David Coe - The Dark-Eyes War

"You can't hold my magic forever," the man said.

"No, I can't. But I can defeat you in a battle of power any time I wish. I think we both know that."

"As I said before, you can't defeat all of my Weavers. We both know that as well."

Grinsa nodded, conceding the point.

"So we're at an impasse."

"Perhaps not," Grinsa said.

E'Menua regarded him with obvious curiosity. "What do you mean?"

"The Fal'Borna are at war. I wouldn't leave your sept now even if you let me. It would be too dangerous for Cresenne and our child. And if your people come under attack, I'll stand with you."

"Will you ride to war with us?"

Grinsa hesitated. But then he nodded. "Your people didn't start this war. The Eandi are taking advantage of the damage done by Lici's plague. There's no honor in that, no justification that I can see. I'll fight with you to drive them off the plain. But if Fal'Borna warriors cross into Eandi land, they'll do so without me."

"All right."

"But that's as far as I'll go. Cresenne is my wife. You'll treat her as such, and you'll drop your insistence that I marry a Weaver."

"How do I know you won't go back on your word?" E'Menua asked. "We had one arrangement, and I have nothing to show for it."

"I disagree. Q'Daer is alive. Your people are safe. You have much to show for it. Besides, I could easily ask you the same question. I'm still holding on to your magic because I'm convinced that as soon as I let go, you'll attack me."

"As I said: an impasse."

They stared at each other for several seconds. E'Menua's face was in shadow, but his eyes seemed to glow with the dim light cast by the embers.

At last, Grinsa relinquished his hold on the a'laq's magic, drawing a smile from the man.

"Does this mean you trust me now?" E'Menua asked.

"It's my way of saying that you can trust me. I have no desire to harm you or any of your people. And I know that you don't want to admit to any of your Weavers that you need their help to defeat me."

The a'laq's mouth twitched slightly. But he nodded again. "Very well, Forelander. You'll fight with us as a Fal'Borna warrior. And I'll accept that the woman is your wife."

"You'll acknowledge it in front of the others. Everyone in the sept is to know.

"Yes, very well," the a'laq said shortly.

Grinsa stood. "Thank you."

He turned, intending to leave, and as soon as his back was to E'Menua, he felt the power building behind him. He'd expected something like this, and had been prepared for the a'laq to attack him with shaping power. E'Menua chose fire instead, and his touch was light. It seemed the man could be trusted. He wasn't trying to kill or maim. He just wanted to make a point.

But if Grinsa, Cresenne, and Bryntelle were ever to leave this sept, Grinsa couldn't even allow the a'laq that much. Without turning to face him again, Grinsa took hold of E'Menua's magic once more and redirected it. He also amplified the power with his own, so that flames erupted from the fire pit, blazing brilliantly. He heard the a'laq cry out.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Grinsa saw E'Menua sprawled on his back, staring up at him.

Grinsa didn't say anything. He merely grinned. Then he left the z'kal, and went in search of his family.

He had become a creature of the night, a man who hid in shadows and walked with wraiths at his shoulder. Not long ago Torgan Plye had been a successful merchant, renowned throughout the Southlands for the quality of his wares and his refusal to back down when bargaining. He'd been wealthy, comfortable, and respected, if not liked.

Now his gold was all but gone. His wares had been taken from him by the Fal'Borna. Every a'laq in the clan lands wanted him dead; every Qirsi warrior on the plain wanted to be the one to kill him. He himself had killed; he'd snapped Jasha's neck with his own hands, and he had exposed Q'Daer of the Fal'Borna and Grinsa, the Forelander, to the deadly plague that had taken the lives of so many white-hairs. Their deaths were on his head as well.

Torgan should have been miserable. Until the night when he killed his fellow merchant and the Qirsi, he had considered himself a coward. The Torgan of old would have been paralyzed with fear, ashamed of his actions. He would have been waiting to die.

It was enough to make this new Torgan, a man he barely recognized, laugh out loud. For too long he had allowed himself to be controlled by his fears and browbeaten by the white-hairs, of whose magic he was so afraid. Two turns ago-it seemed so much longer!-when he first realized that he had been responsible for spreading the plague to S'Plaed's sept, Torgan had been racked by guilt. His time as a prisoner of the Fal'Borna had changed him, made him bolder. He had never felt so alive, so free, so strong.

It had been several days since he left Jasha's limp form lying on the plain-he'd lost track of the exact count. His nose still hurt from the blow he'd received from Sirj, the young Mettai, but the pain had dulled. He probably looked a mess, but that was a small price to pay for his freedom. He'd gotten away from the white-hairs and the Mettai early in the waning. Now the waning had progressed far enough that the moons did not rise until well after nightfall. Yet in just these few days, Torgan, who had never been much of a horseman before, and who had lost one eye to a coinmonger in his youth, had grown perfectly comfortable riding by starlight. It almost seemed that sleeping during the day and traveling at night had improved the vision in his remaining eye, allowing him to see in darkness, something that in the past would have bewildered him.

On this night, by the time Panya, the white moon, appeared on the eastern horizon, Torgan had already covered nearly a full league. He had been navigating by the stars. Seeing the moon rise, a bright sickle carving through the darkness, he realized that he'd been angling slightly toward the south. He adjusted his course a bit and rode on.

He'd been fortunate so far. He had avoided Fal'Borna septs and had managed to steer clear of any white-hair riders. The truth was, though, he didn't know what he'd do when he finally encountered the Qirsi. War was coming to the plain. He'd learned that much from Q'Daer before sickening the man with the small scrap of Mettai basket that he still carried. He wanted to make his way to the safety of Eandi land as quickly as possible, but a part of him also wanted to exact some revenge on the sorcerer race. The Fal'Borna had robbed him of his wealth, humiliated him time and again, and threatened so often to kill him that Torgan had come to doubt that he'd ever see his native Tordjanne again. He wanted vengeance beyond what he'd reaped by killing Q'Daer and Grinsa. He wanted to be part of the war, to be counted among the Eandi soldiers who would soon be fanning across the plain.

So when he spotted the sept ahead and slightly to the north, he stopped, his eves fixed on the faint glow of spent cooking fires, and the small shelters illuminated by Panya's light. Then he turned and rode toward the settlement.

It was late, and no one stirred in the sept. Still, he stopped well short of the first shelters and covered the remaining distance on foot. He'd named the horse the Qirsi had given him Trey, after a farrier he'd known as a boy. The beast, like all Fal'Borna horses, was well trained and obedient. He left it behind, confident that it would stay put and keep quiet.

Torgan wasn't entirely certain what he intended to do once he reached the village, but he'd brought the scrap of Mettai basket with him. Now, as he walked, he pulled out his knife and cut away a small piece from that scrap, and tried to decide what to do with it.