David Coe - The Dark-Eyes War

"Sweetgrass whiskey," the n'qlae said. "It's the one thing we Fal'Borna won't trade with the Eandi or even with another Qirsi clan. Our people make it here on the plain and only a few know how it's done. We have to trade for it with other septs, because no one in this sept can make it. We rarely share it with outsiders. Few who aren't from our clan have even tasted it."

"You honor us, N'Qlae," Besh said.

She waved off the remark. "I wanted some, and I didn't want to drink it alone." She winced. "I didn't mean that as it sounded."

Besh smiled. "I think I understand."

Sirj lifted his cup to his lips, but before he could drink, the n'qlae raised a finger.

"Slowly," she warned. "It's very strong."

Sirj nodded, took a sip, and nearly choked.

Cresenne was the next to try it, and though she managed not to cough or spit it out, her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed. Bryntelle tried to grab hold of the cup, but Cresenne held it beyond her reach.

"You next, Mettai," the n'qlae said to Besh, a friendly smile on her face.

Besh took a sip and made a face that he imagined must have been very similar to Cresenne's. The whiskey was pleasantly sweet, but the flavor was nearly lost in the burning sensation on his tongue and throat.

The n'qlae nodded approvingly and then sipped from her cup. She swallowed and inhaled deeply through her teeth, but otherwise seemed unaffected.

"I think I need to try that again," Sirj said. He took another sip and this time had no trouble with it.

They began to eat, taking occasional sips of the whiskey throughout the meal. While they ate, the n'qlae asked Besh and Sirj about Kirayde, their village, and the lands surrounding it. As usual, Sirj deferred to Besh most of the time, leaving the old man to answer. He chose his words with care, though he sensed no dark intent in her questions. The n'qlae seemed most interested in the animals that the Mettai trapped in the Companion Lakes area, and after some time Besh finally turned to Sirj, who knew far more about trapping than Besh ever had.

At first Sirj spoke reluctantly, his eyes fixed on the fire and his voice low. But after a time he became more animated.

Eventually, the n'qlae seemed to run out of questions and it grew quiet in the shelter. Besh had finished his food and his whiskey, and he felt both full and slightly light-headed. Bryntelle had fallen asleep in her mother's lap, and Cresenne appeared weary as well.

"It's getting late," the n'qlae said, climbing to her feet. She grinned. "And if the whiskey hasn't made you tired yet, it will."

The others stood as well, Sirj taking Bryntelle for a moment as Cresenne got up. They stepped out into the night, and immediately Besh shivered. The sky was clear and a cold wind blew from the north. Both moons hung low in the eastern sky, casting long pale shadows across the sept.

"Thank you for inviting us to your z'kal, N'Qlae," Cresenne said. "And thank you as well for allowing us to taste the sweetgrass whiskey. It was wonderful."

The n'qlae nodded. "You're welcome." She turned to Besh and Sirj. "You may not know this, but you saved my husband's life a few nights ago."

Besh frowned. "What?"

"A Weaver can walk in the dreams of other Qirsi. That's how the a'laq of one sept speaks to other a'laqs elsewhere on the plain."

The old man nodded. "This I knew from Grinsa."

"The night before he left, E'Menua entered the dreams of an a'laq who was sick with the plague. He should have fallen ill himself, but he was immune. And the spell you conjured spread to the other Weaver and cured him, too."

Besh wasn't sure what to say. This explained the freedoms he and Sirj had enjoyed in recent days. But a part of him wondered why the woman had waited so long to tell him all of this.

"Anyway," the n'qlae went on after a moment, "I wanted to thank you for saving him. For saving all of us."

"You're welcome," Besh said.

She nodded and started to duck back into her shelter.

Before she could, however, someone called to her by her title. She straightened and turned, searching the darkness. After a few seconds a warrior appeared. He was an older man, broad in the shoulders and chest, but also thick in the middle. Nearly all the younger warriors had ridden to war with the a'laq. The men who were left were either old, like this man, or just barely of age to wield magic. The man stopped in front of the n'qlae and bowed to her.

"What's the matter, I'Yir?" the woman asked.

The man eyed Cresenne and the Mettai as if unsure of whether he could speak freely in front of them.

"It's all right," the n'qlae said. "Tell me."

"We're not sure what it is, N'Qlae," the warrior said. "G'Hirran and we were on patrol-and we thought we heard horses to the west of camp. That was earlier, and when we didn't hear anything more we decided we'd been imagining it. But just now we heard it again, and this time we're sure."

"Horses?" the n'qlae said, clearly unnerved. "You're certain?"

"Yes, N'Qlae," the man answered.

"What does this mean?" Besh asked.

The n'qlae stared westward into the darkness, as if trying to see what the warriors had heard. "I don't know. The Eandi army is largely on foot. They wouldn't send horsemen, and I don't think they'd approach a sept by night. But the J'Balanar would."

"The J'Balanar are the ones who have markings on their faces, right?" Cresenne asked.

The n'qlae nodded, still gazing into the gloom. "Yes."

"They'd attack when we're at war with the Eandi?"

At that, the Fal'Borna woman faced her, smiling slightly. "You said 'we.' Are you Fal'Borna now?"

"I'm Qirsi," Cresenne said, "just as I always have been."

"The answer is, yes, they would. The Fal'Borna and the J'Balanar have been rivals for centuries, and though we fought together during the Blood Wars, they probably want to take advantage of our weakness, just as the dark-eyes have done."

"They can't think they'd hold this land," Cresenne said.

"No. They'll take horses, food, any goods that they can trade. And they'll take children to sell as slaves."

Cresenne appeared to clutch her child a little more tightly, but to her credit, her voice remained even as she asked, "So, what can we do?"

"It will be a large raiding party," the n'qlae said. "Forty strong, at least. The J'Balanar never come with fewer than that. And they'll have two or three Weavers with them. Chances are they'll take positions to the west and east of the sept and attack from both sides at once."

"You've dealt with these people before," Besh said.

"As I told you, we've been rivals for a long time. E'Menua goes on hunts every year. He makes certain I know what to do in case of an attack." She raked a hand through her long white hair. "But usually he leaves me with at least one other Weaver. I don't think he believed the J'Balanar would be so treacherous as to raid our lands when we were at war with the Eandi."

"We only have a few warriors," Cresenne said.

"You're a warrior. Your friend F'Solya is a warrior. Every woman in this camp is a warrior. That's the way of the Fal'Borna."

Cresenne nodded, looking white as a ghost.

"I suppose, then, that we're warriors as well," Besh said, drawing a smile from the n'qlae. "What would you like us to do?"

"What can you do?"

The old man grinned as he pulled his knife free. "I won't be much good to you in a fight," he said. "But I can conjure. I'm very good at that."

"Why aren't they attacking now?" Cresenne asked.

"They must be getting in position. But as long as it's dark, we have the advantage. We know our sept; they don't. They'll attack at first light, thinking that we'll be unprepared."

"We could use language of beasts to frighten their horses," Cresenne said. "Show them that we know they're out there."