"D'Raqor can be taken the same way. This plague is no trifle. It's the most powerful weapon you'll ever wield." He gave the man a sly look and, acting on instinct once more, said, "Tell me, Captain: What has it been like relying on the magic of these Mettai who march with you?"
Fairlea's lord heir eyed him briefly, then smiled and shook his head again. "I've heard tales about you, Torgan. Some of them from my father; others from merchants I've met in the marketplace of my city. But only now do I realize how skilled a negotiator you must have been when you still drove your cart."
"I intend to drive a cart again, Captain."
"Of course you do." He sighed, and looked over at Tirnya, who still rode beside her father. "As you seem to have surmised, the Mettai have proven somewhat less valuable as allies than I might have hoped. Their magic has its limits, and at times it appears that they can't control the spells they cast."
"That must be frustrating for the marshal."
"It is," Gries said. "It's bad enough losing men to the Fal'Borna. But losing men to the creatures conjured by the Mettai is nearly too much to take. I believe Jenoe regrets the alliance he forged with them."
Torgan thought about saying more, but held his tongue. He thought it likely that Gries would take their conversation where it needed to go.
"Can this plague be controlled?" he asked after a brief silence.
"No," Torgan told him. "It's like a wild beast. And it unleashes the white-hairs' magic. That's how it kills them. They expend their power until they die. They bleed to death, but they bleed magic."
Gries appeared to shudder. "So Sivralna…"
"It lies in ruins," Torgan said. "Its gates and walls are shattered, as are many of its buildings."
"Jenoe won't like that," the captain said, frowning.
"I don't imagine. But you have to ask yourselves, what will a siege do to D'Raqor, and how successful can that siege be if your soldiers are concerned with preserving this building or that one?"
Gries appeared to weigh this.
"Don't get me wrong, Captain. This plague is an ugly business. But it only strikes at the white-hairs. You and I are immune. I doubt the Mettai can say that about the spells they've cast on your behalf."
The man nodded vaguely. He was eyeing Tirnya Onjaef again. "She doesn't like the idea," Torgan said.
Gries looked at him sharply.
The merchant nodded gravely. "You know she doesn't. But you need to ask yourself if that's reason enough to oppose it as well."
"You overstep your bounds, merchant!" Gries said. "You're speaking of matters that you know nothing about."
Torgan smiled. "Then ignore what I've said and forgive my presumption."
"You said that Enly opposes your idea as well?" the captain asked, as if he hadn't heard Torgan's apology.
For a third time, the merchant was forced to rely on nothing more than his intuition. The day before, a soldier had told him that there were whispers in Qalsyn of a romance between Enly and Tirnya. But last night he had seen Gries and the woman share an intimate moment. She had appeared to welcome his kiss. Enly and Gries were both heirs to governorships. Both were good-looking, confident, perhaps prone to arrogance. He would have been shocked had either Enly or Gries regarded the other as anything more or less than a rival. He was guessing, of course. But he trusted his insights here just as he did in the marketplace. And so he played on that rivalry.
"He seemed to," Torgan said. "They were together, so I can't say if he was speaking his mind or merely echoing what she had told me."
Gries nodded, his eyes still fixed on the woman. "That sounds like Enly. He… he dotes on her. There's no other way to say it."
"She is quite beautiful," Torgan said, as if that excused Enly's failings.
Gries glanced at him disapprovingly. "Of course she is. But that's not the point. Winning Tirnya's heart is only half the battle. I need to win Jenoe's approval as well."
Again, Torgan said nothing.
"Are you certain that this scrap of basket you carry will sicken the Fal'Borna?" Gries asked him eventually. "If this were to fail-"
Torgan shook his head. "It won't fail. I've used it before. If we can spread it over enough of the city, it will do just what it's supposed to."
The captain stared at him for several moments. "What did you say?" he finally asked.
Torgan frowned. "I've used it-"
"Not that part. Something about spreading it over the city."
"Yes. It's a small scrap of basket, and we need to find a way to expose as many of the white-hairs to it as possible."
The man grinned. "We have a way. And I think we can convince the
marshal to use it."
Chapter 18
They had retreated to the privacy of their z'kal early in the evening. Grinsa had nothing more to say to E'Menua or Q'Daer, or even to Besh and Sirj. Probably he should have gone to see the Mettai one last time, if for no other reason than to assure them that he would do all he could to win their freedom when he returned from battle. But such assurances would have been hollow, and both men deserved better from him.
More to the point, he had grown weary of putting the needs of others ahead of his own concerns. This one night, he chose to be selfish.
Once more, he and Cresenne were being forced apart. Once more, they had no guarantee that they both would survive to be reunited. They sought refuge in each other's arms from their fears and their despair. Grinsa wanted to promise her that he would return, that once this war was over they would find a new home where they'd be safe, where Bryntelle could grow up in peace. But that promise would have been empty as well.
At one point during the evening, still breathless and flushed with spent passion, Cresenne looked up at him, her pale eyes shining in the dim light of their fire, and said, "Next time, I get to choose where we live."
Grinsa had laughed and kissed her. But a moment later she was crying, clinging to him. He searched for something to say that might ease her mind, but the words wouldn't come. In the end he merely held her until her sobbing ceased and she fell asleep.
Some time later they were awakened by the sound of someone tapping on the outside of their shelter. Grinsa opened his eyes and sat up quickly, as did Cresenne. It was still dark, and the embers of their fire glowed dully.
"Forelander," a voice called softly from outside.
Grinsa and Cresenne shared a look. Then Grinsa stood and pulled on his britches.
"Forelander?" said the voice again.
"That sounds like the n'qlae," Cresenne whispered.
Grinsa pushed aside the flap of rilda skin that covered the z'kal's entrance. Cresenne was right. D'Pera stood outside the shelter, her white hair gleaming in the light of the moons. Even in the dim light, he could see the apprehension etched in her face.
"What's happened, N'Qlae?"
"It's E'Menua. He was speaking with another a'laq, Weaver to Weaver. I'm not certain what happened, but he's… something's not right. He told me to get you."
That, of all things, caught him by surprise.
"He wants me to come?" Grinsa asked.
D'Pera nodded.
"Very well," Grinsa told her. "Give me just a moment."
He ducked back into the shelter and began to dress.
"What is it?" Cresenne asked, glancing at Bryntelle, who hadn't awakened.
"I'm not sure. Something's happened to E'Menua. He wants to speak with me."
Cresenne frowned. "I don't like the sound of that."
"Neither do I. But I don't think that D'Pera would have a hand in actually harming me. I'll be all right."
She nodded, though she appeared to shiver as well. Grinsa forced a smile, then left the shelter and followed D'Pera back to the a'laq's z'kal.
The n'qlae didn't say anything, but she walked quickly, a rilda skin pulled tight around her shoulders to ward off the chill night air. When they reached the shelter she shared with E'Menua, she pulled aside the flap covering the entrance and motioned Grinsa inside.