The Sorcerer's Plague

Chapter 18

Grinsa and Cresenne's first days among the Fal'Borna weren't quite as difficult as Grinsa had feared they might be. Yes, they were captives; there could be no denying that. Had their welcome from E'Menua, the sept's a'laq, been friendlier, had they been given the option of staying with the sept or moving on as they saw fit, Grinsa and Cresenne might very well have chosen to remain, at least for a time. From all they had heard from R'Shev, D'Chul, and the other merchants, it seemed the Fal'Borna were a hard, uncompromising people, and certainly their captivity seemed further evidence of this. But the Fal'Borna could also be friendly, open, and generous.

As the a'laq had promised, their shelter was up and ready for them before nightfall on that first day they reached the sept. They were given food and wine, including roasted rilda, which might have been the most delicious meat Grinsa had ever tasted. And over the course of those first few days family after family came to welcome them to the village. The women cooed at Bryntelle and spoke to Cresenne of their own children and all they had learned over their years of caring for infants. The men ignored both Cresenne and Bryntelle, instead vying with one another for Grinsa's attention. There could be little doubt that all the attention they received, perhaps even the kindnesses shown to Cresenne, whom all thought of as merely Grinsa's concubine, was due to the fact that he was a Weaver. It was unclear whether the Fal'Borna hoped to convince him to remain with the sept of his own accord, or merely assumed that he would remain and were seeking to curry favor with their newest Weaver.

In the end, the Fal'Borna's motivations mattered little. Knowing that they were not permitted to leave made Grinsa and Cresenne think of leaving nearly all the time. The courtesies shown them by the men and women of the sept were particularly hollow for Cresenne, who knew that had Grinsa not been a Weaver, they would have ignored her completely. Indeed, even as they complimented her on how beautiful Bryntelle was, and how healthy the babe appeared to be, some of the younger women also cast looks at Grinsa, as if hoping that they might find a way into his bed as well. This at least is what she told him their second night in the village, as they lay alone in their shelter, listening to Bryntelle's steady breathing and the distant howling of a wolf.

Under other circumstances, he might have thought that she was imagining this. But one of the men who had been speaking to him earlier in the night had as much as offered Grinsa his daughter.

"Many of our Weavers have taken two, even three concubines," the man told him, explaining the offer as he might have explained the Harvest weather or the rising and falling of the price of grain in the marketplace. "A Fal'Borna Weaver spreads his seed as he pleases. For the good of our people, of course."

"Of course," Grinsa had said, smiling pleasantly. "But Cresenne isn't my concubine. She's my wife."

The man's eyes widened. "Oh! Forgive me! I didn't know she was a Weaver as well. I thought… Well, I was mistaken."

Grinsa should have let it go at that, but regardless of whether they were to remain, he didn't want to have any of them thinking him a liar.

"She's not a Weaver," he told the man. "Where we come from, Weavers are free to be joined to whomever they choose."

"Well," the man said, smiling in return, "you're here now."

It was much the same thing E'Menua had said to them the day before.

"I have you," Grinsa told Cresenne that night, kissing her brow. "Why would I need another concubine?"

She laughed, though she also kicked him under the blanket.

"You're finding all of this far too amusing," she said, and while she was still smiling, he could hear the tightness in her voice.

"I'm sorry. Really. This can't be easy for you."

"Half the time, it's like I'm not even here. They talk about finding a wife for you from one of the other septs, about how your arrival here means so much to them all."

"It seems that some of the women have been kind to you."

She nodded. "Some of them have. But I'm starting to suspect that the ones who are nicest are the ones who have been concubines themselves. And they're kind to me right up until I insist that I'm not just your concubine. As soon as I say anything to that effect, they grow cold, distant." A bitter smile touched her lips. "It seems like I'm better off playing along. Maybe I should help them find you a wife."

"I have a wife."

She looked at him. "No, Grinsa, you don't. I know that you love me, and I love you, too. But the fact is we were never joined. With all that happened in the turns before we left the Forelands, we never found the time. And even if we had, I'm not certain that it would count for much here."

He felt a tightness in his throat. "What are you saying?" he asked.

She smiled at what she saw on his face, and kissed him softly on the lips. "Nothing terrible. I may not be a Weaver, but I'll fight with every bit of strength and magic I have if they try to take you away from me. I'm just saying that we're going to have to tread carefully here. We might even have to play along for a time, let them think that you're open to being joined."

"Cresenne-"

She held a finger to his lips, then kissed him again. "It's all right. We can do this. Just for a little while, just long enough for us to figure out how to get away. It might be the only hope we have."

"That all sounds fine for me," he said. "But what about you? Can you bear being treated as a concubine for that long?"

"I'll manage it." She shrugged, a small grin lighting her face. "I may have to convince some other Weaver that I'd be willing to become his concubine. Just to keep up appearances, of course. Although the men here are very handsome."

Grinsa smiled. "Is that so?"

She nodded, giggling as he started to kiss her neck.

"If you ask me," he said, "they're just short."

Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. "They're tall enough."

He kissed her again, and this time she held him, kissing him back deeply.

"We'll get out of here," he whispered, as she nestled against him and closed her eyes. "I'm not sure how yet, but we will."

"I know," she said, sounding sleepy. "I just hope we can find a way to leave without making the Fal'Borna our enemies. I have a feeling that would be dangerous."

The next few days were much like their first among the Fal'Borna. As time went on, and they were accepted into the community, they came to feel less like curiosities. Several of the women made clear to Cresenne that she was expected to work with the rest of them at various tasks, be it tanning rilda skins, or grinding wild grain into meal for breads, or gathering roots and greens from the small copses that covered the nearby hills. Other women with young children, even those with babes younger than Bryntelle, left them in the care of some of the girls who were not yet old enough for such work, and they told Cresenne to do the same. At first, she later told Grinsa, she was reluctant, but seeing how happy all the children appeared to be, she eventually relented.

For his part, Grinsa was not expected to do any labor. Instead, the other Weavers expected him to sit with them outside the a'laq's shelter, smoking pipeweed and watching as the other men and women of the sept went about their daily tasks. The idea of it troubled him and at first he demurred, offering to help some of the other men, who were stretching finished skins over wooden poles for a new shelter. He quickly realized, though, that he was merely making these men uncomfortable and actually hindering their efforts. After just a short time, he returned to where the other two Weavers sat.

Neither of them said anything to him as he sat back down, and that suited him fine. He didn't much feel like talking. He could only think how eager he was to get away from this sept, indeed, from all of the Fal'Borna. More to the point, he had nothing to say to the two young Weavers. Though others in the sept had attempted to win his friendship, these two, Q'Daer and L'Norr, had not. Instead, they'd been hostile, as if Grinsa had given offense in some way and they had yet to forgive him. It hadn't taken Grinsa long to realize that they were jealous of him. While others in the sept were eager to welcome another Weaver into their community, seeing his arrival as a boon, Q'Daer and L'Norr saw only a new rival who, because he was older, and perhaps because he came from a distant land, might eventually form a close bond with the a'laq. On the one hand he would have liked to assure them that he had no interest in remaining here long enough to pose a threat to their standing. But it had also occurred to him that having the a'laq's closest advisors eager for him to leave might help him do just that.

As he returned to the a'laq's shelter, the Weavers were speaking of nothing in particular, at least nothing that interested him. They seemed to be reminiscing about a previous hunt. After a time, though, they fell silent. For several moments, they just sat there. Then Q'Daer, the first Fal'Borna Grinsa and Cresenne had encountered, turned to him, a puzzled look on his tanned, chiseled face.

"Why do you do that, Forelander?"

Grinsa didn't even look at him. "Do what?"

"Deny what you are. We tell you that Weavers do not labor with the others; that your place is here by the a'laq's z'kal. But you don't listen. You go off and try to do common work anyway, and I'd imagine that all you did was get in the way of the others. I doubt they even spoke to you."

"They spoke to me," he said, which was true, though in fact, the men had said precious little. They'd been courteous to a fault, but beyond that, they hadn't spoken at all, not to him, not to each other.

"You had an actual conversation with them?" Q'Daer asked. "What's your point?"

"Simply this. You are a Weaver. Whatever that meant in the Forelands, it means here that you are one of the select, chosen by Qirsar to be a leader among the Fal'Borna." He raised a hand, as if anticipating an argument. "And before you object, this is by no means unique to our clan. The J'Balanar, the Talm'Orast, the T'Saan, the M'Saaren and A'Vahl-nearly every clan in the Southlands treats its Weavers so."

"Nearly every one?"

He shrugged. "The B'Qahr may not. To be honest I don't know. They're a strange people-even if the a'laq consents to let you leave us, I'd suggest you avoid them. Unless you're hopelessly wedded to the sea and its ways."

The brief hope Grinsa had felt at the mention of this clan faded, leaving him discouraged. Joining a clan of sailors would be just about the last thing Cresenne would want.

L'Norr was watching them, listening to their exchange, but saying nothing. He and Q'Daer could have been brothers, so much did they resemble one another. They had the same rugged good looks, bronzed skin, long hair, and clear eyes that all the Fal'Borna men seemed to have. But as Grinsa sat with the two men now, it occurred to him that there should have been women here as well.

"I thought Fal'Borna Weavers were only joined to other Weavers." Q'Daer nodded. "That's right."

"So neither of you is joined yet."

The man straightened. "Not yet. But L'Norr here has a concubine already, and… and U'Vara, the a'laq's eldest child, who is just coming into her power, shows signs of being a Weaver. Before long, she'll be wed to one of us." He offered this last as if a challenge. She's ours, he seemed to be saying, though Grinsa sensed that it had yet to be decided which of the two men would be joined to her. He gathered as well that this last question was a matter of great import, certainly to Q'Daer, and most likely to L'Norr, too.

"But the a'laq told me that his sept has four Weavers."

"It does," L'Norr said. "E'Menua is joined to the fourth, of course. Her name is D'Pera."

"So does she labor with the other women?"

"No," Q'Daer told him, as if he were simple. "She oversees the work of the others, but she doesn't labor."

"It sounds, though, as if your sept will soon have five Weavers." L'Norr nodded, but Q'Daer merely laughed, though not kindly.

"We already have five Weavers, Forelander. Soon it will be six." Grinsa didn't argue the point.

A moment later, the flap of animal skin covering the shelter entrance was pushed aside, and E'Menua stepped into the sunlight. Immediately,

Q'Daer and L'Norr were on their feet. After a moment, Grinsa stood as well.

"Well met, A'Laq," Q'Daer said. "How may we serve you?"

Grinsa had spoken with E'Menua only one time since their initial conversation, but then, as the first time, the a'laq had seemed a genial man, quick to smile, despite his willingness to use threats to get his way. On this morning, however, he looked grim and deadly serious. He was shorter than the younger Weavers, but broader as well, which somehow gave him the appearance of being larger than they were.

"I see you're finding your place, Forelander," he said. "I'll trust Q'Daer and L'Norr to show you what it means to be a Weaver in a Fal'Borna sept."

"Yes, they already have been. It seems I'm not allowed to work or leave. Do all your Weavers enjoy such… freedom?"

The a'laq shook his head. "I haven't time for this today."

Q'Daer cast a dark look at Grinsa. "What's happened, A'Laq?"

"I've had word from the north," he said, eyeing the two younger men. "More talk of the pestilence?"

"In a sense." The a'laq glanced at Grinsa, as if deciding whether he wanted him to be party to this discussion. "They have the pestilence in the Forelands, don't they?" he finally asked.

It wasn't the first time he'd been asked this since arriving in the Southlands, and once more he thought of Pheba, whom he'd lost to the disease many years ago. He didn't think it wise to mention her, though. He wasn't certain how the Fal'Borna would react to learning that he had once been joined to an Eandi woman. "Yes, of course" was all he said.

"Have you ever heard of it afflicting Qirsi… differently?"

Grinsa frowned. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

The a'laq exhaled slowly. "To be honest, I'm not entirely certain myself. It seems that this pestilence is striking at Qirsi magic, making our people so sick that they can't control their power. It pours out of them, destroying all in its path and exhausting them until they die."

"Demons and fire! I've never heard of such a thing."

"None of us has," E'Menua said. "And there may be a reason for that. It seems that this is a disease contrived for us by the Mettai." "What?" Q'Daer said, his pale eyes widening.

Grinsa was nearly as amazed as the young Weaver, though for a different reason. "The Mettai?"

"You've heard of them?" the a'laq asked.

"Yes, in legend. But I thought the Mettai died out centuries ago."

"Oh, no. They're still very much alive. There are small Mettai settlements throughout the northern reaches of Stelpana and Aelea. They live apart from other Eandi-it seems the dark-eyes don't like magic, even when it comes from the blood of their own kind."

"So, they really use blood magic?"

E'Menua nodded again. "To great effect, it seems. According to some of the other a'laqs, a Mettai woman has cursed us, and with help from an Eandi merchant is spreading the disease throughout Qirsi lands."

"A merchant?" Q'Daer repeated.

"Not just any merchant. Torgan Plye." Q'Daer's mouth dropped open.

L'Norr just shook his head. "Torgan? Are you certain?" "S'Plaed was certain."

"But Torgan wouldn't do anything to destroy his profits. You know that. He cares about gold and nothing else."

"It seems something has changed, L'Norr," the a'laq said, a hint of annoyance in his tone. "Unless you think the other a'laqs are lying to us."

"No, of course not, A'Laq!"

"I don't understand," Grinsa said. "How could one Mettai and one merchant spread a disease throughout Qirsi lands?"

The a'laq eyed him briefly, as if he thought Grinsa was questioning their strength or their intelligence. "We don't know," he said after a moment. "But clearly it has something to do with our magic. The only survivors have been children too young to have come into their power." "So the merchant is Mettai as well?"

E'Menua looked at the other men, who both shook their heads.

"I didn't think he was," the a'laq answered. "Now I'm not certain." "So it's possible that the merchant had nothing to do with it."

"He refused to meet with S'Plaed," E'Menua told him. "He spent only a few hours in the sept, long enough to make his share of gold and spread this venom the Mettai have contrived. Then he left. The pestilence struck later that day. He knew what he was doing."

"You don't know that for certain," Grinsa said.

It meant nothing to him. Of course, the notion of a pestilence outbreak frightened him. He feared for Cresenne and Bryntelle, as well as for himself. But the rest of it he barely understood. Certainly, he didn't care a whit for this merchant of whom they spoke. So then why did he continue to argue? Was it just in his nature? Back in the Forelands he had argued similarly on behalf of a young lord falsely accused of killing the daughter of a rival house. He had risked his life to save the boy, though at first he'd thought him nothing more than a spoiled noble. Later, the boy proved himself a true friend and valuable ally in the fight against the dark conspiracy that almost consumed the Forelands. But Grinsa had hardly glimpsed the lad's potential when he fought for his release. What was it, then, that drew him to fight every injustice, no matter the cost to himself? He couldn't answer, nor could he explain why he risked angering the a'laq.

"You know more about this than I do?"

"I know only what I've heard you say just now," Grinsa said, holding the a'laq's gaze. "But from that, I've learned that this Torgan Plye is a merchant who cares for little beyond his own wealth and the selling of his wares. Since you know him by name and reputation, it seems that he must do a fair amount of trading with Fal'Borna septs, which makes me wonder why he would suddenly decide to kill you off."

E'Menua narrowed his eyes. After a moment he began to chuckle.

"You don't hesitate to speak your mind, do you, Forelander? I like that."

He turned to the other two men, as did Grinsa.

Q'Daer didn't look at all pleased, and Grinsa thought he knew why.

A moment before it seemed that Grinsa had angered the a'laq. Now the sept's leader appeared even more impressed with him than he had been before. This could only serve to fuel the younger Weaver's jealousy. "Word is Torgan is headed south, toward the Ofirean," E'Menua said. "That might bring him near us. Find him." He glanced at Grinsa before adding, "But don't kill him. Bring him to me."

"What if the Mettai woman is with him?"

The a'laq looked at Grinsa again and raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

"I know little about Mettai power, but if they need blood to wield it then I'd assume that they carry a blade of some sort."

The a'laq nodded. "They do."

"Then tell them to surrender their blades," Grinsa told the two young Weavers. "Tell them that if they refuse you'll kill them where they stand. And, if necessary, use mind-bending magic to keep them from defying you."

Q'Daer and L'Norr eyed Grinsa sullenly, clearly unhappy about having to take orders from him. Q'Daer looked particularly resentful; Grinsa couldn't help wondering if he regretted their initial encounter on the plain and wished he had turned Grinsa and Cresenne away from the sept. But E'Menua nodded and laughed. "Who would have thought that a Forelander would have such stones? Go," he said to the two men. "Take forty warriors with you. Let Torgan see that we don't mean to play games."

"Yes, A'Laq," Q'Daer said.

Both men bowed, then turned and strode toward the paddock of horses west of the village.

"They're both shocked that I allow you to speak to me so." "I wasn't aware that I was speaking disrespectfully."

E'Menua looked at him. "You do not address me as A'Laq. You challenge me and argue with me without hesitation. Few men who are not a'laqs themselves would dare do the same."

"My apologies," Grinsa said, but again, he didn't call the man A'Laq. Was he purposefully goading E'Menua?

"Is it because you were used to leading Qirsi in the Forelands? Do you miss having such authority yourself?"

"No, I was never a leader like you are. I was a simple gleaner in a traveling festival. And then I served an Eandi king in his war against renegade Qirsi."

E'Menua regarded him briefly. After a few moments he turned his gaze to the hills beyond his sept. "I'd heard some talk of this war, and of the Qirsi who fought with the dark-eyes, but I never understood. Why didn't you join with our people?"

"Our people fought on both sides," Grinsa said pointedly. "The man-the Weaver-who led the renegades would have been a despot. He was cruel and arbitrary and would have ruled through fear and violence. I would have opposed him no matter the color of his eyes."

"He was defeated. You had a role in that?"

"I killed him," Grinsa said.

"But not before he shattered your shoulder," the a'laq said. "That's right."

"And today you risked my ire by arguing for the innocence of an

Eandi merchant. Some would say that your blood runs more Eandi than it does Qirsi."

"They'd be wrong. But they'd also be wrong to assume that I'll always side with a Qirsi against an Eandi, no matter the circumstances."

"That's a dangerous attitude in this land," E'Menua said. Though he'd been living among the Fal'Borna only a short time, Grinsa knew that at times the a'laq spoke in veiled threats. He didn't seem to be doing that now. He was just offering an observation, Weaver to Weaver. "I'm not saying it's wrong," he went on, sounding thoughtful, "but it is dangerous."

"I understand."

"Be sure that you do, Grinsa." The a'laq turned to face him. "You wish to leave us, to move on and perhaps find another clan to live with. We wish for you to stay, and it remains to be seen which of us will get his way. But no matter where you and your family settle, you'll need to keep such thoughts to yourself, at least until you're better known and more fully trusted. The Blood Wars have been over for more than a century, but they're not forgotten. Our grandfathers' grandfathers made peace with an enemy they hated. To this day, that peace has endured, and so has the hatred. Make no mistake, my friend: Weaver or not, if the Qirsi with whom you settle believe you to be a traitor to our people, they'll kill you, and your family as well."

Grinsa searched his mind for some appropriate response, something brave, something that would show the a'laq that he wasn't afraid. But nothing came to him, nothing at all.

Q'Daer seethed as he and L'Norr went to gather riders. Who did this orelander think he was, giving them orders as if he had already moved into E'Menua's z'kal? And for that matter, why was the a'laq al- ready placing so much faith in this man, who seemed so eager to reject Fal'Borna ways and challenge E'Menua's every word?

Q'Daer had served the sept faithfully for nearly six years now, ever since coming into his power. L'Norr had done the same for nearly as long. They followed custom; they obeyed the a'laq's commands. Fairness demanded that someday one of them would assume leadership of the sept. Yes, they were rivals, despite their friendship, which was as old as memory. But Q'Daer never questioned L'Norr's worth. If eventually E'Menua chose the younger man to succeed him, so be it; Q'Daer would accept that. He'd do all in his power to win the a'laq's favor, but at least in L'Norr, the sept would have a Fal'Borna leader, a man who understood his own people.

This Forelander, though, was a different matter. Q'Daer had been, quite literally, the first to welcome Grinsa into their community. He could see the value of adding another Weaver to the Sept, of strengthening themselves against their foes and enhancing their prestige among the other Fal'Borna on the plain. But what good to them was a man who remained so wedded to the ways of the Forelands? What benefit could come to the sept if Grinsa refused to be joined properly to another Weaver? How could E'Menua even consider allowing such a man to become one of his trusted advisors?

And he was considering it. Q'Daer could tell as much. When was the last time the a'laq praised him the way he did Grinsa? When had E'Menua ever tolerated any display of disrespect from either Q'Daer or L'Norr? Yet E'Menua allowed this Forelander, who had been living among them for but a matter of days, to say whatever he pleased.

"We should take H'Shem and his horsemen," L'Norr said, as they walked among the z'kals toward the paddock.

Q'Daer nodded absently. "Fine," he said.

"You disagree?"

He looked at the man, pulling himself out of his musings. Or trying. "Not at all. H'Shem is a good choice."

Q'Daer meant it. Like most a'laqs, E'Menua had chosen his best riders and made them a'jei, leaders of smaller hunting parties. Each party consisted of eight men, plus the a'jei. Some septs might have as many as three dozen such leaders. E'Menua had twenty-six. H'Shem was the most competent of them, and the one Q'Daer liked best. It bothered him just a bit that L'Norr had thought of H'Shem for this undertaking. An a'laq might choose his successor based in part on the recommendations of his a'jei, and for some time now Q'Daer had assumed that H'Shem would support him. But if L'Norr and the a'jei were building a rapport…

"He's a very good choice," Q'Daer said, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from creeping into his voice.

"What's the matter with you?" L'Norr asked.

"Nothing."

L'Norr just kept watching him, waiting. They were as close as brothers; their fathers had been as well. That both of them turned out to be Weavers had seemed at first too good to be true. And perhaps it was. They spent much of their time together, but they were constantly vying against each other for E'Menua's esteem. How could they help it? Both of them wanted to be a'laq. Both of them wanted to be the first to be joined to another Weaver, for how many opportunities would there be for either of them to marry? As the older of the two, Q'Daer had the natural advantage. Simply by dint of Fal'Borna custom, he was to be given command of most hunting parties and raids against rival septs.

Even this tradition, though, had proved to be a blade that cut both ways. He'd had his share of successful hunts, and one glorious skirmish against a small J'Balanar raiding party, during which he himself had killed the leader of the invaders. But there had also been the one disaster, and he knew for certain that E'Menua hadn't forgotten.

It happened less than a year ago, early in the Planting. Too early, the a'laq had warned. But the Snows had been harsh and their stores of food were depleted. Q'Daer pushed hard and finally persuaded E'Menua to let him take a small hunting party-just one a'jei and his men-south to find a herd of rilda. Their hunt was successful: sixteen bucks killed. Before they could return to the sept, however, a storm swept down over the plain, bringing fierce winds and blinding snow. The riders searched for a sheltered spot where they might wait out the squall. Small clusters of trees grew along the banks of the streams flowing out of the Fallow Downs, and they tried to find these. But Q'Daer lost his bearings in the blizzard and led the riders away from the hills rather than toward them. By the time he realized his mistake, night had fallen and the riders had little choice but to lay low in their rilda skins and blankets, exposed on the plain. Five men died that night, including G'Fen, the hunting party's a'jei.

It was no one's fault, of course. Morna's moods, it is said among the people of the plains, are as fickle as her winds. Only the goddess herself could have foreseen that storm. E'Menua told him as much upon the survivors' return to the sept. But it seemed to Q'Daer that the a'laq held him responsible nevertheless. The hunt had been his idea in the first place. More to the point, it was the way of the Fal'Borna. No matter the circumstances, a leader-be he an a'laq, a Weaver, or an a'jei-was always judged according to the fates of those under his command. Q'Daer had gloried in his previous triumphs; it was only just that this failure should bring him shame.

It was no coincidence that L'Norr now had a concubine and he did not. The girl's father, S'Qel, had offered her to the younger Weaver after the storm and Q'Daer's failure on the plain. Had she come into her power only a few turns before, she might well have been his. It shouldn't have mattered to him-she was a warm body; nothing more-but still it rankled. It made him wonder if E'Menua might make a similar choice when U'Vara, the a'laq's daughter, came into her power. She was the one Q'Daer wanted, the one who all in the sept believed would be their next Weaver. Though young still, she showed all the signs. Already she had given indications of possessing fire magic, mists and winds, shaping, and language of beasts. So many magics, and she'd yet to complete her fourth four. Surely she would be a Weaver, and a beautiful one at that.

As the older unjoined Weaver, Q'Daer should have been the clear choice to be her husband. Now, though, after the storm, with L'Norr already having a concubine, nothing was certain. Grinsa's arrival in the sept only served to complicate matters. Had he been properly joined to a Weaver, Q'Daer might not have minded so much. But in just these past few days Q'Daer had begun to hear talk of U'Vara being a perfect match for the Forelander, one whose beauty and youth might lure the man away from his concubine and convince him to make E'Menua's sept his home.

Neither Q'Daer nor L'Norr could allow that to happen, though his friend seemed oblivious of the danger. E'Menua's other two children were both boys. In all likelihood, they would be Weavers, too, and when they came of age, they would need to find wives. How many female Weavers could one expect to find in a single sept? How many fathers would choose Q'Daer or L'Norr for their daughters rather than the son of the a'laq? It seemed likely that U'Vara would be the last Weaver from this sept to whom either Q'Daer or L'Norr could hope to be joined. Sometimes Weavers from separate septs were married as a way of forging new alliances or strengthening old ones, but this was rare.

U'Vara had to be his. He wanted sons; sons who would someday be Weavers. He wanted to rule the Sept. And by Fal'Borna custom, only a joined Weaver could be named a'laq.

"Who else, then?" L'Norr asked him, as they continued to make their way through the sept. "Aside from H'Shem?"

"I don't know," he muttered.

This time L'Norr halted, grabbing Q'Daer's arm to make him stop, too. They were about the same height, and they stood watching each other, their eyes locked. "Something's bothering you," L'Norr said. "I want to know what it is."

Q'Daer took a breath. "It's the Forelander; I don't like him. You shouldn't, either. None of us should."

L'Norr shrugged. "I'm not sure I do like him. We've only known him for a few days. I haven't made up my mind about him one way or another."

"Well, I have," Q'Daer said, looking away. "He cares nothing for our customs. He argues with E'Menua at every turn and mocks us with his disrespect. We should send him away, and his whore and bastard with him. They have no business living in our sept."

"You've decided all this already?"

"Haven't you heard the others talking about him, about what a fine husband he'd make for U'Vara?"

L'Norr shook his head slowly. "I don't think Grinsa has any intention of marrying anyone. His woman might not be a Weaver, but I have no doubt that he loves her as he would a wife."

Q'Daer dismissed the remark with a wave of his hand. "That's not the point."

"Isn't it? You dislike him because he doesn't respect our ways. But in this instance, that's a good thing, right? He won't live by Fal'Borna customs, so he won't see any need to marry a Weaver. He's happy with the woman he has."

Just as Q'Daer had thought: His friend didn't understand the danger. And for now at least, perhaps that was all right. Q'Daer would take care of the problem himself, and so would reap the rewards that would come of getting rid of the man. Eventually, E'Menua would tire of the Forelander's disrespect. And when that happened, Q'Daer would be ready.

"You're probably right," he said, nodding and forcing a thin smile. "I think you're humoring me."

Q'Daer grinned and placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder. L'Norr might have been too trusting of strangers, but he certainly understood his friends well enough.

"I am," he admitted. "But still, I see the sense in what you're saying. And anyway, there isn't much I can do about Grinsa right now. Let's gather the men, and go hunting for those dark-eye merchants." He looked to the west and then up at the sun. It seemed a fair day, but Q'Daer knew that a storm was coming. He could feel it in the wind. "I want to be back before nightfall," he said. "It'll be raining by then."

L'Norr said nothing. Perhaps he thought that Q'Daer had become too cautious when it came to storms, but he had the good sense to keep this to himself. He merely nodded, and they started off again in search of H'Shem and the other horsemen.

Cresenne could not have been more surprised. She'd told Grinsa that they'd have to play along with the Fal'Borna for a time; that they'd need to do everything possible to become part of the sept. So when the women of the village made it clear to her that they expected her to join them in their daily labors, she could hardly object. True, she'd been resistant at first, particularly when it became clear that they expected her to leave Bryntelle in the care of several girls who couldn't have been much past their Determining age. But the other mothers trusted these girls, seemingly without hesitation, so Cresenne forced herself to do the same. And at the end of that first day Bryntelle had been just fine. Better than fine, Cresenne had to admit. She'd never seen her child in such a good mood, and it occurred to her that Bryntelle had spent precious little time in the company of children her own age, or of any other age for that matter. No wonder she seemed so happy.

But it was Cresenne's own experience that came as such a shock to her. On this, her fifth day as a Fal'Borna laborer, she had come to the undeniable conclusion that she was a skilled tanner of rilda skins. It wasn't just her opinion, either. Several of the women commented on her work, on the grace and ease with which she spread the tanning agent-a foul mixture of animal fat and ground organs-over the skins as she prepared them for smoking, on the evenness of the color she drew from the hide, and on the suppleness of her first few finished pieces. For the first time since their arrival in E'Menua's sept, Cresenne felt that she had been noticed for something other than being Grinsa's concubine or wife, or whatever she was.

What made all of this even more surprising was that she enjoyed the work. She'd spent her early days with her mother, roaming the kingdom of Wethyrn in the Forelands with the Crown Fair. Her mother had been a gleaner with the fair, following it from town to town, telling children of Determining and Fating ages what their futures would bring. Eventually, when she came into her power, Cresenne began to glean as well. Later, when the Weaver found her and drew her into his conspiracy, she continued to glean, though with a dark purpose. And after she turned against the Weaver's movement, she occupied herself day and night simply with staying alive, with keeping the Weaver from entering her dreams so that he might kill her as she slept, and fighting off the assassins he sent for her. But never before had she worked with her hands in this way. It was ironic, really. In the Forelands, where Qirsi magic was poorly understood and even feared, she had been almost solely a creature of magic. Only now, living in a land where Qirsi power was accepted to the point of being taken for granted, was she learning to make her way in the world without magic.

She had also, quite unexpectedly, made a friend of her own. The woman's name was F'Solya, and she was the mother of twin boys just a few turns older than Bryntelle. Like the other Fal'Borna women Cresenne had met, F'Solya seemed sturdy, and not merely in appearance. Yes, she had the short stout legs and powerful upper body that the others had. The beauty of the Fal'Borna was nothing like the soft grace and willowy frailty of so many Foreland Qirsi. Rather, these people were as strong and wild as the rilda they hunted. They even looked a bit like the rilda, with their light brown skin and the pale manes of fine hair that cascaded over their shoulders and backs.

But quite beyond her powerful build, beautiful round face, and widely spaced golden eyes, F'Solya struck Cresenne as… well, solid. There was nothing shy about her. Her questions were direct and honest. When she spoke to Cresenne, she looked her in the eye, and her earthy humor seemed always to lurk just below all that she said. In some ways, she reminded Cresenne of her mother, or rather, her mother as she might have been as a young woman. They met the first morning Cresenne started tanning, and by the end of that day she felt that she had known F'Solya for years.

On Cresenne's second day, and in the days since, F'Solya had sought her out, and made a point of sitting beside her. On this morning, the woman was in high spirits, a broad smile exposing large, straight teeth.

"Here early, eh?" she asked as she sat. "If I didn't know better I'd say that you actually like tanning."

Cresenne grinned. "I do."

"You'll tire of it after a time. Everyone does. I certainly did."

"Why don't you do something else then? It seems there are plenty of other chores to be done. They told me I could grind grain into meal, or gather roots, or…"

F'Solya was nodding. "Tired of those, too." She smiled, and started working on a hide. She might have claimed to dislike the labor, but the woman was a skilled tanner-Cresenne had learned much in five days, just from watching F'Solya work. "How's your little one today?" she asked after a time, as she went on with her work.

"She's well, thank you. How are your boys?"

"They're trouble, as boys always are. One of them would have been plenty, but two?" She shook her head. "The gods are testing me. No doubt about it."

They fell into another silence, until at last F'Solya looked up from her work, a small frown on her face.

"They're saying things about you. You and your man both."

Cresenne felt her stomach knotting. She thought of F'Solya as her friend, but really they'd known each other for only a few days. It wouldn't take much to drive the woman away. "What things?" she said, her eyes fixed on the hide she was holding.

"Things I don't understand. Things I'm not certain I believe." "And what if it turns out that they're true?"

"Then I'll look forward to having you explain them to me, so I can understand."

Cresenne looked up at that and smiled at the woman.

F'Solya smiled back.

"Tell me what you've heard."

"Well," she began, "they say there was a Qirsi civil war, with both sides led by Weavers. And they say that one of the Weavers was Grinsa." "And what do they say of the other?"

"That he's dead now, but that when he lived, you were his lover as well."

A bitter smile touched Cresenne's face and left her just as suddenly, leaving her trembling and angry. His lover!

"No," she said, "I wasn't his lover." She lifted a finger to her face and traced the pale, thin scars that ran along her jaw and cheek and brow. "You see these scars?"

F'Solya nodded.

"He gave these to me. I was part of his movement once. He claimed that he wanted to lead the Qirsi of the Forelands to a new, better life-I believed that he was speaking of something like what you have here. I wanted to believe that. I wanted to think that if Bryntelle grew up to be a Weaver that she could live without fearing the persecution that Weavers have endured for centuries in my land. But after a time I realized that all he wanted was power. He was an evil man, and when I turned my back on his movement, he entered my dreams and did this to me. Later, he attacked me again and… and did far worse." She shuddered, remembering it all. The wounds he inflicted upon her body and her mind, the terror of waiting for his next attack, or the next assault by one of his servants. There were times when she wondered how she had survived those long, terrifying turns. "If it wasn't for Grinsa, I'd be dead now," she said at last. "And all the Forelands would be ruled by a demon."

"The two of you fought on the side of the Eandi?"

In the Forelands, it had made perfect sense to do so. The nobles of her homeland-all of them Eandi-were flawed, to be sure, some of them deeply so. But all of those who joined the alliance against the Weaver were honorable and peace-loving. The same couldn't be said for their Qirsi enemy. Here, though, even this argument might not be enough to convince her friend that she had been right to oppose the Weaver's movement. Could a Southlands Qirsi ever justify siding with an Eandi against one of her own?

"Yes," she said at last, "we fought to preserve the Eandi courts. Many Qirsi did."

F'Solya looked troubled. "Most Qirsi here would find that hard to understand."

"I know."

The woman nodded vaguely, but for a long time she said nothing more. Cresenne half expected her to take her skins and tannin and sit elsewhere. She didn't.

"Things here are easier," Cresenne said at length. Immediately she regretted the words. "That didn't come out right."

"I think I know what you mean. We remain apart here-Qirsi and Eandi, I mean. We come together in trade and in warfare, and in little else."

"Yes! Precisely. In the Forelands, it's different. We all live and work together."

"Do you miss that?"

Something in the way the woman asked the question made Cresenne hesitate. It seemed that they had reached the boundary of their friendship and that F'Solya was waiting to hear Cresenne's answer before deciding whether they would continue to build upon what they had already. Really, it should have been an easy question to answer. For days Cresenne had been relishing being part of a completely Qirsi community_; after their terrible experiences in Aelea and Stelpana, she had convinced herself that she never wanted to spend another day among the Eandi. But there were Eandi in the Forelands who had shown her unexpected kindnesses, even after she revealed to them that she had once cast her lot with the renegades.

She looked down at her hands, making her decision.

"I know what it is you want me to say," Cresenne told her. "But I left lies and false friendships in the Forelands." She met the woman's gaze. "The truth is I do miss it a bit. Living among Qirsi, without any Eandi at all, is new to me, and it's wondrous. But I can't tell you that there are no Eandi who I miss from my life in the Forelands."

F'Solya stared at her for several moments. "You're very brave," she said at last. "I know many Qirsi-many Fal'Borna even-who would have lied had they been in your position. Thank you for telling me the truth."

Cresenne could hear in the woman's voice that she wasn't telling her everything. "But?"

"You might think carefully about being so honest with others." "I've offended you."

"No, you've honored me. But others may not feel the same way."

Grinsa had warned her about this. He'd been trying to tell her since they set foot in the Southlands that life here would be complicated and difficult in ways she couldn't even anticipate. And of course he'd been right. No surprise there.

"I say this to caution you," F'Solya said. "I didn't mean to anger you."

"I'm not angry."

"I didn't mean to sadden you, either."

She didn't deny it.

F'Solya put down her work. "You were honest with me, and I'm grateful. I'm only trying to be as honest with you. I believe I understand what you were telling me about the Eandi. It's very different from anything I've ever felt toward the dark-eyes, but I understand. But other Fal'Borna won't. Some will think it strange. Others will be offended, and still others will tell you that you're a traitor to our people."

A traitor to our people. How many times had the Weaver called her that, and worse? Perhaps these two lands were more similar than she had imagined. Maybe these same problems could be found in any land shared by Eandi and Qirsi.

"I suppose I should thank you in turn, not only for being so honest with me, but also for offering the warning."

F'Solya smiled sadly. "I probably shouldn't have told you any of this."

"No, it's all right. If we're to remain here, I should know what people are saying about me."

"If I hear others saying it, I'll tell them they're wrong."

Cresenne almost told her not to. The thought of so many people speaking of her past unnerved her, perhaps because she remained uneasy with so much of what she had done, and of what had been done to her. But she and Grinsa were new here, and no matter what she or Grinsa or F'Solya said to anyone, they would continue for some time to be a topic of conversation. Best to let the stories run their course. F'Solya was offering a kindness, and an apology of sorts. She could hardly refuse.

"Thank you" was all she said.

Before they could say more, Cresenne heard voices behind her and then the hoofbeats of what sounded like a herd of horses. A frown crossed F'Solya's features.

"Now where are they off to?"

Turning to look as well, Cresenne saw several dozen riders heading northward away from the sept. Two men rode ahead of them, and all of them bore weapons.

"Who were they?" she asked.

F'Solya was still staring after them. "Warriors. My I'Joled was with them. The two at the head of the column are called Q'Daer and L'Norr. They're both Weavers."

She remembered Q'Daer from the first day they reached the sept, though she hadn't recognized him.

"Maybe they're hunting?" she offered.

A tight smile crossed her lips. "They're hunting all right, but not as you mean it. That was a war party."

Cresenne stared after the men, her stomach tightening again. She'd had too much of war in the last year. "Does that mean there are Eandi warriors nearby?"

"More likely the J'Balanar or maybe the Talm'Orast. Don't worry," she added, seeing the look on Cresenne's face. "That was a small partyE'Menua has hundreds of warriors in his sept. If we were in danger, he would have sent out a larger force."

She nodded, knowing that she should have been grateful for the woman's reassurances. But looking to the north again, watching as the riders vanished in a haze of brown dust, she couldn't help but wonder what new peril was about to enter her life.