The hatred that divided Qirsi from Eandi was as old as Qirsar and Ean, the gods who had created the people of this land. The two gods-who were both brothers and rivals-had instilled in the people their enmity for each other. Eandi fear of Qirsi magic was rooted in the earth, like the mountains of Aelea and the woodlands of Tordjanne. The Qirsi's contempt for the Eandi was as fundamental to life on this plain as water and air. The Blood Wars had been over for a century, but the truce that followed had done nothing to change the way white-hairs and dark-eyes regarded one another.

But during the last century of the old wars, the Qirsi had beaten the Eandi armies in battle after battle. They'd taken the fertile land of the Horn, pushing the warriors of Stelpana back across the Thraedes. And then they'd gradually taken the Central Plain as well, forcing the Eandi to cede more territory, until at last the white-hairs held everything west of the Silverwater.

Now, according to this man before him, the Eandi were planning an attack. It made no sense. Or did it?

"They've allied themselves with the Mettai?" he asked. "You're sure of this?"

The Fal'Borna bristled. "You think I'm lying?"

"No, of course not. I just…" He shook his head. "I don't understand why they'd do this."

"Your kind hate us. Isn't that enough?"

But it wasn't enough. Yes, the Eandi of the sovereignties hated the Qirsi, and they hated the Fal'Borna most of all. But to send thousands of men to their deaths…

They must have believed they had a chance to succeed. Was the magic of the Mettai that powerful? Could it win this new war for them?

"Step away from your cart, dark-eye. Unless you want to burn with your baskets and the rest of your wares."

It hit him like a fist to the stomach, stealing his wind, nearly making him gag. Young Red's baskets. That was why the Eandi were attacking now. From the way the merchants at H'Nivar spoke of this white-hair plague, Stain gathered that it was sweeping across the land, destroying septs and villages just as it had those he visited.

"Move, dark-eye!" the Fal'Borna barked at him.

Stam staggered forward, away from his cart. After just a few steps, though, he stopped. "Wait. My gold."

"Your gold will burn along with everything else. The fires we conjure spare nothing."

"But that's all I have. How will I live?"

The man regarded him, the look in his eyes so cold it made Stam shudder. "You won't," he said.

Stam felt his legs give way. If it hadn't been for the Fal'Borna warrior beside him, who grabbed him by the arm, he would have fallen to the ground. "I don't deserve to die," he said. "I'm just a merchant."

"You're an Eandi, and your people are about to invade our lands. You've just crossed the Silverwater carrying baskets that you know will kill us. You truly expect us to spare your life?"

"I didn't."

The man narrowed his eyes. "You didn't what?"

Stam straightened and pulled his arm free of the warrior's grip. If he was going to be executed, he'd die with his pride intact. He wouldn't let the white-hairs hold him up, and he wouldn't be killed with a lie on his lips.

"I didn't just cross the Silverwater. I lied to you."

"What do you mean?" the Fal'Borna demanded. "Why would you lie about such a thing?"

Stam actually laughed. "I thought I was saving my life."

The man stared hack at him, a stony expression on his square face.

"I've been trading on the plain for nearly half the year. The last time I was in one of the sovereignties, the Growing hadn't even begun. I lied to you because I sold baskets in two villages that were then struck by the wh-" He winced at what he'd almost said. "By this pestilence that's killing your people."

The Fal'Borna glared at him. "If you're arguing for your life-"

"I'm not. I'm simply telling you the truth. I didn't know what the baskets would do. It took the second outbreak of the pestilence for me to begin to understand, and even then I needed to hear other merchants speaking of it in H'Nivar before I finally made the connection."

"When was this?"

"A few days ago. I've been trying to reach the Silverwater ever since." The man shook his head. "But this morning-"

"This morning I sensed that you were near, so I turned around and pretended to be driving onto the plain instead of leaving it. If I had known that war was coming…" Stam shook his head. "I don't know what I would have done, but I wouldn't have bothered with this deception."

"You know that we still intend to kill you."

Stam nodded, taking a long, unsteady breath. He wasn't ready to die. Then again, he wasn't sure he ever would be. His had been a good life. Suddenly his eyes were filled with tears.

The Fal'Borna eyed him briefly. Then he faced Stam's cart. An instant later the cart burst into flames, the wood popping violently, the cloth that covered his wares turning black and curling like a dry leaf. Wislo had been led away from the cart, but still he reared when it caught fire.

Stam was surprised by how little smoke there was. The Fal'Borna was right: Qirsi fire burned everything.

"There are more baskets, you know," Stam said, staring at the blaze. "I wasn't the only merchant who bought them."

"We know that. We'll find the others."

"And you'll kill those merchants, too?"

"We're at war," the Qirsi said, as if the answer was obvious. "The Fal'Borna won the plain by showing no mercy to our enemies. We'll defend our land the same way."

"We're merchants, for pity's sake! We didn't intend-"

"Enough," the man said. He didn't raise his voice, but he didn't have to. "Your death will be quicker than those of the Fal'Borna you sickened with your baskets. Think of that as you go to Bian's realm."

Stam wanted to be brave, to die well, as he had heard soldiers phrase it. But he couldn't help the sob that escaped him in that moment.

Abruptly he felt pressure building on the bone in his neck. He tensed, opened his mouth to scream. But no sound passed his lips. Instead he heard, as clear as a sanctuary bell, the snapping of bone. And all was darkness.

Tirnya Onjaef had done everything in her power to make certain that the army of Qalsyn reached the Silverwater Wash by this day. It had been her idea to attack the Fal'Borna. She had recognized the spread of the white-hair plague across the Central Plain for what it was: a unique opportunity to win back for the people of Stelpana the lands lost to the Qirsi during the Blood Wars, and to reclaim for her family its ancestral home of Deraqor. She had persuaded her father, Jenoe, a marshal in the Qalsyn army, to use his considerable influence to push for this invasion. And it had also been her idea to propose an alliance with the Mettai, the Eandi sorcerers of the north. This strategy finally convinced His Lordship, Maisaak Tolm, Qalsyn's lord governor, to let them march.

This was to be her war. When at last the armies of Stelpana defeated the Fal'Borna and reestablished the Central Plain as Eandi territory, the lion's share of the glory would be hers as well. She stood on the cusp of history And never in her life had she been so bored.

They'd been camped along this shallow stretch of the wash for two days, awaiting the arrival of the army from Fairlea, the largest city in northern Stelpana. This was one of two armies Stelpana's sovereign had sent to supplement the force that marched from Qalsyn under the command of Tirnya's father. The other army, from the southern city of Waterstone, had arrived the same day as Jenoe's soldiers.

Tirnya had never been patient. Her father still told anyone who would listen the story of the first year she attended Qalsyn's famed Harvest Battle Tournament. She was three years old at the time and already headstrong. Sitting with her mother and hundreds of spectators, waiting for the first match to begin, she had finally grown so irritated that she stood on her seat and screamed as loud as she could, "When is someone going to fight?" Even His Lordship had laughed, though he was a thoroughly humorless man who despised Tirnya's father.