Grinsa nodded again. That made sense, too. Q'Daer had said much the same thing to him the day he and Cresenne first arrived in E'Menua's sept. A Fal'Borna wastes nothing. Laws of survival in a hard land. He looked off into the grasses again, hoping for another glimpse of Besh's fox.
"Qirsi magic can't do anything like that," he said.
Besh smiled once more. "No, I don't suppose it can."
"That's how she was able to do it."
The old man's smile faded. "Lici, you mean."
Grinsa nodded. "Qirsi magic couldn't have done that, either. Don't get me wrong," he was quick to add. "My people are capable of doing terrible things with their powers, but a Qirsi couldn't have conjured a plague as she did, any more than one of us could have created that fox."
"Had you asked me a year ago," Besh said, "I wouldn't have thought a Mettai could do such a thing either. Lici surprised us all."
"You and she fought before she died, is that right?" Grinsa asked. Besh's mouth twitched slightly. "Yes."
"How does that work?"
"What do you mean?"
Grinsa took a breath, wishing immediately that he hadn't asked the question. He was curious, and he thought perhaps that if he learned enough about Mettai magic, he might think of a way to counter the witch's plague. But he didn't see a way to explain what he meant without revealing more of his own past than he would have liked.
"I did battle with another Weaver," he explained. "Both of us commanded armies of Qirsi." He didn't mention that he and his allies had been hopelessly outnumbered or that in the end his victory was bought by the sacrifice of another. "When I fought him, I sensed what magic he was using and countered it by drawing on the same magic. If he attacked with shaping power, I defended our ranks with shaping. If he sent fire at us, I sent fire back at him." He shook his head. "But I don't see how a Mettai could fight the same way."
"We don't. When I fought Lici, I just had to guess what spell she intended to cast at me, and then respond accordingly. Sometimes I guessed correctly, sometimes I didn't. And in the end, I had no defense against her attacks except to kill her."
Sirj was watching him, as if he hadn't heard the entire tale of Besh's fight with Lici. For his part, Besh looked more uncomfortable than he had at any point in their conversation.
"In any case," the man said, staring at the ground. "That's how it happened for me. I think Mettai magic isn't intended for combat."
Grinsa smiled, drawing a curious look from Besh.
"Forgive me," Grinsa said. "But many of us in the Forelands have long said the same thing about Qirsi magic."
"But throughout the history of the Southlands-"
"I know." Grinsa shrugged. "Perhaps we're all inclined to understate the extent of our powers. Or maybe this just proves that anything can be made into a weapon if we're desperate enough."
They fell silent for several moments, the two Mettai looking thoughtful, Grinsa watching them. He had assumed for so long that he would find no allies in this land, that his struggle to defeat the curse and win freedom for himself and his family was his alone. Meeting these two men, he was no longer so certain of this. But he was also wary of trusting them too quickly. He sensed how eager he was to claim them as friends, and he feared that he was being rash.
Grinsa stood, intending to return to the fire where Q'Daer and the Eandi merchants were sleeping.
"Thank you for speaking with me," he said.
Besh smiled, though it looked forced. "Of course."
Grinsa started to leave, but the old man called him back.
"The older merchant-I've forgotten his name."
"Torgan. Torgan Plye."
"Yes," Besh said, "Torgan. He told us that he and the younger Eandi were your prisoners."
"They're not my prisoners. But they are prisoners of the Fal'Borna."
The man nodded once. "I see. He made it sound as though we were making ourselves prisoners by agreeing to journey with you."
"You told me yourself that a Fal'Borna a'laq had named you a friend of the clan. You have nothing to fear from Q'Daer. He's a difficult man, and he has little use for Torgan. But he'll honor a declaration of friendship from another a'laq, no matter how small the sept he leads."
"So you don't believe that we've placed ourselves in peril."
"No," Grinsa told him. "I don't." He hesitated, but only for a moment. He didn't like the idea of having to trust all to instinct, but he felt certain that he had nothing to fear from Besh or Sirj. "And I make you this promise," he went on a moment later. "If Q'Daer or any other Fal'Borna threatens either of you without cause, I'll do everything in my power to protect you." He grinned. "Though given what I've seen of the magic you wield, I can't imagine you'd really need my help."
This time Besh's smile appeared genuine. "And I make you this oath in return, Grinsa of the Forelands. If we can do anything to stop Lici's plague from spreading and help you and your family win your freedom, we'll do it."
Grinsa inclined his head, acknowledging the offer. "Thank you for that."
He turned and started back toward the dim light of the fire, feeling happier than he had at any time since the company left E'Menua's sept. It wasn't just that he now had allies in his fight for freedom, though certainly that gave him more hope than he'd had in what seemed like ages. He also felt that he'd found a friend in Besh.
It was late, and he was deeply weary. But it had been too long since last he spoke with Cresenne. So before lying down to rest, he walked a short distance from the camp, sat down among the grasses, which shone faintly with the pink and white glow of the moons, and reached with his mind southward to where his beloved slept.
Chapter 17
F'MENUA'S SEPT, THE CENTRAL PLAIN
For several days after she spoke with E'Menua, Cresenne refused to go to L'Norr's z'kal at mealtime. She knew that the young Weaver would be expecting her, that E'Menua would have wasted no time in making arrangements for the man to feed her and Bryntelle. She knew as well that her refusal to go was pointless. She didn't manage to find any new sources of food in the intervening days, nor did she magically inure herself to hunger and its effects.
It was pride that kept her away. She didn't want to feel like a beggar again, as she had the night she ate with F'Solya and I'Joled, and she certainly didn't want to be made to feel like a whore. So she kept to her z'kal, carefully rationing what few scraps of food remained from the journey she and Grinsa had made across the sovereignties. She nursed Bryntelle as she usually did, but by the end of the third day, she realized from her daughter's cries that she was no longer making enough milk to satisfy her.
That was what finally broke her. Starving herself was one thing; starving Bryntelle was another entirely.
On the fourth evening, after leaving the tanning circle, she went not to her z'kal, but to that of L'Norr, which was located near the center of the sept, not far from E'Menua and D'Pera's shelter. She slowed as she drew near L'Norr's home, trying desperately to think of any other way she might survive without having to do this. But her stomach hurt, and her mind felt dull, and Bryntelle was crying again, having fussed for much of the day. Cresenne glanced around and realized that several people were watching her, no doubt wondering what she was doing so far from her own z'kal. They would see her knock on the outside of the young Weaver's shelter, and they would assume the worst, but there was little she could do about that. For all she knew, that too had been part of E'Menua's plan: anything to drive a wedge between her and Grinsa. Maybe he hoped that if Cresenne grew unhappy enough she would simply take Bryntelle and leave the sept.