The Horsemen's Gambit

Chapter 2

Before leaving the chambers beneath the boxes, Tirnya stopped by to see the healer who treated the wounds of all the combatants. Left to decide on her own, she would have ignored the cut on her cheek, but she knew that her father would be waiting for her outside the arena, and he would make a fuss if she left the wound untended.

The healer examined her in silence, using a warm, damp cloth to wipe away the dried blood. He then dabbed a different cloth in spirits and gently patted the cut. Tirnya winced, sucking in air through her teeth.

"It cleans the wound," the healer said, holding her chin with a firm hand. He dipped the cloth in the spirits again and dabbed at the cut a bit more.

"I know what it does," she muttered, still wincing. "That doesn't make it burn any less."

The healer put down the cloth and eyed the cut, clicking his tongue as he did. He was a heavy man, only a few years older than she, with brown curls and short, fat fingers that were more deft and gentle than she would have thought possible.

"We can leave it to heal as it is, or we can stitch it up," he said after several moments. "Either way you'll wind up with a scar. It may be less noticeable if we use the sutures."

She pointed at the scars on her chin and temple. "What do I care about one more scar?"

"Will you at least let me put a poultice on it?" he asked, though from the tone of his voice it seemed clear that he knew she'd refuse this as well.

"And have me walking around the city looking like Enly sliced off half my face? No, thank you."

The healer shook his head. "Very well, then. You can go. Try to keep it clean. If it starts to hurt more, or the skin around it turns red and fevered, get yourself to a healer. Any healer. You understand me?"

Tirnya nodded sullenly and stood, grabbing her swords and striding toward the door. Taking hold of the door handle, she paused and looked back at the man, who was clearing up his medicines, herbs, and bandages. Naturally, she was the last. No doubt he'd had a long day.

"Thank you," she said.

He looked up a smiled wanly. "You're welcome, Captain. You know," he said a moment later, stopping her as she began to open the door. "I understand that you're disappointed. Anyone would be. But there's no shame in losing the final match to the lord heir."

Surely the healer was trying to help, but his words stung more than did his spirits. She merely nodded and left the chamber.

Her father was waiting for her just outside the arena, chatting amiably with passersby and flanked by several of his men. There had been an attempt on Jenoe's life several years before-a single attacker who came at the marshal with a dirk while Jenoe was drinking in a small tavern near the river. Tirnya's father had killed the man himself and there had been no further attempts. But since then, Jenoe's captains had each assigned a man to guard the marshal in shifts, so that he always had four armed guards at his side.

There was nothing to indicate that the attacker had been anything more than a drunken soldier who sought to exact revenge for some imagined slight, but some believed that he had been sent by the lord governor, or one of his subordinates. The Onjaef and Tolm families had mistrusted each other for more than a century, and Maisaak had long been envious of Jenoe's stature among Qalsyn's soldiers and subjects.

While Tirnya was not so naive as to deny that the lord governor might well be jealous of her father, she didn't believe that Maisaak would resort to murder to rid himself of a rival. Jenoe's popularity might have bruised His Lordship's pride, but her father could hardly be considered a threat to Maisaak's power.

The Onjaef family had come to Qalsyn a century and a half before, during the darkest days of the Blood Wars between the Eandi of the eastern Southlands and the Qirsi, the white-haired sorcerers who controlled the western lands. House Onjaef held the great city of Deraqor, the family seat, where Tirnya's ancestors ruled as lord governors. They also controlled the Horn, a narrow strip of fertile land between the Thraedes and K'Sand rivers. At the time, the Horn might well have been the most valuable land still under Eandi control. But as the Fal'Borna, a clan of fierce horsemen, who were as skilled with their blades as they were with their magic, pushed eastward, the leaders of the Eandi found themselves forced to cede territory. The Blood Wars of the northern plain were among the bloodiest fought during the long, violent history of the conflicts, and in the end the Onjaefs, led by Mehp, Tirnya's grandfather four times removed, had no choice but to abandon their ancestral home. They fled eastward, into what remained of Stelpana, settling eventually in Qalsyn. And they didn't come alone.

To this day, descendants of the other families that came from Deraqor still saw the Onjaefs as their leaders, and they still hoped that someday the families of Deraqor would reclaim the city for the sovereignties. In the eyes of the sovereign and most of those who lived elsewhere in Stelpana, the Onjaef clan was disgraced, a family in exile, the vanquished stewards of a lost city. Only here in Qalsyn, where Maisaak was seen by some as a strong but capricious ruler, and Jenoe was revered by so many for his prowess with a blade and his easy manner, would anyone even stop to wonder if a rivalry existed between the two men.

When Tirnya emerged from the stone doorway, her father ended his conversations and walked toward her, a sympathetic smile on his lips. He was still youthful, despite the fact that he no longer considered himself young enough to fight in battle tournaments. His brown hair and beard were unmarked by grey, and he remained trim and muscular, an imposing figure on the battlefield as well as in the city streets. Reaching her, he put his arms around her and kissed her forehead.

"You fought well," he whispered.

She closed her eyes, fearing that she might start crying again. He wouldn't have tolerated that-a warrior shed tears for lost comrades and fallen leaders, not for matches lost in the arena. He had made that clear to her years ago.

"Not well enough," she managed to say.

He pulled back and made her look him in the eye. "Yes," he said. "Well enough. Everyone in the boxes knew that you had the tournament won, that you could have bloodied him as he lay on the ground. The rest is…" He waved his hand vaguely. "The rest means nothing."

Only a father could say such a thing.

"It means nothing that Enly won?" she asked. "It means nothing that I'm going to have another scar on my face?"

"You're right," he said. "That will mean something. If nothing else, it'll mean that your mother will have a new reason to berate me for ever teaching you to hold a sword."

Tirnya smiled, but only briefly. "What are they saying about me?"

"Who?"

She shrugged. "Everyone. Your men. The people in the boxes. Enly."

"You think I've spoken to Enly?"

"Of course not," she said. "But the rest of them. Come now, Father. You know what I'm asking."

"They're saying that you should have won. Some of them mean it kindly; others don't."

"The ones who don't-"

He shook his head. "You shouldn't trouble yourself about them."

"What are they saying, Father?"

Jenoe ran a hand through his hair, and wound up rubbing the back of his neck. "They're saying that you made… that you made a womanly choice."

"Womanly!" she repeated, her voice rising. "Womanly?"

"I think they mean-"

"I know what they mean!" Tirnya said. "I was weak. I took pity on him when I just should have won."

"They're wrong," Jenoe told her.

"Are they?"

"Yes. What you did was honorable, not weak. Had you struck at Enly as he lay on his back, they'd be calling you a snake and worse." He laughed mirthlessly and gave a small shake of his head. "I know it didn't seem this way at the time, but Enly's fall was the worst thing that could have happened for you, and the best that he could have hoped for. Had I not seen it all with my own eyes, I might have thought that he stumbled intentionally."

"He wouldn't do that."

"I know. But still, it gave him a respite from your attack. It changed everything about the match."

"I can only imagine what they're saying about him," Tirnya said, her voice low.

"I don't think he could care less what anyone other than his father is saying."

She frowned. "I imagine his father had quite a lot to say."

Jenoe grinned. "Yes, well be thankful your father is such a kind, reasonable man. Because a more exacting teacher might want to know what you were thinking in your third match, when you fought with your sword in your off hand, and the dagger in your right."

"It worked, didn't it? Craevis had probably never seen anyone do such a thing before."

"You might well have lost, taking such a risk."

Tirnya shook her head. "Not to him. You saw how easily I won. Admit it, Father: It was a fine idea, and it worked perfectly."

Her father laughed and shook his head. "He did look confused, didn't he?"

"By the time he understood what I had done, and why all my attacks seemed so different, he was already bleeding."

"Speaking of bleeding," Jenoe said, his brow creasing as he examined her wound.

Tirnya pulled away. "I'm fine."

"I'm sure you are. It looks like a clean cut. The healer saw you?"

"Yes, Father."

"Fine, then. I won't mention it again. You're going to the Swift Water?"

She'd forgotten. Each year, after the tournament ended, the lord governor hosted a supper at the largest tavern in the city, the Swift Water Inn. Nearly all the combatants went-it wasn't often that anyone offered free food and ale for as long as one could eat and drink-and usually Maisaak himself put in an appearance. As one of the lord governor's captains, Tirnya was expected to attend; as one who had fought in the final match, her absence would have been conspicuous. She wanted only to go home and sleep, but that would have to wait.

"Yes," she said, the word coming out as a sigh. "I'm going." After a brief hesitation, she asked, "Are you?"

Tirnya knew the answer already. Jenoe hadn't gone to the supper since his last year as champion, although as a marshal in the army and a former winner of the tournament he had every right to attend. Others of lower rank-men who had never set foot in the ring-showed up every year and drank themselves into a stupor. But Maisaak hated him, and Jenoe knew it. The lord governor tolerated him as marshal because he and every other person in Qalsyn understood that no one in the city, perhaps in all the land, was more suited to command than Jenoe. But this was another matter.

"No," he said, his smile fleeting and forced. "I should be getting home to your mother. She'll want to hear all about your matches."

Tirnya looked away. "Then she should come herself."

"She doesn't like to watch you fight," he said. "You know that. It frightens her."

"It doesn't frighten you."

"I don't love you as much." He grinned, to soften the gibe. Not that it was necessary; they both knew it wasn't true. "I've been through enough tournaments," he said a moment later. "I understand the risks and the strategies. To your mother it just looks… dangerous. But she would have been proud of you today. She will be, when I tell her about it."

"All right," Tirnya said, not wanting to talk about this. "I'll see you later."

Before she could walk away, Jenoe caught her hand and raised it to his lips. "I'm proud of you," he told her. "You should be proud, too."

She smiled. "Thank you, Father." She kissed his cheek, and walked away.

By the time she reached the Swift Water, the sun had almost set, and long black shadows stretched across the city streets, darkening the stone facades of homes and shops. The door to the tavern was open, and raucous laughter from within spilled out into the lane, along with the scent of roasting meat and musty ale. Tirnya wouldn't be the only woman there-a few had entered the tournament this year, though she was the only one to have gotten beyond the sixth set of matches. But in all ways that mattered, she would be awash in a sea of loud, arrogant men. Her mother would have laughed had she known how much Tirnya dreaded this. "You see?" Zira would have said. "If you had listened to me, and concerned yourself less with swordplay and more with the finer crafts, you'd be home now, resting comfortably with a cup of wine." Too late for that, by more years than she cared to count.

Steeling herself with a long breath, Tirnya stepped inside.

As soon as she entered the tavern, the other warriors began to stare at her, turning one by one as they realized who had come. Gradually conversations stopped, the din fading toward the back of the tavern like a receding tide. Maisaak stood near the bar, a slight smile on his face, as if he were enjoying her obvious discomfort. Enly stood near him, with the Aelean and several other warriors. His expression was far more difficult to gauge than his father's. Concern, embarrassment, even a touch of resentment: Tirnya saw all of these in his pale grey eyes, in the lines around his mouth. Enly resembled his father superficially. Both men had light eyes and black hair. Both were blandly handsome, though Enly had broken his nose as a boy and its crookedness made his face more interesting than his father's. But Maisaak always seemed to be scowling, and on those rare occasions when his expression softened there remained a touch of contempt and condescension, so that even his kindest smile seemed mocking. Enly was more open, kinder, softer, and thus, in his father's view, weaker. Today's victory couldn't have been easy for either of them.

After a silence that lasted for what seemed an eternity, Enly began to clap, stepping forward and raising his hands so that others could see him. Others began to applaud as well, until the sound grew so loud that it compelled even the lord governor to join in. After a few moments, Maisaak stepped forward, raising his hands to silence the throng. For once, Tirnya was deeply grateful to him.

"Yes, yes," the lord governor said, nodding as the applause died down. "She deserves no less." He faced her, the smile on his face appearing genuine. "Welcome, Captain Onjaef. We were starting to fear that you might not come at all, and thus deny us the opportunity to congratulate you on your fine performance today."

Tirnya bowed to him. "Thank you, Your Lordship, and forgive me for being late. Unlike my opponent in the final match, I had to spend some time with the healer afterwards."

That drew a laugh from all, and an approving nod from Maisaak. "Well, you're here now. And I hope you'll enjoy yourself."

"I will, Your Lordship. I intend to avail myself of as much of your free ale as time will allow."

More laughter followed, and slowly the other discussions resumed, leaving Tirnya in the uncomfortable position of having to make conversation with the lord governor.

"You handled that very well, Captain," he said quietly. "Someone with less courage and grace would have stayed away entirely."

It was a rare courtesy from the man, and she didn't bother to hide her surprise. "Thank you, Your Lordship. You're most kind."

"Not really. I'm just not the monster your father has made me out to be."

And there it was: the hidden knife slipped between exposed ribs. No matter the circumstance, Maisaak and Jenoe were both incapable of putting aside their animosity, even for an evening.

"Yes, Your Lordship."

Fortunately, Enly chose that moment to join them.

"She said she wanted an ale, Father. And you know she's too polite to get one so long as you're talking to her. Leave the woman alone."

A brittle smile touched His Lordship's lips. "Yes. I think I understand. I'll leave the two of you."

He walked away, joining a knot of soldiers near the back of the inn, and leaving Enly and Tirnya alone, or at least as alone as two people could be in a tavern so crowded.

"Thank you for that greeting," Tirnya said after a brief, strained silence. "It's not often that people applaud when I step into a tavern."

"Really?" Enly said. "I would have thought it happens all the time." She raised an eyebrow.

He sipped his ale, shrugged. "It was nothing." He looked away, taking another pull of ale.

She frowned slightly. It wasn't like him to be so diffident. Stepping past him to the bar, she ordered an ale, then turned to face him again. He was already watching her.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.

He looked away again and drank more. "I'm not looking at you in any particular way."

She smiled. "You beat me, Enly. It's as simple as that. You should be used to it by now. You should he gloating, as you do every other year."

"Oh, I am used to beating you," he said, with a hint of his usual swagger.

"But I'm not used to winning this way."

"And what way is that?"

He started to drink again, but stopped himself. After a moment he met her gaze, though it seemed to take some effort on his part. "By accident. By sheer, dumb luck."

"It was a good strike," she said, unsure of why she was being so generous. "You cut me cleanly."

"That's not what I mean and you know it. I was losing. If I hadn't fallen down when I did, you would have bloodied me, probably with your next attack."

"Did you fall on purpose?" she asked.

He frowned. "I'm not that clever, Tirnya."

She laughed. "No, I don't suppose you are."

Enly's expression didn't change. If anything, he looked more and more troubled by the moment. "Everybody here knows that you should have won," he said. "My men know it. Yours know it. Certainly my father knows it."

"Good," she said. "Maybe next year a few people in the boxes will wager their gold on me."

He regarded her sourly.

"What is it you want me to say, Enly? That I'm sorry I almost beat you? That I didn't mean to fight so well?"

"That's not…" He stopped, shaking his head.

"Then what?"

He stood still for several moments, the muscles in his jaw bunched.

When he faced her again anger and wounded pride burned in his eyes. "Why didn't you bloody me when you had the chance?"

"You mean when you were down."

"Yes, when I was down! The match was yours! You should have ended it then and there!"

All around them, conversations ceased and people began to stare. Tirnya felt her face growing hot. She grabbed Enly by the arm and dragged him out into the street. The sky overhead had turned to a soft indigo, and the first bright stars shone down on the city. She could hear people singing in another tavern and two men staggered past, both of them drunk, both of them laughing at something. This was a night of celebration in Qalsyn, and not only for those who had fought in the tournament. The Harvest had begun, and this year's crops promised to be bountiful. Tirnya, Enly, and Maisaak might well have been the only unhappy people in the entire city.

"You were saying?" she asked wearily, making herself meet his glare.

"Why didn't you end our match when you had the chance?" He sounded calmer now, but there could be no masking the intensity of that look.

"An Onjaef doesn't strike at a defenseless opponent. My father wouldn't have done it, and neither would I."

"So it's all about pride. Stupid Onjaef pride."

She threw her arms wide. "Of course it is! And so are these questions of yours! You know very well that I couldn't win that way. You know what people would be saying about me. You won, Enly! The crystal dagger is yours again. The only reason we're even having this conversation is that I wounded your pride when I let you get up. Well, that's too damn bad!"

He blinked, then looked away. "This is…" He shook his head, looking very young. "It's our fathers, isn't it? This is all about them."

"Not entirely. I'd want to beat you even if your father was a cloth peddler."

"You know what I mean."

"I'm not having this discussion again, Enly."

"We have to-"

"Don't!" she said, shaking her head.

"We have to marry. You know it just as I do. It's the only way to end their feud and all the rest of this foolishness."

"You just don't want to have to fight me again next year." She smiled. He didn't. After a moment she shook her head. "That was supposed to be a joke."

"I'm serious, Tirnya."

"We've talked about this."

A small smile touched his lips. "We've done more than talk about it."

"Yes, and we saw how that turned out, didn't we?"

He gave her a coy look. "Was it really all that bad?"

"It didn't work, Enly. And I have no interest in being any man's wife. Not even yours. You'd expect me to give up my command, to have children, to be the dutiful wife of the lord heir."

"It wouldn't be that terrible, would it?"

She gestured at the mail coat she still wore and at the weapons hanging from her belt. "Look at me, Enly. Do I look like the marrying kind?"

They were about the same height, and now their eyes met. It was only for an instant-she quickly made herself look away-but she saw enough to know that he meant what he was saying. He might well have loved her.

"I'd marry you in a heartbeat," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

She made herself look at him again. He deserved that much from her. "No." she said. "I'm sorry, Enly, but the answer is still no."

He held her gaze for a moment longer before shaking his head. He smiled again, but it looked pained. "Onjaef pride," he said.

"Call it what you will."

"You'll change your mind someday."

Tirnya shrugged, far less certain of this than he seemed to be. "Maybe."

"By then it might be too late."

She straightened. "I suppose that's the risk I'm taking."

They stood in silence for several moments. Enly continued to eye her, but Tirnya refused to meet his gaze again. Finally, he took a long breath. "All right, then." He held out a hand to her, somehow managing a smile. "Shall we go back in?"

Tirnya had to laugh. However disappointed he might have been, he recovered quickly, or at least hid his pain well. By midnight he'd be in bed with some barmaid or one of the other swordswomen.

"All right," she said. She took his hand, and together they reentered the tavern. Once inside, he released her hand and joined some of his men, leaving Tirnya to reclaim her ale from the bar. She didn't much feel like drinking it. In fact, she would have preferred to leave, but after the way the others had welcomed her, and after her exchange with Enly, which so many had overheard, she didn't feel that she could. Not yet, at least.

"Captain!"

Tirnya turned and searched the tavern, wondering if this was someone calling for her.

"Captain Onjaef!"

She saw a man near the back of the Swift Water wave a hand over his head. After a moment she recognized Oliban Hert, one of her lead riders. His shirt was stained red on the sleeve, from a wound she had dealt him today in the seventh match. Still, he was smiling. She waved in return, picked up her ale, and walked back to where he was standing. When she reached him, she realized that several of her riders were there. They raised their glasses in salute and she drained hers, the proper response under the circumstances. The men cheered, and immediately one of them rose and hurried to the bar to get her another.

"Ya made us proud today, Captain," Oliban said with a grin. "I only wish ya'd been as gentle with me as ya were with th' lord heir." Immediately his face fell. "Wh-what I meant was-"

She patted his shoulder. "It's all right, Oliban. I know what you meant." But her throat had tightened. People in Qalsyn would be speaking of what she had done for a long time. It might well become a lasting part of Harvest Tournament lore, like Stri's first competition, or the year when Enly's older brother, Berris, won the final match, only to fall to the ground dead a few moments after, the victim, the healers said, of a defective heart. She'd be remembered, too: the woman who had her chance to defeat the lord heir, only to squander it.

The rider returned with Tirnya's ale and handed it to her. She drank a bit, taking the opportunity to compose herself.

"Ya did what ya had to, Captain," Oliban said, eyeing her. "All of us knows it."

The other men nodded their agreement.

"Ya showed ya was th' best, an' ya showed ya have honor." Oliban raised his cup. "T' th' captain!" he said.

"Hear, hear!"

Tirnya grinned and sipped her ale as the others drank. "Thank you," she said. They cleared room for her at their table, and she sat.

All of them, including Oliban, started to ask her questions about her matches. How had she beaten the Aelean? What weapons had she used? Who was quicker, Enly or the Tordjanni swordsman she fought in her eighth match? She answered as many of their questions as she could before finally raising a hand to forestall the next one.

"Actually," she said, smiling to soften the words, "I really don't want to talk about the matches anymore. It's been a… a long day."

Oliban glanced around the table at the others. "Our apologies, Captain. Maybe we should leave ya alone."

Tirnya shook her head. "No. I don't want that." She looked at them each in turn. "You can't tell me that the tournament is the only thing you know how to talk about."

They laughed, but it sounded forced, a response intended to please their commander. And she understood. It wasn't all they knew to talk about, but it was certainly all they wanted to talk about. Every other conversation in the Swift Water was about the day's events; why shouldn't theirs be as well? They could speak of more mundane matters every other day of the year. But today…

Tirnya smiled again, this time at her own foolishness.

"Enly's quicker," she said. "Although the Tordjanni isn't bad. His off hand is only average-Oliban here is quicker on the left. But his sword…" She shook her head, and the men all leaned in, waiting, eager. "His sword is fast. Lightning quick." Tirnya grinned. "Not as fast as mine, of course, and no match for Enly's. But very quick."

They wound up talking for hours. Once Tirnya forced herself past her self-pity, she understood that talking about her matches and those of her men was just what she needed. Before she knew it, most of the other combatants had left the Swift Water, though Enly and his father were still there, talking to separate groups of soldiers, trying to ignore each other.

"It's late," Tirnya said, standing and stretching. Despite all the sword-work she did every day, during the tournament she always seemed to exercise muscles she had forgotten since the previous year. She'd be sore come morning. "We have training at first bells."

The others stood as well. "Yes, Captain," Oliban said.

"We also have patrol two nights hence," she said. "I want the assignments set by tomorrow evening."

Oliban nodded. "They will be."

"Good night, Oliban."

He grinned and nodded. "G'night, Captain."

She watched her men leave before draining her cup-her fifth ale of the night-and starting toward the door herself.

"Captain Onjaef."

She turned. Maisaak was watching her, and, she now realized, Stri Balkett was standing with him.

"A word please."

She crossed to where he stood and nodded to Stri. "Yes, Your Lordship."

Enly looked up from his conversation and immediately joined them. Maisaak raised an eyebrow, but he didn't order his son away.

"Captain Balkett was just telling me that there's been trouble on the roads south of the city. Brigands from the sound of it. Groups of them, disciplined and clever. They've been striking at peddlers making their way toward the Ofirean and the lower sovereignties. Have your men heard anything?"

"Not that I know of, Your Lordship," Tirnya said. "But I'll ask them about it first thing in the morning."

Maisaak nodded. "Yes, do. And I want patrols doubled until further notice." His eyes flicked toward Enly. "All patrols. Even those in the north. I don't want anything interfering with Harvest trade. There's also talk of the pestilence to the west. Much of it seems to be in white-hair lands; the Fal'Borna mostly. But all it takes is a single peddler to bring it across the Silverwater into our lands."

"Yes, Your Lordship."

"Tournament's over now. It's time we got back to more serious matters." Ile seemed to direct this at his son, but he hardly looked at Enly at all. "I'm off to bed. I'd suggest the rest of you do the same."

"Good night, Your Lordship," Stri said.

Maisaak left the tavern with Enly in tow, but Tirnya hardly noticed. Pestilence in white-hair lands…

"You fought well today."

Tirnya looked up. Stri still stood beside her, his eyes shining in the lamplight.

"Thank you."

"Your father was pleased, as much by what you didn't do as by what you did, if you follow."

"I do," she said. "Thank you."

Stri was usually quiet. So much so, that many of the men in her command thought him proud and superior. She knew better. He simply was not given to idle chatter. But since becoming one of Jenoe's captains, he had become a fixture in the Onjaef home, where he was as garrulous as Tirnya's younger brothers. He was a large man, with a broad, plain face and dark eyes. His light brown hair was long and straight, and though he was muscular, he looked soft, his shoulders rounded, his head slightly bowed, as if he were afraid of humping it on the top of every doorway. Early on, he had doted on Tirnya, as if taken with her. But as time went on, and he came to accept that she didn't return his affection, the two of them settled into a comfortable friendship. He was now more like a big brother than a friend, and she trusted him as she did few other people.

"You probably don't want to talk about the matches anymore, do you?"

She smiled and shook her head. "Not really, no."

"Fair enough." He gestured at the door with a large hand. "I'll walk you home."

Tirnya nodded, but didn't move. "What do you know about this pestilence His Lordship mentioned?"

"Not a lot," he said. "A peddler mentioned it to me two or three days ago. Three, it was. And then I heard talk of it again today from one of the other combatants. A swordsman from western Stelpana."

"Do you know where it's struck?"

"Well east of the Horn, it sounds like. Not near Deraqor, not yet at least, if that's what you're wondering."

It was. The Qirsi had renamed Deraqor D'Raqor, as was their way. Tirnya had never seen the city, though to this day it was said to be one of the most beautiful and impressive of all the cities on the northern rivers. But like her father, and his father before him, Tirnya still thought of Deraqor as her family's home. Though she knew no one who lived there, and cared not a whit if every Qirsi on the plain died tomorrow, she was oddly relieved to know that the pestilence had not struck there. She was tied to the place, as were all Onjaefs. One day, she had sworn long ago, the Onjaefs would take back Deraqor for the Eandi. Yes, there was peace between the races, and no one wished to return to the terrible days of the Blood Wars. But by the same token, Deraqor was theirs; it belonged to the Eandi and it was meant to be ruled by her family.

"Did they know people who were sickened by it?" Tirnya finally asked.

"Who?"

"The peddler you mentioned, and the swordsman."

He shook his head. "Not that I know of. It seems from what they told me that it's mostly white-hairs who've been getting sick."

She tried to muster some sympathy for them. They were people after all, and she knew, mostly from tales told to her by her father and by other soldiers, how horrible the pestilence could be. No one should have had to endure such suffering. But her heart seemed suddenly to have turned to stone. What did it say about her that she couldn't bring herself to feel anything?

"I guess that's too had for them," she said, feeling that she had to say something.

"You hate them very much, don't you?"

She looked at him, hearing something in his voice. "Don't you?"

"Not really."

"But the wars…" Tirnya trailed off, not quite certain what she had intended to say.

"I never fought in the wars."

She frowned, then shook her head. "No, of course not." She started to say more, but stopped herself. She felt herself growing angry with him, and for the life of her she didn't know why. Unlike so many men under her father's command, Stri had no ties to Deraqor. He had come to Qalsyn from the south, near the Ofirean; his family had never lived in the western lands now held by the Fal'Borna. Deraqor probably meant nothing to him. It was just one of many cities taken by the white-hairs.

But for Tirnya, who had been brought up on tales of her family's former glory, and for others whose ancestors fought and died in the battles for the I Torn, Deraqor was both a wound that never healed, and a name that carried within it the promise of redemption.

Stri should have known that. Or was she being unreasonable?

"Come along, Captain," he said, starting toward the door. "It's late and this has been a long day for all of us."

She followed him out of the tavern, lost in thought. Stri didn't say much as they walked. He might have commented on how clear a night it was, and how fine the crop fields outside the city looked, but that was all. He seemed to understand that Tirnya was barely listening. When they reached the home she still shared with her family, however, he turned to face her.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asked. "You've been very quiet."

She made herself smile. "No, I'm just… I'm tired."

"You're certain?" He was frowning, the light of the two moons shining on his face.

"Yes." She touched his arm lightly. "Thank you, Stri. I'll see you in the morning."

"All right." He started to walk away. "You fought well today. Your father was very proud."

She nodded and forced another smile. But the cut on her cheek burned like a brand.