"I still don't believe that the plague was created by Mettai magic," she said to Torgan. "You may believe that blood magic is evil, but my people have long refused to do such dark conjurings."
"Eldest-" Gries began.
She turned, leveling a rigid, bony finger at the man. "I know what you'd say, Captain. These are extraordinary times. The magic we've done on the marshal's behalf are wartime spells. Most Mettai don't know how to do this magic, and even if they did, they'd refuse."
"I saw the woman who created this plague," Torgan said, drawing the gazes of the two Mettai and Gries. "I told you as much the first day we spoke. I also met two Mettai who came from her village. They acknowledged what she'd done. They were trying to stop her plague from spreading."
"What village was this?" the eldest asked.
"I don't remember." But even as Torgan said this, he recalled something he'd overheard the night he escaped the Fal'Borna, the night he killed Jasha. "You don't have to believe me," he went on after a moment. "You have the power to prove me right."
"What do you mean?" the young man asked. "What power?"
"There's a spell your kind do," Torgan said. "It can make magic visible. Isn't that right?"
The eldest and her son shared a look. After a moment, the woman faced Torgan again. "You have the basket here?" she asked.
The merchant smiled thinly and walked to where Trey was tethered. "It's not a full basket," he called over his shoulder, as he dug into his travel sack, searching for the scrap of half-burned osiers. He found it, pulled it out, and carried it back to the fire.
He held it out for the others to see. It barely covered the palm of his hand.
"That's it?" Gries asked, clearly disappointed. "That's going to help us destroy the Fal'Borna?"
Torgan nodded. "Yes, that's it. And yes, it will help you win this war." He was watching the woman, who stepped forward, her eyes fixed on the osiers.
"That is Mettai work," she said, her voice low. "Even in the darkness I can see that much. Look at that weave."
"They were some of the finest baskets I've ever seen," the merchant said. "Whatever her intent, she was obviously talented."
After another moment, the woman looked up into Torgan's eyes. "To answer your question from before, yes, there is such a spell. It would allow us to see the magic on it. I'd be able to tell if it's a Mettai conjuring."
"And the spell won't weaken the magic in that basket?" Gries asked.
"Not at all," she said.
Gries hesitated, clearly beyond his depth. Torgan smiled, taking some satisfaction in seeing the brash captain humbled, at least for the moment. "Well, all right then," Gries said. "Go ahead."
The eldest nodded and pulled her knife free. She stooped to pick up some earth. Then she cut the back of her hand, gathered some blood on the blade of her weapon, and mixed it with the dirt.
"Blood to earth," she said, her voice dropping. "Life to power, power to thought, magic revealed."
With the last word she tossed the mud toward Torgan's outstretched hand. The moment she let go of the mixture of blood and earth, it changed, becoming so fine, like mist from a cascade, that Torgan could barely see it in the dim light. He felt it on his hand though, cool and damp. And at the same time, he saw it flare like Qirsi fire. It was so bright that he had to look away, and it took his eyes several moments to recover. When at last he looked at the basket again, he saw that it had changed. It was glowing now; it almost looked like it was on fire. But this was no ordinary flame. It was a malevolent green, as if the fire itself were diseased.
"Blood and bone," Gries whispered.
The eldest's son inhaled sharply through his teeth. Torgan couldn't feel that green fire burning on his hand, but still he had to resist an urge to fling the basket away.
"Well?" he asked shakily, looking at the two Mettai.
The woman almost seemed to flinch away from the flame. But she nodded and said, "Yes, that's Mettai magic. You can tell by the fire. The power of the Qirsi would look more like it was glowing rather than burning." She appeared to shudder. "I never thought I'd see a blood conjuring so… wicked."
"Can you spread it?" Gries asked her, seeming to ignore the last comment.
"What?" the young Mettai man said, turning to look at the captain. When he realized that Gries was speaking to his mother, the Mettai faced her. "What is he talking about?"
The eldest glanced at her son. "We'll discuss this later." Looking at Gries, she straightened, then nodded. "Yes, I believe that we can help you with this."
"Mama-"
"Later!" she said sharply.
The young man pressed his lips in a tight line, his gaze sliding toward Torgan's fire.
"It would be a difficult conjuring," she went on after a moment. "I'd first want to reduce that piece of basket to something akin to dust. Then, with the second part of the spell, we'd send it to the Fal'Borna, as you've seen us do with the finding and sleeping spells."
"And the magic that's on it now would still work?" Torgan asked.
"It should. We'd do nothing to weaken it. We'd just make it possible to reach more of the Fal'Borna than it could otherwise."
Gries nodded. "That's exactly what we want. How near to them would you have to be for this magic to work?"
The eldest shrugged. "As near as we've been when we used these other magics."
Gries nodded. "And how long does it take for the plague to kill them?" he asked Torgan.
"I don't know, exactly. It takes several hours before they show signs of being ill. And then they lose control over their magic. As I've already told you, that's what kills them ultimately."
"We'd need to be far away by then," the captain said, as much to himself as to the rest of them. "If we're still close by, they might unleash their power on us."
"We can attack and then retreat," Torgan said. "Let them believe that their magic drove us off, or that we didn't like the way the battle was going."
Gries frowned at him, almost as if he resented the merchant's attempt to come up with a strategy for battle. "Thank you, Torgan. The marshal and I will work out the details."
Torgan made no effort to conceal his surprise. "So you've spoken to him about all of this?"
The captain's cheeks appeared to redden, though it was hard to tell in the firelight. "Not yet, no," he said. "But I will." He faced the Mettai woman again. "Thank you, Eldest. We'll speak of this again soon. I'd imagine we'll save Torgan's scrap of basket for D'Raqor. But it's possible that Marshal Jenoe will have different ideas."
"All right," she said. She looked once more at the green flame burning in the palm of Torgan's hand before starting back toward the Mettai camp. Her son followed.
"Wait!" Torgan said, stopping her. "Are you just going to leave it looking like this?"
"It won't harm you," the woman said.
"No. But it… I don't want everyone to know I have it. And…" He licked his lips. "I don't like the way it looks."
The eldest regarded him with disdain, but after a moment she walked back to where he stood, picked up more dirt, cut her hand again, and mixed the earth with her blood.
"Blood to earth," she said with obvious impatience. "Earth to power, power to thought, magic concealed."
Once more, she threw the mud over his hand, this time turning away even as it became that same delicate mist and settled over the scrap of cursed basket. Torgan felt it cold on his hand and saw with relief that the green fire died away instantly.
He looked up, intending to thank the woman, but she and her son were already gone.
"They're strange, even for Mettai," Gries said.
Torgan had to agree, but he was concerned with other matters. "You're sure the marshal will agree to this?" he asked.
"I'm not certain of anything," Gries told him. "But we have a chance to take D'Raqor-the prize that he and his daughter want most of all-without losing a single man. He'd be mad not to do this."
"What about Tirnya? And Enly?"
Gries shook his head. "Enly doesn't matter. This is Jenoe's decision. And I'll make sure he gets it right. As for Tirnya, she'll be so glad to have D'Raqor that she won't care how we won it."