The Sorcerer's Plague

Chapter 12

By the time they awoke the next morning the rain had eased, but clouds still hung low over the plain, and the air remained chill. The peddlers rose early, some of them with first light, and in mere moments had taken down the tarpaulins and packed up their carts. R'Shev apologized to Grinsa and Cresenne for waking them and taking down the shelter he'd built around the fire ring, but he, too, worked quickly and efficiently. Grinsa offered to help, but the peddler shook his head and smiled.

"I've done this just about every morning for the past fourteen years. I'm better off working alone."

True to his word, the man had his cloths and poles packed away in no time at all and soon was bidding them farewell.

"I wish I was headed west," he said, taking Cresenne's hand in his own and looking from her to Grinsa. "And not only because I enjoy the company of a lovely woman."

Cresenne smiled, though she was surprised by how sad she felt to have to leave the old peddler. She and Grinsa had known him and the other peddlers for less than a day, but already they were their friends, the only ones they had in the Southlands.

"Thank you for everything," she said, stepping forward and kissing his cheek.

"Well, I don't think I did anything at all. But I'd gladly do nothing again if it earned me another kiss."

She grinned.

He glanced at Bryntelle, who was still asleep in Cresenne's arms. "Take care of the little one," he said. "You have enough food? I can sell you some if need be. At cost," he added.

One of the older women was walking by as he said this, and she paused. "Take him up on it, just for our sake. We've never seen the old goat sell anything at cost."

"Get away, nag!" he said, shooing her away as she laughed.

"I think we have enough," Grinsa said. "Thank you, though."

R'Shev's expression sobered. "Be certain. The Eandi of Stelpana grow more hostile to our kind as one moves west. There are some villages near the wash that even I won't venture into."

Grinsa and Cresenne exchanged a look, and after a moment she nodded.

"All right," Grinsa said. "It probably can't hurt to have a bit extra." R'Shev nodded. "That's right."

They bought more cheese and smoked meat from the man, and paid far less than they would have in any marketplace. After that, there was nothing to do but bid him farewell.

"I hope we meet again," Cresenne told him, knowing of course that they wouldn't.

"That's kind of you, my dear, but I hope we don't. My life's on these plains, and this is no place for a family like yours."

He climbed onto his cart, clicked his tongue at his old horse, and started rattling eastward toward Bred's Landing.

Grinsa and Cresenne were soon ready to continue on their way as well. As it happened, D'Chul, the young lutenist, was also headed west toward Silverwater Wash. Cresenne was delighted to ride in the company of another Qirsi, and she expected that Grinsa would be as well. But for the first several hours of the day, he said little, and he appeared to be occupied with dark thoughts. He rode with his shoulders hunched, his eyes trained on the ground before him, his brow creased so that he seemed to be scowling. Cresenne wondered if he was brooding on something he'd heard the night before, or if he was concerned about what they would do if the skies opened up again, or if he simply didn't like D'Chul.

At one point during the morning, Cresenne steered her mount next to his and reached out to take his hand. His face brightened immediately and he smiled at her.

"Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

"Yes, of course."

"You seem troubled."

He shook his head. "Really, I'm fine."

Cresenne had nodded, taking him at his word. And why shouldn't she? Usually he kept nothing from her. But when she looked at him again only a few moments later, he looked just as he had before: tense, even apprehensive, which was not like him at all. She knew how strong he was, though, and she trusted that no matter what it was that had him worried, he'd find a way to overcome it.

For her part, she hadn't been this happy since the day they left the Forelands, more than two turns before. She liked D'Chul and she enjoyed hearing him speak of the clans and of life on the plain. He'd been born in a small settlement in the Berylline Forest along the western bank of the A'Vahl River. Listening to him speak of his home, Cresenne had to remind herself again and again that all of his neighbors, all the people who lived with him in the village, were Qirsi. She knew this to be true-she'd been in the Southlands long enough to understand that this was not at all unusual in the western half of the land-but every time she pictured the marketplace he described, or the sanctuary where he worshiped, or any other part of the village, she pictured Eandi faces as well as Qirsi, indeed, more of the former than the latter. She couldn't help herself.

Yet, at the same time, she thrilled to the thought that this was the world in which she would soon find herself. In just a few more days, she and Grinsa would cross into Qirsi land and, she hoped, quickly find a settlement in which to build a new life. Bryntelle, awake now, her eyes wide as she watched D'Chul, would grow up thinking it normal to live among only Qirsi, without the hostility and mistrust of the Eandi. No doubt she would take such a life for granted. Cresenne could think of no greater gift for her child.

Yes, she had Eandi friends, though not many of them. Once, when she had allied herself with Dusaan jal Kania, the Weaver who had sought to overthrow the Eandi courts in the Forelands and create a new Qirsi empire, she had believed that she hated all Eandi. She knew now that she didn't. Some among Ean's children had been kind to her in the days leading up to the Weaver's war, kinder than she'd had any right to ask or expect, given her role in the Qirsi conspiracy. But she had to admit that she longed to live the rest of her days free from prejudice and the constant tension that seemed to pervade the cities of the Forelands. And though she would have had trouble admitting as much to Grinsa, who counted an Eandi noble among his closest friends and who once even loved an

Eandi woman, she believed that the only way to find such peace was to live apart from all Eandi.

D'Chul proved to be a fine companion for such a grey day. After he'd talked about his home for some time, he began to sing for them, or more precisely for Bryntelle, who laughed and squealed each time he began a new song. Eventually, the young man's singing even drew Grinsa out of his dark mood. As was the case with the songs he had played the night before, Cresenne didn't know any of the ones he sang. They sounded like children's songs, and she had the sense that they would have been as familiar to a Qirsi child in the Southlands as "Four Tired Lambs" or "Moons and Stars" had been to her when she was a girl.

One song in particular delighted Bryntelle and caught Cresenne's ear, though probably not for the same reason. She couldn't follow the verses, which made little sense, but after a few rounds, she was able to piece together the refrain:

Little Dark-Eye, Little Dark-Eye,

Run away back home;

Little Dark-Eye, Little Dark-Eye, '

Tis not your land to roam;

Little Dark-Eye, Little Dark-Eye,

Run away and hide;

Little Dark-Eye, Little Dark-Eye,

No one's on your side.

It seemed that Grinsa also was struck by the lyric. When D'Chul finished singing, he asked, "What was that one called?"

" 'Little Dark-Eye,' " the man answered, grinning. "It's a grim song, eh?"

"I couldn't make out most of it," Grinsa said.

"That's because most of ifs been changed. It was a Qirsi war song; dates back to the first of the Blood Wars. You can probably guess what it's about."

"The last line of the refrain was changed, too, wasn't it?" D'Chul looked at Cresenne. "You could tell that, could you?"

She nodded.

"It was originally 'All your friends have died,' but that was changed long ago. Better for the little ones this way."

"How did you know?" Grinsa asked her, smiling slightly, but also looking annoyed, as if angry with himself for not figuring this out as well.

She shrugged. "It just didn't sound right. 'Died' is the natural rhyme there."

"You've got an ear for music," D'Chul said.

Cresenne laughed at that. She was just about the least musical person she knew. She couldn't even sing in tune. "No," she said. "I think I just have a dark humor."

"There's no escaping it, is there?" Grinsa asked, still looking troubled, his voice grim.

D'Chul frowned. "What do you mean?"

"This feud between Eandi and Qirsi. The Blood Wars. These songs you sing. The Eandi villages that won't give a room to Qirsi travelers. It's everywhere."

Cresenne feared that the lutenist might take offense, but instead, he regarded Grinsa for several moments and then began to nod slowly.

"It must seem that way to you," he said. "I don't think we give much thought to how our land might be perceived by strangers." He seemed to consider this for several moments. At last he nodded again. "Yes, I guess it is everywhere. The wars have been over for some time now, but the fighting didn't end because we suddenly stopped hating one another. I'm not sure people can do that."

"Then why did the wars end?"

He shook his head. "Neither side had the stomach for them anymore. The clans decided that the wars were costing too many lives, even as they continued to take land from the dark-eyes. Already there are more Eandi in the Southlands than there are Qirsi. Not by a lot-not the way we hear Qirsi are outnumbered in the Forelands. But enough to scare our leaders. And the Eandi sovereignties made no effort to continue the fighting. Every time a war was fought they lost land. It's not really surprising that they'd welcome a truce."

"So the two sides never really forged a peace," Grinsa said. "They just stopped killing each other."

D'Chul raised an eyebrow. "I suppose that's one way of putting it. I don't think there's much danger of the wars starting up again, if that's what concerns you."

"No," Grinsa said. "It's not that." "Then what?" Cresenne asked.

He looked at her, their eyes meeting. "I don't know, really. I just find it all… unsettling."

She should have understood. In a way she did, though only vaguely. But mostly, Cresenne felt herself growing impatient with him. Of course

the Southlands weren't perfect. What place was? Everyone they'd talked to had said the same thing: The wars had been over for more than a century. The various realms of the Forelands had battled one another as recently as that, and he wouldn't have thought anything of living there, had that been a choice.

He appeared to read the annoyance in her glance, because he forced a smile and shook his head.

"I'm just being foolish," he said. "I suppose it'll take me some time to grow accustomed to this place." He turned to D'Chul. "Forgive me."

The young man shrugged and grinned again. "There's nothing to forgive."

Cresenne thought he was being more generous than she would have been.

They rode with D'Chul for the rest of that day and for two more before finally coming within sight of the Silverwater Wash. By the third morning, the skies had cleared, though the air remained cold.

"This feels like the Harvest," D'Chul said as they rode that third day, turning his face up to the sky and closing his eyes, as if savoring the touch of the sun on his ghostly skin. "I expect we've seen the last of the warmer days until next year's Planting."

Fine, lacy clouds drifted above them, pure white against the deep blue sky, reminding Cresenne of Harvest days in the Forelands. Some things, it seemed, were the same everywhere.

Late that day, D'Chul guided them to a shallow part of the river where they were able to cross into Qirsi land without first entering an Eandi village. They made camp together one last time, joined this time by several other Qirsi peddlers who were on their way into Stelpana. D'Chul played his lute for them again, and by now Cresenne had learned enough of the songs to join in the singing, which she did without hesitation, despite her poor voice.

Grinsa, as usual, had moved off a short distance with one of the older merchants, with whom he spoke in low tones, looking intent and smiling only occasionally. No doubt he was learning all he could about the Fal'Borna-the man with whom he was sitting had darker skin than any Qirsi Cresenne had ever seen, and she recalled hearing R'Shev say something about the Fal'Borna being a dark-skinned clan. This was one of the things she had come to love about Grinsa: his sense of duty, the determination with which he took care of those he loved.

But she wished that he'd allow himself to have fun, just this once. They were in Qirsi land now, and though she wasn't foolish enough to believe that this simple fact was the answer to all their worries, she couldn't help but feel that the most difficult part of their journey was over. Surely that was cause for celebrating, for taking this one night to be at ease and enjoy their new friends.

Then again, she knew that Grinsa would only rest easy when he had convinced himself that he could keep her and Bryntelle safe. That was his way. Cresenne forced herself to ignore him and trust that he was enjoying himself in his own manner.

The following morning, D'Chul left them. He intended to follow the river southward toward the inland sea, stopping at villages along the way. He recommended that they continue toward the west.

"You're better off now that you're in Qirsi land," he told them, solemnly. "But R'Shev was right when he said that the Fal'Borna are hard. You'll be better off among the J'Balanar. You'll stand out a bit." He grinned. "Unless you have yourselves marked as they do. But they're more likely to welcome you into their settlements. Better still, you could go on to the forest and join the A'Vahl or my people."

"I thought R'Shev said the A'Vahl were arrogant," Grinsa said, smiling.

"They're not as bad as he made out. He did that mostly for my benefit. There's a belief among the other clans that the M'Saaren and the A'Vahl are rivals, probably because we share the woodland, and we fought a couple of wars several centuries ago. The truth is we get along well enough now. The A'Vahl are good people; most of them at least. You could do far worse."

Grinsa stepped forward and embraced the man. "Thank you, D'Chul. You've been a fine guide and a good friend."

"Good luck to you," the lutenist said, smiling broadly.

Cresenne kissed his cheek, surprised once more by how sad she felt to be leaving someone who had been a stranger only days before.

"I'll remember your playing for the rest of my days," she said. "And I'll sing the songs you taught us to Bryntelle. She'll know the words at least, even if I give her only a poor sense of the tune."

D'Chul climbed back onto his cart and picked up the reins. "Farewell," he said. "May there always be open roads before you and kin at your back." He grinned at them one last time. "That's an old Qirsi blessing."

He clicked his tongue at his horse and started away, turning one last time to wave good-bye.

Grinsa and Cresenne watched him go for several moments. Then they climbed onto their horses and began to ride westward. During the time they'd been with D'Chul they'd spoken little to each other. Now that they were alone together, except of course for Bryntelle, Cresenne found that she wasn't certain what to say. She hadn't felt this way around him in a long time, and it made her uneasy. For his part, Grinsa seemed no more inclined to start up a conversation than she was.

Eventually, however, he glanced her way, his expression revealing little. "You've been angry with me," he said.

A faint smile touched her lips and was gone. He knew her so well; better, she sometimes believed, than she knew him.

"I wouldn't say angry," she answered, an admission in the words. "Then what?"

She considered this. "Frustrated," she finally said.

He didn't look at her, and his expression didn't change, but he nodded once, acknowledging what she'd said. She would have preferred it if he'd gotten angry with her. That's probably what she would have done had their roles been reversed. But he always found a way to control his emotions. It was something else that she admired in him, and that she also occasionally found… well, frustrating.

"Are you going to tell me why?" he asked at length.

"I want this to work, Grinsa. I want us to find a home here, somewhere we can be happy, where Bryntelle can grow up proud of who and what she is."

He looked at her. "I want that, too."

She exhaled and ran a hand through her hair. "I know that. But it seems like you're always looking for the next thing that's going to go wrong."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it? D'Chul sings us a song, and all you can think about is how the Blood Wars haven't really ended. Last night all of us were laughing and singing songs, but you spent the entire night huddled with that old Fal'Borna peddler talking about who knows what." She shook her head.

"It seems to me that you refuse to be happy."

He smiled sadly. "I'm happy with you and Bryntelle."

Cresenne smiled in return. "I know that. I love you, Grinsa. You know I do. But I'm tired of carrying the weight of the world on our shoulders. We did that in the Forelands, and I've had enough of it. I just want to live a quiet life here. Can't we do that?"

"I want to," he said. "But it's not quite that simple. There are matters here that you and I need to discuss, things we have to be ready for." "See?" she said. "This is what I mean. Maybe you and I are just different in this way. I know there are going to be problems, but we can deal with them as they arise. We don't have to let them occupy every waking thought."

He frowned. "I think some problems can be handled that way, but

I'm not certain this is one of them."

"Are our lives at stake?"

Grinsa's eyebrows went up. "Our lives? No, I don't suppose they are."

Cresenne shrugged. "Then, it can wait."

Again, she expected him to get angry. Instead he laughed. "All right," he said. "But don't forget that I warned you."

"Fair enough."

They rode on, once more saying little. Every now and then, however, Grinsa would chuckle to himself, until at last Cresenne demanded to know what he found so funny.

He merely shook his head. "You don't want to know," he said, sounding as close to coy as she'd ever heard him.

Darkness fell before they reached a settlement. They passed another night under the stars and resumed their travels with first light of morning. By midday, they were several leagues into Fal'Borna land, and had yet to see any villages or towns.

"I'm beginning to think there aren't any villages here at all," Cresenne said at last, raising herself up out of her saddle and scanning the horizon.

"There aren't," Grinsa said mildly. "What?"

He looked at her, smiling slightly. "The Fal'Borna have established towns along the Silverwater and the other rivers in their territory-the Thraedes and the K'Sand-and also on the shores of the Ofirean Sea. But away from the water, they're nomads. They follow wild herds of what they call `rilda,' which I gather are like the highland antelope of the Forelands."

"So, we're not looking for a settlement. You've known this all along." "It didn't seem like the type of thing you'd want to hear about."

She gave him a sour look, though it was all she could do not to laugh. "Is there anything else I should know?" Before he could say anything she raised a hand and shook her head. "No, don't answer. I said that I didn't want to hear."

Perhaps two hours later, they came within sight of what looked to Cresenne to be a settlement of some sort. As they drew nearer, though, she realized that all the structures she saw were temporary, fashioned from animal skins, cloth, and wooden poles. Still, she could see a good many people-as many as she would have expected to see in a country village in the Forelands. A narrow stream wound past the shelters, and then by a large paddock in which grazed at least two hundred horses of various colors. Smoke rose from a dozen small fires and near the paddock children ran and laughed.

Cresenne and Grinsa had halted upon seeing the structures. Now Grinsa glanced at her.

"Are you ready to meet the Fal'Borna?"

For several days, she'd been looking forward to doing just that, but faced with the prospect of riding into this odd-looking village that stretched out before her, Cresenne realized that she was more than a bit intimidated.

"I think so," she said. "Are you?"

"As ready as I'm likely to be."

They looked toward the village again, and saw four riders coming toward them, their hair gleaming white in the sun, spears held ready.

"Seems we'd better be ready," Cresenne said. "If there's anything I really need to know, you should tell me right now."

She glanced at him. He was sitting straight-backed and tall atop his mount, his eyes alert, the muscles in his jaw bunched.

"No time now," he said, his voice low and tight. "Let me do the talking. They're a patriarchal clan-more so than most, at least here on the plain. Only speak to them if they ask you a question."

She nodded, feeling foolish for ever having been impatient with his precautions.

The Fal'Borna rode swiftly, and as they came closer Cresenne noted that all four of the riders were men, and all of them rode without saddles.

They stopped a short distance from where Cresenne and Grinsa waited. Cresenne wondered if they should dismount, or bow, or show in some other way that they meant the men and their people no harm. But Grinsa remained motionless in his saddle, and she thought it best to follow his example.

"You're on Fal'Borna land," one of the men said, his voice sharp. He was a young man, powerfully built, with a square face and skin that was almost golden, like the color of freshly baked bread. Cresenne couldn't help noting that he was remarkably handsome. Indeed, so were his companions. They were dressed in loose-fitting pants and shirts that appeared to have been made from animal skins. Their shoes were of dark leather. The man who had spoken wore a thin black necklace from which hung a single white stone. Otherwise the men were unadorned. "Who are you?" the man asked. "What clan?"

"My name is Grinsa jal Arriet. This is Cresenne ja Terba and our daughter, Bryntelle ja Grinsa. We're not from any clan of the South- lands. We've come from the Forelands."

The man showed no surprise at this last bit of information, but merely asked, "Why are you on Fal'Borna land, Forelander?"

"Our ship made land in Aelea. We had no choice but to cross Eandi land as quickly and directly as possible. That brought us here."

This seemed to satisfy the man, at least for the moment. "You ride proud animals," he said. "You got them from the Eandi?"

"Yes, we did."

He nodded, regarding the horses for another moment before looking at Grinsa again. "Are you bound to a clan, Forelander?"

"Not yet, no."

"But you intend to be?"

"Perhaps."

"You're a Weaver."

The guard in Yorl also had known that Grinsa was a Weaver, and though Cresenne understood that Weavers were far more common here than in the Forelands, it still took her by surprise to hear people speak of them so openly. Weavers were feared in the Forelands. Here it seemed they were openly revered.

"That's right."

He glanced at Cresenne. "And is she as well?"

Something in the way he asked this told Cresenne that he knew the answer already, but felt the need to ask, not for her sake, but for Grinsa's. An instant later she remembered the Eandi guard asking the same thing. Were Weavers here expected to be joined to each other?

"No, she's not."

Again, the man nodded. "The Qirsi of rival clans are not permitted to cross Fal'Borna land without leave from the Tesserate."

"I've already told you: We belong to no clan."

"But you also say that you might bind yourself to one."

"We might bind ourselves to the Fal'Borna," Grinsa said.

The man grinned, though not kindly. "That's not a decision for you to make. The Fal'Borna choose who we will and will not accept into our clan."

"Fine then," Grinsa said coldly. "Where will I find this Tesserate of whom you speak?"

"Thamia, on the north shore of the Ofirean. And the Tesserate isn't a person. It's a council. It could take several turns to gather all its members and the clanlord so that they can render a decision."

"What is it you want?" Grinsa asked.

"What makes you think I want anything?"

Grinsa didn't answer, at least not directly. But an instant later Cresenne heard the splintering of wood, four times in rapid succession. And as she watched, the heads of the men's spears fell to the ground. It wasn't what she would have done in his position, and she could only hope that he hadn't provoked the men.

Grinsa didn't appear concerned. He grinned, just as the Fal'Borna had done moments before. "As you say, friend: I'm a Weaver. And as such, I'm not someone to be trifled with."

The man's grin had vanished, but he didn't look particularly troubled by what Grinsa had done. He nodded once more. "Good, Forelander. Very good. A Fal'Borna Weaver would have gotten to it faster, but you're a stranger here, and I'll assume that you were trying to show some patience."

"He was testing you?" Cresenne asked, looking at Grinsa.

"He's a Weaver, too," Grinsa said, his eyes never leaving the man's face.

Another Weaver. At least she'd been right in assuming he knew without asking that she wasn't a Weaver. A Weaver could sense without asking what magics another Qirsi wielded.

"My name is Q'Daer."

He dismounted and stooped to pick up the head of his spear, which looked to be made of bone. His companions did the same, and a moment later Grinsa dismounted as well. He cast a quick look Cresenne's way, indicating that she should, too. He took Bryntelle from her, and she climbed off of her mount. Only then, facing the four Fal'Borna, did she realize how short they were. They looked formidable on their mounts, but even this Weaver, Q'Daer, was nearly half a head shorter than Grinsa. Q'Daer brushed the dirt and grass off his spear tip and slipped it into a small pocket on the side of his pants.

"A Fal'Borna wastes nothing," he said. He extended both hands to

Grinsa. When Grinsa put his hands out, the man gripped Grinsa's wrists in such a way that Grinsa could do the same. "That is a proper Fal'Borna greeting."

"You honor us," Grinsa said.

"You're a Weaver," the man said, as if that explained everything. "A

Weaver with no clan-" He stopped himself and smiled thinly. "I'm getting ahead of myself. The a'laq will want to see you. We can talk after."

"The a'laq?"

"Every sept has an a'laq, a leader. Ours is named E'Menua, though you're to call him A'Laq."

Q'Daer returned to his horse and swung himself onto the animal's back. "Follow," he said.

The other Fal'Borna remounted and rode after the man, leaving Grinsa and Cresenne little choice but to do the same.

"That went better than I thought it would," Cresenne said, as she got back onto her mount. "Particularly after you broke their spears."

He nodded, handing Bryntelle up to her. "We're not safe yet. If this E'Menua doesn't like us we'll be lucky to get away. From what I hear, the Fal'Borna aren't gentle with those they consider their enemies."

They rode after the four men, following them to the middle of the settlement. Once again, people stared at them-it seemed to Cresenne that since reaching the Southlands, they had been the objects of endless curiosity. But at least here, she sensed none of the hostility that she had felt in Yorl and the other Eandi villages. Men and women, young and old-they all stared at them, but for the most part their expressions were mild, and even those who looked at them warily did so seemingly without hatred.

And in truth, Cresenne couldn't help staring back at them. She had never seen so many Qirsi in one place-there were hundreds of them, and not an Eandi face to be seen. Just white hair and pairs of pale eyes in more shades of yellow than she had ever known existed. Like the men who rode out to greet them, all of these Qirsi had light golden skin. They're beautiful, she thought to herself. They're the most beautiful people I've ever seen.

Grinsa seemed to notice as well. "In all my years of living with the Eandi," he said to her in a whisper, "I never felt as conscious of how white my skin is as I do right now."

She just nodded, and they rode on.

Q'Daer dismounted before a large circular structure. It was made of wood, and it had animal skins pulled taut all around it. Cresenne saw Grinsa look the building up and down, admiration in his eyes. At last, he nodded.

"Sturdy, secure against wind and rain, but light, and probably very easy to take down and carry."

"All our z'kals are made so," Q'Daer told him. "We move with the herds. We can't spare time to build heavier homes and dismantle them. And as I told you, the Fal'Borna waste nothing."

"Don't you get cold during the Snows?"

"Each z'kal has a fire circle within, and a vent at the top for smoke." He grinned. "And if it grows too cold, well, that's why Qirsar gave us women, isn't it?"

Grinsa smiled halfheartedly and glanced at Cresenne, who wasn't smiling at all.

"I'll tell the a'laq that you're here," the man said. He entered the shelter through a flap that was held in place by a series of hooks, also made of bone.

"What are we going to say to this a'laq?" Cresenne asked in a low voice, surveying the settlement. "I'm not ready to cast my lot with these people, but I'm not sure that we can tell him we'd like to speak with the other clans before deciding who we want to live with."

"I don't know. We don't even know for certain that we'll be asked to join their clan. Let's just wait and see."

Cresenne nodded, but she could feel her apprehension growing by the moment.

Before long, Q'Daer emerged from the shelter and nodded to Grinsa. "He'll see you now."

Both of them started forward, but the man held up a hand and shook his head. "Your concubine can wait out here."

Cresenne gaped at him. "His what?" she demanded, her voice rising so that others in the settlement turned to look at her.

Q'Daer glanced at her, his expression infuriatingly placid. Then he faced Grinsa again. "It would be best if she remained out here."

But Grinsa shook his head. "I'm sorry, Q'Daer. If the a'laq wants to see us together, so be it. But I won't go in alone." "The a'laq doesn't give audiences to concubines." "I'm not his concubine!"

"She's not my concubine!"

They said these simultaneously, shared a brief look, then faced the

Fal'Borna again.

"She's not a Weaver."

"No, she's not. But in the Forelands, that doesn't matter."

Q'Daer shook his head, clearly unnerved by all of this. Cresenne wasn't certain whether he was merely offended, or if he actually feared delivering these tidings to the a'laq. "It's not wise to defy an a'laq, Forelander," he said at last. "Particularly a man like E'Menua."

"Then perhaps it's best that we move on, without meeting him."

"No," the man said. He looked at them both, his lips pressed thin. Then he went back into the shelter.

"You knew about this concubine thing, didn't you?" Cresenne said quietly.

A small smile crept across Grinsa's face. "You said you didn't want to hear."

"Yes, I did. But I think you enjoyed that just a bit too much." He laughed.

Q'Daer emerged again just seconds later, appearing relieved. "He'll see you both," he said. He watched them expectantly, no doubt wondering why they weren't more pleased.

Wordlessly, they stepped past him and into the shelter.

It was warm within, and it smelled strongly of smoke and cooked meat and sweat. A fire burned low within a ring of stones in the center of the space, and on the far side of the fire, directly opposite the entrance, sat an old Qirsi man. He was dressed much as Q'Daer had been, down to the thin necklace and white stone. Like the other men they had seen, he wore his long white hair tied back from his face. Even sitting, he appeared powerful, with a broad chest and thick neck. His eyes were large and round, like those of a cat, and his face tapered to a thin, sharp chin, giving him the look of some preternaturally intelligent beast.

Cresenne and Grinsa stood just inside the entryway for several moments as the a'laq regarded them. The fire popped loudly and Bryntelle chattered as she stared at the flames, but otherwise no one made a sound. At last, the man motioned for them to sit.

"I don't usually allow the concubines of other men into my z'kal," he said in a gravelly voice, once they had settled themselves beside the stone circle.

Cresenne fully intended to fire back that she didn't usually tolerate being called a concubine, but Grinsa laid a hand on her arm and she managed to keep silent.

"Cresenne isn't my concubine, A'Laq. She's my wife." "She isn't a Weaver. She can't be your wife."

"Those are your customs, not ours."

He grinned at that, his face harsh in the dim glow of the fire. "You're in the Southlands now, Forelander. Our customs are your customs. Have the two of you been formally joined?"

Grinsa only hesitated for an instant, but it was enough. "In all ways that matter, Cresenne is my wife."

"Ah," the a'laq said, nodding slowly. "I see. There is room, then, for discussion."

"No," Grinsa said. "There's not."

"Are you bound to a clan yet, Forelander?" the a'laq asked, as if the previous matter had been settled.

"We've only been on the Qirsi side of the Silverwater for a few days. The Fal'Borna are the first clanfolk we've encountered."

"How fortunate for you," the man said, seemingly without irony. "We look forward to exploring other parts of the land as well, and perhaps meeting other folk from other clans."

The a'laq's smile faded slowly. "Why would you want to do that?" "We're new to the Southlands. We're curious."

For a long time, the man said nothing. He held two fingers to his lips, tapping them absently. At last, he reached for a small log and threw it onto the fire, sending a flurry of bright orange sparks into the air.

"I have some idea of how Weavers are treated in the Forelands. I know they're feared, even hated. I know that many have been put to death over the centuries. Isn't that so?"

Grinsa nodded.

"Perhaps you've noticed that their status here among the clans is somewhat different."

"I've gathered as much, yes."

"A Weaver who comes among us unbound to any clan is rare indeed. Weavers are something of a commodity, not like drel, mind you. They're not common chattel. They're gold. They're gems. They are prized by all. This is why we insist that Weavers join with other Weavers, so that they might beget yet more Weavers." His eyes flicked toward Cresenne. "Your… your wife is very beautiful."

He said the word "wife" with such condescension that Cresenne almost wished he'd go back to calling her a concubine.

"I can see why you chose her," he went on. "But she is far less likely to give birth to Weavers than another Weaver would be."

"I understand the reasoning behind your custom, A'Laq."

"I'm sure you do. But this is not my point. Unbound Weavers are rare, and to have one appear in our sept as you have is a great boon. You wish to leave, to explore other parts of the Southlands. But we're determined that you should stay."

Cresenne felt icy fingers closing around her heart, and she clutched Bryntelle closer to her breast, drawing a low cry from the child. Grinsa's eyes, shining in the brightened glow of the fire, were fixed on the man, but his expression hadn't changed.

"Are we to be your captives, then?" he demanded.

The a'laq eyed him briefly. "What happened to your shoulder, Forelander?"

Grinsa's good hand reached up to his deformed shoulder and rubbed it gently, as if he could feel the pain again. Cresenne knew what had happened, of course. It was shattered by the Weaver who led the conspiracy against the Eandi courts of the Forelands. Grinsa managed to destroy the Weaver despite his injury, but the shoulder, which had been broken once before by a servant of the Weaver, never healed properly.

"I hurt it battling a Weaver," Grinsa answered, his voice barely more than a whisper.

The a'laq nodded. "I thought as much. I sensed that the injury had been caused by magic. And who else other than another Weaver could do such a thing to you?" He gestured toward the entrance to his shelter. "There are three Weavers out there. And of course I'm one, too. We have four in our sept. Four Weavers. There are other Fal'Borna septs larger than ours, but few have so many. I have three children, and all of them may prove to be Weavers. And still I find myself wanting more. I'm an old man, with only a few years left. There should be Weavers to take my place."

"You didn't answer my question," Grinsa said. "Are we captives?"

But Cresenne had the sense that the man had answered. There were four Weavers here. How was Grinsa supposed to fight their way free past four Weavers?

"You're our guests," the a'laq said.

"Guests are free to leave whenever they wish."

The a'laq's eyes flashed. "Captives are treated poorly. You won't be. We'll have a z'kal built for you by nightfall. You'll eat as the rest of us do. Have you tasted rilda?"

"No," Grinsa said thickly.

"Then this will be a night to remember. For both of you," he added, with a quick glance at Cresenne.

For some time the two men sat staring at one another, neither of their gazes wavering.

"Cresenne is to be accepted as my wife," Grinsa said at last. E'Menua seemed to consider this briefly. Then he nodded. "At least for the time being."

Grinsa shook his head. "For as long as we're here. Or else I'll try to leave right now. The other Weavers may stop me, but you won't. And then your sept will only have three, rather than five."

Cresenne expected the a'laq to rage at him. She wouldn't have been surprised if they'd started to do battle right there in the shelter.

Instead, the old man began to laugh. "Very well then," he said. "You'll make a fine Fal'Borna, Forelander." He laughed again, gesturing at his crotch. "You have the stones for it." He waved a hand at the entryway. "Now, go. We'll speak again later."

Cresenne and Grinsa looked at each other, then stood and left the shelter. Outside, the sun seemed overly bright and the air felt cold. A gust of wind made Cresenne shiver.

"Now what?" she said.

"Now we find something to eat."

She looked at him sharply.

"There's nothing else we can do, Cresenne. Not today. For better or worse, we're Fal'Borna now."

"Which I suppose makes me your concubine."

He raised an eyebrow. "True. Maybe there's an upside to this." She punched his arm, hard.