The Sorcerer's Plague

DREAMING MOON WAXING, YEAR 12 I I

Sunlight sparkled on the windblown waters of the wash, shifting and dancing like stars in Morna's sky, so bright that Giraan had to shield his eyes from the glare as he checked his traps at the water's edge. The first two of his eight traps were empty. One of them had been robbed of its bait. He doubted that he'd find much in the others either. This trade was still new to him, and he knew better than to expect success to come quickly.

The gods rewarded labor. They found virtue in the struggle to perfect new skills. Giraan had spent sixteen years making his living as a wheelwright, and he had mastered the saw and the rasp, the plane and the hammer. In return, the gods had given him a strong back and a steady hand. They had given him a beautiful wife and four fine children. And they had granted him long life, so that he might see his sons and his daughter take the first steps into their adult lives. They had seen to it that he and Aiva wanted for nothing.

If anything, they had made life too comfortable, too easy. It almost seemed to Giraan that they were telling him to try his hand at something new. So after four fours as a wheelwright he passed the business on to Oren, his eldest, and he started teaching himself to trap. He bought one trap from a peddler who had passed through Runnelwick just after the thaw. The rest he built himself, copying that first one as closely as he could. It took him two or three tries to get it right, but in time he had his eight traps.

Qirsi in other villages would have thought him a fool, of course, struggling with his tools when he possessed shaping magic. But such was the way of the Y'Qatt. His people understood that the V'Tol, the Life Power-what others called magic-was a gift from Qirsar, one that was not to be squandered out of indolence. He'd heard the names by which others called the Y'Qatt: ascetics, fanatics, lunatics. Even the name Y'Qatt had once been meant as an epithet, for it was believed that the Y'Qatt, an ancient Qirsi clan, who had refused to fight in the early Blood Wars, had been driven by cowardice. But it wasn't that they were craven; they had been opposed to war itself, seeing it as evil, a misuse of Qirsi power. And so those who, like Giraan, refused to wield their power for any purpose embraced the name, seeing in the principled stand of these ancients an echo of their own piety.

Giraan had argued with the Qirsi peddlers who occasionally stopped in the village to sell their wares. He'd been called all the usual names. And always he silenced them with the same question: If Qirsar had intended for us to expend our V'Tol on acts of magic, why would he shorten our lives every time we use it?

No one had ever been able to answer to his satisfaction, because, quite simply, there was no good response they could offer. Throughout the Southlands, magic was killing the people of his race. It was a slow death, imperceptible to some, but real nevertheless. In recent years, as the number of Eandi in the land increased and the number of Qirsi dwindled, others had begun to realize this as well. Already the Eandi lived longer than did the men and women of his race. What sense was there in adding to this disparity by using magic frivolously, by relying on V'Tol to do what might also be accomplished with some physical effort, with sweat and muscle and skill? More and more Qirsi were asking themselves this same question; the Y'Qatt movement was growing.

The next two traps Giraan checked were empty as well, and he walked on to where he'd set the third pair. As he drew near, he saw that the nearer of the two had something in it. A beaver. The gods had been generous. Beaver skins fetched a fair bit of gold from most merchants- at least, the peddlers he'd seen trying to sell them had been asking quite a lot. He'd made a deal with Sedi, the old tanner. Sedi would skin and treat any animals Giraan managed to trap, and in return Giraan would make any repairs that Sedi's wagons might ever need, free of charge. Sedi had agreed to the exchange with a chuckle and a shake of his bald head, no doubt thinking that he had won the old wheelwright's services at no cost to himself. He was going to be disappointed.

When Giraan finally started back toward the village, he was as giddy as a child. He'd caught a stoat in the seventh trap. By the end of this day, Sedi would be trying to change the terms of their bargain, or he'd be looking for a way to be done with it altogether. Angry as Sedi would be, though, they'd have a good laugh over it before the night was through.

On his way back home, he walked past the village plantings and checked to see how the crops in his and Aiva's plot were faring. It had been a fine Growing season-warm, with enough rain to keep Elined's earth moist and dark. It would be another turn before the goldroot was ready, but they might be able to begin picking the vine beans in half that time. Whenever it finally began, Giraan was certain that this would be a generous Harvest.

His home stood near the southern edge of the village. It was no larger than any other house in the village, but it wasn't small either. And now that all the children had been joined and had built their own houses, it felt almost spacious, like one of the great palaces in which the Qirsi clan lords lived.

Aiva sat out front, sharpening the blades she used in the kitchen. Her white hair was pulled back into a plait, and she wore a simple brown dress. She'd been a beauty as a youth, with long, thick hair and eyes as pale as bark on an aspen. As far as he was concerned, she'd lost nothing to age. As he drew near she looked up and waved. Giraan held up the two animals he'd trapped and laughed at what he saw on her face: her widened eyes, her mouth agape and covered with a slender hand.

"Two of them!" she said, breathless.

"A beaver and a stoat." He couldn't keep the pride from his voice. In truth, he didn't even try. Where was the harm in letting his beloved Aiva see how pleased he was?

"Does Sedi know?"

"Not yet." He smiled. "But he will soon enough."

"He'll be angry."

Giraan shook his head, the smile lingering. "He'll act angry at first, but he won't really mind. He knows that it was a fair bargain we struck."

"I hope you're right." She stood and looked at the stoat and then the beaver. "They're fine animals, Giraan. You should be very proud."

"I doubt that either one is fit for eating."

"We both know that you didn't trap them for their meat. You trapped them for gold, and for the sheer challenge of it."

Giraan frowned. "You sound as though you disapprove."

"Not at all. Just don't be talking about the lack of meat as if that makes you less thrilled about the catch than you really are."

She smiled to soften the words. Then she raised herself onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Take them to Sedi," she said. "I don't want them in my kitchen."

He had to grin. "Yes, my lady."

It usually made her laugh when he addressed her so, but suddenly Aiva was looking past him, toward the path that wound by their house to the marketplace. He turned to look.

An old woman had paused on the track to watch them. Her hair was as white as that of any Qirsi, but the darkness of her skin and eyes marked her as one of Ean's children. She wore a simple brown dress much like Aiva's except that this one was frayed and tattered. Though the day was warm, she also wore a faded green wrap around her bent shoulders. She carried two large baskets, one under each arm, both of them covered with small blankets that concealed their contents. She also wore a carry sack on her back.

"Hello," Giraan called, raising a hand in greeting as he stepped around Aiva to put himself between this stranger and his love.

"This house is new," the woman said, her voice so low that for a moment he wondered if he'd heard her correctly.

"I'm sorry, but I believe you're mistaken. My wife and I built this house ourselves nearly sixteen years ago."

The woman stared at him a moment. Then a faint smile crept over her face. "Yes," she said. "And to me, that would make it new."

"You were here that long ago?" Aiva asked, taking a step forward. "It's been sixteen fours," the woman said. "I was just a child." "Sixteen fours!" Aiva said. "Truly the gods have blessed you!"

The woman grinned, revealing sharp yellow teeth. "Yes, they have." "You live near here?" Giraan asked.

"I did once. We lived… we lived south of here. But my people moved about a good deal."

"You're Mettai," he said.

She stared at him for several moments, her smile fading slowly. "We are," she answered, ice in her voice.

Giraan shook his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

"Why should I be offended? You merely told me what I already know. I'm Mettai."

"Yes, of course. But I I…"

"When you said I was Mettai, did you mean to insult me?"

It almost seemed that she was trying to confound him with her words and her indignation. "Not at all," Giraan said, smiling, trying to mollify her.

"But you know that we are hated by Eandi and Qirsi alike, and so you feared that I would take offense. If you were to see a one-legged beggar in a marketplace, you would not say to him, 'You're a cripple.' You would ignore his infirmity, or at least pretend to. But you would slip a silver into his cup as a gesture of pity, and feel that you had done a good turn. So it is with the Mettai. You spoke without thinking, stating what was obvious, and now you fear that you have reminded me of my infirmity."

"I assure you-"

Aiva laid a hand on Giraan's arm, silencing him.

"I'm afraid you've misunderstood my husband, good lady," she said. "He simply apologized because we do not judge people by their race or even their clan, and he feared that you would think he was doing just that. We are Y'Qatt. We know as well as anyone what it is to be shunned by one's people. You would be welcome here no matter your clan or your nation." She beckoned to the woman with an open hand. "Please. Come and sit with us. No doubt you've traveled far. You must be weary. We haven't much, but we can offer you food and drink."

"My lady is most kind, but I should be getting on to your marketplace. The day's nearly half gone, and I've farther to go."

"What is it you're selling?" Giraan regretted the question as soon as the words crossed his lips. He would have preferred that this strange woman move on and leave them in peace. But he was curious about those overlarge baskets she carried, and he couldn't help but give voice to that curiosity.

She smiled again, and he thought he saw a flash of malice in her dark eyes. He knew what she was thinking. He and Aiva would buy something from her now, or at least agree to a trade. He'd asked the question. But more than that, he was still stinging from what she'd said earlier. They'd barter over price and he'd convince himself that he needed whatever she might be selling. But in the end, no matter how much he gave her, it would be the same as that silver slipped into a beggar's cup: a token of his pity, a way to assuage his guilt. For the truth was, as soon as he said that she was Mettai, he had cringed inwardly. Her infirmity. He would never have phrased it that way, but yes, that was just how he thought of it. Whatever Aiva might have said, being Y'Qatt was nothing like being Mettai.

He and his people chose to live as they did because they knew that in resisting the urge to use their powers, they were acceding to Qirsar's wishes. Their way of life honored the Qirsi god. The Mettai, on the other hand, were born to their fate. Some said that they were created by the Eandi god, Ean, to mock Qirsar. Here, Ean seemed to be saying, I give you Eandi sorcerers who are neither frail of body nor cursed with brief lives. Others claimed the opposite. Qirsar made them, these people said, to show Ean how his children might have been if only he'd been able to give them the gift of magic. Either way, the Mettai were mongrels, or worse, the bastard offspring of some rivalry between the gods. In a sense, they were the embodiment of the Blood Wars, the violent conflicts that had been fought throughout the history of the Southlands.

More to the point, though, they used blood magic, opening their veins for every act of sorcery. They were as different from the Y'Qatt as the darkest, coldest night of the Snows was from the bright warmth of this fine day.

"You'd like to see what I'm carrying?" the old woman asked, tilting her head to the side as might a mischievous child.

Aiva nodded, no doubt eager to end the unpleasantness. She hated it so when anyone failed to get along. "Yes, please."

"All right, then." The woman placed both baskets on the ground and stretched. Even without her burden, her back remained bent, her shoulders rounded.

Then she removed the blankets that covered the two baskets, and Giraan forgot everything else. The strange awkwardness that had made him wary of the stranger just moments before seemed to vanish, as if swept away by magic. Within the large baskets were smaller ones of all sizes, shapes, and colors. Basketry was the one craft for which the Met- tai were renowned throughout the land, and clearly this woman had mastered the art as few others had.

"They're beautiful!" Aiva whispered.

The woman smiled and inclined her head. "Thank you, my lady." "You made all of them yourself?"

"I did."

"There are so many. It must have taken you years."

"Several, yes."

Giraan looked at her. "Haven't you been selling them all along?"

"I promised myself that I would see as much of the land as possible before Bian called me to his side. So I made these baskets and set them aside from those I sold day to day. I trade these for food and gold, sometimes even for a night's sleep in a warm bed. As you can see, there are plenty here, and they're of good quality. And if need be, I can make more. Osiers are easy enough to find."

The smile remained on her tanned, wrinkled face, and she didn't shy away from his gaze. But something about what she was telling them struck Giraan as odd. Still, even if the woman was half mad, there could be no denying the worth of her wares.

Aiva had already chosen two baskets, one that was shallow and round, and another with steeper edges and a braided handle.

"You've chosen well, my lady," the woman said. "Those are two of my favorites."

She might have been strange, but clearly the woman had been peddling for a long time. She knew this craft as well.

"How much for the two of them?" Giraan asked, reverting to the tone he had used in his shop when negotiating the price of a new wheel for a cart, or the repair of a broken rim. "We don't have much gold."

"I don't need gold; only something else I can trade in another village." She nodded toward the beaver and stoat that he still carried. "I'd trade them for pelts if you have any."

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Food then. Salted meat? Cheese? A loaf or two of bread?" "Baskets such as these would fetch a fair bit in the marketplace. I'm not sure that we can spare so much from our kitchen."

"I'm an old woman, sir. I don't eat much, and I'm not trying to grow fat and rich in my last years. As I've told you, I seek only enough so that I can continue my travels. Surely you and the lady would be able to part with one loaf of bread and half a wheel of cheese."

"You'd trade the baskets for so little?"

She frowned, seeming to consider this. "I don't suppose you have any wine as well?" She glanced at Aiva, the grin returning. "I might be old, but that doesn't mean I've forsaken all my old pleasures."

"Of course you haven't," Aiva said kindly. "But I'm afraid we have no wine. Perhaps some smoked fish. We've been preparing it for the colder turns, but we already have a good deal, and we've time to catch and smoke more."

Aiva looked at Giraan, a question in her eyes. He was reluctant to part with the fish, but he could see that she wanted the baskets, and she was right: They did have time before the end of the Harvest. They could catch more fish.

"Three whole fish," he said, facing the old woman. "In addition to the cheese and bread."

She nodded. "Done."

They stood in silence a moment, the woman eyeing him expectantly. Then he realized that Aiva was already holding the baskets she had chosen, and the stranger was waiting for her payment.

"Right," he said. "I'll get the food."

He turned, walked into the house, and quickly gathered the fish, cheese, and bread, wrapping them in an old cloth, as ragged as the woman's dress. When he stepped back outside, he heard Aiva speaking to the stranger. It took him only a moment to understand that his wife was trying to make conversation, and that the old woman was doing little to encourage her.

"… with your family when you came here?"

"I believe so. I was very young."

"Do you remember how old you were?"

"No."

"But you remember the village. You said so. Is it so different now? Have we changed that much?"

At that the woman looked up, gazing first at Giraan, who had paused on the top step, and then at Aiva. "No," she said. "I don't think your people have changed at all."

She swung the carry sack off her shoulders and held out a thin, roughened hand for the food.

Giraan walked to where she stood and handed it to her.

"Thank you, sir," she said, placing the bundle carefully in her sack and shouldering the burden again. She looked briefly at Aiva. "My lady. I hope you find good use for the baskets."

With that, she started off into the village. She didn't so much as glance back at them.

"I'm glad to see her go," Giraan said.

Aiva nodded absently, admiring her new baskets. "She is odd. But she does fine work."

"I suppose."

She glanced at him. "Go find Sedi. Get your animals skinned and tanned. You'll feel better."

Giraan laughed. "You're right." He started for his friend's house. "I won't be long."

He walked slowly, having no desire to catch up with the old woman. He even stopped briefly by the wash, just to sit and watch the water flow by before continuing on his way. By the time he reached Sedi's home, at the west end of Runnelwick, he felt reasonably certain that the stranger had seen to her business in the marketplace and moved on.

Sedi glanced up from his work as Giraan entered the shop. An instant later, his eyes snapped up a second time, fixing on the two animals Giraan carried.

"I don't believe it!" he said, setting aside his work and standing. "Two already? And a stoat, no less!"

"Both in need of your skills, my friend."

The tanner shook his head, a smile on his thin face. "I should have known better than to make such a bargain with you, Giraan. I've known you for more than eight fours, and you've always managed to best me in everything."

"Not everything," Giraan said. "You've always been the better fisherman, and our garden never looks as fine as yours."

Sedi nodded, conceding the point. "Almost everything, then."

"You know that I'll gladly do whatever work your wagons ever need." "Of course, and I'm happy to treat your skins."

Giraan handed him the rope on which he'd tied the animals.

"That's a good-sized beaver," Sedi said. "It should fetch a fair price when the next peddlers come through from the sovereignties."

"The sovereignties?"

"Yes. Wait for an Eandi. No matter how much a Qirsi peddler offers you, an Eandi will beat the price. Particularly if he's headed for Qosantia or Tordjanne."

Giraan knew immediately that this was sound advice. It made sense, really. Since the end of the Blood Wars, the Eandi nations bordering Qirsi lands-Stelpana and Naqbae-had remained hostile to anyone or anything having to do with the Qirsi, even outcasts like the Y'Qatt. The people of Aelea were much the same way. The wealthier nations of the lowlands, however, seemed more than happy to trade in Qirsi goods, and in fact, according to many of the peddlers who came through Runnelwick during the course of the year, they often sought out certain items from the Qirsi clans-baskets, blankets, the fine light wines of the H'Bel and the Talm'Orast. It shouldn't have surprised him that they would also covet the fine animal pelts found in the northern lands near the Companion Lakes.

"All right, then. Thanks for the advice," Giraan said.

Sedi grinned. "You sure you should trust me? We're competitors now."

Giraan had to laugh. "Hardly." He turned to leave the shop. "Thank you, my friend."

"My pleasure. I won't get to them today, and they'll need a few days to dry once I've done the work. Give me until the beginning of the waning."

"Of course." Giraan opened the door, but then paused on the threshold. After a moment he faced the tanner again. "Aiva and I had a strange encounter today. A Mettai woman along the road."

"The one peddling baskets?"

"You saw her, too."

Sedi shook his head, light from the doorway shining in his bright yellow eyes. "No. But I've heard others speaking of her. Of her baskets, to be more precise."

"What are they saying?"

The tanner shrugged. "That her baskets are the finest to be seen here in anyone's memory."

"But what about her?" Giraan demanded, his voice rising. "What are they saying about the woman?"

Sedi frowned. "I've heard nothing about her. Why?"

Giraan sighed, then took a long breath, trying to calm himself. Why, indeed? He wasn't sure himself. "Forgive me. I found the woman… odd. Disturbingly so. But I said something foolish when first I saw her, and it may just be that she didn't like me very much."

"What did you say?"

"It doesn't matter." Giraan forced a smile, embarrassed by the memory. "Forget that I mentioned it." He left Sedi's shop, intending to walk back home. Instead, not quite knowing why, he turned and walked to the marketplace, scanning the stalls, peddlers' carts, and byways for the old woman. He didn't see her, but he soon realized that her baskets were everywhere. Or rather, not everywhere, but present in numbers enough to be noticeable. Several of his fellow villagers had already purchased their own, and a number of sellers had traded for others and were peddling them along with their wares.

Wherever she was now, the old woman's purse had to be bulging with Runnelwick's gold. Giraan wasn't certain why this disturbed him so, or why he should begrudge the stranger her success. What was the old woman to him? Yes, she was strange, not to mention rude. But even he could see that her baskets were lovely. No wonder so many of his neighbors wanted them. Hadn't Aiva herself traded for two of them? After some time he shook his head and turned for home. This was too fine a day to waste brooding over a strange old Mettai witch.

Giraan and Aiva ate a modest supper of smoked fish, black bread, and steamed greens. They had their meal outside, on the steps of the house, where they could enjoy the cool evening air. Still, throughout the meal, despite his best efforts, Giraan could think of little besides his encounter with the Mettai woman. And each time he relived their conversation, the memory of it grew darker, until he began to wonder if he should burn the baskets she had given them and run through the village shouting for his neighbors and friends to do the same. He tried to laugh off his fears, but they clung stubbornly to his mind, souring his mood.

So it was that he didn't notice how quiet Aiva had been during the evening until she actually said something.

"I don't feel well."

He looked at her. "What?"

She'd barely touched her food, and her face looked pale in the shadows of the cedars and hemlocks growing beside the house.

"I feel ill. My stomach."

"Maybe you're hungry. You haven't-"

"No, that's not it."

He held the back of his hand to her brow. "You're burning up!"

"Damn," she whispered. She stood abruptly, spilling the plate that had been resting on her lap, and ran around to the side of the house. Giraan heard her vomit.

He put his plate aside and followed her. His hands were trembling; was it a response to hearing her be sick, or was he starting to feel ill as well?

"Maybe I didn't smoke the fish enough," he said.

She shook her head. "You said I was feverish."

"That damned woman brought the pestilence. She'll be the death of us all.

"Don't be a fool, Giraan," she said through clenched teeth, breathing hard. "She wasn't sick at all. A woman that old. She wouldn't have been able to walk."

She spun away and retched again.

"Should I get the healer?"

Aiva nodded, her back still to him.

He strode away, making his way quickly toward old Besse's home, west of the marketplace. Was that ache in the pit of his stomach fear or illness?

The walk seemed to take ages, but at last he came within sight of the small cottage. The healer's door was open and a thin, curving line of blue-grey smoke rose from her chimney, but Giraan saw no sign of Besse herself.

He stopped a short distance from the house. "Healer?" he called. After a few seconds, she emerged from the house, straight-backed and alert, in spite of the deep lines on her face.

That you, Giraan?"

"Yes. Aiva's sick. I think… I don't know… It might be the pesti-

^lencShe nodded once. "I'll come with you. Just let me get my herbs."

Besse disappeared into the house.

Giraan took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. If anyone could help Aiva, it was the old healer. She'd been caring for the people of Runnelwick since before Giraan had finished his fourth four. Always she had put the needs of the village ahead of her own. She had never been joined to anyone, though he knew there had been men in her life. She'd never had children of her own, though she'd been there for nearly every birth in the village for the last twenty years. Even now, hearing Giraan say that the pestilence might have come to his home, she didn't hesitate to follow him to Aiva's side.

She stepped out of the house and bounded down the stairs as if she were closer to five fours than ten. Giraan actually had to hurry to catch up to her as she strode up the path toward his house. As he did, he noticed that she bore her herbs and oils in a new basket. His heart sank.

"What are her symptoms?" Besse asked, whatever fear she might have felt masked by the crispness of her voice.

"She's vomiting and she's burning with fever."

Besse nodded once. "And you? Are you feeling ill, too?"

He was. His stomach was churning and he could almost feel the bile rising in his throat. But was he imagining it all? "I don't know," he finally said.

Giraan had expected that she'd think him a fool, or worse, a coward. But she merely patted his arm and nodded again. "I know," she said. "Our minds do strange things at times like these." Then, almost as an afterthought, she raised her hand to his brow. Immediately, she frowned. "You're warm. Hot really."

He felt his innards turn to water. It seemed he really was a coward. For all his concern about Aiva, it was the prospect of his own death that brought panic.

"I'll come see Aiva, but then I have to leave you. The elders need to be told."

"Yes, of course," he whispered. His eyes flicked to her basket, and he almost said something about the old Mettai woman. But she would probably think him foolish, just as Aiva had.

"It might be something else, Giraan. I'm not certain yet that it's the pestilence. But even the possibility…" She exhaled. "You understand."

He nodded, fighting to keep from being ill right there on the path.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. By the time they reached Giraan's house it was growing dark. A faint light shone from within the house, and the door still stood open, but there was no other sign of life. They hurried up the stairs, and found Aiva lying in bed, her face damp with sweat, her eyes half closed. A single candle burned on the small table beside her.

Besse sat on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on her brow. After a moment, she leaned closer and looked at her eyes.

"How are you feeling, Aiva?" she asked.

"Great," Aiva said weakly. "You?"

Besse grinned briefly. "Good for you. I deserved that."

Aiva squeezed her eyes shut and grimaced. "It's getting worse." "What is?"

"The pain."

"In your stomach?"

She shook her head slightly, her eyes still closed. "No. My head. My head is hurting."

Besse frowned. "Your head?"

Aiva pulled a trembling hand free from the blanket, and raised it to her temple. "Right here. And the other side, too."

"What does that mean?" Giraan asked.

Besse didn't even look at him. "I don't know."

She lifted the blankets off of Aiva and began to examine her limbs. "Light another candle," she said. "I want to see if I can find evidence of a bite."

"A bite?"

"The pestilence comes from vermin, and it often begins with a flea bite." After several moments she shook her head. "But I don't see anything."

"Maybe she caught it from someone else."

"No one else in the village is ill."

"Maybe it wasn't someone in the village."

"Oh, Giraan," Aiva said. "Not this again."

"What?" Besse demanded, looking from one of them to the other. "That Mettai woman," Giraan said. "The one who made the basket you're carrying. I… I think she brought the pestilence to Runnelwick." "Impossible," Besse told him. "A woman that old wouldn't have been able to walk had she been as sick as Aiva. And you can't pass the pestilence to anyone until you have it yourself."

Giraan knew that she was right. She had to be. Besse knew far more about these matters than anyone else in the village. But still, he couldn't let go of his suspicions. He fully intended to argue the point further. But in that moment, he felt his gut spasm. He stood and lurched to the door, just barely making it outside before emptying his stomach.

He leaned on the railing of his small porch, retching until his body was sore. Eventually, as the spasms passed, he realized that Besse was with him, steadying him.

"Come on," she said. "You need to lie down."

She led him back into the house and soon had him lying beside Aiva, cold, damp cloths on both of their brows. "I need to speak with the elders," she said, "but I'll send for Oren."

"No!" Aiva said. Giraan felt how her body tensed, but she could barely manage more than an airy whisper. "I don't want him coming near us."

"He's grown now," Besse said. "I'll leave that choice to him." Before Aiva could argue more, the healer had gone.

"He'll come," Aiva whispered. "If she tells him to, he'll come. That's the kind of boy he is."

"He's not a boy anymore. He'll have a child of his own before long." "All the more reason to keep him away from here."

"So he should let us die alone?"

"Of course, if that's the choice."

Giraan knew that he should have been thinking the same thing. Again, he wondered at his own cowardice, his willingness to save himself at the expense of those he supposedly loved.

"You're right," he said, hot tears running down into his white hair. "Forgive me."

She took his hand.

He could feel the pain building in his temples now, just as Aiva had described. I'm dying, he told himself. In these last hours, I must make peace with that. He heard Aiva's breathing slow, felt her grip slacken. She had fallen asleep. He wondered if she'd ever wake again. He almost woke her then. Perhaps sleep would hasten death's advance. Perhaps he was merely afraid to be alone.

He must have fallen asleep himself, for the next thing he knew, Oren was there, sitting beside him on the bed, trying to spoon hot broth into his mouth. Giraan tried to swallow one mouthful, but as soon as the liquid hit his stomach, it started back up again. He turned his head and retched onto the floor. After a moment he settled back onto his pillow.

"I'm sorry," he said. He could barely hear his own voice.

"It's all right," Oren told him. "Mama couldn't keep it down either. My cooking isn't as good as hers." He tried to smile, but there were tears on his cheeks. "Seslanne has it, too."

"You should be with her," Aiva said.

"I have been. Her mother and father are there now. But I wanted to see you."

"Did she see the Mettai woman?" Giraan asked, his heart laboring. Oren narrowed his pale eyes. "VVhat?"

"Seslanne. Did she buy a basket from a Mettai woman today?"

"No. Well, she bought a basket, but from one of the peddlers in the marketplace. She said nothing about a Mettai woman. Why?"

Giraan opened his mouth to explain, but at that moment Aiva went rigid beside him. For a moment Giraan thought she was going to be sick again. But she didn't so much as move.

"Oren, you must leave at once!" she said, her teeth clenched. "But, Mama-"

"Leave! Now! I beg you!"

"Aiva-" Giraan began. But in that instant he felt it, too.

It had been so long since he'd even reached for his magic, since it had occurred to him to wonder how powerful he was, or even to think of himself as a sorcerer. He was Y'Qatt. As a boy, of course, he had dreamed of wielding his magic in battle or perhaps using it to save the village from brigands. No doubt all children did, including those in an Y'Qatt village. But he hadn't yet come into his powers then-he hadn't known that he was a shaper, that he could bend matter to his will, or that he could call to the wild creatures of the wood with language of beasts. Once he was old enough to understand what it was to be Y'Qatt, he had put such notions out of his mind. The urge to use his magic had left him years ago.

Or so he had thought. For suddenly, he felt power building inside of him, like floodwaters gathering behind an earthen dam. He tried to resist. Qirsar knew he did. He had spent years disciplining himself, refusing to give in to the temptation to use his powers. But that had been a matter of choice, of denying himself the luxury of laziness. This was something else entirely, like holding one's breath until the urge to breathe overmastered one's will. He struggled against it, but he knew from the start that he would fail in the end. It was too much; there seemed to be a greater force at work, as if the god had chosen to punish him for a lifetime of abnegation.

"She's right, Oren!" he managed to say. "You must leave! Now!" "But, Papa-"

"You feel it, too?" Aiva asked. He could hear the strain in her voice. "Yes. I can't fight it much longer."

"Fight what?" Oren asked, gaping at both of them, looking so terribly young.

Before Giraan could answer, a wind began to rise, making the candle flames dance and rattling the chairs and tables. Aiva's wind. That was one of her powers: mists and winds. And fire.

"Leave now!" Giraan shouted, though it took all his strength to make himself heard over what was fast becoming a gale. And in making that effort, he felt his control over the storm of magic raging within him waver. It was only for an instant, but that was enough. He heard the rending of wood as if it were thunder, and he saw a crack open in the roof of his home.

Aiva's wind keened like a wild beast, extinguishing the candles, so that the only light in the house came from Panya, the pale moon, whose glow filtered through the trees.

Oren was on his feet, his eyes wide with fear, but still he wouldn't leave. "What's happening?" he cried. "I don't understand!"

"The fever is attacking our magic," Giraan said. Again his grip on the power failed. It was all he could do to direct the magic at the table by the bed and not at his son. The table crumbled as if hammered by some unseen demon. "We can't control it!"

"My god!" Oren whispered. "Seslanne!" He backed toward the door. "I'm sorry…"

"Don't apologize!" Aiva told him. "Go to her!"

Giraan tried to pour out the magic inside him by calling upon his other power, knowing that he could do no further damage to the house with language of beasts. But he hadn't the control. He knew that he was speaking gibberish to the wild creatures in the woods around Runnel- wick, but still shaping power coursed through his body. So he wasn't at all surprised when the ball of fire flew from Aiva's side of the bed and crashed against the opposite wall. Immediately, flames started to climb the wood, licking at the ceiling and filling the room with thick smoke. Between her fire and winds and his shaping, their home would soon be a pile of charred ruins.

"We have to get out of here!" he said, taking her hand.

"What's the use?" she said, coughing.

"Maybe Besse can find a way to help us."

"Besse will be sick before long."

Rather than argue the point further, he pulled her out of the bed and toward the doorway. More power slipped out, but he managed to direct it. He heard the ceiling above the bed groan and collapse. Another fireball crashed into the floor near them. The wind howled at their backs. They made it outside, though not before both of them had been singed. Aiva fell to the ground, gasping for breath, and Giraan dropped to his knees beside her.

He could feel his power spilling over and it was all he could do to keep directing his shaping magic at something other than himself or Aiva. All around him tree limbs were shattering, splinters of wood floating down like snow. He could hear birds crying out. Wolves howled in the distance. Fire shot into the sky from Aiva's hands and still the wind blew, buffeting the trees. Looking toward the marketplace, Giraan saw that the sky was aglow with fire magic. Voices cried out in pain or fear or both.

"How many are sick?" he whispered.

"Giraan."

He crawled to Aiva's side. Her eyes were fixed on the sky above her, but he wasn't sure that she could see anything.

"I can't stop it," she said. "I'm so tired, but I can't stop. It's like I'm bleeding."

He couldn't either. The dam had broken. Trying to stop the flow of power now would be like standing in the center of Silverwater Wash at the height of the thaw, and trying to hold back the waters with his hands. His shaping magic still battered the trees and the remains of his home, but he could feel it weakening. The fire rising from his beloved was dimming; her wind had slackened.

"Aiva, no! Fight it!"

"I don't know how, Giraan! Do you? Can't you help me?"

She sounded so frightened, so weak, so far away. Clenching his fists, feeling tears on his cheeks, the wheelwright looked up at the fiery orange sky and roared in his anguish. Because he didn't know how. He couldn't stop his own magic from flowing, much less hers. He couldn't stop any of it. It seemed that his entire village was at war with a foe they couldn't see or understand. He could hear it so clearly now: the screams and the rending of wood; the sounds of a town under siege. His nostrils stung with the smoke of a hundred fires. And he could do nothing but kneel there watching the light in Aiva's eyes die away. After years of holding his magic inside, he could feel it lashing out at his home, at his trees, at the earth beneath him. But it was of no use to him in this fight.

He saw Aiva's lips moving. Giraan. She was saying his name, but she hadn't the strength to make herself heard.

"Yes, my love. I'm here." But even as he said it, he felt himself fall onto his side. He was too weak to kneel anymore. V'Tol. Magic. Life. It was leaving him. He was nothing but an empty vessel, a husk.

"Why, Qirsar? Wasn't it your will that we live thus? Did we fail you in some way?"

But no answer came. Just the cries from the village marketplace, and that baleful orange glow flickering above the trees.

She sat on a small rise overlooking the river, gazing northward, her hands working the rushes into place. Occasionally she reached for her blade to thin a strand or cut off a frayed end. But she never looked away. She didn't have to, not with hands as deft and sure as hers. She'd been weaving baskets for more years than she cared to count. She knew her craft. Just as she knew magic.

From her perch above the gently flowing waters, she could see and hear her spell at work. Let the Qirsi dismiss Mettai blood magic as a lesser power. Let the Eandi-her own people-make outcasts of the Mettai. Lici knew just how potent her magic could be.

Now the people of Runnelwick knew it as well. Their cries floated up to her. The glow of their fires danced in the night sky. The forest swayed with their winds and shuddered with the power of their shaping magic. All because Lici had decided that it should be so. They were her puppets, her playthings. She could make them do anything she wanted.

She lifted a hand. "Look," she whispered to the night. "No strings." Then she laughed.

Her cart horse stamped and shook her head. Lici had left the cart outside the village, venturing into its lanes on foot. That way they'd think her poor, they'd buy her baskets out of pity, out of desire to do good. That was what she had decided, and she'd been right. They were as stupid as they were weak, and now, because of this, they were suffering the fate their kind had earned so long ago.

She was but a feeble, old woman-a Mettai, no less-and she had done this to an entire village of Y'Qatt. One small cut on her hand. One among so many. Yes, let them laugh at blood magic. Soon enough every Y'Qatt in the Southlands would be trembling.