"It started with the Y'Qatt?"
"Yes. She-Lici, that is-she had cause to hate them, and this was her vengeance."
"And now her curse has spread to us."
"Has it already?" Sirj asked. "We know there's a merchant who's carrying her baskets, but we didn't know that it had already struck at your people. I'm… I'm very sorry."
"My warriors will expect me to kill all three of you. That's our way."
An image of Elica and the children flashed in Sirj's mind, and suddenly he was blinking back tears. "We're trying to do the right thing," he said, his voice wavering. "We guard her night and day to keep her from doing more harm. We've left our family behind so that we could stop more Qirsi from dying. Doesn't that count for anything?"
"No. Not to the Fal'Borna."
"Then you're a cruel people," Sirj said, his grief giving way to anger.
"What you see as cruelty, we see as strength," the a'laq said, pride in his voice. "The Fal'Borna rule the Central Plain because we have never shown mercy to our enemies. We didn't during the Blood Wars and we don't now."
"But we're not your enemies. Lici might be, but not me, and certainly not Besh. If it wasn't for him, she might still be spreading her plague across the land."
The a'laq looked as if he might argue the point further, but he stopped himself and looked away, his lips pressed thin. He appeared older in profile, his forehead steep, the hint of loose skin beneath his chin.
"We are a small sept," he said after some time. "I've no sons, though both of my daughters will be Weavers. I hope to marry one or both of them to Weavers before I die, so that my people will be assured of having an a'laq after I'm gone." He faced Sirj again. "I can't do anything to disgrace my sept or weaken it in the eyes of other a’laqs."
Sirj shook his head. "You mean to tell me that I'm going to die so that your daughters can marry well?" He closed his eyes not certain whether to laugh or cry. "Fathers really are idiots, aren't they?"
F'Ghara's expression hardened. "Judge me if you will, but it changes nothing. You will lead my warriors and me to your companions."
"And if I refuse?"
"You'll die where you stand and we'll find them anyway."
There was nothing Sirj could say. He'd known from the start that the task Besh had given him was beyond his abilities. And now his failure had doomed them all.
So, you think you can kill me."
"What are you doing, Lici?" Besh asked, holding her gaze. He eased his hand toward the hilt of his blade.
Lici noticed the movement and shook her head. "Don't."
Besh didn't stop. "Where's the fairness in that, Lici?" He found the smooth wood of the knife handle and wrapped his fingers around it. "Why should you be the only one of us with access to magic?"
"I said don't!" Her eyes widened, and she began to mumble to herself-a spell, no doubt-though she also took a step back.
Besh dropped to one knee and grabbed a handful of dirt. Before he could cut the back of his hand, though, Lici threw the blood-soaked dirt at him, yelling, "Earth to dagger!"
The mud coalesced into a single blade and Besh barely had time to wrench himself out of the way, sprawling onto his back and dropping both his knife and the dirt he'd picked up. The dagger flew just past his head and buried itself in the ground.
Besh crawled to his knife and grabbed another handful of earth. He sensed that Lici was getting more dirt as well.
"Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought, earth to sleep!" He threw his dirt at her, watching as it transformed itself to something akin to sand.
"Earth to fire!" he heard her shout.
Flames erupted from her slender hands, forming a wall that guarded her from his spell. When his magic struck the fire she had conjured, it flared like sunlight, forcing him to shield his eyes and shy away from the sudden heat.
An instant later, the blaze had vanished, leaving them both blinking in the somber gloom of the morning. At the same time, both of them reached for more of the dark brown soil. Besh cut himself and Lici clawed at the back of her hand with the stubs of her finger nails, which were already stained with blood. Besh backed away slowly, drawing a grin from the witch.
"Frightened, Bash?" she asked, giving him that odd, coy grin he found so disturbing.
"I don't want to hurt you, Lici. I certainly don't want to kill you."
"Funny. I want very much to hurt you, before I kill you."
"All I've done is try to help you find that merchant you've been looking for."
She laughed mirthlessly. "Is that all?" She held up her bloodied hand. "Look at me. Where's my knife? What have you done with it?"
"You tried to hurt us. You nearly killed Sirj. We had to take your blade."
"Damn you both! And damn the white-hairs, too! I don't care about that merchant! I don't care if my baskets kill every Qirsi on the plain!"
"You don't mean that," Besh said, because he knew he should. But he couldn't help thinking that she did mean it, that again, as when she had spoken to him with such malice the day before, when she set Sirj on fire, he was seeing the true Lici. Whatever she had once been-a frightened orphan alone in the world, her family taken from her by the pestilence; a strange old woman taunted by Kirayde's children and shunned by its adults; a conjurer driven nearly to madness by guilt for all the darkness she had unleashed upon the world-this woman before him, this creature of anger and vengeance, was all that remained.
She muttered to herself again, and Besh began his own incantation, preparing to defend himself against any conjuring she might try next.
This time, though, she didn't throw anything at him. One moment she held a fistful of blood and dirt; the next she held a spear. She jabbed it at him, aiming for his heart. He stumbled back, just beyond her reach. She advanced on him, looking more like a warrior from one of the sovereign armies than an old Mettai witch. This time, rather than trying to stab him, she slashed at his leg with the spearhead, catching him just below the knee.
Besh grunted at the pain and collapsed to the ground, dropping both his blade and the dirt he held in the other hand. Lici grinned darkly and thrust the spear into his other thigh. Again Besh cried out, clutching at his leg, feeling warm blood run over his fingers.
"You made me your captive," Lici said. "Now I've made you mine."
And just for good measure, she stabbed him again, this time high on the chest, just below his shoulder. It wasn't a killing blow. It was simply meant to hurt, and to show Besh that he was at her mercy. It did both.
He gritted his teeth, reaching now for that wound, his hand stained crimson.
"I remember everything, you know," Lici said, standing over him, menacing him with the bloodied spear. "I remember how you stared at me when you were just a boy. You thought me beautiful then. I know you did. Later, after you married that woman-what was her name?"
He didn't answer her. After a moment she swung the spear so that the butt end struck him across the temple. For a second he could see nothing but white light, and he nearly toppled onto his side.
"What was her name?" she asked again.
"Ema," he said thickly.
"Yes, of course. Ema. I remember her, too. Pretty thing. But after you married her, you stopped looking at me. You pretended I wasn't there, just like the others. How does that happen? How does a man go from lust to indifference so quickly?"
Again, Besh didn't say anything, but this time she didn't seem to care. "I'd wager you even warned your daughter away from me," she went on, "and your grandchildren as well."
Besh's legs and shoulder screamed at him, and his head hurt as well, though dully, unlike the searing pain of the stab wounds. He'd lost a good deal of blood, and the world around him was beginning to spin. He couldn't help thinking that a younger man would have borne the injuries better.