When he could no longer see the shelters or the dim glow of the fires, he remounted and rode on.
He rested a few times, but still managed to cover another two leagues or so before the sky in front of him began to brighten with the approach of dawn. Then, as he had each of the last several nights, he began to search for a place to bed down for the day. There were few copses in the central plain, but the closer he came to the Silverwater, the more he found. On this morning he found a small, dense cluster of trees along a rill that fed into the stream he'd been following. He dismounted, walked Trey to the center of the copse, and pulled out his sleeping roll.
Before lying down, he ate a small bit of dried meat and the last of his hard cheese. He'd left the company in a rush. Grinsa and Q'Daer were sickened but alive, and the two Mettai would have used their magic against him if he'd given them the chance. So Torgan had been forced to flee without much food in his travel sack. He'd managed to salt away a bit during their journeying, but he hadn't expected that he would wind up alone on the plain. Thus far he had rationed what little he had, and supplemented it with roots that he found along the way. At this point he would have paid handsomely for some meat, if only he had some gold and somewhere to spend it. But he wasn't starving, and he actually felt himself growing leaner.
"All part of the new Torgan," he muttered to himself.
Trey shook his head and snorted.
Torgan lay down, wrapped himself in a blanket, and soon fell into a deep slumber. He awoke once to the sound of hoofbeats when the sun was high overhead. He heard no voices, though, and the footfalls sounded relatively light. He assumed that a herd of rilda had gone past. In moments he was asleep again.
When next he woke, the sky had begun to darken and a cold wind had risen from the west. Was his mind playing tricks on him, or did he smell a hint of smoke riding that wind? Torgan threw off his blankets, hurried out of the copse, and scrambled up the bank of the rill back onto the plain. Looking westward, back the way he had come, he saw several small smudges of smoke rising from the ground. The sept? Had he actually managed to spread the Mettai woman's plague to that small settlement?
He shivered, blaming it on the wind. Then he returned to the copse, packed up his sleeping roll, and ate a few more bites of dried meat. When the sun had set, and Torgan thought it was dark enough, he led Trey out of the trees and resumed his ride toward the Silverwater.
Over the course of the next two nights, Torgan encountered no more septs, and while he would have been willing to use another piece of the cursed basket against another settlement, a part of him was relieved that he didn't have to. He'd come too close to being found by the Fal'Borna sentries that night. He didn't want to take such risks again.
On the third night after his foray into the settlement, he woke in yet another copse, ate a small meal, and began to ride just as he had the previous nights. The sky had clouded over and a light snow had begun to fall. There was little wind, and the air was cold, but not frigid. Torgan's spirits were high-he liked snow, and though he knew he was still in danger, he knew as well that he'd covered much ground since leaving the company. He sensed that he was drawing nigh to the Silverwater.
With the sky clouded over, he couldn't navigate as he had in recent nights, nor could he see as well. He tried to keep Trey on a straight path toward what he thought was east. Eventually the moons would rise, and even through the clouds he'd be able to see their glow. Then he'd be certain. "The moons won't be up tonight."
He reined Trey to a halt and looked around wildly, his pulse abruptly racing.
"Who said that?" he called.
He saw no one, and when he received no answer he started to wonder if he'd been imagining things. Maybe he'd spoken the words himself without realizing it. It did occur to him now that it must have been late in the waning.
This might well be Pitch Night, the last of the turn, when neither moon would rise.
If so, the morning would bring a new turn-the Celebration Moon, the last turn of the moons of this year.
Torgan looked around for another moment before clicking his tongue at Trey. The beast started forward once more.
"If tomorrow begins the Celebration Moon, then what does that make tonight?"
Torgan stopped again, his hands shaking.
"Who's there?" he shouted. He tried to sound angry, but even he could hear the fright in his voice.
"A friend," came the reply. And then laughter. Not of one voice, but of dozens.
Had the Fal'Borna found him? Was he surrounded by warriors here in the dark of the plain?
He considered spurring his horse to a gallop in an attempt to get away. He couldn't ride as well as the Fal'Borna, but Trey was a strong animal and had been trained by the clanspeople. It might work.
"You can't escape us."
Three times the voice had done that, but only now did Torgan take note. They were reading his thoughts. Yes, it had to be the Qirsi. Who else could do that?
"Let me show you."
Suddenly the grass around him seemed to be gleaming, as if some magical mist were rising from the ground. At first the light was soft, silvery, diffuse, like Panya's glow seeping through clouds on a hazy Planting night. But it hardened quickly, growing brighter, taking form.
Wraiths. A horde of them.
And at the fore, surrounded by men and women who clearly were Qirsi, their long white hair radiant, nearly blinding, stood Jasha Ziffel. His eyes glittered like white gems and his head was tilted to the side, as if he were a child asking a question of his father.
The wraith gestured at his neck. "You did this," he said.
Torgan shook his head. "I'm dreaming. You're not real."
"You've forgotten what day it is, Torgan. You've forgotten your moon lore."
The realization stole his breath. If the turn of the Celebration Moon began with the morrow, then this was Pitch Night of the Memory Moon. Some in the north and beyond the Border Mountains in the Forelands called it Bian's Moon. The dead walked the land this night. The wronged dead. They haunted those who had caused their deaths or tormented them during their lives.
He should have expected to see Jasha, and Grinsa and Q'Daer as well. But who were these others?
"What are these people doing here with you?" Torgan narrowed his eyes. "Are they from S'Plaed's sept? Or C'Bijor's Neck? I didn't do anything wrong to them! At that point I didn't know that the baskets were cursed!"
"They're not from S'Plaed's sept or the Neck," Jasha's wraith said. "They're from Q'Rohn's sept."
Torgan frowned. "I've never-"
"Three nights ago," one of the Qirsi said, his voice like an icy wind. "You poisoned our grain, spread the plague through our village. Twenty-seven died. We're fortunate it wasn't more."
Torgan said nothing. He sat his mount, staring at the dead-at his dead-until at last his gaze came to rest once more on Jasha.
"Where are the two white-hairs? The Forelander and the Fal'Borna?" Jasha shrugged. "They're not dead."
"What? That's impossible! I gave them the plague. Q'Daer was dying. Grinsa was starting to get sick. I saw them!"
"They're not dead," the wraith said again, with maddening equanimity.
It made no sense. They had to be dead. But clearly they weren't here.
"So what is it you want of me?" Torgan asked. He glanced at the Fal'Borna wraiths again, but quickly turned back to Jasha. For some reason he couldn't bring himself to look into the eyes of those other dead. For better or worse, he had known Jasha. For a brief time they might even have been friends, although he wasn't sure that the young merchant-
"We were never friends," Jasha said coldly. "I don't think you've ever had a friend."
"Stop doing that," Torgan said.