The rain had grown stronger, as had the wind.

"The a'laq will be wanting to speak with you," Grinsa said to Q'Daer as he stepped past the man on his way back to his shelter. "What about?" the young Weaver called after him.

Grinsa didn't answer.

He found Cresenne on their pallet, nursing Bryntelle. She sat up as he entered the shelter, her eyes searching his face.

"What did he say?" she asked.

"He agreed to our terms."

She frowned, laying Bryntelle against her shoulder and patting her back. "Just like that?"

"He wasn't completely happy about it, but yes, he agreed." Cresenne shook her head. "I don't believe you."

"Cresenne-"

"Tell me all of it, Grinsa. You're leaving me alone with these people, and that's fine. I as much as told you to. But I deserve to know all of it."

He sat, exhaling slowly. "It's nothing we shouldn't have expected. If I succeed in finding the woman and, I suppose, killing her, we're free to go and the merchants will be spared. If I fail, we stay here."

"And?"

He started to answer, but she held up a hand, silencing him. He could see her piecing it together. At last she began to nod.

"And you take a wife," she said. "That would be the one other thing E'Menua would want. You have to be joined to a Weaver, don't you?" "It's not going to come to that."

"But that's what he wants."

"Yes," Grinsa admitted, feeling as if he had betrayed her. "I can go back to him if you want, tell him I won't be going after all."

She shook her head. "No. You're right: We should have expected it. They were going to insist on this eventually anyway. Otherwise there's no point in making us stay." She smiled bitterly. "You're most valuable to them as a studhorse."

"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.