cross the river if we'll just have to find a way back across eventually."

Sivralna? Fayonne cast a quick look at Captain Ballidyne, but he had his eyes trained on the ground in front of him, his lips pursed. He had told her of Sivralna's destruction, which the merchant had described for him in detail, but apparently he had yet to share this information with the marshal.

"So then we're to march on Sivralna?" asked Enly Tolm, his gaze flicking toward the marshal's daughter.

"I think so," Jenoe told him. "I believe that's the safest course. Ready the men." He turned to Fayonne. "We could encounter the Fal'Borna at any time, Eldest. I want you and your people marching at the head of the army again. And I'd like you to give some thought to how we might take the city when we reach Sivralna."

"S'Vralna is yours already," came a voice from behind Fayonne.

All of them turned. The merchant was lumbering in their direction through the falling snow, his one good eye flitting from one face to the next.

"You can cross the river north of here," he went on. "That will save us all a day on foot, maybe more."

"What are you talking about, Torgan?" the marshal demanded. He regarded the man with manifest distaste. Then he cast a quick look at his daughter as if chastising her for allowing the merchant to come near him.

"You didn't tell him?" the merchant asked Gries.

The captain glared back at him, a warning in his dark eyes.

Torgan turned to Enly and then Tirnya. "You didn't, either?"

Jenoe seemed to be growing angrier by the moment. "Tell me what?"

"S'Vralna is destroyed, Marshal," the merchant said. "I've been there. It was struck by the white-hair plague. The city lies in ruin and most of its people are dead. Taking it will be as simple as riding through the gates. You'd be wasting your time marching south from here."

"You're certain of this?" Jenoe asked.

"Yes. That's why I'm convinced that-"

Torgan stopped, and Fayonne had seen why. Gries had caught his eye and given a slight shake of his head.

"Convinced that what, Torgan?" Jenoe asked.

"That the Relics Bridge is your best route across the river," the merchant said.

Fayonne was certain that he'd intended to say something else; probably he was going to mention the cursed basket.

Jenoe eyed him briefly, seemingly trying to decide whether the merchant was an annoyance or an asset. "Do I understand you correctly? You're saying that we should bypass Sivralna, that it's already defeated. And that this Relics Bridge offers us the quickest path to Deraqor."

"That's right." Torgan looked around, appearing to mark their position in relation to the mountains that were barely visible on the northern horizon. "The nearest span would be White Bridge, which lies south of here, maybe two leagues. But Relics Bridge is the broader span, and it's to the north. Five leagues. No more. That'll be the easier crossing for an army this size."

"And all of you knew about this?" Jenoe asked, looking at Tirnya, Enly, and Gries.

For several moments none of them answered.

"I asked a question," the marshal said, his voice hardening.

"Torgan mentioned it to us," Enly said.

Gries took a breath. "And to me."

"I see." Jenoe turned back to the merchant. "Why would you choose to speak of this with my captains, but not with me?"

Torgan looked at Enly and the marshal's daughter, but his gaze came to rest on Gries. Fairlea's lord heir stared back at him, but didn't say anything.

"Answer me, Torgan! I want to know what's going on here."

"I've been waiting for your decision, Marshal. I want to know if you're going to use the plague against the Fal'Borna. You've refused to speak with me, and you've seemed content to let me wonder what you'll eventually decide to do. So I went to the captains, hoping they'd help me convince you."

"And you thought that telling them this tale about Sivralna would do that.

Torgan's face reddened. "It's no tale! It's the truth! If you want to waste two or three days marching down there, go ahead! You'll find exactly what I've told you! They were destroyed by the plague! Twice, actually. The survivors returned to their city, and when they found some of these baskets, half burned and buried in the rubble, they got sick. For all I know there's nothing left of the walls or gates or buildings. It might just be a pile of rock now."

Fayonne thought that Jenoe might argue further, but he seemed to hear the truth in Torgan's words. Just as she did.

"Why would you keep this from me?" the marshal asked Tirnya. "Don't you think I should have been told?"

"I'm sorry, Father. I thought that if you simply heard this-if you thought that we could take the city without losing a man-you'd use the plague as a weapon to take back Deraqor. But I hoped that if you actually saw Sivralna lying in ruins it would show you how dangerous this plague could be."

"This was your thinking as well?" he asked Enly.

Qalsyn's lord heir nodded.

Jenoe turned to Gries. "And yours?"

Gries didn't hesitate for long, but it seemed to be enough for Tirnya to discern the truth.

"You wanted him to use it," she said.

"Of course he did," Torgan broke in before the Fairlea captain could answer.

"Torgan-" Gries began.

But the merchant cut him off. "They're being fools! We both know it!" He faced Jenoe again. "The Mettai can help us with this. They have a way of spreading the plague over the entire city. I could only reach a few white-hairs with this basket. But with their magic, they can reach every one of them."

"You knew of this, too?" Jenoe asked, fixing Fayonne with a hard glare.

The eldest straightened. "Captain Ballidyne asked for my help," she said. "All I did was tell him what our magic was capable of doing."

Jenoe shook his head. "So let me see if I understand this. My daughter, and the lord heir of Qalsyn, both of them captains in my army, knew that Sivralna had been destroyed and failed to tell me, in the hope that my shock at seeing the damage would keep me from using a weapon I hadn't even decided to use. And the lord heir of Fairlea, also a captain under my command, has conspired with this merchant and the eldest to use that weapon without my consent. Is that about right?"

"No, Marshal," Gries said. "I didn't conspire to do anything. I spoke with them both. I tried to determine if we could in fact spread this plague to the Fal'Borna. But I never would have done anything without your approval. You have my word on that."

"I'm not sure what your word is worth right now, Captain," Jenoe told him. "But I'll consider what you've said."

The Fairlea captain's cheeks colored, but he nodded.

Jenoe turned to Fayonne. "You and I will speak later, Eldest," he said, with more courtesy than he'd shown to the captain.

"You're not going to use it, are you?" Torgan said.

They all looked at him, the captains wearing angry expressions, the marshal looking proud to the point of haughtiness.

"This was never your decision to make, Torgan," Jenoe said.

"Without the plague, you'll lose this war," Torgan said. "They'll shatter your army and run you down as you retreat. Without me, you're doomed."

"I want you gone," Jenoe told him. "I want you to get on your horse and ride away from here, and I never want to see your face again."

The merchant regarded them all with disgust. "This is why we lost the Blood Wars. We're weak. We're not willing to do what's necessary to win, and so we lose, again and again. You'll be no different." He shook his head and gave a harsh laugh. "Very well, Marshal. I'll leave. Good riddance to you all."

He turned on his heel and started to walk away. But before he'd gone far, he stopped again, staring eastward.

An instant later, Fayonne heard it, too: voices shouting at the edge of the camp. The sound was growing by the minute, and there was a note of panic in every voice she heard. Men were running toward them, shouting for the marshal.

The first to reach them was a young man with black hair and dark eyes. He was out of breath, and his face, damp with melted snow, looked pale except for red spots high on each cheek.

"What's happened, Crow?" the marshal's daughter asked.

"There's a white-hair army," he said, looking back and forth between the woman and her father. "It's headed this way. They're on horseback an' they're close."

"How many?" Jenoe asked.

"Hundr'ds," the man said. "Maybe a thousand."

The marshal looked as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. "Damn," he whispered. "And we're backed up against this river." He looked at the captains. "Muster your men," he said, his voice suddenly crisp. "There's nothing to do but fight." He turned to Fayonne. "Eldest, we'll need every bit of magic you can give us."

She nodded. "You'll have it, Marshal." And she ran to find Mander.