"Ah," the a'laq said, nodding slowly. "I see. There is room, then, for discussion."
"No," Grinsa said. "There's not."
"Are you bound to a clan yet, Forelander?" the a'laq asked, as if the previous matter had been settled.
"We've only been on the Qirsi side of the Silverwater for a few days. The Fal'Borna are the first clanfolk we've encountered."
"How fortunate for you," the man said, seemingly without irony. "We look forward to exploring other parts of the land as well, and perhaps meeting other folk from other clans."
The a'laq's smile faded slowly. "Why would you want to do that?" "We're new to the Southlands. We're curious."
For a long time, the man said nothing. He held two fingers to his lips, tapping them absently. At last, he reached for a small log and threw it onto the fire, sending a flurry of bright orange sparks into the air.
"I have some idea of how Weavers are treated in the Forelands. I know they're feared, even hated. I know that many have been put to death over the centuries. Isn't that so?"
Grinsa nodded.
"Perhaps you've noticed that their status here among the clans is somewhat different."
"I've gathered as much, yes."
"A Weaver who comes among us unbound to any clan is rare indeed. Weavers are something of a commodity, not like drel, mind you. They're not common chattel. They're gold. They're gems. They are prized by all. This is why we insist that Weavers join with other Weavers, so that they might beget yet more Weavers." His eyes flicked toward Cresenne. "Your… your wife is very beautiful."
He said the word "wife" with such condescension that Cresenne almost wished he'd go back to calling her a concubine.
"I can see why you chose her," he went on. "But she is far less likely to give birth to Weavers than another Weaver would be."
"I understand the reasoning behind your custom, A'Laq."
"I'm sure you do. But this is not my point. Unbound Weavers are rare, and to have one appear in our sept as you have is a great boon. You wish to leave, to explore other parts of the Southlands. But we're determined that you should stay."
Cresenne felt icy fingers closing around her heart, and she clutched Bryntelle closer to her breast, drawing a low cry from the child. Grinsa's eyes, shining in the brightened glow of the fire, were fixed on the man, but his expression hadn't changed.
"Are we to be your captives, then?" he demanded.
The a'laq eyed him briefly. "What happened to your shoulder, Forelander?"
Grinsa's good hand reached up to his deformed shoulder and rubbed it gently, as if he could feel the pain again. Cresenne knew what had happened, of course. It was shattered by the Weaver who led the conspiracy against the Eandi courts of the Forelands. Grinsa managed to destroy the Weaver despite his injury, but the shoulder, which had been broken once before by a servant of the Weaver, never healed properly.
"I hurt it battling a Weaver," Grinsa answered, his voice barely more than a whisper.
The a'laq nodded. "I thought as much. I sensed that the injury had been caused by magic. And who else other than another Weaver could do such a thing to you?" He gestured toward the entrance to his shelter. "There are three Weavers out there. And of course I'm one, too. We have four in our sept. Four Weavers. There are other Fal'Borna septs larger than ours, but few have so many. I have three children, and all of them may prove to be Weavers. And still I find myself wanting more. I'm an old man, with only a few years left. There should be Weavers to take my place."
"You didn't answer my question," Grinsa said. "Are we captives?"
But Cresenne had the sense that the man had answered. There were four Weavers here. How was Grinsa supposed to fight their way free past four Weavers?
"You're our guests," the a'laq said.
"Guests are free to leave whenever they wish."
The a'laq's eyes flashed. "Captives are treated poorly. You won't be. We'll have a z'kal built for you by nightfall. You'll eat as the rest of us do. Have you tasted rilda?"
"No," Grinsa said thickly.
"Then this will be a night to remember. For both of you," he added, with a quick glance at Cresenne.
For some time the two men sat staring at one another, neither of their gazes wavering.
"Cresenne is to be accepted as my wife," Grinsa said at last. E'Menua seemed to consider this briefly. Then he nodded. "At least for the time being."
Grinsa shook his head. "For as long as we're here. Or else I'll try to leave right now. The other Weavers may stop me, but you won't. And then your sept will only have three, rather than five."
Cresenne expected the a'laq to rage at him. She wouldn't have been surprised if they'd started to do battle right there in the shelter.
Instead, the old man began to laugh. "Very well then," he said. "You'll make a fine Fal'Borna, Forelander." He laughed again, gesturing at his crotch. "You have the stones for it." He waved a hand at the entryway. "Now, go. We'll speak again later."
Cresenne and Grinsa looked at each other, then stood and left the shelter. Outside, the sun seemed overly bright and the air felt cold. A gust of wind made Cresenne shiver.
"Now what?" she said.
"Now we find something to eat."
She looked at him sharply.
"There's nothing else we can do, Cresenne. Not today. For better or worse, we're Fal'Borna now."
"Which I suppose makes me your concubine."
He raised an eyebrow. "True. Maybe there's an upside to this." She punched his arm, hard.
Chapter 13
The skies above her had turned grey days ago, blotting out stars and sun, the red and white of the moons and the blue Harvest mornings. Occasionally it rained on her. Most times it was merely cold and windy. And grey. Color had vanished from her world, or so it sometimes seemed. But no, there was color still. The primrose yellow and fiery oranges, the lavenders and larkspur purple, the berry-stain reds and that startling indigo she'd found the previous year. And so many shades of brown-earth, straw, pale gold like the sunbaked grasses of the plain, warm brown like Mettai skin, flax and bay and chestnut and dead leaves and all browns in between.
Yes, there was still color in her world. Not in the sky or in the villages or in the people she encountered. But there, in her baskets. A world of color, a lifetime of color, in the weaving she had done, in the spells she had cast, in the damage she had done thus far and would do again.
She had gone farther west, beyond the Companion Lakes, deeper into Qirsi land. Always she remained to the north, though, because this was where the Y'Qatt had settled. It was hard land. Uncompromising cold during the Snows, stubborn winds that swept down off the mountains during the Harvest and the early Planting, and during the Growing a relentlessly hot sun that sucked moisture from the earth, just as the Y'Qatt believed magic sucked life from their bodies. The storms, when they came, their rain like mercy, were fierce, violent affairs. There was no sympathy in this land, no respite from its cruelty. How well she knew. This was the land that was left to outcasts. Of course the Y'Qatt would settle here. Their white-hair brothers and sisters to the south would think nothing of ceding this land to them. Just as the Eandi had ceded the land near the eastern Companion Lakes to the Mettai.
It should have occurred to her long ago, as she prepared for this last great undertaking of her life. But only after leaving Kirayde had she started to understand what should have been so obvious. She'd seen only the differences-Y'Qatt and Mettai were to each other as wraiths of the night were to creatures of day, as death was to life, as bone and dust were to blood and flesh. But as she spoke to the man in Runnelwick, the one who'd called her "Mettai" the way he might have called another woman "whore," it had come to her like lightning on a steamy day. Y'Qatt and Mettai-opposites yes, but as two edges of the same sword. Both were outcasts from their own races, but also they were bridges to the other race: Eandi sorcerers, Qirsi who rejected magic.