David Coe: The Sorcerer's Plague

"I understand, A'Laq. You want me to make certain he fails."

E'Menua raised a finger, his eyes narrowing. "It's not quite that simple. I want this Mettai witch dead-I fear this curse of hers. But I don't want Grinsa to prove that Torgan and his friend are innocent, and I don't want the Forelander to be able to claim credit for killing the witch." E'Menua's pale eyes shone in the firelight. "I want you to succeed where he fails. Do this and I promise that you will be joined to U'Vara. The failure of your hunt will be forgotten." His expression darkened. "Fail me again, and I'll see to it that you never marry."

There had been nothing for Q'Daer to say but "Yes, A'Laq."

He left the z'kal, and a short time later he led the Forelander and the merchants away from the sept.

They'd ridden a long way this day; it was hard for him to believe that his conversation with E'Menua had taken place only a few hours before. It seemed like days ago.

He didn't know yet how he would do all that the a'laq had asked of him. A part of him simply wanted Grinsa dead. His cheek didn't hurt much anymore, but the humiliation of being struck by the Forelander still burned his heart like a brand. He knew, though, that he couldn't kill the man without incurring E'Menua's wrath. And he had to admit that he looked forward to seeing Grinsa defeated and humiliated in turn, compelled to accept E'Menua's authority over him. He would enjoy seeing Grinsa's woman forced to relinquish her place at his side so that she might become some other Weaver's concubine. He might even claim her as his own. And once he was joined to U'Vara, he would hold a place of honor in the sept, above all Weavers save the a'laq himself. Grinsa would be under his authority as well as E'Menua's. Then the man would pay for what he had done, not all at once, but a thousand times each day for a thousand days and more. Q'Daer would enjoy that immensely.

Rain and wind, grey skies at dawn and dusk, starless, moonless ights. In the days since leaving Kirayde, this was all Besh and Sirj had known. Everything they carried with them was wet-their clothes, their sleeping rolls, their food. None of it had been spared. It occurred to Besh that the gods might be punishing him for his arrogant belief that he was still young enough to undertake such a trek. You think you can do this? they seemed to be saying. We'll show you how wrong you are.

The two men weren't walking particularly fast. Sirj took the lead each day, and he always set a reasonable pace. No doubt he could have gone faster had he been on his own; it was as though he was reining himself in. And still the old man suffered. It had been too many fours since last he covered such distances on foot. His legs and back ached. His feet were blistered. The slightest incline stole his breath; walking downhill jarred his ancient knees. He was cold and weary all the time.

Sirj was responsible for none of it, of course. He had gone out of his way to carry far more than his share of their food and water, to set a reasonable speed, to take upon himself the labor necessary to gather wood and build fires and cook meals. Yet still, Besh directed all his anger and misery and frustration at the younger man. He couldn't help himself. After just the first day he had come to realize what a fool he'd been, believing that he could have gone in pursuit of Lici on his own. Pyav and Elica had been right: He was too old. Had Sirj not been with him, he might well have perished that first night, when the rains set in and the air turned frigid.

But rather than being grateful, Besh found himself growing resentful. He knew why, of course. The man's mere presence served to remind him of his weakness, of his inability to fend for himself. He was acting like a sullen child, but he couldn't help himself. He barely managed to grunt a thank-you when Sirj returned to their camp with an armful of firewood or when he spooned another helping of stew into Besh's bowl.

For his part, Sirj didn't appear to notice, or if he did, he gave no outward sign of minding. He took Besh's care upon himself, as if it were just another chore among many. He rarely spoke, perhaps knowing that Besh wanted no part of a conversation with him, but occasionally he hummed softly to himself. On those rare occasions when he did say something, he was always respectful and courteous, until this too began to bother the old man. I'm being an ass, he wanted to shout. Why in Bian's name don't you treat me like one?

On this day, they were in open country, cutting across a plain of thick grasses. There had been small clusters of trees by Ravens Wash, and there would be more at the Silverwater, but here there was no shelter from the rain and wind. Besh was shivering with cold again. Still. He realized that he was muttering curses under his breath and he laughed at himself, drawing a backward glance from Sirj.

"Are you all right?" the man asked him.

"No, I'm not all right. I'm cold and wet, and I'm sick to death of being both."

"You want to rest?"

Besh took a long breath and shook his head.

Sirj faced forward again, but a moment later he stopped and swung his travel sack off his shoulders.

"I said I didn't want to stop," Besh said, continuing past him. "And I decided that I did."

Besh kept walking, seething now, not knowing why. Isn't he allowed to rest? Ema's voice. Does he need your permission to have some water or eat a bit of salted meat? What kind of man have you become?

At last he made himself stop and look back at the younger man. Sirj was sitting on a stone a short distance away, lifting a skin to his mouth, his travel sack on the ground at his feet.

"You're certain you don't want any?" he asked, holding out the skin.

Reluctantly, Besh pulled his own sack off his shoulders and lowered it to the ground, though even doing this much felt like surrender. In what war? He isn't fighting you. He pulled out his own skin and drank from it.

"I'll lighten my own load, thank you," he called to Sirj between sips.

Sirj shrugged. "You should eat something, too."

"You're my father now?"

The younger man laughed and shook his head, but at last Besh saw a bit of frustration in his lean face. "Fine," Sirj said. "It was just a suggestion." He muttered something else, which Besh couldn't make out.

"What was that?"

Sirj shook his head a second time. "It was nothing."

"Don't you put me off like that! I heard you say something, and I want to know what it was!"

Sirj returned the food and water to his sack, shouldered the burden again, and started walking in Besh's direction.

"Well?" Besh demanded.

"I said, `Elica was right,' " the man said, stepping past him. "Right about what?"

He didn't answer. Besh packed his water, threw on his sack, and hurried after him.

"Right about what?" he called again.

"I'd told her before we left that I expected you and I would become friends before long. She had warned me that you were nothing but a stubborn old fool, and that no matter how patient I was, you'd never treat me with anything but contempt. But I insisted that she was wrong. Turns out I was."

"So I'm a stubborn old fool, am I?"

Sirj stopped and turned to face him. "Yes. I believe you are."

Besh stopped as well. When Sirj had treated him kindly, Besh had responded with anger. Now that he finally had cause to be angry, he couldn't manage it. After a moment he nodded and looked away. "Well, at least you've finally figured that out."

"What have I ever done to you, Besh?"

He twisted his mouth sourly. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. "You haven't done anything. I'm sorry I've been this way. I'm cold and I'm tired, and I just want to get this over with so we can go back home."