B'Vril regarded him briefly. Then he faced Q'Daer again. "You had a cart. We found the remains of it earlier today and followed your tracks to here. Why did you leave it behind?"

"It was slowing us down," Q'Daer told him. "War is coming, and I'm eager-we are eager-to rejoin our a'laq and ready ourselves for battle."

"I can't help noticing that your companions…" He paused, his eyes flicking toward Grinsa for an instant. "Look Mettai."

"They are," Q'Daer said, holding his head high. "They have been declared friends of our people by F'Ghara, a'laq of a sept to the east."

"We know F'Ghara," B'Vril said coldly. "His sept is small, and he has no Weavers other than his daughters."

"That doesn't change the fact that he gave these men his stone."

As if anticipating what Q'Daer had intended to say, Besh was already holding up the necklace that F'Ghara had given him and Sirj as a token of friendship. It was a simple necklace, much like the ones Q'Daer and B'Vril both wore at their throats. It consisted of a thin black cord from which hung a single white stone.

"So you're telling me," B'Vril said, after barely glancing at the necklace, "that you left that cart back there because you're so eager to ride into battle, and yet you ride alongside those who would make war against us and steal our lands."

"These men killed the Mettai witch responsible for the plague that's been sickening the Fal'Borna," Grinsa said. "They've done more to save your people than any Qirsi warrior on this plain."

"You mean 'our people,' " B'Vril said, glaring at him.

Grinsa winced slightly, but held the man's gaze. "Yes, you're right. That is what I meant. I've only been in the Southlands for a few turns; this is all still very new to me."

B'Vril turned back to Q'Daer. "I don't know what to believe. You tell me that you and your company are returning to your sept, that you wish to fight the invaders. And yet from all that I see, you seem more like traitors than warriors. You ride with the Mettai, and this…" He gestured toward Grinsa with his chin, "this Forelander."

Grinsa expected Q'Daer to bristle at being called a traitor, but to the young Weaver's credit, he kept his temper in check.

"I'd think the same thing if I were in your place," he said. "And I can't offer any proof that we're telling you the truth. You're just going to have to trust us."

B'Vril shook his head. "I don't."

Q'Daer's expression hardened. Apparently his forbearance only went so far. "Suit yourselves. But one way or another, I think it's time you and your men were leaving."

The other man's laugh was harsh and abrupt. "How do you intend to make us go, Q'Daer? Do you have an army hidden somewhere nearby?" His soldiers laughed.

"No," Grinsa said. "But we have two Weavers to your one. And we have these two Mettai, as well. We're not your enemies, and Q'Daer is no traitor. But you'd do well to leave now."

"You have much to learn about the Fal'Borna, Forelander."

"And you have much to learn about magic." He glanced at Q'Daer. "I'll handle the Weaver," he said. "I've some experience with men like him. You control the others. Don't let them do anything."

Q'Daer nodded, tight-lipped, his eyes watchful.

"Besh," Grinsa went on, "I seem to remember you using a spell in S'Vralna that drove off some men who were trying to hurt you. Do you remember?"

"Yes, I remember. I used that spell against Lici, too."

Out of the corner of his eye, Grinsa saw both Mettai men reach for their knives. He knew that the Fal'Borna would try to shatter their blades with shaping magic; that was what he would have done in their position. But he was ready for them. B'Vril, he sensed, had already readied his magic and was aiming his shaping power at Besh's knife. Grinsa reached out with his own magic and took hold of the Weaver's power.

B'Vril's eyes snapped to his. Grinsa could feel him fighting to use his magic, to free himself from Grinsa's control. But Grinsa had done this before. While still in the Forelands he had led an army of Qirsi against the renegade Weaver who sought to rule all the seven realms. That Weaver had been stronger by far than this man. And in the end Grinsa had won.

Shaping. Fire. Mists and winds. Language of beasts. Shaping, again. Even healing and delusion. B'Vril tried every magic at his disposal. And each time he reached for a new one, Grinsa was there to stop him.

Grinsa heard Besh speaking in a low voice-he was conjuring. "Wait, Besh," he said.

He knew that the old man had turned to look at him, but Grinsa didn't look away from the Fal'Borna rider. Finally, B'Vril let out a roar of frustration.

"Do something!" he yelled at his men. "Use your magic!"

"We can't!" said one of the other warriors. "The Fal'Borna won't let us."

"Damn you!" B'Vril said, glaring at Grinsa.

But Grinsa hadn't finished with him yet. Thus far, all he'd done was keep the man from attacking them. Now, he took hold of B'Vril's shaping power and slowly began to squeeze the man's skull, as if he intended to shatter the bone.

Suddenly the Fal'Borna stopped grappling for control of his various magics and instead fought desperately to expel Grinsa from his mind.

"You feel what I'm doing to you?" Grinsa asked the man.

B'Vril nodded, wide-eyed, his mouth agape.

"You understand that I could kill you with a thought?"

He nodded a second time.

Grinsa eased the pressure on the man's head, but he didn't release his magic.

"Who are you?" the man asked, still regarding Grinsa the way he might a demon from Bian's realm.

"Just a Weaver, like you," Grinsa said. "And believe it or not, I'm a friend."

B'Vril merely stared back at him.

"If Q'Daer was a traitor-if I was in league with the Eandi who are marching against your people-we'd have killed you all by now. There's nothing stopping us."

"What was it the Mettai were going to do?"

Grinsa hesitated, but only for an instant. If it turned out that they still had to fight these men, he felt confident that Besh and Sirj could think of another way to attack them. He nodded to Besh.

Besh cut the back of his hand with his knife, caught the welling blood on the flat of the blade, and mixed it with the earth he already held. He spoke a few words as he did this, though he kept his voice so low that Grinsa couldn't make them out. The dark mud in his palm began to swirl and as it did Besh threw it straight up into the air. Before their eyes, the mud appeared to fracture into a hundred pieces. An instant later, each of those clumps of dirt had begun to buzz, so that the air around them was filled with the sound.

"Hornets?" B'Vril whispered, staring at the cloud of insects.

The insects circled over them once and streamed away toward the nearby wood.

"Hornets," Besh said, grinning.

B'Vril stared at him. After a moment he began to laugh. "You were going to attack us with hornets?"

"It would have worked," Sirj said, sounding angry.

"I don't doubt it," the Fal'Borna said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "But I was expecting you to try to kill us. And you were going to use hornets." He looked at Grinsa again. "You can release my magic, Forelander. I believe you now."

The other warrior looked at his leader, clearly puzzled. "Weaver?" he said. "It's all right. Lower your weapons."

"Now it's my turn," Grinsa told him. "I'm not sure I trust you."

B'Vril threw down his spear, pulled the knife from his belt, and threw that onto the ground as well.

"We both know that your weapons are meaningless in this fight."

"It doesn't matter," Q'Daer said. "If he's laid down his spear, this fight is over. That's our way."

Grinsa and Q'Daer shared a look.

"You can let go of his magic," the young Weaver told him. "There isn't a Fal'Borna alive who would drop his weapon before another Fal'Borna and then attack."