David Coe - The Sorcerer's Plague

"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.

Besh was lying in bed when finally it came to him. Since seeing that daybook of Sy1pa's, he had been able to think of nothing else. All through dinner, as the young ones played and laughed, and Mihas asked him question after question about the old woman's hut, he could barely keep his thoughts clear enough to respond. Elica finally asked him if he was well, apparently fearing that his long day in the woman's home had left him fevered.

He felt fine, though. It was just that journal. Why did it bother him so? No, not bother. That was the wrong word. It occupied his thoughts, to the exclusion of nearly all else. But why?

Sitting outside on Sirj's stump, as water dripped from the branches overhead and the sky above him began to clear, he tried to recall all he could of Sylpa. He'd known the woman when he was still a child, and had liked her very much. True, she was forever linked to Lici in his mind, but somehow he had managed to hold on to his fondness for her. Sylpa had been a formidable woman and quite beautiful, even after her hair turned white and the lines on her face deepened. Her eyes, large and dark green, had always seemed to be dancing with humor, even when the rest of her face looked solemn. And her laugh-full, unrestrained, loud enough to carry from one end of the marketplace to the other; even after she became eldest of the village and began to carry the cares of all Kirayde on her shoulders, she always kept that laugh.