"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.

"Next time, I'll break your arm. You may have hopes of being spared, or perhaps you think you might escape. But until the a'laq tells me otherwise, you're a prisoner of the Fal'Borna, and you'll do exactly as I say." He reached into the pouch and pulled out another piece of meat. Then he smiled and placed it between his teeth. Looking up at Grinsa, he held out the food. "You want more?"

Grinsa shook his head.

Q'Daer shrugged and walked back to his mount. "On your horse, Eandi," he said, as he climbed back into his saddle.

Torgan struggled to his feet and tried to get on his horse. He couldn't. Finally, the other merchant dismounted and helped him up. Soon after, they were moving again. Once more, Q'Daer rode a fair distance ahead of the others.

"We can help each other."

Grinsa looked over and saw that Torgan was beside him again.

"It sounds as though you want to get away from them as much as we do. So let's work together."

"No," Grinsa said. "I left my wife and daughter with the Sept. I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you. I can't get away unless you help us find that woman. So that's what you're going to do."

"You told me before that we're allies," the merchant said sullenly. "But you sound like a Fal'Borna to me."

"Maybe I was wrong before. Maybe we're not allies. But I'm not Fal'Borna either. I'm alone in this." Grinsa knew as soon as he spoke the words that this was true. The merchants were concerned only with staying alive; Q'Daer was Fal'Borna. And he owed loyalty to no one except Cresenne and Bryntelle. "I have no allies," he said, as much to himself as to Torgan. "I have no need of them."

"You think you can do battle with the Fal'Borna by yourself?"

Grinsa shook his head. "I have no intention of battling the Fal'Borna. I'm going to war against a Mettai witch. And so are the two of you, so I'd get used to the idea. You want to live through this? Then you'll help me, you'll stop antagonizing Q'Daer, and you'll lead us to that old woman. Otherwise you're corpses. It's as simple as that."

Torgan glowered at him another moment, then fell back to join the other merchant.

"Serves me right for trying to talk sense to a white-hair," the Eandi muttered.

Grinsa didn't bother responding, or even looking back. His eyes were fixed on the young Fal'Borna Weaver riding ahead of him. Q'Daer was the real threat. The merchants might have been willing to risk an attempt at escape, but Grinsa knew that he and the Fal'Borna could stop them. The young Weaver, though, was another matter. The a'laq had told Grinsa that he hoped they'd succeed in finding the old woman. But what if he lied? What if he cared nothing for sparing the Eandi and stopping this Mettai witch, but remained determined to keep Grinsa in his sept? For all Grinsa knew, Q'Daer's purpose in riding with him was not to help, but rather to keep him from succeeding.

As if reading his thoughts, Q'Daer looked back at him and, after a moment's hesitation, gestured for Grinsa to ride forward.

"Come, Forelander. Join me. You don't need to guard the dark-eyes. They'll go nowhere without us."

Grinsa glanced back at Torgan, who was watching him closely. Then he kicked at his mount and joined the other Weaver. He even chanced a smile.

"I wouldn't have thought you wanted anything to do with me," he said, pulling abreast of Q'Daer.

The young man shrugged. "We both lost our tempers," he said. "Live with the Fal'Borna for a while and you'll realize that this isn't so uncommon." A smile crossed his lips and was gone; he still refused to look the gleaner in the eye.

"Well, I apologize for hitting you. I'm not sure why I did it. It wasn't at all like me."

"Perhaps you're more like the rest of us than you care to admit." Grinsa nodded and gave a small laugh. "That may be," he said. "But still, I am sorry."

The man nodded in turn, glancing at him for just an instant. "Apology accepted."

It all seemed quite pleasant, far more so than Grinsa would have thought possible. And yet something in Q'Daer's bearing gave him pause. He didn't know the Weaver well, but he had always been a good judge of people, and he could tell when someone was hiding something.

So he smiled and nodded, and acted as though their conflict had been settled. But he kept a firm hold on his magic, and he was conscious suddenly of the dagger that he wore on his belt. He had taken the measure of the man's power, and he thought that he could prevail in a battle of sorcery, if it came to that. But he wasn't going to take any chances, not with so much at stake.

There was an old saying in the Forelands. Always keep your enemies at arm's length. Closer, and their blade might find your heart. Farther away, and your blade might never find theirs.

They stopped and made camp by a small stream that curved through the grasses and rich dark soil of the plain. Clouds still hung low over the land and daylight gave way to night in ever-darkening shades of grey. They found enough wood among the trees growing by the rill to build a warming fire, and they ate a small meal of smoked meat and bread.

The dark-eyes said little. The younger merchant watched Grinsa and Q'Daer keenly, as a grouse might eye a circling falcon, but Torgan had retreated into himself. He merely stared at the fire and ate what was offered to him in sullen silence.

Since apologizing for their earlier encounter the Forelander hadn't said much either; Q'Daer thought it possible that Grinsa considered the matter settled, which suited his purposes quite well. But they would have to speak some time if Q'Daer were to begin to gain the man's trust. He had also decided hours before that he couldn't allow the Eandi and the Forelander to become too friendly. It would have been quite natural for them to begin working together; Q'Daer didn't want that.

"Tell me, Grinsa," he said now, with a glance at the merchants. "Are the dark-eyes of your land similar to these two?"

The Forelander had just taken a bite of meat, and he paused briefly in his chewing, his pale eyes flicking first to the Eandi and then to Q'Daer. After a moment he finished chewing and swallowed.