The Sorcerer's Plague

SOUTH OF THE COMPANIONLAKES

Rain and wind, grey skies at dawn and dusk, starless, moonless ights. In the days since leaving Kirayde, this was all Besh and Sirj had known. Everything they carried with them was wet-their clothes, their sleeping rolls, their food. None of it had been spared. It occurred to Besh that the gods might be punishing him for his arrogant belief that he was still young enough to undertake such a trek. You think you can do this? they seemed to be saying. We'll show you how wrong you are.

The two men weren't walking particularly fast. Sirj took the lead each day, and he always set a reasonable pace. No doubt he could have gone faster had he been on his own; it was as though he was reining himself in. And still the old man suffered. It had been too many fours since last he covered such distances on foot. His legs and back ached. His feet were blistered. The slightest incline stole his breath; walking downhill jarred his ancient knees. He was cold and weary all the time.

Sirj was responsible for none of it, of course. He had gone out of his way to carry far more than his share of their food and water, to set a reasonable speed, to take upon himself the labor necessary to gather wood and build fires and cook meals. Yet still, Besh directed all his anger and misery and frustration at the younger man. He couldn't help himself. After just the first day he had come to realize what a fool he'd been, believing that he could have gone in pursuit of Lici on his own. Pyav and Elica had been right: He was too old. Had Sirj not been with him, he might well have perished that first night, when the rains set in and the air turned frigid.

But rather than being grateful, Besh found himself growing resentful. He knew why, of course. The man's mere presence served to remind him of his weakness, of his inability to fend for himself. He was acting like a sullen child, but he couldn't help himself. He barely managed to grunt a thank-you when Sirj returned to their camp with an armful of firewood or when he spooned another helping of stew into Besh's bowl.

For his part, Sirj didn't appear to notice, or if he did, he gave no outward sign of minding. He took Besh's care upon himself, as if it were just another chore among many. He rarely spoke, perhaps knowing that Besh wanted no part of a conversation with him, but occasionally he hummed softly to himself. On those rare occasions when he did say something, he was always respectful and courteous, until this too began to bother the old man. I'm being an ass, he wanted to shout. Why in Bian's name don't you treat me like one?

On this day, they were in open country, cutting across a plain of thick grasses. There had been small clusters of trees by Ravens Wash, and there would be more at the Silverwater, but here there was no shelter from the rain and wind. Besh was shivering with cold again. Still. He realized that he was muttering curses under his breath and he laughed at himself, drawing a backward glance from Sirj.

"Are you all right?" the man asked him.

"No, I'm not all right. I'm cold and wet, and I'm sick to death of being both."

"You want to rest?"

Besh took a long breath and shook his head.

Sirj faced forward again, but a moment later he stopped and swung his travel sack off his shoulders.

"I said I didn't want to stop," Besh said, continuing past him. "And I decided that I did."

Besh kept walking, seething now, not knowing why. Isn't he allowed to rest? Ema's voice. Does he need your permission to have some water or eat a bit of salted meat? What kind of man have you become?

At last he made himself stop and look back at the younger man. Sirj was sitting on a stone a short distance away, lifting a skin to his mouth, his travel sack on the ground at his feet.

"You're certain you don't want any?" he asked, holding out the skin.

Reluctantly, Besh pulled his own sack off his shoulders and lowered it to the ground, though even doing this much felt like surrender. In what war? He isn't fighting you. He pulled out his own skin and drank from it.

"I'll lighten my own load, thank you," he called to Sirj between sips.

Sirj shrugged. "You should eat something, too."

"You're my father now?"

The younger man laughed and shook his head, but at last Besh saw a bit of frustration in his lean face. "Fine," Sirj said. "It was just a suggestion." He muttered something else, which Besh couldn't make out.

"What was that?"

Sirj shook his head a second time. "It was nothing."

"Don't you put me off like that! I heard you say something, and I want to know what it was!"

Sirj returned the food and water to his sack, shouldered the burden again, and started walking in Besh's direction.

"Well?" Besh demanded.

"I said, `Elica was right,' " the man said, stepping past him. "Right about what?"

He didn't answer. Besh packed his water, threw on his sack, and hurried after him.

"Right about what?" he called again.

"I'd told her before we left that I expected you and I would become friends before long. She had warned me that you were nothing but a stubborn old fool, and that no matter how patient I was, you'd never treat me with anything but contempt. But I insisted that she was wrong. Turns out I was."

"So I'm a stubborn old fool, am I?"

Sirj stopped and turned to face him. "Yes. I believe you are."

Besh stopped as well. When Sirj had treated him kindly, Besh had responded with anger. Now that he finally had cause to be angry, he couldn't manage it. After a moment he nodded and looked away. "Well, at least you've finally figured that out."

"What have I ever done to you, Besh?"

He twisted his mouth sourly. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. "You haven't done anything. I'm sorry I've been this way. I'm cold and I'm tired, and I just want to get this over with so we can go back home."

Sirj just stood there, until at last Besh gestured for him to get moving again.

"No," the younger man said. "This isn't about you being cold. You've treated me this way for years. And now I'm asking you what I've done to deserve it."

Besh passed a hand over his brow. His stomach growled, and he wished he'd eaten something when he had the chance. "Elica asked me the same thing the day before we left. Truth is, you never did anything wrong."

"And yet you've been punishing me for all this time."

"Yes, well, when Annze finds herself a husband, you'll understand." That of all things brought a smile to Sirj's lips.

"Now, go on," Besh said, waving him on again. "I'm not getting any warmer standing here talking about this nonsense."

Sirj eyed him a moment longer, still smiling. Then he nodded and started walking once more.

Besh soon realized that one of the reasons he had treated Sirj so poorly since leaving Kirayde was that he'd dreaded having to make conversation with the man. But even now, after they'd reached something of an understanding, Sirj seemed content to walk in silence. Perhaps they were more alike than Besh had been willing to admit. Hadn't Elica tried to tell him this as well?

Late in the morning, they came within sight of the Silverwater. Besh had made them follow a southerly course, thinking to start their search for Lici in the area around N'Kiel's Span and whatever was left of the old woman's childhood home. Now, though, Besh began to question his original plan. People were dying in the villages north of here. If they wanted to stop Lici from doing any further damage, that was where they needed to go.

Better then to turn north before crossing the wash. Otherwise they'd be covering much of the distance in Fal'Borna land.

"Wait," Besh said.

Sirj stopped and looked back at him.

"We should turn north, toward the Companion Lakes."

"I thought we were going to the span."

"That's what I'd intended, but I think I was wrong. She's been heading north, spreading the illness in Y'Qatt villages around the lakes. That's where we should be."

"But…" He shook his head. "Never mind." He started walking again, northward this time.

A few hours before, Besh would have left it at that, not really caring to hear the man's opinions, or at least having convinced himself that he didn't. But after their conversation, he felt that he owed Sirj more. "What were you going to say?" he called.

Sirj didn't stop. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does."

Still the man kept walking.

"Please," Besh said. "I want to know."

Sirj halted and turned. He regarded Besh for some time, seeming to wrestle with something. Finally, he looked away, toward the river. "I was just going to say that we're here now. It can't be more than a half day's walk to the banks of the wash. As long as we've come this way, we should do what we planned." He met Besh's gaze again. "Don't you want to see where she lived? Isn't it possible that you'd learn as much from seeing her home as you have from reading that daybook you carry with you?"

"You're right," Besh said after a moment's pause.

Sirj appeared genuinely surprised.

"Well, you are."

"I know," the man said. "I just didn't think you'd admit it." Besh had to laugh.

With the wash in view, and Lici's home village less than a day away, Besh found his weariness sluicing away, and with it his discomfort. He didn't expect to find much in the village. For all he knew, Sentaya had never been resettled and its buildings had been left to decay. But having read Sy1pa's journal, he almost felt that he had heard Lici's tale with his own ears. He did want to see it.

It seemed that Sirj did, too. Or maybe he sensed Besh's eagerness, for he quickened their pace. Before long they could hear the wash and see that its waters were running high with all the rain that had fallen. Soon, they could also see the bridge curving gracefully over the current.

"N'Kiel's Span," Besh said, pointing.

Sirj glanced back at him and nodded, smiling like a child. "I've always wanted to see it."

They reached the banks of the wash well before dusk and immediately turned north toward the span, halting just before it. For some time they just stood, staring at the ancient stone, watching the water course by beneath it.

"I thought it would be bigger," Sirj said eventually. "I suppose I should have known better, but still…" He shrugged.

"I thought the same," Besh told him. "So many battles were fought here, and yet it's just a small bridge."

Before Sirj could respond, a horse whinnied. Both of them spun toward the woodlands north of the bridge along the east bank of the wash. "Did you hear that?" Besh asked.

Sirj nodded. "Is there a village near here?"

"Sentaya used to be. But from what Lici told Sylpa, I didn't think anyone survived the pestilence when it struck."

"That was a long time ago. Others may have settled here."

"Perhaps," Besh said. But a moment later, he drew his blade.

Sirj did the same, and they started toward the trees. A path led from the end of the span to the forest, and they followed that. The mud was marked by some cart tracks and hoofprints, but certainly not as many as one would expect had there been a village nearby.

As he walked, Besh strained his ears, but he heard nothing more; no voices, no animals. His heart was pounding and despite the cold and the fine, cool mist falling on them, he felt sweat running down his temples.

"It's probably just peddlers," Sirj said. But the way he kept his voice low, one might have thought they were creeping toward the camp of road brigands. And perhaps they were.

Besh said nothing.

A moment later, their path entered the wood. It was far darker among the trees, but Besh could still make out the lane and the cart tracks carved into the mud. Indeed, here, sheltered from the rain by the leaves and limbs overhead, the tracks were far clearer. There were three sets at most, two leading farther into the forest, one leading the opposite way.

"There's no village here," Besh said. "Not a living one anyway."

Sirj just nodded, his dark eyes watchful, his lean frame coiled as if battle ready.

On they walked, until, topping a small rise, they saw something that made Besh's blood turn cold. A short distance off, in front of the ruins of an old wooden house, stood a horse and cart. There was nothing remarkable about either. The cart was old and weatherworn; the nag was white, with a mane the color of a Qirsi's eyes. But Besh recognized them immediately. So did Sirj.

"Those are Lici's," he whispered, scanning the wood and the remains of the houses.

"Yes," Besh said, uncertain as to whether to flee or shout out her name. In the end, he decided to do neither. "Come on," he said, starting forward again. "Let's find her."

"Wait, Besh," Sirj said, facing him. "What are we…? Are we going to fight her?"

He shrugged. "That depends on what she does. We might well need her help controlling whatever magic she's set loose upon the land, so I'd rather not have to kill her. But if she gives us no choice, then that's what I'll do."

Sirj stared at him, as if he'd just suggested that they declare war on the Fal'Borna. "You could do that?"

"I gave my word to Pyav-a blood oath-that I'd find her and keep her from doing any more harm. I'll do whatever I must to honor that oath."

"All right," Sirj said, sounding a bit awed. "Then I'll help in any way I can. But I wish I'd brought my ax."

Besh grinned. "I think we're more likely to need magic."

They continued up the lane, past wrecked houses and small, fenced- in plots of land that might once have been gardens but were now overgrown. Eventually they came to what must have been the marketplace. There were several old shops, all of them in disrepair. There were even a few old carts and the pale bones of horses. But no Lici. They followed the lane past the marketplace and through the rest of the village, until they were in the forest again.

Besh stopped. "We should turn back. She wouldn't have come this far on the road without her cart."

"She's not in the village."

"Maybe not. But she's nearby. Her horse looks healthy-she hasn't been here long."

Sirj nodded. "Should we split up?"

Besh took a long breath. "All right. You stay near the wash; I'll check the woodlands east of the village."

"Right," Sirj said. They started away from each other. "Call for me if you see anything. I'll do the same."

Besh began to wind among the trees, searching for any sign that Lici had been there, straining his ears for any sound. His hands trembled, and his knees threatened to give out at any moment. Already he wished he and Sirj hadn't agreed to search for the woman separately. He quailed at the notion of meeting up with Lici alone. The irony wasn't lost on him- at another time he would have laughed at himself. One moment he resented Sirj for having come with him; the next he wished the younger man were there just in front of him; he truly was acting like a child. But just then he couldn't bring himself to appreciate the humor.

A faint mist drifted through the wood and occasionally a gust of wind stirred the branches, bringing a cascade of water from overhead. Again and again, he thought he saw a figure moving furtively from tree trunk to tree trunk, as if hiding from him, but each time he convinced himself that he had imagined it. He took care as he walked to keep the sound of the wash on his right-on a day like this it would have been so easy to lose his way. He also tried to tread quietly, not only so he could listen for Sirj, but also because he didn't wish to alert Lici to his presence.

Seeing nothing unusual, he turned and wandered a bit farther from the river. Soon he reached a small hollow, and after just a moment's hesitation walked down into it. Doing so, he flushed a grouse, the bird exploding from the ground with a rush of wings and feathers. His heart abruptly pounding, Besh paused and leaned against a tree, his eyes closed.

And standing thus in the silence of the wood, he heard her.

At first he thought that her voice was coming to him from far off, and he considered going back for Sirj. But peering through the mist, he was amazed to find that she was only a few strides away. She sat at the base of a tree, staring straight ahead, her knees drawn up to her chest. She was whispering to herself. Occasionally she'd give a small shake of her head, or raise her voice slightly, as if in anger. But she gave no sign of knowing that he was there, and for several minutes he merely watched her, too fascinated to do anything more.

Her white hair was ragged and damp. Her face had a pinched look; the lines that time had carved in her skin seemed deeper somehow, as if she had grown ancient in the days since she left Kirayde. Besh stared at her, trying to catch a glimpse of the dark-haired beauty who had captivated him so in his youth. But she was gone, her place taken by this looked dull and empty, as if the magic had drained from her.

Perhaps he should have gone back for Sirj-just moments before he'd been terrified by the thought of facing the witch alone. But seeing her now, he realized that he was no longer frightened. She didn't look like a demon, or even a powerful Mettai witch. She merely looked old, and he sensed that she was barely aware of her surroundings. More to the point, he'd sworn an oath to Pyav that he would stop her, and he'd given his word to Elica that he wouldn't let her husband come to harm.

Stooping, never taking his eyes off of her, he dug through the leaf litter that covered the forest floor and picked up a handful of dirt. Then he pulled his knife free, cut himself, and mixed his blood with the earth. If he needed magic, he'd be ready, far faster than she could be.

Taking a breath, he started forward again, stepping carefully, watching her, trying to make out what she was saying. But even when he was close enough to hear some of the words, he couldn't make sense of them.

Still she spoke, seeming to look right through him. And Besh took another step toward her, and then another.

With the third step she finally saw him. Her eyes snapped up to his-and perhaps there was yet power in them after all, for he grew cold under her gaze. She scrambled to her feet, keeping her back pressed against the tree. Too late, Besh saw that she also had her knife' out. Her left hand was balled in a fist, and blood seeped from a cut on the back of it. No doubt there was dirt in that hand. And blood.

He wanted to shout for Sirj, but he didn't dare. What a fool he'd been.

"You!" she said, nearly shrieking the word. "You get away from me!"

Immediately she fell back to muttering under her breath. Besh was certain that she was whispering a spell and he expected to die in the next moment. But nothing happened, and she continued to speak, all the while staring at him, her eyes wide and wild, like those of some creature caught in a hunter's snare.

"Why are you here, Lici?" Besh asked, his voice quavering.

For just an instant her vision seemed to clear, and Besh had the sense that she could see him again.

"Mama brought me out here," she said. "I think she was angry with me. I didn't mean to lie to her, but what could I do?"

"Mama?" he repeated. "Who's-?" He shuddered. "Do you mean your mother?"

She didn't say anything. Besh found himself looking around, as if expecting to find himself surrounded by wraiths. He'd heard of people meeting their dead, although usually this happened on nights when neither moon rose. Had her mind failed her completely, then?

"When did you lie to her?" he asked, keeping his voice even, gentle. She shook her head slowly, her gaze drifting to the side.

"Is this Sentaya, Lici?"

The woman looked at him again, her eyes narrowing. "I know you," she said. "Who are you?"

He licked his lips. "I'm Besh. You know me from Kirayde."

"You're not one of them," she said after several moments, raising her voice once more. "You're one of us. Did you see him? The other one? The one who took the baskets?" She rushed forward suddenly and grabbed Besh's shirt with her blade hand, nearly cutting his face with her knife as she did, though it seemed to the old man that she wasn't even aware of the weapon in her hand. "You have to stop him! He's taking them to the Fal'Borna! They'll all die!"

"Wh-what baskets?" he asked, trying as best he could to keep from breaking free and running from her.

She smiled, a sly look creeping over her face. "I found a way," she whispered, her foul breath hot on his face. "They wanted me dead. They wanted us all dead, but I found a way."

"What way? What do you mean?"

She leaned closer to him, so that her mouth was just at his ear, as if they were lovers. "Baskets," she whispered. She pulled back to look at him, and nodded.

Besh shook his head. "I don't understand. What baskets? Who are you talking about?"

She opened her hand, revealing a dark clump of clotted dirt. For a moment she stared at it. Then she looked at Besh again, smiling. "Magic," she whispered. "Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought-"

Without thinking, he grabbed her wrist and gave her hand a violent shake, so that the dirt fell to the ground.

She glared at him and yanked her hand away.

"I know you!" she said again. "You're that dark-eyed boy who used to stare at me." She spun away and started running from him. "You don't know that they'll all die!" she shouted as she ran. "You don't know it! Maybe he'll just take them back to Tordjanne! Maybe they won't ever see them at all, and then it'll be all right!"

Besh ran after her, his mind racing. I found a way. Baskets. Magic. Was that how she had killed so many Y'Qatt? Had she placed a spell on the baskets she wove? Was she, in effect, poisoning them?

He was so intent on the questions swirling in his mind that he barely noticed when Lici dropped to the ground in front of him and began to claw at the earth with her hands. An instant later, though, he saw her knife flash across the back of her hand and he halted. He still clutched the bloodied earth in one hand and his knife in the other, and he began to whisper a spell, readying himself, unsure of what she intended to do. She glared back at him, and he realized that she was speaking, too.

"Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought, earth to blades!" With these last shouted words, she threw her handful of mud at him. And before his eyes, the clod of dirt flew apart, becoming a swarm of tiny steel knives.

Besh had spoken most of his spell, and now, with hardly a thought, he did the only thing he could. "Power to thought, earth to stone!" He made a sharp motion with his hand, releasing the dirt as he did, so that it spread before him in a dark wheel.

Lici's tiny blades struck, but by then Besh's wheel had turned to stone. With a sound like the chiming of a hundred small bells, the knives bounced away harmlessly. Most of them, at least. Three got through his shield; two buried themselves in Besh's shoulder, the third hit him just below the chest.

The old woman spat a curse and grabbed for more dirt. Besh stooped and did the same, ignoring the agony in his shoulder. Instead of cutting his hand again, he pulled one of the small knives from his flesh and wiped the blood on the soil in his hand.

"Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought," they said together, eyeing one another.

Both of them hesitated. He wanted to stop her, to keep her right where she was so that he could question her further. She wanted him dead. He couldn't attempt any spell without leaving himself open to her attack. She seemed to sense this, because a moment later she was grinning like some ghoul in the gathering gloom.

"Earth to fire!" she shouted suddenly, hurling the dirt at him.

Bright, angry flames burst from her hand, as if she were the goddess Eilidh herself. Besh froze, held fast by his terror, knowing he had no answer for this magic. At the last moment, he threw himself down and to the side. Much of Lici's fire passed over him, but not all. Seeing that his sleeve and trouser leg were ablaze, he batted at the flames, desperately trying to extinguish them, knowing that she might well be readying herself to cast yet another spell.

When at last the flames were out, he climbed warily to his feet. Lici was watching him still, her eyes bright and wide. Her fist was clenched again and fresh blood flowed from the back of her hand.

Realizing that he still held his own dirt, and that he was still in mid- spell, Besh wasted no time.

"Earth to swarm!" he cried out, throwing the dirt.

Immediately, Lici was beset by a host of yellow and black hornets. Just as he had hoped, she swatted at them, the dirt and her knife falling to the ground. She screamed and grabbed her blade again before scrambling to her feet and fleeing. Besh started after her, ducking past the hornets as he did.

As she ran, Lici tried to bend and scoop up some dirt, but she stumbled, righted herself, and ran on without managing to get any.

Besh didn't bother with more magic and so closed the distance between them. At last, he caught up with her and grabbed her arm.

She spun toward him, the knife flashing by his face, just narrowly missing his eye. Suddenly his cheek was burning with pain and he could feel blood flowing down over his jaw and neck.

Seeing what she had done, Lici stopped struggling to break free of his grip. She just gaped at him, her eyes wide again.

"You were speaking of the Y'Qatt, weren't you?" Besh demanded, breathing hard. "Before. When you spoke of the baskets, of finding a way. That's who you meant. The Y'Qatt."

She nodded.

He didn't attempt to stanch the flow of blood. Lici seemed transfixed by what she had done, and Besh wanted her to remain so.

"You put a spell on your baskets, one that would make them sick. Is that right?"

"I can't talk about this," she said, her eyes still riveted on the wound she had dealt him.

"Yes, you can. I know what they did to you. I've been… Sylpa told me."

Again she shifted her gaze, meeting his. "You've spoken to Sylpa?"

"She told me what happened. How the Y'Qatt wouldn't help you. How they even threatened to kill you if you wouldn't leave their village. That's why you did it, isn't it?"

Her expression hardened. "She said she wouldn't tell anyone! She promised!"

"She was concerned for you. She sent me to find you."

"She had no-" Lici looked past him, her eyes narrowing again, her grip on the knife tightening. "Who's that?"

Besh glanced back and saw Sirj a short distance off, watching them, his blade drawn as well.

"He's a friend." He faced her again. "Just as I am. Believe it or not, Lici, I am your friend. I want to help you. But you have to stop killing them."

Abruptly, she was crying, tears streaming down her face, her wails echoing through the wood.

"I didn't want this!" she screamed. "He said he was going to the Y'Qatt, but he lied to me! He lied! He lied! He lied! He lied! He lied! He lied!"

"Who lied to you, Lici?"

"He's taking them to the Fal'Borna!"

And suddenly, finally, Besh understood. He grabbed both of her shoulders. She didn't fight him this time. Not at all.

"Do you mean to tell me that there's a peddler out there who's taking your baskets into Qirsi land?"

The word came out as soft as a dying breath. "Yes."

"Blood and bone."

"What is it?" Sirj asked, walking toward them.

Lici dropped to the ground, sobbing still, muttering once more. "She's been spreading the pestilence with her baskets. She puts a spell on them, and then probably sells them in the marketplace or trades them with merchants. That's how she's killing the Y'Qatt."

Sirj stared down at the woman, disgust and fear chasing one another across his face. "She's a demon," he whispered.

"It's worse than that. She says that now a peddler is taking her baskets into Fal'Borna land."

"Gods save us all! How many?"

"A good question." Besh squatted down beside the woman. "Lici, how many baskets does he have?"

She didn't answer. Besh wasn't even certain that she had heard him.

"Lici?" he said again. But then he shook his head and stood once more. "I'm not even certain it matters," he said quietly. "One is too many. Ten could kill thousands."

"So we have to find him."

Besh looked at him and nodded. "I agree."

"And what about her?"

What about her, indeed. Besh had told Pyav that he could kill her if that was the only way to stop her. But now, seeing her for what she was- crazed and pathetic-he no longer believed that he could bring himself to go so far. "I don't know."

Sirj eyed the cut on Besh's face. "She did that to you?"

"Yes."

The younger man nodded toward the tiny blades jutting from his shoulder and body. "And those?"

"You think I put them there myself?" Besh demanded.

Sirj ignored him. "Those wounds need to be cleaned and healed." "I'm not good at healing magic."

"I am."

Besh hesitated.

"You can't travel far with those wounds," Sirj said, his voice gentle, as if he were speaking to a child.

At last the old man nodded. They moved off a short distance and Besh sat on the ground, all the while keeping watch on Lici. Sirj turned his attention first to the witch's conjured blades. The one that remained in Besh's shoulder came free easily, but the other had struck between two ribs. As Sirj pulled it out Besh winced, inhaling sharply through his teeth.

"I'm sorry."

The old man just shook his head. He pulled his shirt off, and allowed Sirj to work his magic. Besh continued to watch the old woman, but she didn't move, or even look at them. It seemed she had spent all her power and passion in their brief battle. Besh knew just how she felt.

I'm too old for this, he told himself once again.

Very smart to think of this now, when you're leagues from your home. He could hear Ema's voice, see the look of amused disdain on her face. He let out a small laugh.

Sirj frowned. "What could possibly be funny?"

"It doesn't matter."

The young man shrugged, and a moment later he sat back on his heels. "There. I can do more later, once we've made camp for the night. But that should hold you for now."

Besh moved his shoulder, then dabbed at his cheek. "That's better. Thank you."

Sirj nodded, a small smile on his lean face. He stood and helped Besh to his feet. Besh pulled his shirt back on, but beyond that neither man moved. They just stood there, looking over at Lici.

"We're taking her with us, aren't we?" Sirj finally asked.

"I don't see another way," Besh said, his voice tight.

But Sirj just nodded again and Besh realized that the younger man hadn't meant the question as a rebuke.

"What's to keep her from slipping away while we sleep, or taking that blade to our throats?"

"We'll sleep in shifts," Besh said. "And we'll have her cart with us. She won't leave that behind."

"The Fal'Borna don't care much for our kind."

Besh nodded, knowing that this was true, knowing as well that there wasn't much they could do about it. It was quite likely that the merchant who had her baskets had no idea what his wares would do to the Qirsi who might buy them. What choice did Besh and Sirj have but to go after him?

"Nobody cares for the Mettai," Besh said, eyeing the old woman, noting the dark smear of blood on the back of her hand. "But we have to do this anyway."

Blood to earth, life to power. More than words. More, even, than a

source of magic. Who are we, Grandfather? Remembering the question from so long ago, Besh knew at last what he should have told the boy. We are the land, he should have said. We are its blood. Our power flows from the earth, and it, in turn, gives strength back to this land in which we live. The Mettai had been shunned for centuries, hated by dark-eye and white- hair alike. And finally Besh understood this as well. The Mettai were a bridge between the two races. Once, had the Mettai of old seen themselves in this way, and had they understood just how much evil would come of the Blood Wars, they might have found some way to forge a lasting peace, one that would have saved countless lives. Instead, for century upon century, the Mettai had served to remind Qirsi and Eandi alike of all that they hated about each other, and, perhaps worse, of all that they had in common. The Eandi looked at the Mettai, and they saw how close they were to being like their enemy. The same was true for the Qirsi. How could Besh's people not be despised?

And yet now, once again, they had an opportunity to save lives, quite possibly thousands of lives.

"We have to do this," Besh said again. Trying to convince himself, as well as Sirj.

"All right," the younger man said. "Let's be on our way, then." He looked around the forest, which was growing darker by the moment. "I don't think we want to be near this village when night falls."

They walked cautiously to where Lici still sat on the ground. She was no longer crying, but she had begun once more to speak to herself, rocking slowly, her voice low. Stopping before her, each of them offered the woman a hand.

She stopped her mumbling, looking up first at Sirj and then at Besh. "I know you both."

"Yes," Besh said, taking her hand in his. "We're Mettai, just as you are."