Grinsa winced at the sight. "Damn!"
He started back toward the creature, but before he reached it, O'Tal rode up to it and halted. He looked down on the rilda for a moment. Then he hefted his spear and plunged it into the rilda's neck. The animal spasmed and was still.
"Thank you," Grinsa said, stopping beside the doe.
"You did well," O'Tal told him.
Grinsa laughed mirthlessly. "Right."
"For your first hunt? The first hunt you'd ever even seen? You did well."
Grinsa inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment. "Again, my thanks."
"It's too bad you chose a doe," O'Tal said. "Most Fal'Borna men would have chosen a buck for their first kill."
"Why?"
"The bucks have… certain delicacies that are given to a warrior at the feast after his first hunt."
Grinsa's laugh this time was sincere. "You should have told me earlier."
"You're right," O'Tal said. "I should have." He dismounted. "Come on. Let's get her back to camp."
With O'Tal's help, Grinsa lifted the rilda onto his horse in front of the saddle, and tied it in place. By the time they were done, most of the rilda herd had moved on. The Fal'Borna had killed nearly two dozen of the animals; they'd eat well this night.
As Grinsa was riding back to the camp, Q'Daer joined him. He carried a rilda as well, a large buck.
"I saw you hunt," the young Weaver said. "You did well for a Forelander."
"Thank you," Grinsa said, assuming that he had meant this as praise. "I'm sorry: I missed your kill."
Q'Daer waved off the apology. "It wasn't my first; it won't be my last." He paused. Then, "I noticed that you were riding with O'Tal."
Something in his tone told Grinsa that he'd erred. Too late, it occurred to him that he hadn't seen E'Menua on the hunt.
"Is that a problem?" he asked.
"Tell the a'laq you didn't know you were supposed to hunt with me. He'll understand that."
Grinsa nodded. But his mood, which had finally improved after several days of missing his family, began to darken again. He'd grown weary of having to worry about offending E'Menua at every turn.
"Thank you," he said, his voice low.
"E'Menua will expect you to ride to battle with him. He's your a'laq, and you're his Weaver."
I'm no one's Weaver, he wanted to say. Except Cresenne's. But he kept this to himself. "I know," he told the man. "I've pledged to fight beside E'Menua. That's what I'll do."
Q'Daer nodded once. "Good." He spurred his mount forward.
Grinsa watched him ride ahead before looking down at the rilda he'd killed. "Tried to kill," he corrected in a whisper.
He shook his head and took a long breath. For just a few moments he'd felt more like a true Fal'Borna than he ever had before, than he'd ever thought possible.
Chapter 19
After speaking with Gries about his scrap of basket, Torgan hardly saw the man for the better part of a day. He had thought that he and the captain had come to some sort of agreement as they rode together, but Gries spent that evening with his men, leaving Torgan on his own. The next morning Fairlea's lord heir took his place at the head of the Stelpana army, leaving Torgan with little choice but to ride alone. Gries nodded to Torgan as he rode past the merchant, but he offered no greeting and gave no sign that he wanted Torgan to join him. The other captains, Tirnya and Enly in particular, had made it clear that they wanted nothing to do with him; the soldiers of Stelpana were on foot and seemed no more inclined than their commanders to welcome Torgan as a marching companion; and Torgan had no interest in riding alongside the Mettai.
Instead, as they made their way westward, Torgan merely sat astride Trey, shivering within his riding cloak, cursing Gries and the rest of the soldiers. For a brief moment Torgan had managed to convince himself that he might actually profit from this invasion. He had even found some satisfaction in knowing that the piece of cursed basket he carried would help Stelpana's army defeat the white-hairs. He remained eager to strike back at the Fal'Borna for all they had done to him, and Gries had made it sound like he would have that opportunity.
Now Torgan wondered if the captain had been humoring him. His misgivings only increased when shortly after midday, as the army rested and ate, he spotted Gries speaking with the Mettai woman who had as much as called Torgan a liar the day he joined the company. The woman didn't look pleased about whatever it was Gries was telling her, which gave Torgan some small hope. But after Gries left her, he didn't approach the merchant. In all likelihood, whatever the captain discussed with the Mettai woman had nothing to do with Torgan. Soon Jenoe had them all on the move again. Torgan seethed. Late in the day the army came within sight of a broad, swift river. The marshal and his captains halted briefly and huddled together at the head of the company, though they didn't dismount. Torgan could see them speaking, but of course couldn't hear a thing they said. He guessed that they were trying to determine exactly where they were, and Torgan could have told them. They had reached the Thraedes River. S'Vralna lay only a short distance to the south. If Gries intended to use the basket, they'd have to act soon.
After a few moments, the marshal and captains rode on, and the army followed. But they stopped on the eastern bank of the river and made camp there for the night. Still Gries kept his distance, and Torgan cursed him in silence.
"I'll leave them come morning," he muttered to himself, chewing on a tough piece of salted meat and washing it down with cold river water. If they weren't smart enough to use the basket and win, he wasn't going to ride with them to his doom.
Darkness fell and clouds began to cover the sky. Torgan sat beside a fire built for him by a few of the Fairlea soldiers, who apparently had heard snippets of his story about Widlyn Crane. He showed them the hat and answered a few questions about the man from whom he'd won it-Was he big? Had Torgan ever seen him fight? Was it possible he was lying about how he'd gotten the hat?-before they left him alone again.
He was about to pull out his sleeping roll and blankets when he heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw Fairlea's lord heir step into the firelight, a grin on his handsome face.
"Well, that proved a bit harder than I thought it would," the captain said, sitting on the grass and helping himself to a pull of water from Torgan's skin.
Torgan glared at him. "What are you talking about?"
"What do you think I'm talking about?" Gries asked, his brow creased, though a faint smile remained on his lips.
The merchant shook his head, feeling his face redden.
"Do you even remember what we discussed yesterday, Torgan?"
"Of course I do! But then you didn't say anything more to me, and I… I thought that you… that maybe you'd changed your mind."
Gries's frown deepened. "What did the Fal'Borna do to you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The Torgan Plye I know would have understood that these things take time. If I came to you looking for A'Vahl woodwork, you wouldn't just have it there waiting for me. You'd be the first to tell me that if you want the best goods, you need to be patient." He shrugged. "Alliances of the sort we're after are no different. We can't rush this. And it can't seem to the marshal that you and I have been working together. At least not immediately." He glanced around them. "That's why I circled around the camp to get to your fire. I told my men to build it for you here. I didn't want any of the others to see us together."