Grinsa shook his head and laughed. "The Mettai woman is dead. Besh and I found a way to defeat the plague, and Besh went so far as to make the cure contagious, so that soon every man and woman in your sept will be immune. You're the only man in the Southlands who could look at all this and conclude that we failed."

"What about the merchants?"

"The merchants are no longer your problem," Grinsa said. "As I told you, Jasha is dead. And Torgan is alone on the plain. You've met the man. How long do you think he can last on his own? He'll be killed by a Fal'Borna war party long before he reaches the Silverwater."

E'Menua stared at the fire ring. Whatever flames had burned there had long since burned out, but the embers still glowed faintly, and a thread of smoke rose from them, undulating each time one of them exhaled.

"I don't want those Mettai in my sept. We're at war with their kind. You shouldn't have brought them here."

"Those Mettai saved my life and Q'Daer's. And if we spread their new spell quickly enough, we can protect every Qirsi on the plain from the plague. Your sept will forever be remembered as the one that saved the Fal'Borna nation."

At that, E'Menua looked up. Grinsa felt him test his magic. He did it lightly, as if hoping that Grinsa wouldn't notice. The Forelander grinned, to show E'Menua that he had.

"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.