"It's coming closer, N'Qlae," Q'Daer said. "You and your men should get away from here while you can."
"That's what you're doing. You're running away."
There was a challenge in the words, and for a moment none of them answered. At last Grinsa nodded. "Yes, we are. I'm sorry for your city, N'Qlae. But I won't die here. I have a family on the plain, and I have every intention of seeing them again."
"We could keep you here."
Besh felt his blood turn cold.
Grinsa, though, merely shook his head. "You don't want to do that. You have no cause to want us dead. Q'Daer's right. Your only concern now should be getting yourself and as many of your people as possible away from here."
"No," the woman said. "I fled once. I won't do it again. It seems this is the fate of S'Vralna and her people. We are to perish here."
"That doesn't have to be true," Grinsa said, pleading with her. "Your city can still have a future. You might have to start over again. You might have to raze what remains of the city and rebuild it. But you don't all have to die here!"
The woman shook her head. "You're a stranger to the Southlands. You know nothing of the Fal'Borna. I wouldn't expect you to understand." She turned to Q'Daer. "But you do, don't you? You know that this is what I have to do."
"Yes, N'Qlae," the Fal'Borna said. "I understand."
She nodded, the ghost of a smile touching her thin, lined face. "You can go," she said. "May the gods keep you safe."
Grinsa bowed to her, as did Q'Daer. A moment later the others did as well.
"Thank you, N'Qlae," Grinsa said.
They hurried past her, the sounds of suffering and death and rampant magic at their backs. Once clear of the gates, Besh dismounted and joined Sirj on their cart, while the others took to their horses and started westward, away from the city and toward the banks of the Thraedes. They didn't speak, though all of them took turns glancing back over their shoulders at the walled city, where dark smoke belched into the sky. Occasionally Besh caught sight of a spear of fire soaring above the city, but he saw no people, and as they put more distance between themselves and S'Vralna, he heard no more cries.
They rode for a long time without stopping, until Grinsa finally raised a hand to call a halt. They were near a small rill, probably a tributary to the river, and they allowed the horses to drink and graze for some time. Besh found a small rock to sit on near the stream, and Sirj soon joined him there. The younger man said little other than to offer Besh some food, which he refused. In fact, the old man noticed that none of them ate. Not even Torgan.
Grinsa approached the one-eyed merchant. "I can heal you now, if you'd like."
"Yeah. Yeah, all right," Torgan said.
Grinsa had him sit on the grass, and then the Forelander knelt beside him and placed his hands on the merchant's shoulder. After some time, Grinsa moved his hands down Torgan's arm. Eventually, he sat back, much as he had when he finished with Besh, and nodded once to the Eandi.
"Thank you," Besh heard Torgan say.
It sounded grudging and Grinsa responded with a thin smile before standing and walking away. He started toward his horse but then turned and came to where Besh and Sirj were sitting.
"How are you feeling?" the Forelander asked as he drew near.
"Tired," Besh said. "And sore. But I'm far better than I was before you healed me."
"I would hope so."
Besh grinned. "Does it make you tired to heal so many wounds in such a short time?"
"A bit," Grinsa said. "I'm a Weaver, so I tire less quickly than other Qirsi. But it's a strain."
"I would think so." He hesitated. Then, "Thank you. You saved my life before."
Grinsa shrugged. "You would have done the same for me."
Besh held his gaze. "Yes, I would have. And I will, if the need arises."
The Forelander smiled, a genuine, open smile, free of the cares that usually seemed to weigh on the man. It was a good smile, and it made Besh wonder what Grinsa was like when he was untroubled and with his family.
A moment later it was gone and the Forelander looked up at the sky, seeming to gauge the position of the sun.
"We should be moving again soon," he said. "I'm not proud to say this, but I want to put another league or two between us and S'Vralna."
"Of course," Besh said. "We're ready whenever you are."
"Thank you," Grinsa said before walking away.
"He's a good man," Sirj murmured as they watched him leave.
"He is," Besh said. He turned to his daughter's husband. "I know you're eager to go home, to see Elica and your children again. I am, too. But I don't want to leave the plain until we're certain that Grinsa and his family will be safe."
Sirj looked at him, his wild dark hair stirring in the cool wind. He nodded. "Yes, all right. We owe him that much, don't we?"
Besh smiled and put his hand on Sirj's shoulder, something he probably had never done before. Theirs had never been an easy relationship, mostly because Besh had been slow to accept that Sirj was worthy of marrying his daughter. Earlier, during their search for Lici, he finally realized that he'd been a fool to doubt him, and to doubt Elica for that matter. He should have been able to say as much, to tell Sirj that he, like Grinsa, was also a good man. In that moment, though, this simple gesture seemed enough.
He probably should have been grateful. Yes, he'd had to wait, but the Forelander had healed him eventually. And it seemed the white-hair had done an adequate job.
Riding once more, Torgan moved his shoulder and looked at the skin on his lower arm. His shoulder felt much better, and though the skin was still discolored, it wasn't tender anymore.
No doubt the others in the company expected him to be thankful that Grinsa had healed him. Besh couldn't have walked with his injuries; Torgan could. They'd needed to get away from the city as quickly as possible. Torgan knew all this, and he told himself these things again and again.
But still, he'd had to wait. He'd had to endure his pain for a long time, far longer than Besh. The only injuries that kept Besh from being able to leave the city had been the broken bone in his leg and the deep gash on his arm. Yet Grinsa had healed all of his wounds right away.
It shouldn't have bothered him; that's what Jasha would say. But it did.
To be more precise, it pointed to something that disturbed him a great deaclass="underline" None in this company seemed to care whether he lived or died. Grinsa did what he could to keep Torgan alive for the time being, probably because he thought that the merchant might still help them in some way with their search for the rest of the cursed baskets. But he could tell the man didn't like him. And the rest of them spoke with unnerving frequency of killing him. Grinsa might swear that the young Fal'Borna Weaver had just been trying to mollify the n'qlae when he said that Torgan was to be executed. Torgan wasn't so certain.
The Mettai promised to kill Torgan if he tried to escape, and Grinsa and Q'Daer had said similar things in the past. Jasha seemed to have reached some sort of accommodation with the Qirsi, and Torgan could tell that Grinsa liked the Mettai. Torgan alone remained a prisoner among a company of free men.
More than ever, he now believed that his only hope for survival was to escape before they returned to E'Menua's sept. And more than ever he knew that he would have to find a way to flee on his own, without help from any of the other Eandi.
So be it.
S'Vralna had been a waking nightmare. He hoped never to see or hear or smell such horrors again. But their brief time there had also shown him beyond any doubt that the scrap of basket he still carried in the bottom of his travel sack remained a potent weapon. If the baskets in S'Vralna could bring on a second outbreak of the Mettai woman's plague, so could his. If the Qirsi riding a few paces in front of him refused to rule out killing him, he would continue to guard his secret so that he might strike back at them. He would be a fool to do less.