"Yes, Your Lordship."
"Tournament's over now. It's time we got back to more serious matters." Ile seemed to direct this at his son, but he hardly looked at Enly at all. "I'm off to bed. I'd suggest the rest of you do the same."
"Good night, Your Lordship," Stri said.
Maisaak left the tavern with Enly in tow, but Tirnya hardly noticed. Pestilence in white-hair lands…
"You fought well today."
Tirnya looked up. Stri still stood beside her, his eyes shining in the lamplight.
"Thank you."
"Your father was pleased, as much by what you didn't do as by what you did, if you follow."
"I do," she said. "Thank you."
Stri was usually quiet. So much so, that many of the men in her command thought him proud and superior. She knew better. He simply was not given to idle chatter. But since becoming one of Jenoe's captains, he had become a fixture in the Onjaef home, where he was as garrulous as Tirnya's younger brothers. He was a large man, with a broad, plain face and dark eyes. His light brown hair was long and straight, and though he was muscular, he looked soft, his shoulders rounded, his head slightly bowed, as if he were afraid of humping it on the top of every doorway. Early on, he had doted on Tirnya, as if taken with her. But as time went on, and he came to accept that she didn't return his affection, the two of them settled into a comfortable friendship. He was now more like a big brother than a friend, and she trusted him as she did few other people.
"You probably don't want to talk about the matches anymore, do you?"
She smiled and shook her head. "Not really, no."
"Fair enough." He gestured at the door with a large hand. "I'll walk you home."
Tirnya nodded, but didn't move. "What do you know about this pestilence His Lordship mentioned?"
"Not a lot," he said. "A peddler mentioned it to me two or three days ago. Three, it was. And then I heard talk of it again today from one of the other combatants. A swordsman from western Stelpana."
"Do you know where it's struck?"
"Well east of the Horn, it sounds like. Not near Deraqor, not yet at least, if that's what you're wondering."
It was. The Qirsi had renamed Deraqor D'Raqor, as was their way. Tirnya had never seen the city, though to this day it was said to be one of the most beautiful and impressive of all the cities on the northern rivers. But like her father, and his father before him, Tirnya still thought of Deraqor as her family's home. Though she knew no one who lived there, and cared not a whit if every Qirsi on the plain died tomorrow, she was oddly relieved to know that the pestilence had not struck there. She was tied to the place, as were all Onjaefs. One day, she had sworn long ago, the Onjaefs would take back Deraqor for the Eandi. Yes, there was peace between the races, and no one wished to return to the terrible days of the Blood Wars. But by the same token, Deraqor was theirs; it belonged to the Eandi and it was meant to be ruled by her family.
"Did they know people who were sickened by it?" Tirnya finally asked.
"Who?"
"The peddler you mentioned, and the swordsman."
He shook his head. "Not that I know of. It seems from what they told me that it's mostly white-hairs who've been getting sick."
She tried to muster some sympathy for them. They were people after all, and she knew, mostly from tales told to her by her father and by other soldiers, how horrible the pestilence could be. No one should have had to endure such suffering. But her heart seemed suddenly to have turned to stone. What did it say about her that she couldn't bring herself to feel anything?
"I guess that's too had for them," she said, feeling that she had to say something.
"You hate them very much, don't you?"
She looked at him, hearing something in his voice. "Don't you?"
"Not really."
"But the wars…" Tirnya trailed off, not quite certain what she had intended to say.
"I never fought in the wars."
She frowned, then shook her head. "No, of course not." She started to say more, but stopped herself. She felt herself growing angry with him, and for the life of her she didn't know why. Unlike so many men under her father's command, Stri had no ties to Deraqor. He had come to Qalsyn from the south, near the Ofirean; his family had never lived in the western lands now held by the Fal'Borna. Deraqor probably meant nothing to him. It was just one of many cities taken by the white-hairs.
But for Tirnya, who had been brought up on tales of her family's former glory, and for others whose ancestors fought and died in the battles for the I Torn, Deraqor was both a wound that never healed, and a name that carried within it the promise of redemption.
Stri should have known that. Or was she being unreasonable?
"Come along, Captain," he said, starting toward the door. "It's late and this has been a long day for all of us."
She followed him out of the tavern, lost in thought. Stri didn't say much as they walked. He might have commented on how clear a night it was, and how fine the crop fields outside the city looked, but that was all. He seemed to understand that Tirnya was barely listening. When they reached the home she still shared with her family, however, he turned to face her.
"Did I say something wrong?" he asked. "You've been very quiet."
She made herself smile. "No, I'm just… I'm tired."
"You're certain?" He was frowning, the light of the two moons shining on his face.
"Yes." She touched his arm lightly. "Thank you, Stri. I'll see you in the morning."
"All right." He started to walk away. "You fought well today. Your father was very proud."
She nodded and forced another smile. But the cut on her cheek burned like a brand.
Chapter 3
S'VRALNA, NEAR THE THRAEDES RIVER
The cold winds of the Harvest had come early to the plain, carrying with them steel grey skies and bands of hard rain that could soak through the thickest woolen wraps in mere moments. Even during the warmest, most pleasant days of the Growing, when soft breezes stirred the grasses and wildflowers bloomed on the hillsides in more shades of red, purple, orange, and yellow than one could imagine, these were inhospitable lands. Few trees grew among the boulders and grasses, and when the days turned hot, travelers found little shelter from the Growing sun. The Growing storms, when they struck, were harsh, violent affairs: hail, wind, lightning that seemed to make the air crackle, and thunder that could cause the mightiest warriors to cringe.
But only when those warm days gave way to the Harvest, with its drenching rains and merciless gales, did the weather on the plain begin to bare its teeth. And yet even the Harvest was mild when compared with the cruelty of the Snows. Judging from this year's rains, it seemed that the cold turns ahead would be truly monstrous.
For Lariqenne Glyse, these lands were doubly dangerous. Apart from the climate and the terrain, she had to contend with the hostility of nearly every man and woman she encountered. Such was the fate of an Eandi merchant looking to make her gold in Fal'Borna lands. The Qirsi warriors of the plain were among the most fearsome of all the white-hairs of the Southlands, and they were second to none in their hatred of the Eandi. Yes, Lariqenne-Lark, as she was known-was a merchant, and of all the people of the sovereignties, traders were most accepted by the sorcerer race. But still, her arrival in a Fal'Borna sept never failed to cause a stir. It didn't help matters that she was a woman. The Fal'Borna of the plain were strictly patriarchal-women were expected to serve their men in all ways imaginable. This made haggling with Qirsi men over the price of her wares interesting, to say the least.