Mary Herbert - City of Sorcerers

Kelene picked up her tray of stones and followed her mother outside, where the night had settled to full darkness. Gabria paused long enough to reassure Eurus and leave him a huge armload of fodder, then she led Kelene down the paths coward the council grove.

“Perhaps I ought to warn you,” Gabria said over her shoulder, “this pestilence has devastated our people. We could not keep up with it, let alone try to flee it. It has taken all of our strength and resources just to survive. The council grove has. . . changed.”

“I saw a little of that in the Watcher.” Kelene paused before she asked the question that had been preying on her mind since she had arrived at the camp. “Is Lymira gone?”

Gabria nodded without looking around. “And Coren and Gehlyn and Wer-tain Rejanir and Lord Koshyn and—” Her voice caught and she barely finished. “Too many to name.”

The two women said nothing more, only walked a little faster to the edge of the camp, not noticing the scattered Khulinin people among the tents who saw them and called out. At the border of the camp, a heavily armed warrior stepped into their path and held out his hand.

“Lady Gabria, we haven’t seen you or Lord Athlone in—” Then he saw Kelene and his eyes widened.

Gabria touched his arm. “Lord Athlone is still sick, but we think he will live, if he is allowed to rest.” The smile that spread across the man’s face was so brilliant Gabria responded with a smile of her own. “Now we all have work to do. I need you to find the Priestess Camra. Go with her, search the clan, and make a list of all the sick here in the camp. Kelene and I will be in the council grove, but we’ll be back as soon as we can to treat the plague victims.”

With a whoop the warrior dashed away to seek out the clan’s priestess of Amara, and Gabria and Kelene continued to the grove.

The grove of trees by the river was not hard to see in the darkness, for it was surrounded by a chain of fires that stretched in a great half circle from one riverbank to the other. Priests in red and black robes were tending the fires and pouring jars of incense on the flames to keep the pungent yellow smoke rising to the sky. In the night, the fires cast a ghastly glow on the rows and rows of tents that filled the grove and on the few people who moved slowly through the dancing shadows.

Kelene couldn’t stifle a shudder. The scene looked like something from a hideous nightmare or Valorian’s tale of Gormoth. And worse than the view was the stench. The breeze had died to a mere breath; the smoke, the odors of sickness, and the stink of death layover the area like a noxious fog.

Gabria entered the grove and strode to the big council tent without a sideways glance, but Kelene slowed down to stare at the area in dismay. The grove was a shambles of trash, fouled clothes, and filthy blankets. Debris from trees cut down to feed the fires littered the trampled grass. Tents, large and small, had been pitched everywhere with no thought to organization. Worst of all was the pitiful pile of bodies heaped near the council tent. This was far worse than she’d expected from the tiny images in the Watcher. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep moving through the wreckage of the plague.

She saw her mother disappear into the council tent and hurried to catch up. The tent’s interior was much the same as Kelene remembered from the jewel. It was still crowded with the sick and dying and with people trying to help—only the faces of the patients and the caretakers had changed.

There was one caretaker in particular that caught Kelene’s attention. She had to stare at him for a long minute before she recognized the Reidhar chief, Lord Fiergan. He, too, had changed in the past days, having lost weight and much of his bluster. He was bent over a pallet, carefully helping a woman drink some water, when he glanced up and saw Kelene. To his credit, he did not startle or drop the cup or shout in surprise. He laid the woman’s head down, patted her arm, and came to meet the young sorceress.

Gabria was talking to three very tired-looking healers, so Kelene held on to her leather bag and bowed politely to Lord Fiergan.

He did not dither, but went straight to the point. “You found something in Moy Tura?”

Kelene indicated her bag, not sure what to expect from the burly chief, who hated sorcery and had been against the journey to Moy Tura. “We found some healing stones. They are not an instant cure, but there are some that break fevers.”

Fiergan shot a glance at the woman he had left and back to Kelene. She was startled by the look of hope and relief in his dark, heavy-browed eyes. “I know there are others you must help first, but when you have time, will you see to my wife?”

Kelene nodded, too surprised to speak. Lord Fiergan had asked her—a woman, a magic-wielder, and a Khulinin—to help? She noticed her mother was still talking to the healers, and she made a quick decision. She had to start somewhere, and Lord Fiergan’s wife was as good a patient as any. Besides, if the lady was recovering, Lord Fiergan might be more inclined to turn some of his energy and authority to helping organize the shambles in the council grove.

“Come on,” she said, leading Fiergan back to the pallet. His wife been sick for only a day and was still coherent enough to understand Kelene when she took the stones from the bag and carefully described what would happen. She stared hopefully up at her husband who indicated to Kelene to proceed.

By the time the golden light of the Lion’s Eye had faded back into the stone, there was a crowd of people standing around the pallet watching Kelene; the entire tent was silent. The sorceress picked up her stone. “She can rest now, Lord Fiergan.”

“Thank you,” said the Reidhar chief with genuine gratitude.

“Lord Fiergan,” said Gabria, who had seen the whole incident and understood her daughter’s reason. “There is a young man in your camp named Alanar. Is he still alive?”

Fiergan hesitated while he tried to think. “Yes,” he finally growled. “He was yesterday.”

“Good. Then please bring him here.”

The chief bristled at Gabria’s tone. Alanar, a magic-wielder, had left his clan against the chieftain’s orders and studied sorcery with Gabria. When he returned to Reidhar Treld to try to talk some sense into Lord Fiergan, the chief had all but exiled him from the clan. “Why?” demanded Fiergan.

“I believe he might have a talent to heal like Kelene. With so few magic-wielders and healers left, we shall need all the help we can get,” Gabria replied evenly.

Fiergan felt his wife’s fingers slip into his hand, and his old resentments retreated a step. He realized this was no time to renew his animosity toward sorcery. “I’ll get him myself,” he agreed and stalked from the tent.

By the time Fiergan returned with Alanar, Kelene was taking her stones from one plague victim to the next, starting with two sick healers and working her way around the tent. As soon as Alanar arrived, she handed him a second Lion’s Eye.

The young Reidhar gripped the stone in his long hands like a lifeline, but Kelene was pleased to see there was no fear or hesitation in his eyes. He knelt down with her beside a tall Ferganan girl barely out of childhood. Sweat matted the girl’s long hair, and plague sores disfigured her fair face.

Kelene gently mopped the girl’s skin. “Place the stone on her forehead,” she told Alanar. He followed her directions exactly as she explained the rest of the spell. To Kelene’s relief, the stone flared under his touch. As soon as the golden light faded and the girl was resting more comfortably, Alanar’s round, serious face broke into a grin of delight.

They set to work in earnest then. With Gabria beside them working tirelessly to organize help and make tea and medicines, Kelene and Alanar moved methodically from tent to tent in the council grove, treating anyone who was sick.