"You told your…?" Torgan broke off, shaking his head slowly. "I don't understand. What alliances? What is it you've been doing?"
"I've been trying to convince the eldest that she needs to work with us on this."
"The eldest," Torgan repeated, still confused. "Who are you-?" He stopped, his mouth agape. The eldest. Finally he understood. "You're trying to get the Mettai to help us?"
"Yes! I thought I made that clear to you yesterday."
Torgan shook his head. "No. You just said that you'd figured out a way to expose as many Fal'Borna as possible to the plague, and then you rode away."
"I thought it would be clear," Gries said. "We need magic to do this, Torgan. And the eldest has agreed to help us."
"But the eldest hates me."
Gries nodded. "Yes, she does. I didn't realize quite how much until I spoke with her earlier today. But she's agreed to help us."
Torgan wasn't certain how he felt about this. He'd never really liked the Mettai. Even when he traveled to the villages around the Companion Lakes, trading for baskets and blankets and the fine pelts sold by Mettai trappers, he did his best to be on his way before nightfall. He distrusted magic of any sort, be it the strange powers of the Qirsi or the blood conjurings of the Mettai. He understood that by using the poisoned basket to sicken the Fal'Borna, he was relying on Mettai magic. Somehow, though, the fact that they'd need the help of the Mettai to spread the plague bothered him.
"You don't look pleased, Torgan," Gries said, narrowing his eyes.
He shook his head. "No, I am. I just…" He stopped, shook his head again. "Never mind."
"Good." Gries stood and stepped beyond the firelight for a moment. "She's coming," he said, returning to where he'd been sitting. "I think she's got her son with her."
The two of them sat in silence for several moments, until at last two Mettai appeared in the firelight. One of them was the old woman, whose dark eyes found Torgan immediately. She had a narrow face and short white hair that made her look like a half-starved child, despite the lines around her eyes and mouth. The young man with her had a harder look. His features were sharp, and his dark, stringy hair made his face look even longer than it was. He was short, but wiry looking. If Torgan had passed this man on a lonely stretch of road while driving a cart filled with goods, he would have kept his knife within reach.
Gries stood to greet them, casting a look at Torgan that all but commanded the merchant to do the same. After a moment's hesitation, Torgan climbed to his feet.
"Thank you for coming, Eldest," Gries said. He indicated the merchant with an open hand. "I believe you've met Torgan Plye."
"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."