"That's enough!"
The familiar scowl was back on Q'Daer's face, and for some reason Grinsa found this reassuring.
He kept silent, waiting for the Fal'Borna to say more, knowing that if he waited long enough the man would feel compelled to explain himself.
"We're about to ride to war," Q'Daer told him at last. "That may not mean much in the Forelands, but here it does. The Mettai are allied with our enemies. And our warriors have to be clear about that as they ride into battle."
He drew himself up, as if readying himself for Grinsa's retort.
But Grinsa nodded. It was more than merely clever. It actually made sense. He'd known soldiers back in the Forelands-a man named Gershon Trasker came to mind immediately-who would have seen the value in seeking such clarity for the men under their command.
"So accepting that Besh and Sirj are friends might weaken the resolve of our warriors if they face a Mettai army. Is that right?"
Q'Daer made no effort to mask his surprise. "Yes. That's exactly right."
"Did E'Menua admit that he'd forced Besh to say those things?"
The Fal'Borna didn't answer.
"Never mind," Grinsa said. "It doesn't really matter if he did. You and I both know the truth. The n'qlae does, too." He smiled bitterly. "And it doesn't make a damn bit of difference, does it?"
Grinsa didn't expect a response to this, either, but after a moment the young Weaver shook his head.
"No, it doesn't."
"Does he intend to execute them?"
"I would imagine."
"Do you know when?"
"No."
Grinsa continued to eye him.
"Truly, Forelander, I don't know. He didn't say much about this. He told me… why it would be dangerous to let these Mettai live. But he said nothing about their executions."
"Do you think it would be possible to convince the a'laq to spare them?" Q'Daer exhaled loudly. "I thought you understood. I don't want their lives spared!"
"I do understand, Q'Daer. But you have to understand that in my mind this is wrong. You're not talking about executing enemies of the Fal'Borna."
The man started to say something, but Grinsa raised a hand, silencing him.
"E'Menua can force Besh to say that he started the very first Blood War, but that doesn't make it true. And you and the a'laq can convince yourselves that you're justified in killing them, but that doesn't change the fact that this is murder, plain and simple."
Q'Daer regarded him with contempt. "For just a moment, I thought that perhaps you were finally starting to think like a Fal'Borna. I should have known better."
"No, Q'Daer, I am starting to think like a Fal'Borna. But I'm still a Forelander in my heart."
The young Weaver shook his head and started away from him.
"Wait," Grinsa said. "I'm not fool enough to think that I can change E'Menua's mind about Besh and Sirj. Not yet at least. But do you think that he would allow them to live as prisoners if he thought that he could learn something from them about Mettai magic?"
When the man didn't answer, Grinsa went on. "Think about it, Q'Daer. They'd be prisoners. That would be clear to your warriors. But we wouldn't be killing innocent men, men who saved your life and mine. Wouldn't you prefer that?"
Q'Daer faced him again. "I won't speak on their behalf."
"I'm not asking you to," Grinsa said. "I'm simply asking you if you think it's possible that E'Menua would agree to it."
"I don't."
"No, of course not," Grinsa said, shaking his head. He could only hope that Cresenne had more success with D'Pera. He looked the young Weaver in the eye. "You may not believe this now, but if Besh and Sirj are executed, their wraiths will hover at your shoulder for the rest of your days. You'll carry them with you to Bian's realm."
He didn't wait for Q'Daer to say more. Instead, he turned and hurried back to his shelter.
Cresenne was already there, gathering firewood from a sizable pile that had been left for them beside the z'kal. Bryntelle sat nearby, amusing herself by scraping the dirt with a small stick.
Cresenne looked up at his approach and smiled weakly. "There's food, too. That's something at least."
Grinsa felt himself sag. "Your conversation with the n'qlae didn't go well?"
She straightened. "Not really," she said, lowering her voice. "She's not happy with what E'Menua did, but he's her husband and the a'laq. She's not going to do anything to humiliate him."
He nodded, knowing that he should have expected this. "Maybe she doesn't have to." He asked Cresenne much the same question he'd asked Q 'Daer.
"Prisoners?" she said, frowning. "Besh and Sirj won't like that idea at all."
"I don't like it, either," Grinsa told her. "But at least they'd be alive. We'd still have a chance to save them."
"A chance, yes," she said. "But do you know how we'd do it?"
"I have an idea," he said, lowering his voice. "It's something I urged E'Menua to do as soon as we arrived back in the sept, but he ignored me. Maybe it's time I did it myself."
She looked puzzled, and even after he explained to her what he had in mind, she still looked doubtful.
"You'd be taking a great risk…" She shook her head. "There's so much that could go wrong."
"I know. But at least they'd still be alive. If this doesn't work, we can try something else. But for now, the important thing is that we convince the n'qlae to help us. Do you think we can?"
Cresenne nodded. "I don't know, but we should try. You should also speak with Besh and Sirj, to prepare them. As I said, they're not going to like this."
"I will," he said. "Tomorrow."
"What if E'Menua executes them tonight?"
"He won't," Grinsa said. "He'll want to make a spectacle of it. He'll want to use their deaths to humiliate me."
She nodded. "You're probably right."
They stood looking at each other. After a moment, she took his hand and gave it a squeeze.
"It wasn't supposed to be this complicated," she said.
He smiled sadly. "No, it wasn't."
Bryntelle gave a small squeal at something she'd done with the stick. This time Grinsa's smile was full and genuine. He bent down and scooped the child into his arms. She squealed again, and he kissed her cheek.
"We have smoked rilda meat," Cresenne said. "And silverroot. Let's have supper like any other Fal'Borna family, and pretend none of this is happening. At least for a little while."
"That sounds nice," Grinsa said. "Doesn't it, Bryntelle?" Bryntelle brushed his nose with her hand and laughed. "She thinks so, too," Grinsa said, turning to Cresenne.
She was smiling. "It's nice to see the two of you together again. I'd like to see more of that."
"Me, too."
Grinsa carried an armful of firewood into the z'kal. Before long the silver-root was boiling on a low fire, and the aroma of watermint and thyme filled the shelter. He and Cresenne ate a quiet dinner and after putting Bryntelle to sleep, they slipped out of their clothes and lay together on the small pallet, surrendering to their passion once more. He had missed everything about her-the taste of her lips, the feel of her skin, the softness of her hair.
"This concubine thing has its advantages," Cresenne said after, her head resting on his chest, her eyes closed.
"I was thinking the same thing."
She smiled, but said nothing. A few moments later, she started slightly, seeming to rouse herself.
"I'm falling asleep," she murmured.
"You should," he told her. "There's no reason why both of us need to stay up all night."
"I should be up with you, though."
"No. Sleep. I'll be all right. And you'll need to get up with Bryntelle in the morning."
She took a breath, then raised her head to look him in the eye. "All right," she said, sounding more awake. She kissed him softly on the lips, rolled off of him, and lay beside him, her eyes open and reflecting the faint firelight. "You think this will work?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I'm running out of ideas."
Cresenne nodded. "Wake me if you need me."
"I will."
Grinsa rose from the pallet, pulled on his clothes again, and stepped out into the cold night air. Clouds hung low over the sept, obscuring the stars but glowing slightly with the light of Panya and Ilias, the two moons. The sept was quiet save for the occasional whinny of a horse and a low thread of laughter coming from a nearby shelter. He pulled his overshirt tight around his shoulders and sat on a log by the z'kal.