The Horsemen's Gambit

Chapter 16

They made camp for the night by a wide, slow stream that carved through the grasses like the curved blade of an Uulranni horseman.

The stream was swollen from the recent rains, its waters black in the dying light.

While Grinsa hunted for scraps of wood to burn and Q'Daer pulled food from their sack of stores, the merchants gathered stones from the streambed to make a fire ring. The Fal'Borna had said nothing for hours, but Grinsa sensed that Q'Daer remained uncomfortable with their new companions and unhappy with him for asking the Mettai to join them. Perhaps he should have been concerned by this-the two of them had reached something of an understanding in recent days, but it wouldn't take much to undo the small bit of progress they'd made.

Just now, though, Grinsa couldn't bring himself to care. He and the Fal'Borna were never going to be true allies. Grinsa only wanted to get away from E'Menua's sept; Q'Daer could only take this as an affront.

The two Mettai, though, struck Grinsa as well-meaning and sincere. He was eager to speak with them beyond the hearing of Q'Daer and the two merchants, but this proved difficult to arrange. As soon as the company had finished eating their modest meal of dried meat, hard bread, and cheese provided by the Mettai, Q'Daer pulled him aside.

"We need to be more vigilant now," the Fal'Borna said, his gaze straying toward the merchants. "We need to watch them all the time. You know this, right?"

Grinsa frowned. "You think they'll try to escape?"

Q'Daer shook his head. "They no longer need to escape. They have magic now."

He shook his head. "I'm confused. Are you talking about Jasha and Torgan, or the Mettai?"

"All of them, of course."

"I thought that most Eandi hated the Mettai."

Q'Daer raked a hand through his hair, looking exasperated. "They're dark-eyes," he said, as if Grinsa were the biggest fool in the Southlands. "There's no separating them now. Already I've seen both merchants speaking with the new ones. It's only a matter of time before they try to get away."

Grinsa wondered if they wouldn't be better off allowing Torgan to go, but he kept this to himself.

"I don't think we have anything to fear from Besh and Sirj," he said instead. "Or from the merchants, for that matter."

"You're wrong. We need to keep watch at night. Do you want the first shift or the second?"

"Neither," Grinsa said, shaking his head, knowing that he was only going to make the Fal'Borna angry. "If you want to stay awake all night you can, but I intend to sleep."

Q'Daer glowered at him.

"If it would make you feel better," Grinsa went on a moment later, sensing an opportunity, "I can speak with the Mettai. Afterwards, if they say anything that seems alarming, I'll keep watch with you."

"You're too trusting, Forelander. You may have had Eandi friends in the Forelands, but dark-eyes are different here."

Grinsa merely shrugged. Q'Daer waited, as if expecting Grinsa to say more. When he didn't, the young Weaver stalked off angrily.

He watched Q'Daer walk away and then started off himself in the opposite direction, intending to find the Mettai. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with Torgan.

"They killed the witch," the man said, his scarred face livid in the pale pink glow of the rising moons.

"Yes," Grinsa said, exhaling, wanting no part of this conversation. "It seems they did."

"What does that mean for us?"

Grinsa shook his head. "I don't know, Torgan. It'll prove to E'Menua that the woman was real, and that you were telling the truth. On the other hand, the a'laq made it clear that he wanted us to kill the woman and bring glory to his sept. We didn't do that."

"So he might still execute us."

"He might. He might also refuse to let my family and me leave the sept. I just don't know. I'm sorry."

He tried to walk past the merchant, but Torgan blocked his way.

"You have to let us get away," he said, dropping his voice, and glancing around, as if afraid that Q'Daer might be nearby. "Maybe you needed us before to help you find the woman and her baskets. But she's dead, and now you have the Mettai to help you. Jasha and me-we can't do any more. Surely you see that."

"Torgan-"

"They'll kill us. That's what E'Menua wanted to do all along, and now there's nothing to stop him."

"I can't let you go, Torgan."

The man glared at him. "Why not?"

"Because if I do, E'Menua will never let us leave."

Grinsa half expected the merchant to hit him.

"You white-hair bastard! You'd trade my life for your freedom."

"Not if I don't have to, no. I'll do what I can to keep you and Jasha alive.

But if I let you go now, my wife and I have no chance at all. We'll go back to the sept-all of us. And we'll win our freedom together."

Once more Grinsa tried to walk past, and again Torgan stopped him, this time putting a hand to Grinsa's chest.

Grinsa glanced down at the man's hand before meeting his gaze again. "You want me to shatter that?" he demanded, his voice level.

Torgan blinked once. Then he dropped his hand to his side. "You're killing us," he said bitterly.

"Not if I can help it," Grinsa told him. "But let's be honest, Torgan. If our positions were reversed, you'd do exactly the same thing. Actually you'd do far less for me than I've done for you."

He didn't wait for a reply; he simply walked away. This time, Torgan didn't try to stop him. But Grinsa heard him mutter "White-hair bastard" under his breath.

Grinsa paused, but then walked on, knowing that nothing good would come of prolonging their confrontation.

It was late enough that he feared the Mettai might already have gone to sleep. But both men were sitting beside their cart in the light of the moons. They weren't speaking to each other, nor did they appear to be doing anything in particular. It almost seemed that they had been waiting for him to join them. As Grinsa approached, the older one whispered something to his companion that sounded like, "At last."

"May I join you?" Grinsa asked, pretending that he hadn't heard.

Besh nodded. "Please."

He sat in front of them, eyeing them both.

"It seems that all in your company bring their troubles to you," Besh said. "How is it that a Forelander has won the trust not only of two Eandi merchants, but also a Fal'Borna warrior?"

Grinsa laughed. "Is that what you think is going on?"

"Isn't it?" the old man asked. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, leading Grinsa to wonder if the Mettai was mocking him. The man's tone, though, was gentle, and he didn't strike Grinsa as the type of person who would go out of his way to make an enemy of a stranger. He had a kind look to him, a smile that appeared open and sincere. His face was round and friendly, with deep creases in the skin around his mouth and a web of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He had a dark complexion and eyes that looked black in the dim light. His white hair was cut short. Like the younger man, he wasn't particularly tall or broad, but he was lean despite his years, and there was a quiet strength to him.

"The truth is I don't think any of them trust me. But they trust one another even less."

"Sounds like we've joined a fun group," the young Mettai said quietly. Grinsa's laughter seemed to surprise him. He smiled briefly, but looked uncomfortable.

"You didn't answer my question," Besh said.

"Didn't I?"

"Not really. How is it that you're here, journeying with these men who don't trust you or each other?"

Grinsa smiled wearily and glanced up at the sky. A few stars shone brightly through the moonglow and small white clouds drifted past. It was as lovely a night as he'd seen in the Southlands. Abruptly his longing for Cresenne and Bryntelle was like a knife in his heart.

"It's a long tale to begin so late in the evening."

Besh said nothing. He just stared back at Grinsa, as if daring the gleaner not to explain himself.

"We were forced by circumstance to leave the Forelands," he said at last.

"We?" Besh asked.

Grinsa smiled, though once more he felt a twisting in his heart at the thought of Cresenne and Bryntelle. It had been too long since last he reached for Cresenne's thoughts and walked in her dreams, as a Weaver could. Tonight perhaps, later before he slept.

"Yes. My wife and our daughter made the journey with me."

"How old is your daughter?"

"Not even a year."

Besh's eyes widened. "She must be strong to have traveled so far at such a tender age."

"Yes, she is, like her mother."

Besh nodded approvingly before gesturing for Grinsa to continue.

Grinsa began to tell the Mettai about all that had befallen him and his family since their arrival in the Southlands, starting with their trek across the Eandi sovereignties. He described how they had come to be living among the Fal'Borna, explaining as best he could the bargain he had struck with E'Menua in order to save the lives of the Eandi merchants. At first he was reluctant to reveal all of this to men he barely knew, but as he continued to talk the words came easier. He sensed that Besh and Sirj merely wished to understand what he was doing out here on the plain, riding with Q'Daer and the merchants, and he felt relieved to be telling his tale to people who had no cause to judge him or doubt his word.

For a long time after he finished speaking, neither Besh nor Sirj said anything. He could tell, though, what they were thinking, and so he wasn't surprised when Besh finally gave voice to his thoughts.

"You've risked a great deal for men you barely know."

"I suppose," Grinsa said, shrugging. "From what I've heard of the Mettai, you're not well thought of by either the Eandi or the Qirsi. And yet the two of you have left your home and family in order to save strangers from the curse of a madwoman."

Besh grinned. "Only a fool would choose to justify himself by likening his actions to those of a bigger fool."

Grinsa laughed. "Well said." His smile faded slowly. "The Fal'Borna thought me foolish as well. Maybe I was. Torgan and Jasha meant nothing to me at the time, and I've since come to question whether Torgan was worth saving. But back in the Forelands I met a man who was falsely accused of a crime, and if I hadn't helped him prove his innocence he would have been executed and our land would have suffered greatly for the loss. I don't know if either of the merchants will someday justify whatever sacrifice I've made. But, like the rest of us, they deserve the chance to prove their worth."

"I don't pretend to know much about your land," Besh said. "But I can't imagine that many men there think as you do. Is that why you left?"

"No," Grinsa said. "We left for a number of reasons, and some aren't mine to tell. But I'm a Weaver, and in the Forelands my kind are feared. By law Weavers and their families are supposed to be put to death. I fought in a war on behalf of the Eandi courts and because of this, my king, rather than following the law of the land, allowed us to leave."

"Another noble man," Besh said. "I wish I'd had the chance to see the Forelands when I was younger. It sounds like an extraordinary place."

Sirj hadn't said much since Grinsa's arrival, but now he looked at the gleaner, his brow creased. "Before, when you were telling us about your bargain with the a'laq, you said that he expected you to find Lici and kill her yourself, or perhaps return her to his sept. By killing her ourselves, we've… we've made matters more difficult for you."

Grinsa shrugged again, conceding the point. "I don't get the feeling that you had much choice." He nodded toward Besh. "You were hurt, your hand especially."

"How can you know that?" Sirj asked.

"I sense a residue of the magic used to heal him. I thought I could feel only Qirsi magic, but apparently Mettai magic isn't all that different."

"Sirj healed some of my wounds," Besh said, "but the Fal'Borna healed me as well. That might be what you're sensing."

"Perhaps. But you acted out of necessity. I can hardly blame you for killing a woman we ourselves were hunting."

"And now you're hunting these merchants who have Lici's baskets." Grinsa nodded, looking grave. "Yes."

"Do you think you can find them?" Besh asked, sounding doubtful himself.

"I don't know," Grinsa said. "Probably not." It was a more honest answer then he would have given the others in his company, but already he found himself trusting these men. "But I'm not even certain how much difference it will make if we can."

"I don't understand," Sirj said, frowning deeply. "I thought finding those baskets was the most important thing left for us to do."

Grinsa rubbed a hand over his face. "It probably is, though that isn't saying much. The point is, even if we find some of the baskets, we don't know what to do with them. I suppose we can try burning them, but we can't be certain even that will be safe." He eyed both men closely. "What we really need is a way to defeat the plague."

"We don't know how to do that," Besh told him. "I'm not even certain that Lici did."

"Did you ask her?"

The Mettai nodded. "Yes, I did."

Grinsa nodded knowingly. "And she refused to help you."

"Worse," Besh said. "She said there was no way to undo her curse. 'It can't be undone,' she told me. And then she said, 'There's no spell you could make that would defeat it.' "

"She could have been lying to you," Grinsa said.

"She had no reason to lie. It was the day I killed her, and at the time she thought that she had me fully under her control." Besh shook his head. "I think she was trying to break my spirit, but I also think she was using the truth to do so."

" 'There's no spell you could make… ' " Grinsa repeated. "It seems an odd way to say it, don't you think?"

"I don't follow," Besh said.

"She said it can't be undone, and that there was no spell you could make that would stop it. So Mettai magic alone can't do it. But what if there's another way, one that uses Qirsi magic as well?"

Besh nodded. "I've thought of that, though it never occurred to me that Lici might be hinting at the possibility. But even if there is a way, I have no idea where to begin. Do you?"

Grinsa actually laughed. "Not at all. A turn or two ago I didn't even know that your people still existed. Beyond knowing that you need blood to conjure, I have no idea how your magic works."

"You make us sound like ghouls," Sirj said. "We can't conjure with just any blood. It has to be our own. And we don't need much. Just enough to mix with earth."

Grinsa held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I meant no offense."

"It's not blood magic," Sirj went on, as if he hadn't heard. "That's what others call it, Qirsi and Eandi alike. It's earth magic; that's what they should call it. 'Blood magic' makes it sound… evil."

Besh laid a hand on Sirj's arm. The younger man glanced at him and then looked away, his lips pressed thin.

"It's not easy being a Mettai in the Southlands," Besh said quietly.

"You may find this hard to believe, but that's something we have in common. Being a Qirsi in the Forelands can be trying at times as well, and being a Weaver is worst of all."

"So you told us. It must be a great relief for you to be here in the Southlands." Besh said this with a wry smile on his wizened face.

"Given the chance, would you give up being Mettai in order to be accepted by the Qirsi or the Eandi?"

"No," Besh said quickly. "I'm proud of my ancestry. Sirj is, too. As you say, this is something we have in common."

"Can you explain to me how your magic works?"

Besh shrugged. "There's not much to it, really." He held up his hand so that the back of it faced Grinsa. Even in the soft glow of the moons, Grinsa could see dozens of thin white scars, stark against the old man's brown skin.

"I cut myself here, blend my blood with a handful of dirt and…" He trailed off. "Actually it's probably easiest just to show you."

He drew his knife from its sheath and pulled the blade across the back of his hand. Grinsa noticed that he didn't wince at all, as if he felt no pain. "Does that hurt you?" he asked.

Besh smiled, though he didn't take his eyes off his hand. "A bit. I hardly notice it anymore." His looked up for just an instant, his gaze meeting Grinsa's. "I've been doing this for a long time."

Blood had welled from the wound and now Besh caught it deftly on the flat of his knife. Balancing it there, he reached down with his cut hand, picked up a handful of earth, and tipped his blade so that the blood poured into the same hand, making a small dark pool in the soil. An instant later, the blood and dirt swirled together as if stirred by some unseen force.

Besh glanced at Sirj. "What should I do?"

The younger man shrugged.

"Blood to earth," Besh said in a low voice. "Life to power, power to thought, earth to fox." As he finished the incantation, he opened his hand with a quick motion, so that the ball of dark mud flew from his fingers. Before it hit the ground it took the form of a fox, which landed nimbly in an alert crouch and stared up at Grinsa, its eyes shining with moonlight.

Grinsa stared back at it for several moments, afraid even to breathe. At last he chanced a question. "Is it r-"

The animal bolted at the sound of his voice, bounding into the grasses and vanishing from view.

"Is it real?" Besh said. "Is that what you were going to ask?"

Grinsa gazed after the creature, shaking his head. "That's the most remarkable thing I've ever seen!" He faced Besh again. "You created a living creature out of nothing!"

"No," Besh said. "That's not what I did at all. I created a living creature out of life-my blood, Elined's earth."

Grinsa eyed him briefly, then nodded. It made sense when he put it that way.

"That litany you recited; must you do that each time you conjure?"

"Yes," Besh said. "I've met some Mettai who recite the words in near silence, but they're necessary for the magic to work." He licked the blood from the back of his hand, and then licked the blade clean before returning it to its sheath. Seeing that Grinsa was watching him he said, "A Mettai never wastes blood. What we don't use, we return to our bodies."

Grinsa nodded again. That made sense, too. Q'Daer had said much the same thing to him the day he and Cresenne first arrived in E'Menua's sept. A Fal'Borna wastes nothing. Laws of survival in a hard land. He looked off into the grasses again, hoping for another glimpse of Besh's fox.

"Qirsi magic can't do anything like that," he said.

Besh smiled once more. "No, I don't suppose it can."

"That's how she was able to do it."

The old man's smile faded. "Lici, you mean."

Grinsa nodded. "Qirsi magic couldn't have done that, either. Don't get me wrong," he was quick to add. "My people are capable of doing terrible things with their powers, but a Qirsi couldn't have conjured a plague as she did, any more than one of us could have created that fox."

"Had you asked me a year ago," Besh said, "I wouldn't have thought a Mettai could do such a thing either. Lici surprised us all."

"You and she fought before she died, is that right?" Grinsa asked. Besh's mouth twitched slightly. "Yes."

"How does that work?"

"What do you mean?"

Grinsa took a breath, wishing immediately that he hadn't asked the question. He was curious, and he thought perhaps that if he learned enough about Mettai magic, he might think of a way to counter the witch's plague. But he didn't see a way to explain what he meant without revealing more of his own past than he would have liked.

"I did battle with another Weaver," he explained. "Both of us commanded armies of Qirsi." He didn't mention that he and his allies had been hopelessly outnumbered or that in the end his victory was bought by the sacrifice of another. "When I fought him, I sensed what magic he was using and countered it by drawing on the same magic. If he attacked with shaping power, I defended our ranks with shaping. If he sent fire at us, I sent fire back at him." He shook his head. "But I don't see how a Mettai could fight the same way."

"We don't. When I fought Lici, I just had to guess what spell she intended to cast at me, and then respond accordingly. Sometimes I guessed correctly, sometimes I didn't. And in the end, I had no defense against her attacks except to kill her."

Sirj was watching him, as if he hadn't heard the entire tale of Besh's fight with Lici. For his part, Besh looked more uncomfortable than he had at any point in their conversation.

"In any case," the man said, staring at the ground. "That's how it happened for me. I think Mettai magic isn't intended for combat."

Grinsa smiled, drawing a curious look from Besh.

"Forgive me," Grinsa said. "But many of us in the Forelands have long said the same thing about Qirsi magic."

"But throughout the history of the Southlands-"

"I know." Grinsa shrugged. "Perhaps we're all inclined to understate the extent of our powers. Or maybe this just proves that anything can be made into a weapon if we're desperate enough."

They fell silent for several moments, the two Mettai looking thoughtful, Grinsa watching them. He had assumed for so long that he would find no allies in this land, that his struggle to defeat the curse and win freedom for himself and his family was his alone. Meeting these two men, he was no longer so certain of this. But he was also wary of trusting them too quickly. He sensed how eager he was to claim them as friends, and he feared that he was being rash.

Grinsa stood, intending to return to the fire where Q'Daer and the Eandi merchants were sleeping.

"Thank you for speaking with me," he said.

Besh smiled, though it looked forced. "Of course."

Grinsa started to leave, but the old man called him back.

"The older merchant-I've forgotten his name."

"Torgan. Torgan Plye."

"Yes," Besh said, "Torgan. He told us that he and the younger Eandi were your prisoners."

"They're not my prisoners. But they are prisoners of the Fal'Borna."

The man nodded once. "I see. He made it sound as though we were making ourselves prisoners by agreeing to journey with you."

"You told me yourself that a Fal'Borna a'laq had named you a friend of the clan. You have nothing to fear from Q'Daer. He's a difficult man, and he has little use for Torgan. But he'll honor a declaration of friendship from another a'laq, no matter how small the sept he leads."

"So you don't believe that we've placed ourselves in peril."

"No," Grinsa told him. "I don't." He hesitated, but only for a moment. He didn't like the idea of having to trust all to instinct, but he felt certain that he had nothing to fear from Besh or Sirj. "And I make you this promise," he went on a moment later. "If Q'Daer or any other Fal'Borna threatens either of you without cause, I'll do everything in my power to protect you." He grinned. "Though given what I've seen of the magic you wield, I can't imagine you'd really need my help."

This time Besh's smile appeared genuine. "And I make you this oath in return, Grinsa of the Forelands. If we can do anything to stop Lici's plague from spreading and help you and your family win your freedom, we'll do it."

Grinsa inclined his head, acknowledging the offer. "Thank you for that."

He turned and started back toward the dim light of the fire, feeling happier than he had at any time since the company left E'Menua's sept. It wasn't just that he now had allies in his fight for freedom, though certainly that gave him more hope than he'd had in what seemed like ages. He also felt that he'd found a friend in Besh.

It was late, and he was deeply weary. But it had been too long since last he spoke with Cresenne. So before lying down to rest, he walked a short distance from the camp, sat down among the grasses, which shone faintly with the pink and white glow of the moons, and reached with his mind southward to where his beloved slept.