"I'm not certain how to take that."
Cresenne laughed, but a moment later she was sobbing, tears coursing down her smooth cheeks. Immediately, Bryntelle began to cry as well. Grinsa put his arms around Cresenne and kissed the top of her head as she fussed over the baby.
"I don't have to go, Cresenne," he whispered. "There are other ways to get away from here."
But she shook her head. "It's not that. I mean, I don't want you to go, but we'll get through it."
"Then why are you crying?"
She shrugged. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. We came to the Southlands to get away from the fighting and the danger and all the rest. I just wanted to make a life here, and instead we're being forced apart again, just like before."
He stroked her fine hair. "I know. I thought it would be different, too."
She wiped the tears from her eyes impatiently and looked up at him, kissing him gently on the lips. "You should be getting ready to go. I imagine they'll be coming for you soon."
"They can wait, if they have to."
"No. The sooner you get going, the sooner you'll be back." She forced a smile. "We'll be all right." She held up Bryntelle, who had also stopped crying. "See? We're better already." She kissed him again. "Go on. Get ready."
He nodded, though he didn't stand just yet. Instead, he held out a finger to Bryntelle. She took hold of it in her tiny fist and leaned forward, trying to put all of it-his finger and her fist-in her mouth.
"We'll find her quickly," he muttered, staring at the baby. "I swear we will."
Cresenne nodded. "Good."
He forced himself off the pallet, grabbed his travel sack, and began to fill it-a second knife, his flint, a length of rope, a change of clothes, an overshirt, a skin he could use for water.
When he was done, he sat again beside Cresenne, his shoulder touching hers, but neither of them spoke. They watched Bryntelle and they waited. Before long, someone called for him from just outside the z'kal. He and Cresenne shared a look.
"Gods keep you safe and guide you back to us," she whispered. "I love you."
They kissed one last time. Then he stood and left the shelter.
The rain had slackened, but the wind still blew and the sky remained dark and hard as slate.
Q'Daer and the two merchants were already mounted. They had brought Grinsa the great bay he and Cresenne bought in Yorl. He tied his travel sack to the saddle and swung himself onto the mount.
He looked around briefly, expecting to see E'Menua come to see them off. But the rest of the sept seemed to be ignoring them, as if they were strangers, or wraiths.
"We have everything?" Grinsa asked, meeting Q'Daer's gaze.
The young Weaver barely looked at him. "Yes," he said, kicking at the flanks of his grey horse.
Grinsa didn't follow. Instead, he called the man's name, forcing him to halt and wheel his mount.
"It wasn't my idea to have you come along," he said. "It was the a'laq's. If I had my way, I wouldn't be doing this at all, and I certainly wouldn't be riding with you."
Q'Daer stared at him a moment. Then he nodded, and started off again, northward, into that harsh wind and away from the sept. Grinsa and the merchants followed.
For some time, they rode in silence, Q'Daer some distance ahead, Grinsa next, and the two merchants just behind him. Finally, the younger Eandi asked, "Aren't you and the other white-hair afraid that we'll try to escape?"
Grinsa looked back at him. After a moment, he formed an image of fire, and then thrust it into the mind of the man's horse. The beast reared, nearly unseating the merchant, who clung desperately to the reins.
"Language of beasts," Grinsa said, facing forward again. "We both have it. You're welcome to make the attempt, but I assure you, you won't get far."
The merchants dropped back a few paces, falling silent once more. A short time later, though, the older merchant pulled abreast of Grinsa, eyeing him closely.
"Who are you?" the man asked.
"My name's Grinsa jal Arriet."
Torgan shook his head. "That's not a Fal'Borna name. I'm not even sure it's a Southlands name."
"It's not."
"It's true, then. What they said about you in the sept. You're from the Forelands?"
Grinsa glanced at him. After a moment he nodded.
"How did you come to be living with E'Menua's sept?"
"Just lucky, I suppose."
"They don't like you much. Obviously, Q'Daer doesn't. And I don't think the a'laq does, either."
"No, I don't imagine so."
"So why do you stay with them?"
"Is there something you want, Torgan?" Grinsa asked, his patience wearing thin. "Because I'm really in no mood to satisfy your curiosity right now."
"I want to know why you're doing this. My life is in your hands. So is Jasha's. I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you," he went on, sounding anything but contrite, "but I'd like to know a bit about the man who may end up determining whether we live or die."
It seemed a fair point.
"I'm with them because I'm a Weaver," Grinsa said. "They want me to become part of their sept; my wife and I want to move on. If I can find the Mettai woman you've told them about, they'll let us go."
"That's it? This is some kind of test? A way of proving yourself?"
"It's a way of winning our freedom. That may not sound like much to you, but we've come a long way to make a life for ourselves in your land, and we're not willing to let the Fal'Borna destroy that for us."
The merchant didn't look pleased, but he nodded once.
"We're on the same side in this, Torgan. You may not think of me as the perfect ally, and certainly I had no desire to have my fate tied to yours, but we're in this together now, and we'd best make the most of it."
"Yeah," Torgan said, "all right. As you say, we haven't much choice in the matter." He looked Grinsa in the eye. "You argued for our lives when no one else would. I suppose that's worth something."
He dropped back again, allowing the other merchant to catch up with him.
Grinsa continued to ride alone, his eyes fixed on the north horizon. There were hills ahead to the west, and he knew that there were mountains to the north beyond the plain, but he couldn't see them for the rain and clouds. Eventually, Q'Daer halted and waited for the others to catch up with him. He pulled a pouch of food from one of the sacks tied to his saddle, took out a piece of what appeared to be dried meat, and handed the pouch to Grinsa.
"We're cold," Torgan said. "How much longer do you intend to ride in this weather?"
Q'Daer smiled, though there was no warmth in his pale eyes. "As long as this weather lasts," he said. "And then we'll have some other weather to ride in."
"We've a couple of hours left before sunset," Grinsa said, biting into a piece of meat. It was good-better than he'd expected. "We'll ride until it starts to get dark."
He handed the food to Torgan.
The merchant shook his head. "We should stop before then. We'll need time to set up some kind of shelter and find wood for a fire."
Of course. The longer this took, the longer the merchants would stay alive and the better their chances of making an escape. In this respect, Torgan and Grinsa were anything but allies.
"Leave that to us, Eandi," Q'Daer said. "Your only concern is finding that Mettai witch you've been going on about. And the sooner we do that, the better for all of us."
The merchants each took a piece of the meat, and then Torgan started to tuck the pouch into his travel sack.
"Give that to me, dark-eye."
Torgan glared at Q'Daer. "It's mine. I bought it in Stelpana."
"It may have been yours once, but now it belongs to the Fal'Borna." The Weaver held out a hand. "Give it here."
"And if I refuse?"
Torgan's mount reared, just as the young merchant's had earlier. This time though, the rider was thrown. Torgan landed heavily on the wet grass and lay on his back, too stunned to move. Q'Daer was off his mount an instant later, a knife in his hand. He strode to where the merchant lay, picked up the pouch of food, which had landed beside Torgan, and stared down at the man.