"That's it!" Grinsa said. "Don't you see?"
Besh shook his head, wondering if the fever had robbed the Forelander of his senses.
"How would that-?"
"Think for a moment, Besh," the man said. "You can't defeat her spell. You can't undo it. But maybe you can create a second spell that has the opposite effect. It doesn't have to destroy hers. It might just be enough to… I don't know, to guard us from her spell. To cover hers, as it were."
Besh considered this for several moments, his brow furrowed.
"Could that work?" Sirj asked.
"I don't know. It would take more than a simple conjuring-eight parts rather than four, I would think. But it might work."
Q'Daer shouted out again. Besh heard the horses whinny and stomp. A moment later he began to hear the howling of wolves and the cries of a wildcat. Owls called to one another. It seemed all the darkness had come alive.
"Language of beasts," Grinsa said. "You have to try it, Besh. Q'Daer will be dead before long. And then it'll be my turn."
Besh nodded. He looked down at the back of his hand, which was scored with fresh, raw scars. Usually the cuts a Mettai made for conjurings didn't hurt, but his hand had begun to throb. What choice did he have, though, but to cut himself yet again? He reached for another handful of dirt.
"Blood to earth," he said. "Life to power, power to thought, earth to mist, mist to magic, magic to plague, plague to shield, shield to Qirsi!" With this last he flung the mud from his hand, watching as it changed to that familiar mist and fell over Grinsa. Once more, the green flame around the Forelander flickered, but that was all. It didn't go out or even dim. From what Besh could see, it didn't change at all.
"Damn!" he said. "Damn! Damn! Damn!"
He had allowed himself to hope that this might work, that perhaps the Forelander had hit upon the one approach that would defeat Lici's evil spell. He should have known better. He looked away, staring off into the darkness. The owls still called to one another; the wolves continued to howl.
What had become of his people? This Mettai curse that couldn't be defeated was sweeping across the land, killing indiscriminately. Mettai soldiers were marching to war with the Eandi, bringing a new Blood War to the Southlands. Everywhere, it seemed, people were in peril, all because of blood magic. Throughout his life, Besh had known how the Eandi and the Qirsi thought of his people. But he had lived his life-a good life, filled with love, marked by loss, to be sure, but happy nevertheless. He had never allowed the prejudice of others to touch him. He had never been ashamed to be Mettai. Until now.
Lici had done all of this. One old woman, bent on vengeance, had brought war and suffering to all the land. She might have intended her curse for the Y'Qatt, but the damage she had done to her own people was far greater than any injury she had dealt the white-hairs. The Mettai had been feared, even hated, but mostly they had been shunned. Now they might very well be destroyed, all because Lici had been so terribly clever with her magic; all because her curse killed every Qirsi it touched, just as it would soon kill these two good men lying here on the plain.
Enraged, aggrieved, frustrated beyond words, his hand aching, his energy spent, Besh felt a tear slide down his cheek.
"I feel something."
He looked at Grinsa again. The Forelander's eyes were open and he was staring up into the night sky.
"What did you say?"
"I feel… I think it might be working."
Besh leaned closer to him, eager now, daring to hope. "What do you feel?" he whispered
"I don't know. Something. It's… it's changing."
"Besh, look!" Sirj said.
He saw it, too. That sheath of light surrounding the Forelander had indeed started to change color. It was subtle still, a slight lightening of the hue at its base, but there could be no mistaking it. Lici's malevolent green was giving way to a soft, pale yellow, something akin to the color of Grinsa's eyes.
"The fever is lessening," Grinsa said. He actually smiled and turned to look at Besh. "I can feel it leaving my body."
Besh turned to Sirj. "You listened? You heard the spell?"
Sirj nodded. "I think so. Earth, mist, magic, plague, shield, Qirsi." Besh repeated the words to himself. "Yes! That's it!" He nodded toward the Fal'Borna. "Go! Heal him!"
Sirj grinned and then practically leaped across the fire to Q'Daer's side. Besh turned his attention back to Grinsa. The flame around him was now more yellow than green.
"How are you feeling?"
"Weary still, but better. Much better." The Forelander sat up, though clearly it took a great effort. "You did it, Besh. Thank you."
Besh nodded, his relief so great that he wasn't certain whether to laugh or weep. For so long he'd regretted ever coming on this journey and had despaired of doing anything to undo all that Lici had wrought. Yes, he'd killed the woman, exacting a measure of vengeance for those who had perished by her plague, and keeping her from loosing another curse upon the land. But he had feared that her death would be his only success, a dark victory that would have counted for little had Grinsa and Q'Daer died. Now, though..
"Actually," he said, "if it really is working, I've done more than you know."
Grinsa frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
Besh said nothing; he glanced down at his hand and licked away the blood. Then, facing the Forelander again, he smiled.
Chapter 25
E'MENUA'S SEPT, THE CENTRAL PLAIN
Cresenne knew as soon as the dream began that it was Grinsa, stepping into her dreams as only a Weaver could. She found herself standing on the familiar moorland where she had dreamed of him so many times before, and she turned a quick circle, searching for him.
Seeing nothing, she felt fear grip her heart.
"Grinsa?" she called, taking hold of her magic to ward herself in case some other Weaver had come, intending to do her harm.
But an instant later she heard her beloved's voice.
"It's me," he said. "It's all right."
She spotted him then, sitting on the grassy plain. He looked terrible, worse than she had ever seen him. His face looked haggard and deathly pale.
Cresenne ran to him and dropped to her knees. "What's happened?" she asked, panic rising within her like a storm tide. "Are you all right?"
He smiled and nodded, looking so terribly weak. "Yes. I'm fine now. I was sick."
"Sick? What kind…?" Her eyes widened. "You mean the plague, don't you?"
"Yes."
"But how-?"
The smile returned. "Besh healed me. He and Sirj healed both of us, actually. Q'Daer had it, too. But Besh created a spell that defeated Lici's curse."
"Gods be praised." She put her arms around him and kissed his forehead. "It's still spreading though, isn't it?"
"In a way, yes." He told her about Torgan and the scrap of basket the merchant had used against Q'Daer.
"After all you've risked for him," she said, shaking her head. "Forgive me for saying this, Grinsa, but a man like that-he doesn't deserve to live."
"I'm inclined to agree with you. Q'Daer would like nothing more than to kill him with his bare hands."
"He should."
"He can't," Grinsa said. "Torgan's gone. He killed Jasha, and he left. He still has that scrap of basket."
"Demons and fire. So it's still out there. Even if the plague has run its course, he's still got a way of spreading it."
Grinsa nodded. But then he smiled. "You're safe, though."
"None of us is safe, Grinsa."
"Actually," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her brow, "you are now. Besh was very clever with his spell. He made it contagious, just like Lici did. By touching your magic with mine, I've made you immune. You can do the same for Bryntelle. Touch her with your healing magic. That should do it. Q'Daer is speaking with E'Menua right now. Soon everyone in the sept will be safe."