The Sorcerer's Plague

Chapter 4

D'Abjan had been working this same piece of wood for the better part of the day, and still it wasn't right. It never would be. Every time he managed to plane it to the right shape, he'd leave too many rough edges. And by the time he smoothed them away, using the chisels, rasps, and smaller planes scattered over his father's workbench, the lines were wrong again. He was covered with wood-curled shavings, small chips, finer dust. So was the workbench, and the floor, and just about everything else in the shop. Yet he was no closer to finishing it than he had been hours ago. It just looked… wrong, and if he worked it any more, he'd leave this piece smaller than the matching one his father had already made for the other side of the chair.

He heard the door open and close, but he didn't turn. His father had been in and out all day long, delivering pieces, doing repairs, checking in with D'Abjan's mother and sisters, who were at their table in the marketplace, selling the last of the herbs and dye flowers to have come from their garden this year. Perhaps he'd forgotten something, or had returned for whatever tools he needed for his next repairs. Maybe D'Abjan would have a few moments more of peace before his father saw how poorly he had done. He should have known better.

"Let me see how it's coming along," his father said, trying to sound jovial, or encouraging, or anything other than what he was: resigned to yet another of D'Abjan's failures.

He crossed to where D'Abjan stood and hovered at the boy's shoulder. After a moment, he sighed. D'Abjan didn't need to look at his face to know that he was frowning, calculating the cost of the wasted wood, the delay in hours or days that D'Abjan's poor workmanship would cost him.

"You've tapered it too much," he said at last.

D'Abjan kept his eyes fixed on the workbench. "I know."

"You need to keep the plane level as you work a piece like this. You can't allow it to bite so deeply. A woodworker can always carve away more, but he can never replace what's already been taken out."

"Yes," D'Abjan said as evenly as he could. "You've told me before." "And yet still you don't heed what I tell you."

"I tried," he said, glaring at his father. "I told you I wasn't ready to do this."

"This is the third year of your four as an apprentice. By my third year, I was making entire pieces. Chairs, tables, benches. I made a wardrobe during my fourth year: top to bottom, all on my own. At this rate you'll still be doing piecework a year from now."

"Well, I guess I'll never be the woodworker you are, will I?" "That isn't what I meant."

"Isn't it?"

His father looked at him sadly. "Isn't it just as likely that my father was simply a better teacher than yours is?"

D'Abjan dropped his gaze, his cheeks burning. After a moment he shrugged.

His father stepped into the storage room and emerged a moment later with a new piece of the same maple D'Abjan had been working.

"Start it again," his father said. "Try making the shape right first, even if it turns out too big for the chair. We can work on getting it to the right size later. Together. But concentrate on this first."

He nodded. "All right."

His father patted his shoulder and started toward the door again. "I have one more repair to do over at the smithy. I'll be back soon."

"Father."

His father turned.

"Can I take a walk first, get out of here for just a bit?"

"I suppose," his father said, frowning slightly. "Not too long though. Madli's been waiting for her chair long enough."

D'Abjan began to take off his work apron. "I won't take long. I promise."

"Very well."

His father left their house. Moments later D'Abjan was out the door as well, though he took care to go in the opposite direction, away from the marketplace. Away from anyone who might see him.

He remained on the path for just a short while, strolling past the last of the homes on this western edge of Greenrill. Once he couldn't see that last house anymore-and no one there could see him-D'Abjan turned off the lane and ducked into the wood, fighting his way through the brush and pushing past low cedar branches to a small clearing he'd visited before.

There he found a freshly fallen tree limb-cedar, of course; it grew in abundance in this part of the highlands. He took out his pocketknife and peeled away the bark in long, smooth strips. Then he sat in the middle of the clearing and he began to draw upon his magic, his V'Tol. His power. He'd discovered that he could do this only a few turns before. Other boys his age here in the village had been talking about being able to do things. Some could start fires, others could speak with birds and foxes, coaxing them to take food from their hands. D'Abjan could shape. That's what the Qirsi called it. The real Qirsi; the ones who used their powers every day. He'd heard peddlers talking about them, about their powers. Shaping. He was a shaper.

Except that he wasn't. He was Y'Qatt. By using his magic, even once, even for an instant, he was violating the most basic tenets of his faith, going against everything that his mother and father had taught him.

He placed his hands over the wood, as he had so many times before, and he began to shape it, smoothing the edges, narrowing it at one end, turning it into the same chair arm he'd spent the morning trying to create in his father's shop. It was so easy, as natural as breathing, as immediate as thought. Whatever his shortcomings as a woodworker, he had taught himself to be a fine shaper. Too bad his father could never see what he had learned to do.

He'd heard what the Y'Qatt clerics said about V'Tol. Who among the Y'Qatt had not? V'Tol was life, it was the essence of what they were. All Qirsi, not just the Y'Qatt. Those who chose to use their magic as a mere tool, or worse, as a weapon, were squandering the gift of life given to all of Qirsar's children, a gift from the god himself. That was why using their magic weakened a Qirsi. That was why those who spent their power the way men and women of both races spent their coin in a marketplace died at a younger age than did those who held tightly to the V'Tol. It made sense.

But if Qirsar hadn't intended for his children to wield this magic, why had he made it so easy to use, so powerful, so satisfying? Why had he given them different abilities-shaping and fire, language of beasts and mists and winds, gleaning and healing? Why had he made the V' of at all? He wanted to ask this of his father and mother, of Greenrill's prior, of anyone who might be willing to give him an answer. But he knew that the question itself would so appall whoever he asked that he was better off remaining silent.

As it was, if his parents ever learned what he did in this clearing, they would be ashamed. They might banish him from their home or even from the village itself. So, after gazing for a few moments at the wood he had shaped, he tossed it onto the ground a few spans from where he sat, and drawing on his magic once again, he shattered the limb into a thousand pieces. This felt satisfying, too, though in an entirely different way. For just an instant, he could imagine himself as a warrior in one of the Blood Wars, fighting against the Eandi sovereignties, wielding this power he possessed in a noble cause. Of course, his parents would have seen this as a betrayal as well, a worse one perhaps than the simple conjuring he had done just a short time before.

D'Abjan exhaled heavily, then climbed to his feet and started back toward the dirt road. His father would be back at their house before long, back in the workshop, and would wonder where he'd gone.

As he approached the road, he peered toward the village, making certain that no one was watching before setting foot on the path. He hadn't taken two steps, however, when he heard a low groan from behind him. He gasped and spun, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest.

But rather than seeing his father, or the prior, or anyone else from Greenrill, as he had feared, he saw a woman he didn't recognize.

She had white hair, and at first D'Abjan assumed that she was Qirsi-a peddler maybe, or an Y'Qatt from another village. But then he realized that her skin was too brown, and that her eyes were so dark that they looked black. An Eandi then, and injured by the look of her.

In that moment, the woman looked up at him and halted. She seemed to teeter briefly, and then she collapsed onto the road.

D'Abjan hurried to her side. There was a knot the size of an egg at her temple. Already it was darkening to a deep angry purple, the color of storm clouds early in the Harvest. Blood oozed from the middle of the lump and there were small pieces of dirt and rock embedded in her skin.

"What's your name?" he asked her, not quite knowing what to do. She merely groaned.

He looked her over quickly and decided that she had no other wounds. She had been carrying two large baskets, each one covered with a blanket. Peeking inside of them, he saw that both containers were filled with smaller baskets of fine quality. She also wore a carry sack on her back. She was dressed simply, and she wore no jewelry.

"Can you tell me where you've come from?"

Still she didn't answer.

At last, D'Abjan scrambled to his feet. "I'm going to get help," he said, though he wasn't certain she could even hear him. "We're near our village. I won't be long." And with that, he ran back to his father's shop.

His father was waiting there for him, his arms crossed over his chest, a stern look on his round face.

"Where have you been?" he demanded. "Didn't I tell you-?" "There's a woman!" D'Abjan said. "And she's hurt!"

His eyes narrowed. "What woman? Where?"

"On the road just west of the village."

"What were you doing there?"

"Just walking. She's hurt, Father. She has a bruise on her head and she was unconscious when I left her."

"Who is she? Do you know her?"

D'Abjan shook his head. "She's Eandi. A peddler from the looks of her. I've never seen her before."

"All right," his father said. "We'll get Pritt. Come along."

Pritt had been the healer in Greenrill for longer than D'Abjan had been alive. And he looked it. He was bent and he looked frail, with wispy white hair and a narrow, gaunt face. But he'd seen the village through injuries caused by floods and fires, as well as through several outbreaks of Murnia's pox. And despite his age and appearance, he remained spry. If anyone could help the old woman, he could.

They found the old healer in the marketplace, buying healing herbs from an Eandi peddler.

"Pritt," D'Abjan's father called, approaching the man. "You're needed on the road west of the village."

The old man turned slowly at the sound of his voice and stared in their direction, squinting as if to see. "Who is that?"

"It's Laryn, healer. And my boy, D'Abjan."

"Ah, Laryn," the man said, grinning. "Good to see you. What's this about the road?"

"There's a woman there. Eandi. The boy found her," he added, gesturing toward D'Abjan. "She has a head injury and she's unconscious."

The healer frowned. "All right. Can the two of you manage to carry her to my house?"

D'Abjan's father looked at the boy, a question in his pale eyes. "I think so," D'Abjan said.

The healer nodded. "Good. Meet me there."

Pritt started to walk toward his home, and D'Abjan and his father hurried back to where the woman lay.

As it turned out, she was so light that Laryn could carry her by himself, leaving it to D'Abjan to carry her baskets and travel sack. He started to lift one of the blankets to look once more at the baskets she carried, but his father spoke his name sharply, stopping him.

"Those aren't yours to look in" was all he said.

D'Abjan nodded and picked up the woman's things.

The stranger moaned once when Laryn lifted her, her eyes fluttering open briefly. But she didn't stir again before they reached the healer's cabin and laid her on a pallet by his hearth.

The old healer shuffled to her side and bent over her, looking intently at the bruise on her head. After some time, he straightened and clicked his tongue twice.

"Laryn," he said. "Put that kettle on the fire and then fetch me a bowl from the kitchen." He glanced at D'Abjan. "There's a bucket out front, boy. Fetch some fresh water from the stream. Not the well, mind you. The stream. Quickly now."

D'Abjan nodded and ran to do as the healer instructed. It was a long walk to the stream, and longer still on the return, carrying a full bucket of water. By the time he returned, the cabin was redolent with the smells of Pritt's healing herbs: comfrey and borage, betony and lavender.

"Ah, good," the healer said, seeing D'Abjan in the doorway. He beckoned to the boy. "Bring the bucket here. Is the water cold?"

"Freezing," D'Abjan said.

"Excellent." He had placed a poultice on the wound, but now he lifted it off and handed a dry cloth to D'Abjan. "Soak this in the water and lay it on the bruise. Refresh it every few moments. With time it ought to bring the swelling down."

"Yes, healer."

D'Abjan pulled a chair over to the side of the pallet and began to apply the cold cloth as the healer had told him. As he did, Pritt and D'Abjan's father moved off a short distance and began to speak in low voices. D'Abjan had to strain to hear them.

"She's taken quite a blow to the head," the healer said, glancing at the woman, his brow furrowed, a frown on his narrow face. "Someone younger, I wouldn't be too concerned. With time, such a wound will heal. But I'd guess this woman is in her seventies. I just don't know if she can recover the way someone younger would."

"How long until you'll know?"

The old man shrugged, glanced at her again. "By morning certainly. If she hasn't woken by then, she might not at all."

Laryn nodded. "Well, let us know how she's doing."

"Why don't you leave the boy with me?"

D'Abjan had taken care not to let the two men see that he was listening, but now he looked up, making no attempt to mask his eagerness.

"He has work to do," his father said, eyeing D'Abjan and clearly intending his remark for him as well.

"I could use the help," Pritt said. "And he was the one who found her. If she survives, it will be largely because of him."

If D'Abjan himself had asked, Laryn would have refused. The boy was certain of it. But refusing the old healer was another matter, and in the end his father relented.

"Fine, then," he said, trying with only some success to keep his tone light. "Stay with her. I'll return later."

"Thank you, Father."

He nodded once as he let himself out of the house, but he said nothing.

Pritt shuffled over to the pallet and watched D'Abjan as he wet the cloth again, wrung it out, and replaced it on the woman's bruise. "Good," the healer said. "Keep doing that. I've a few things to finish in the marketplace. I'll be back shortly. All right?"

"Yes, healer."

Pritt patted his shoulder and left the house.

D'Abjan continued to press the cloth gently to her wound, refreshing it every few moments with the cold water and watching the woman for any sign that she was waking. Seeing none, he heard again the healer's words, spoken quietly to his father. I just don't know if she can recover…

Bending to wet the cloth yet again, D'Abjan wondered if Pritt possessed healing magic. Was that why he had become a healer in the first place? Was he capable of saving the woman with his magic, if only he were permitted to wield it? D'Abjan knew that people had died in the healer's care. No doubt this happened to healers all the time. But if Pritt did have healing power, how did it make him feel, watching those in his care die, knowing that he might have been able to heal them? Of all Qirsi magics, surely here was one that Qirsar had to have intended for them to use. How could the god want the Y'Qatt to let others suffer, simply so that his children would preserve their V'Tol for another day? Where was the sense in that? Where was the compassion, the justice?

He was still considering this when the woman finally stirred, another low moan escaping her as her eyes opened slowly. She reached a hand up to her head, and D'Abjan removed the cloth.

"Water?" she whispered.

He jumped up. "Yes, of course." He found a cup in Pritt's kitchen and filled it with cold water from the bucket. He started to hand it to her but then realized she was in no condition to drink it on her own. Unsure of what else to do, D'Abjan put his hand behind her head and gently lifted her while holding the cup to her lips. Her hair felt thick and rough, and with her eyes open, staring sightlessly over the rim of the cup, she looked odd, even vaguely frightening. She took a sip or two before nodding that she had drunk enough. He lowered her head once more.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"You're welcome, good lady."

She looked around the cabin. "What happened to me?"

"I don't know. I saw you on the road leading into our village. You were already hurt. You made a noise, and then you fell down. My father and I brought you here."

"And where is here?"

"This is Pritt's home. He's our healer."

A faint smile touched her lips. "I meant what village."

D'Abjan felt his face color. "My pardon. This is Greenrill."

She shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment. "I don't know that name." After a moment she lifted a hand to her head again, and touched the bruise gingerly. "I take it we're waiting for your healer to come."

"No, good lady. He's already seen you." He lifted up the poultice that had been on her wound. "He prepared this."

"But you look Qirsi," she said.

"We are, good lady."

"So then, your healer has refused to tend to me."

Again he felt his face turning red. Why should it fall to him to explain this, when he had just been asking himself the same question? Was this Qirsar's way of punishing him? Was the god testing his faith by making him explain to this woman what it meant to be Y'Qatt?

"It's not our way to use magic, good lady. We are Y'Qatt. We… we believe that the god did not intend for us to use any of our powers."

She watched him with a strange expression-something akin to anger flashed in her dark eyes, and though she said nothing, D'Abjan felt compelled to explain more.

"The more power we use the shorter our lives," he said. "Our V'Tol-that's what we call our magic-it isn't supposed to be used. It's part of our life." He knew he wasn't explaining it well, but still he didn't stop. "We find other ways. We can shape wood with magic, but we use tools instead. We can light fires, but we use a tinder and flint instead. We can heal with magic, but we use herbs and poultices instead." He held up the poultice again, and then the wet cloth he'd been holding to her head. "We haven't neglected you, good lady. We've done our best."

"But without magic."

"Yes." He nodded. "Without magic."

"And what if your herbs and your cloth hadn't helped me?"

He just gaped at her, not knowing how to answer, afraid even to try. For several moments, neither of them spoke, and D'Abjan found himself glancing toward the door, wishing Pritt would return.

"But they did help me, didn't they?" she finally said, smiling at him. He grinned, his relief as welcome as sleep after a long day of work.

"Yes, good lady."

She closed her eyes for a short time, before suddenly opening them again. "Where are my things?"

"Just over there, good lady," D'Abjan said, pointing to her baskets and carry sack, which sat by the wall near the door.

"Ah, good. Good." She closed her eyes again. "What's your name, boy?" she asked.

"D'Abjan, my lady."

"I'm Licaldi."

"Do you live near here?" he asked.

"I told you, I don't know where here is. But I've lived in the highlands all my life." She opened one eye and looked at him. "I'm Mettai." He felt his eyes widen.

"You know what that means?"

D'Abjan nodded. He did know, or at least he thought he did. His father had explained to him once about blood magic and the Eandi conjurers and witches who wielded it. He'd listened as he would to a legend told beside a fire during the Festival Moon, but for a long time he'd wondered if such people truly existed. As he'd grown older he'd come to understand that there was truth to the stories, but until now, he'd never met an Eandi sorcerer.

"You fear me now," she said softly, smiling slightly.

"No, good lady. Forgive me. I merely… I've never met one of your people before."

"Are we Mettai that odd then? Are Eandi sorcerers any stranger from Qirsi who forswear their magic?"

Before he could answer, the door opened, and Pritt stepped into the house.

"Ah!" he said, seeing that her eyes were open. "You're awake! Excellent!"

"This is the healer," D'Abjan said. "Pritt, this is Licaldi."

"Licaldi, is it?" he asked, crossing to the bed. He glanced at D'Abjan, who stood and got out of the healer's way. Pritt sat and examined her wound. "How are you feeling, Licaldi?"

"A bit dizzy," she said. "And my head aches."

"I imagine. Do you remember what happened?"

"No, I-" She stopped, staring at him. "Yes. Yes, I do. There was a man. No, wait. Two men. One in front of me on the road. The other behind me. They took my gold and they hit me with… with something."

"A rock, I'd say, from the look of the wound."

She shook her head, looking like she might cry. "I don't remember. I just know that they took my gold. I've been traveling through the highlands, selling my baskets, living off what I could earn from the trades I made. Now I've nothing again." Her eyes met Pritt's. "I can't pay you, healer. Even without your magic, you've been kind and you've helped me. But I have no gold for you."

Pritt shrugged. "That's all right."

Her face brightened. "But I still have my baskets." She sat up straighter. "Bring me one of those baskets, D'Abjan," she said, motioning for him to hurry.

The healer offered an indulgent smile, even as he shook his head. "Really, there's no need."

D'Abjan carried one of the large baskets to the pallet and laid it on Licaldi's lap. She removed the blanket and started looking through the smaller baskets as if trying to decide which one to give the healer.

Pritt stared at them. "You made all of these?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, not bothering to look up.

D'Abjan stood beside Pritt, also gazing at the treasures in her basket. "They're beautiful."

"Thank you, boy. You can have one, as well. Take it home to your mother and father, and tell them that you earned it with your kindness and good manners."

He smiled. "Yes, good lady." After looking over the baskets for a few moments, D'Abjan selected a deep, oval-shaped one with a braided handle. The rushes from which it had been woven were dyed green and blue-his mother's favorite colors.

"A fine choice," Licaldi said. She looked up at the healer. "And you, healer?"

Pritt shrugged slightly, but then reached for a shallow round basket that had no handle. "This will hold my healing herbs," he said. "And each day I use it, I'll think of you, kind madam."

"You're too kind, healer."

She pushed herself out of the bed and stood.

"What are you doing?" Pritt asked, a frown on his face.

"I have to be on my way. My gold is gone. I can't tarry here earning nothing. I'll stop at your marketplace, and then I'll be on my way."

"But your injury!" the healer said. "You shouldn't be standing, much less wandering the land on your own. At least stay the night. If you're feeling well enough, you can be on your way in the morning."

She smiled at him, as if he were a child and she an indulgent parent. "But, healer, I'm feeling well enough now."

Looking at her, D'Abjan realized that she did look well. Her color had returned, the haze of pain had lifted from her dark eyes, even the swelling at her temple appeared to have gone down. It almost seemed that the god himself had reached down and mended her wound, as if he were determined to prove to D'Abjan that the healer's poultice was enough, and that there was no need to resort to magic.

"Well, I can't keep you here against your will," Pritt told her sourly. "But I fear you're making a terrible mistake."

"I appreciate your concern, healer. If I do myself injury by leaving your care too soon, I'll have no one to blame but myself. You've been clear with your warnings."

"At least let me place a bandage on the wound."

She inclined her head. "I'd be grateful."

It took Pritt only a few moments to bandage her head, and soon the woman was on her way toward the marketplace, her carry sack on her back, one of the great baskets under each arm.

"She's an odd woman," D'Abjan said, standing in the healer's doorway, watching her go.

"She's a fool," the healer muttered. "You'd best get back to your father, boy. Don't forget your basket."

He retrieved his basket from beside the pallet and started back toward Laryn's woodshop. The walk took him through the marketplace and before long he spotted Licaldi. She stood in the middle of the lane, her large baskets resting on the ground as she bartered with at least six peddlers. D'Abjan tried to catch her eye, but she was too intent on her bargaining to notice him. He hurried on, confident that before day's end she would recoup a good deal of the gold she had lost to the road brigands. Within a few days, everyone in Greenrill would have one of the woman's baskets.

As he walked, he couldn't help thinking that by bringing that woman to Greenrill, by allowing D'Abjan to find her as he emerged from the forest, the god had taught him something. Without using magic at all, the healer had saved the old woman's life. More, he had done it with ease. D'Abjan couldn't imagine that magic would work any faster than had the herbs and cold cloth. Surely not all healers could succeed so quickly, but Pritt had been honing his craft for years. And perhaps that was what the god had meant to show him. Of course D'Abjan couldn't expect to be a master craftsman after only three years as his father's apprentice, and yes, right now his magic worked quicker and with greater precision than did his hands. But with time and practice, he could learn to work wood as his father did. Finally he understood why his people refused to squander their V'Tol in order to save time or avoid work. To do so was to reward laziness and ignore the value of mastering a skill.

"I understand, Qirsar," he whispered. And he knew that he had gone to his clearing in the forest for the last time.

It was late when he reached the house. Sunlight angled sharply across the lane, and the air had begun to grow cool. Even from the road, he could hear his father sweeping the floors, a chore Laryn usually left for D'Abjan.

"Want me to finish?" the boy asked as he stepped inside.

"I'm almost done," Laryn said. He didn't sound angry, but neither was there any warmth in his voice. No doubt he was still annoyed with D'Abjan for staying with the healer.

"I'll stay late tomorrow," the boy said. "I'll finish the arm for Madli's chair."

"I did it myself," his father said.

"Then I'll start something new, anything that you want me to work on."

Laryn stopped sweeping and looked at him, his eyes narrowed slightly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "What's this about?"

D'Abjan couldn't help smiling, too. "Nothing. I just… I'm ready to work harder. That's all."

His father held his gaze for several moments, then nodded. "All right then." He glanced at the basket. "What's that?"

"The woman made it. That's what she had in those big baskets. Smaller ones like this. Beautiful ones. She gave one to me and one to Pritt."

"So, she's doing better."

"Much. She's left the healer's house. I passed her in the marketplace trading with several peddlers."

The smile faded from his father's face. "You're not serious." "Pritt couldn't believe it either."

"He feared she was going to die. He made it sound as though she would. And instead she's already left his cabin?"

"He's a very fine healer."

Laryn stared at the floor. "Yes, or…"

"Or what?"

His father shook his head. "I don't know. Nothing." He took the basket from D'Abjan and examined it closely. "She does good work. And your mother will like the colors."

"I know. That's why I chose that one."

Laryn put away the broom and together father and son walked around to the front of the house. As soon as they stepped outside, D'Abjan caught the scent of the evening meal his mother was cooking. It occurred to him then that he hadn't eaten since morning. His stomach grumbled loudly, drawing a grin from his father.

His mother had prepared stewed lamb and herb bread, his favorites, and that night he ate until he was sated and happy.

It wasn't until he was getting into bed that D'Abjan began to feel ill.

Once she was away from the village she reclaimed her cart and steered it as far from Greenrill as daylight would allow. As darkness fell, she made a fire by the wash. Then she removed the bandage and threw it into the flames.

Conjuring the wound had been but a small matter; fooling the Y'Qatt healer had been laughably easy. A real Qirsi healer would have known that her injury was feigned as soon as he or she used magic to heal it. But the Y'Qatt relied on his eyes and his hands, his herbs and his false faith. Whatever qualities he thought to gain by eschewing the use of magic, wisdom and insight were not among them.

The boy had been kind. It was regrettable that he had to die as well. He was as much a victim of the Y'Qatt as she-no doubt his faith had been forced upon him, drummed into his mind until he could recite it by rote. But there was no avoiding it. That was why she had given him a basket. Let the illness come to him early; let him die before the worst of it. For die they would. All of them.

It would be a long night; she looked forward to it. First she would

hear the moans of the Y'Qatt, the cries of fear and suffering. Is it the pestilence that has come? they would ask each other. Is it Murnia's pox? Then the fires would begin. Winds would keen, sweeping dense mists through the village. Homes would crumble in the face of shaping power unleashed. Dogs would howl at the incomprehensible thoughts conveyed to them by those with language of beasts. Then at last, silence would settle over the village as over a tomb.

And she would move on, toward the next Y'Qatt settlement.