David Coe - The Horsemen's Gambit

Eventually, B'Asya's burst of magic ran its course, leaving the poor girl even more exhausted and ever closer to death. P'Crath was able to break free of their connection, but that was no consolation to him now. He'd failed; she'd passed her illness to him.

"Both of you," Z'Feni muttered. "I'm going to lose both of you."

He wanted to reassure her, to tell her that they'd find a way through. But she was right: She was going to lose both of them. And she deserved more from him than false hope and empty words of comfort.

"You must leave here!" he said instead. He had found the strength to stop the flow of magic from his body, but already he could feel it building once more. It wouldn't be long until he lost control of it again. "It's the magic, Z'Feni. That's what will kill me. That's what will kill all of us. As soon as I touched her mind I was sick, too. It's the magic."

She shook her head, her pale golden eyes wide, her skin as pale as starlight. "Then there's nothing we can do. We can't save her."

"No," he said. "We can't. But you can save the rest of them, the ones who aren't sick yet."

Z'Feni shook her head again, tears streaming down her face.

"You have to listen to me," he said. The power was building quickly now. He couldn't hold it back much longer. "We haven't much time. The power…" He swallowed. No time to explain that now. "You can't help us. We're lost already. But the others. Get them away from here. Not together. And you have to keep your distance from them, too. You're not sick yet, but… but you probably will be soon." Gods, it was hard to keep his mind on what he was saying. All he wanted to do was unleash his magic, let it pour from him. "Send them away. Tell them that if they're still alive in ten days, they can return and start rebuilding the city. It's the only way. Otherwise we'll simply kill one another. Do you understand?"

She nodded. "I think so."

"Good. Then go."

She looked at B'Asya, and P'Crath knew that she wanted only to go to the girl, to hold her, to stroke her hair and kiss her brow.

"Go, Z'Feni. Please."

She must have heard the strain in his voice, because she turned her gaze on him, the tender expression of a moment before giving way to a look of terror. "What is it?" she asked.

"My magic. I can't hold it much longer. Go! Save yourself! Save our people!"

Still on her hands and knees, she backed away from him, never taking her eyes off his face.

"I love you," she said. "I have since the day we first met, when we were just children. Do you remember?"

He nodded, and suddenly there were tears on his face, too. For just an instant, his hold on his magic slipped and a wind whipped through the courtyard. Gritting his teeth he clamped down on his power again, but he knew he couldn't hold out for more than a few seconds.

"I love you, too," he said, his voice hoarse. "Always. Now go!"

She stood, took a step toward the door, then stopped and looked one last time at B'Asya. The wind began to rise again. She stifled a sob and ran from him.

With her gone, P'Crath surrendered to the power surging through him. A gale swept through the courtyard, keening in the stone, roughening the water in the pool so that it lapped over the sides. Fire flew from his hands, just as it had from the hands of his child. One of the stone walls shattered like glass at the touch of his mind. His was powerful magic, and now, for the first time, it was completely unbridled. There was no telling what he might do before he died.

At the same time, the a'laq reached for B'Asya again. They would spend these last hours of their lives together. Perhaps she would draw comfort from knowing that her father was there with her, suffering as she did. She would grieve for him as he did for her, particularly if it occurred to her that he had gotten sick trying to help her. But at least she wouldn't be alone. And neither would he. The thought eased his mind, just a bit. It wasn't much, P'Crath knew, but it was all that either of them had left.

At times it seemed to Grinsa jal Arriet that the dark clouds hanging over the plain had no end, that this chill wind bending the grasses and scything through his damp clothing would never cease. The rain had stopped for the moment-a small grace that did little to raise his spirits or those of his companions. Their days were grey monotony, their nights tense and restless.

The two Eandi merchants, Torgan Plye and Jasha Ziffel, kept to themselves, speaking in quiet tones or riding silently, side by side. What little Grinsa had seen of them prior to their departure from N'Menua's sept, had convinced him that they didn't like or trust one another. But they were prisoners now, their executions certain should this mission fail. And because their captors were Qirsi, because they were alone and friendless in Fal'Borna land, they could look only to each other for fellowship.

Grinsa and the other Qirsi, a young Fal'Borna Weaver named Q'Daer, couldn't even take that much comfort. They trusted neither the Eandi nor each other. They had clashed several times before leaving the sept-Grinsa had gone so far as to strike the man the day before they began their journey-and though they had come to an accommodation that allowed them to speak civilly to one another, each remained wary of the other.

They had been riding for six days, but they had not yet encountered any Eandi merchants, much less the baskets that supposedly had spawned the outbreak of pestilence on the plain. Nor had they seen any sign of the Mettai witch who was said to have spread this evil curse across the land. The Harvest winds were blowing. The rains were upon them. Grinsa suspected that by now those Eandi merchants who usually spent the warmer turns among the Fal'Borna would be headed back to the Eandi sovereignties. With each day that passed, his hopes of finding either the Mettai woman or the traders who had her baskets faded.

The previous night, Q'Daer had given voice to similar doubts, even suggesting that they were wasting their time and should return to E'Menua's sept.

"These winds are cold for a Hunter's Moon," he had said, his square, youthful face illuminated by their small fire. "The Snows will be coming early this year, and I have no desire to be out here when they arrive. It's time we turned back."

Both merchants had looked toward Grinsa, gauging his response, fear in their dark eyes. Certain death awaited them back at the sept. Torgan, the older man, with his hulking frame and one eye, had sold cursed baskets in a Fal'Borna settlement on the Silverwater Wash, and hundreds had died. He claimed he hadn't known that the baskets posed any danger to the Qirsi, but under Fal'Borna law he was responsible for their deaths. Jasha had done nothing, but the law of the plain was merciless and unyielding. Because he traveled with Torgan, he too was held responsible.

Grinsa had argued for both men's lives and that, in large part, was why they were out here now, searching for the Mettai woman. But that wasn't the reason Grinsa replied as he did. He had far more at stake than merely his sense of justice and his desire to save the lives of two innocent Eandi. He and Cresenne wished only to leave the Fal'Borna, to find another Qirsi clan among whom they might make a new life for themselves and their daughter. N'Menua, the a'laq, had made it clear that only if Grinsa found the Mettai witch and killed her would he and his family be allowed to leave. Otherwise they would live out the rest of their days as Fal'Borna, which meant, among other things, that Grinsa would have to marry a Weaver, for though he considered Cresenne his wife, their joining was not recognized under Fal'Borna law, which required that Weavers be joined to other Weavers.