They started out slowly, allowing Besh and Sirj to accustom themselves to riding. Besh sat in front and held the reins; Sirj gripped the back edge of the saddle so tightly that his knuckles turned white. But after a short while they seemed to grow more comfortable, as did the horse. The nag followed behind the others, her tail swinging slowly from side to side, as if she was pleased to have shed her burden.
They rested three or four times during the course of the day, and after the second stop, Sirj actually sat in front of Besh. By the time they halted for the night, both Mettai appeared at least somewhat at ease sitting their horse. Besh moved stiffly after dismounting, but that would pass in a few days. Grinsa wasn't convinced that they had gained much on this day by leaving the cart behind, but he had no doubt that they would be able to ride faster in coming days. Even Q'Daer seemed in better spirits than he had in some time.
As darkness fell, however, and the four men walked through a small copse gathering wood for a fire, Q'Daer, who was a short distance from Grinsa, suddenly looked up, alarm on his face.
"Do you hear that?" he said.
Grinsa shook his head. "What-?"
Q'Daer silenced him with a raised hand.
The Mettai were ahead of them, and a moment later Sirj called out, "Riders! From the north!"
"Damn," Grinsa muttered. "Fal'Borna?"
Q'Daer looked at him bleakly. "Or Eandi warriors."
Grinsa and the Fal'Borna started back toward their camp, where they'd left their horses. After a few strides they broke into a run.
The men were almost upon them by the time they reached their animals. Sirj got there a moment later. Besh was some distance behind him. He was jogging, and Grinsa could hear him gasping for breath.
"Besh?" Grinsa called.
"I'm all right. Worry about them, not me."
Grinsa nodded and turned to face the riders. There were two dozen of them, perhaps more, all of them with long white hair that they wore tied back from their faces. Fal'Borna. Grinsa supposed he should have been relieved that it wasn't an Eandi army, but at that moment he wasn't certain that they were much better off facing a Qirsi force.
Sirj reached for his blade, probably to cut the back of his hand and ready himself to conjure. Grinsa reached out and stopped him, drawing a nod from Q'Daer.
"He's right," the young Fal'Borna said. "Not yet. We don't want to draw attention to the fact that you're Mettai if we don't have to."
Grinsa reached forth with his magic to determine the abilities of the approaching warriors. "The man leading them is a Weaver," he said in a low voice.
"Yes," Q'Daer said. "But he's the only one."
They had several shapers in their company as well, and more than a dozen men who could wield fire magic. If this came to a fight, Grinsa and Q'Daer would be at a disadvantage.
Besh reached them at last and took his place beside Sirj. "We should have our knives out," he said.
Q'Daer looked at him as if he were a fool. "Only if you wish to convince them beyond any doubt that you're Mettai."
"Look at us," the old man said. "Look at our eyes, our skin, Sirj's hair. What else could we be but Mettai?"
"No knives yet," Q'Daer said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
A moment later the leader of the riders reined his mount to a halt a few fourspans from where they stood. His warriors spread themselves in an arcing line so that in a matter of moments Grinsa, Q'Daer, and the Mettai were nearly surrounded. The Fal'Borna held their spears ready, and Grinsa sensed that all of them were prepared to use their magic at a moment's notice.
"Who are you?" the leader demanded, eyeing each of the four men. "What are you doing here?" He was powerfully built, as all Fal'Borna men seemed to be. His face was round, his cheeks full, as if he was still more boy than man. But there was a confident look in his bright yellow eyes, and Grinsa had no doubt that he would prove a formidable foe if it came to a fight.
"My name is Q'Daer. I'm a Weaver in the sept of E'Menua, son of E'Sedt. With me is Grinsa, a Weaver from the Forelands who has joined our sept."
Grinsa wasn't sure he agreed with the characterization, but this didn't seem like the time to quibble.
"And who are you, friend?" Q'Daer asked.
"I am B'Vril. My father is S'Bahn, a'laq of my sept."
Q'Daer nodded. "I know of S'Bahn. E'Menua considers him a friend, and speaks often of his strength and the many Weavers he commands."
"And all who live on this plain know of E'Menua's wisdom and might." He looked at Besh and Sirj. "Are these men your prisoners then, Q'Daer?"
"They're our companions," Grinsa answered before the young Weaver could say anything.
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."