"No more," she said.
Her mother nodded and stood. She took Jenoe's hand and they started toward the door.
Tirnya closed her eyes, feeling sleepy. But as soon as she closed them, she saw the city again, the shadow of a falcon flashing across the face of a red building.
"I dreamed of Deraqor," she said, opening her eyes once more. Her parents stopped and faced her again.
"What?" her father said.
"I had a dream. I was in Deraqor and I'd… I'd won the city back for our family." She could see the bodies again, and the blood. She swallowed, forcing herself past the memory of that part of her dream.
"What made you think of Deraqor?"
"There's been pestilence there," she said. "Not in the city itself, but on the plain. The Fal'Borna. It's… They've suffered."
"That much I had heard." He shook his head. "That's a long way from here. I don't think we have anything to worry about."
"No, that's not…" She wasn't certain what she was trying to say. "I'd like to see it someday. Deraqor, I mean."
Jenoe nodded. "So would I. Good night, Tirnya."
"Good night."
Zira extinguished the oil lamps and they left her in the darkness.
Again Tirnya closed her eyes, and immediately she felt herself drifting toward sleep, slipping back into the dream. She heard the falcon calling to her from a distance. She could see the walls of her city. And though she feared seeing the blood and the bodies again, still she started up that street once more.
Chapter 9
FAL'BORNA LAND, THE CENTRAL PLAIN, HUNTER'S MOON WANING
The rain had stopped and for the first time in days, a few pale blue gaps had appeared in the blanket of grey that covered the sky. The wind still blew hard out of the north, and if anything the air had turned colder, but still Grinsa was thankful for any break in the somber weather they'd endured since leaving E'Menua's sept.
Yet even warm breezes and clear skies would have done little to lift his spirits or those of his companions. It had been several days now, and Grinsa still was haunted by what he had seen in the devastated sept they found. Several times, he had awakened from nightmares in which he was dying of the pestilence, destroying the z'kal he shared with Cresenne and Bryntelle. Even awake, he had only to close his eyes and he could summon images from the sept: ruined structures, charred bodies, shattered bones stripped bare by scavengers and the elements.
Q'Daer had said nothing to him about what they saw that day, but the young Weaver had been unusually subdued since. He made no effort to engage Grinsa in conversation. He had also stopped taunting the Eandi merchants, though, judging from the cold stares he cast their way, he seemed to hate them more than ever.
For their part, Jasha and Torgan had behaved differently, too. Jasha had become far more talkative, taking every opportunity to tell Grinsa and Q'Daer, if the Fal'Borna would listen, all that he could remember about the one Mettai basket he had briefly owned and then sold. Whatever reservations he had harbored about helping the Qirsi with their search for the cursed baskets and the Mettai witch who had created them seemed to have vanished. Torgan, on the other hand, had grown more reserved. Before they came across the sept he had said little to the Qirsi, but had spoken freely with Jasha. Now he kept to himself, saying little to any of them, and almost appearing to flinch when one of them spoke his name. Torgan's protestations of innocence that day, as they stood amid the devastation, had been self-serving and offensive. But Grinsa couldn't help but wonder if he and the others had driven the man into this sullen silence by responding too vehemently.
If anything vaguely positive had come from that awful day, it was that none of them spoke anymore of returning to E'Menua's sept; not even Q'Daer. They rode each day for hours, stopping only to eat and drink, or to rest. But though they covered much ground, they didn't see any other septs, ruined or whole. The Night of Two Moons came and went, marking the beginning of the waning, and still they were no closer to finding the witch or her baskets. Grinsa's frustration grew with each day that passed and he could tell that Q'Daer's did, too.
Today, again, they had been riding since early morning, and with twilight approaching they had nothing to show for their efforts. Or so it seemed, until Grinsa and the young Weaver topped a small rise and saw in the distance a curving stream, and, by its banks, a cluster of eight or ten peddlers' carts.
Immediately, Q'Daer raised his hand, signaling to Jasha and Torgan, who were behind them, that they should halt. Grinsa and Q'Daer retreated back down the incline, hoping that the merchants hadn't seen them.
"What is it?" Jasha asked.
Grinsa waited until he and Q'Daer had ridden back to them before answering. "Merchants," he said in a low voice. "Several of them."
Torgan, suddenly alert, looked past Grinsa toward the top of the hill. "Eandi?" Jasha asked.
"I think so." Grinsa glanced at the Fal'Borna, who nodded.
"We should speak to them," the younger merchant said.
"It's not quite that easy," Grinsa said. "Q'Daer and I can't just ride into their camp. If any of them are carrying the woman's baskets, we could be infected with her pestilence. And even if they don't have any, I can't imagine they'll tell us anything." He hesitated, knowing how Q'Daer would respond to what he was about to say. "We need for you to speak with them."
"We'll do it!"
"Are you mad?"
Torgan and Q'Daer said the words simultaneously, then eyed each other.
Grinsa turned to Q'Daer. "What choice do we have? We can't go ourselves, and we can't simply pass those merchants by without finding out if they've encountered the woman or her wares."
"They'll try to escape," Q'Daer said, shaking his head. "They'll get help from their friends, and they'll try to escape."
Grinsa knew that the man had a point. "Then we'll send only one of them." He looked first at Torgan and then at the younger man. "We'll send Jasha."
"No!" Torgan said.
A harsh grin spread across the Fal'Borna's features. "You see how eager he is? He knows that this may be his best chance to get away from us."
Torgan's face shaded to crimson and he looked away, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Grinsa couldn't help thinking that Q'Daer was entirely right about this. Torgan's reaction had been too immediate, too fervent. He looked at Jasha.
"You'll go," he said. "Find out what you can and then return here. If you try to run…" Grinsa trailed off. He'd never been good with threats of this sort.
"If I run," Jasha said, "I'll be leaving Torgan at your mercy. I'm not about to do that."
"And what's he going to tell them?" Torgan demanded. "How's he going to explain when they ask what he's doing out here alone, without so much as a cart?"
Silence. Grinsa and Q'Daer exchanged a look, but neither of them answered.
"I tell them the truth," Jasha said. "At least, as much of the truth as I can. The Fal'Borna are looking for the woman and for anyone who's selling her baskets. They took my cart and told me to find her. If I don't, I lose everything."
Torgan shook his head. "They won't believe that."
"You have a better idea?" Jasha asked.
They glared at each other for several moments, until Torgan turned away again, dismissing the younger man with a wave of his hand.
"Fine. Do what you will. I don't give a damn."
"They'll ask me to make camp with them for the night," Jasha said, looking at the Qirsi again. "It's the way of merchants out here on the plain. They'll offer me food and a place by their fire."
Grinsa shrugged. "Tell them that you can't stay, that you have to keep moving."