"You'd let us go?"

"Only you."

"I can't leave Cresenne and Bryntelle."

The a'laq shrugged, as if the matter were of no importance to him. "You plead for their lives. You ask me to go against Fal'Borna law. Fine then. If you truly want them spared, you must do this."

Grinsa remained stock-still, not knowing what to say.

"You'll want to think about this, perhaps speak of this matter with your… your wife. I'll expect an answer in the morning."

He could barely hear E'Menua for the roaring in his ears. If you truly want them spared… At last, he nodded, stood, and stepped outside. The sky was darkening and a strong wind blew out of the west, carrying the scent of rain. The two Weavers stood just before him, glaring at him but saying nothing. Grinsa tried to step around them, but Q'Daer moved to block his way.

"Not so fast, Forelander," the young Weaver said.

Grinsa shook his head. "I don't have time for this right now." He tried to walk past again, but Q'Daer put out a hand to stop him.

"That's too bad. It's time you started showing the a'laq and our sept the respect we're due. The a'laq has chosen to let you live, despite the way you speak to him, so I can't kill you, much as I'd like to. But I can show you what happens to strangers who challenge the authority of the Fal'Borna."

Grinsa eyed the man briefly, and then glanced at L'Norr. The other Weaver stood just beside his friend, but though he wore a hard expression, he wouldn't meet Grinsa's gaze. It seemed this was Q'Daer's fight.

Facing the first man once more, Grinsa shook his head. "You're not going to show me anything, Q'Daer. You haven't the magic and you haven't the strength." He was certain of the former, less so of the latter, but he didn't let the younger man see that. "And as I said, I won't waste time on this foolishness right now."

Q'Daer's face reddened and his hand strayed to the blade on his belt. "I should kill you where you stand!"

In the Forelands he simply would have walked away. That would have been the smart thing to do. But this was a different land, ruled by a different set of customs. And though new to the Southlands, Grinsa had already learned a great deal about Fal'Borna ways. He had the welt on his cheek to prove it.

He reached for his magic and broke the man's blade before Q'Daer could pull it free. The young Weaver's eyes widened at the muffled chiming sound of the shattered steel.

"You bastard!"

Before he could say more, Grinsa hit him, backhanded, just as the a'laq had struck him. Q'Daer staggered back a step as Grinsa had, but he didn't fall. That was fine. Grinsa didn't wish to humiliate the man; he just wanted to put him in his place.

Before Q'Daer could throw a punch of his own, Grinsa stepped past him. "I serve the a'laq, not you," he said evenly, eyeing the man over his shoulder. "And I don't take lessons from ignorant whelps. Next time I'll break more than your blade."

The two merchants were standing nearby, their eyes wide at what they had just seen. But now, as he stared at Grinsa, Torgan's expression changed, shock giving way to desperation.

"Did you save us?" he called as Grinsa walked away, still cradling his shattered arm. "Will he spare our lives?"

Grinsa glanced back at him, but he said nothing and he kept walking. When he reached his shelter, he could still hear Torgan shouting after him.

She hadn't meant to come here. She hadn't realized where she was until she saw the bridge, and then it was too late to turn back. North. That's where she'd intended to go. There were more Y'Qatt settlements around the upper Companion Lakes -Porcupine and Bear. After leaving C'Bijor's Neck, Lici had every intention of finding them. Somehow, she hadn't.

She'd crossed the bridge before, after leaving Kirayde, and it hadn't even occurred to her to go back. She'd had a purpose then-it drove her, like a wolf snapping at the heels of rilda. Maybe passing by twice was too much to ask of anyone.

That was what she told herself, sitting in the heat of the Harvest sun, squinting against the glare, the day so bright it seemed to rob the land of color, leaving the grasses and rocks and the occasional tree looking stark and flat and dull. The old nag snorted and stomped her foot impatiently, but still Lici remained motionless atop her cart, unable to decide.

She was tired. The time had come for her to begin the long ride back to Kirayde. No one lived forever, not even Mettai witches. Perhaps that was why she was here. She'd never have another chance to see Sentaya. She didn't need the Sight to tell her that. Her days were nearly at an end. Vengeance was hers. Whatever purpose had sustained her in these last years was ebbing away now, leaving her grey, like the world around her. Colorless, lifeless. But when she closed her eyes and thought of Sentaya, the colors were vivid. She could taste the food and smell the wood smoke. And she didn't want any of it. Life that real, that sharp, was too much for her now. Grey suited her. Death, or the promise of it, had drawn her here, and though she was ready to embrace the ending that awaited her, she had no desire to step back into that brilliant living world that still existed in her mind. Yet she couldn't bring herself to turn away. She just sat, staring, waging war with forces she didn't quite understand. "I didn't mean to come here."

Saying it aloud was like asking the gods for leave to pass the village by, to turn around and find another way across the wash. It didn't help. The pull of the place was too strong, even for her.

She clicked her tongue and snapped the reins, and the old horse started forward, shaking her head as if to scold Lici for taking so long. Lici steered the cart across the bridge and, once she was on the other side, turned northward.

At least this time I got it right, she thought, and cackled at her cruel joke, at the poor girl who'd gotten it wrong so many years before. There were tears on her face by the time she reached the village, or what was left of it.

The houses stood just where she remembered them, shattered and charred, crumbling from years of neglect, green with mosses and vines. She reined the nag to a halt and sat, listening, shaded now, cooler. The sound of the wash, the smell of the pines.

And she was a child again, hurrying through her chores with Kytha and Baet, running to Sosli's house to see if her friend could play, tromping through the rain and snow to the small sanctuary on the eastern edge of the village. She remembered falling out of a tree near the wash when she was only six, and breaking her arm. For just an instant, she felt it again, her old, brittle bone aching with remembered pain. She could see the healer's knife glinting in the dim light of his home, the blood seeping from the scored back of his bony hand. She could feel his hands on her skin, as he probed the bone with deft, gentle fingers. The relief as her pain ebbed away, her wonder as she actually felt the bone knitting back together, his smile at what he saw on her face.

Broken bones, scrapes and cuts, even burns. These Mettai magic could mend. But not the pestilence.

If she followed the road it would take her past her old home. She held a vision of the house in her mind, clear and substantial. But sixteen fours had passed, and she was but a child when last she saw it. Who could say what it really looked like? Did she really want to know? Was there any point in disturbing memories that had served her for so long? Or was it already too late for such concerns?

Without truly intending to, without really thinking about it at all, she clicked at the horse again and started forward once more.