Torgan wasn't so sure.
Have you stopped to think what the curse might do with this bit of magic you're contemplating?" Mander asked from behind her as they walked back to where the other Mettai were sleeping.
Fayonne didn't look at him. She wished she hadn't asked her son to come with her to speak with Captain Ballidyne and the merchant. Yes, the curse was real. It still haunted them, even out here. She was willing to concede that much. But what did he expect her to do? Abandon magic completely?
"Did you even mention to them that it might not work? Or worse, that it might kill their own men?"
"It's a white-hair plague," Fayonne said, her voice toneless. "It won't kill the soldiers, or us."
"You don't know that. You don't know what the curse will do to it. It could make all of-"
"That's enough!" she said, whirling on him. He halted and staggered back away from her, his eyes wide.
"None of our magic is immune to the curse!" she said. "We both know that! So any spell we use will carry consequences. Eagles, wolves, poison-all of them are threats to us. This spell isn't, at least not the same way. It could deliver D'Raqor to the marshal and end the war. Will the curse do something to the spell? Of course it will. But that's a risk I'll take."
Mander nodded, looking frightened of her.
Fayonne made herself smile. "It's good that you worry about these things," she said. "You'll lead our people well when I'm gone. But you can't always let your concern for others get in the way of what has to be done. Sometimes we have to come first. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mama."
She turned and started walking again. Mander fell in beside her. "Who would have made a spell like that?" he asked after some time.
"I don't know," Fayonne said. "I've been wondering the same thing." That flame had been as evil looking as anything Fayonne had ever seen in a conjuring. It seemed to emit pure malice. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought that another Mettai village had declared war against the white-hairs just as hers had done.
"The merchant said it was an old woman," she said eventually. "He was right about the rest, so I'll trust his word on this, too. But I wouldn't have thought there were more than a handful of Mettai who could have conjured such a plague. I wonder why she did it."
Mander said nothing. Fayonne sensed that he was still hurt by her outburst, but she could think of nothing to say that might make him feel better. And she had more pressing concerns.
"The captain wants us to keep this quiet for now," she said. "He hasn't spoken of it with Marshal Onjaef, and he's not certain that the marshal or his captains are ready to go so far."
"All right," Mander said softly.
"He'll have to decide soon," she told him. "We're close to S'Vralna and it won't be long before we reach D'Raqor. He'll make up his mind in the next day or two. I'm sure of it."
Mander might have nodded; she wasn't certain.
They walked the rest of the way in silence and before long had unrolled their blankets and were settling down to sleep. Fayonne felt exhausted, as she did after every march. She was too old to be out here on the plain with the Snows coming on. But on this night sleep didn't come easily. A north wind was rising, and the air smelled like snow. She lay awake for a long time trying to think of ways the curse might make the spell she was contemplating go wrong. But none of the possibilities she considered seemed too terrible, and this actually frightened her. The truth was, the curse never affected magic the way she and her people anticipated. It was almost always worse.
She fell at last into a deep slumber, and though she knew that she dreamed of terrible, bloody battles, she could remember nothing specific when she woke to the first faint glimmerings of dawn.
The Eandi soldiers had started to stir, and even at a distance Fayonne sensed both their excitement and their trepidation. She well understood what they must have been thinking. The armies had reached the Thraedes. Beyond it lay the Horn; to the south lay Sivralna. This war was about to begin in earnest.
It was a chill morning, and that north wind had grown stronger. A light snow fell upon them, clinging to the grass and dampening Fayonne's hair. The eldest wasn't certain where Jenoe intended to lead them from here, but she didn't relish the idea of braving those swirling waters. She folded away her blankets and walked to the Eandi camp. She sensed that Mander was watching her, perhaps waiting for her to ask him to join her. She didn't.
The marshal stood with his captains, surveying the river, his face still puffy with sleep, his expression grim. Seeing her approach, he nodded a greeting, but at first he didn't say anything.
"If we go straight on, we leave ourselves open to an attack from the rear," the marshal from Waterstone said, seeming to continue a conversation that Fayonne hadn't heard.
"I tend to agree," Jenoe said. "Deraqor is the prize, but we can't risk ignoring Sivralna. And I don't wish to cross the river if we'll just have to find a way back across eventually."
Sivralna? Fayonne cast a quick look at Captain Ballidyne, but he had his eyes trained on the ground in front of him, his lips pursed. He had told her of Sivralna's destruction, which the merchant had described for him in detail, but apparently he had yet to share this information with the marshal.
"So then we're to march on Sivralna?" asked Enly Tolm, his gaze flicking toward the marshal's daughter.
"I think so," Jenoe told him. "I believe that's the safest course. Ready the men." He turned to Fayonne. "We could encounter the Fal'Borna at any time, Eldest. I want you and your people marching at the head of the army again. And I'd like you to give some thought to how we might take the city when we reach Sivralna."
"S'Vralna is yours already," came a voice from behind Fayonne.
All of them turned. The merchant was lumbering in their direction through the falling snow, his one good eye flitting from one face to the next.
"You can cross the river north of here," he went on. "That will save us all a day on foot, maybe more."
"What are you talking about, Torgan?" the marshal demanded. He regarded the man with manifest distaste. Then he cast a quick look at his daughter as if chastising her for allowing the merchant to come near him.
"You didn't tell him?" the merchant asked Gries.
The captain glared back at him, a warning in his dark eyes.
Torgan turned to Enly and then Tirnya. "You didn't, either?"
Jenoe seemed to be growing angrier by the moment. "Tell me what?"
"S'Vralna is destroyed, Marshal," the merchant said. "I've been there. It was struck by the white-hair plague. The city lies in ruin and most of its people are dead. Taking it will be as simple as riding through the gates. You'd be wasting your time marching south from here."
"You're certain of this?" Jenoe asked.
"Yes. That's why I'm convinced that-"
Torgan stopped, and Fayonne had seen why. Gries had caught his eye and given a slight shake of his head.
"Convinced that what, Torgan?" Jenoe asked.
"That the Relics Bridge is your best route across the river," the merchant said.
Fayonne was certain that he'd intended to say something else; probably he was going to mention the cursed basket.
Jenoe eyed him briefly, seemingly trying to decide whether the merchant was an annoyance or an asset. "Do I understand you correctly? You're saying that we should bypass Sivralna, that it's already defeated. And that this Relics Bridge offers us the quickest path to Deraqor."
"That's right." Torgan looked around, appearing to mark their position in relation to the mountains that were barely visible on the northern horizon. "The nearest span would be White Bridge, which lies south of here, maybe two leagues. But Relics Bridge is the broader span, and it's to the north. Five leagues. No more. That'll be the easier crossing for an army this size."
"And all of you knew about this?" Jenoe asked, looking at Tirnya, Enly, and Gries.