David Coe - The Sorcerer's Plague

"I'm sorry, but they're not your baskets anymore." He turned away and started toward the front of his cart.

Lici hurried after the man, grabbing him by the arm. "I want them back then!" She held out the pouch of coins to him. "Here! Your gold! I don't want it anymore! Just give me my baskets back!"

He pulled his arm loose and walked briskly to his horse. Lici followed and tried to push the pouch into his hand.

"Get away from me!" he said, shoving her away with one hand. She stumbled back, but quickly righted herself.

"I'll give you more gold! I have twenty sovereigns! You can have them, too!"

He scrambled up into his seat and took hold of the reins.

"All of it! I'll give you all my gold! Everything I have! Just don't take those baskets to the plains! I'm begging you!"

Brint didn't answer. Lici rushed forward and grabbed his leg, digging her fingers into his calf. "You can't go!"

"You're hurting me!" he shouted, kicking at her, trying to free himself from her grasp. His foot caught her in the chin, but still she held fast to him. He kicked her again, harder this time. She let go and fell to the ground, addled for the moment.

"I… I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you. But you… What was I supposed to do?"

She shook her head, sobbing now. "Please!" she said. "Don't go! You're doing something terrible!"

He stared down at her, looking confused and scared. "I'm just a merchant. I sell and I buy. How much harm can come of that?"

"Death!" she said, her voice rising. "Death of thousands! And ruin! Entire villages destroyed!"

"You're mad!" He snapped the reins and his cart started forward.

Lici pulled her knife free and clawed at the ground, picking up a handful of dark earth. She cut a deep gash across the back of her hand and let the blood drip into the dirt she held. "Blood!" she shouted, raising her hand over her head. "Earth and power! Power to fire!" She lowered her hand and stared at the mud she held. That wasn't right. What were the words? She knew how to do this. She had just done it. "Earth to magic," she began again, raising her hand once more. "Magic to fire. Fire to… to that man." Her hand dropped to her side, and once more she began to cry. "Death!" she shouted after the merchant. "Death and ruin! I've seen it! You'll see it, too! Mark my word, you'll see it, too!"

But Brint didn't stop. Lici sat on the ground watching him drive his cart away from the village, her baskets in his cart, her curse following him like a storm cloud. How many would die? Who could say? It would carve through the Fal'Borna septs like a Mettai blade through flesh; it might even reach the J'Balanar. Her magic couldn't tell one Qirsi from another. It could kill any of them, all of them. All except the Y'Qatt, who lived to the north, near the lakes.

"You're a fool!" she shouted after the man, though he had turned a corner on the road and she couldn't see him anymore. "You don't know what you're doing!" Then she raised her face to the sky and screamed until her throat was raw and her voice was gone.

ventually she must have passed out, for she found herself lying sprawled on the ground some time later. The sun had set, and only a faint sheen of daylight clung to the western sky.

She sat up and looked around her. Darkness oozed from the abandoned houses and empty lanes, like blood from some ancient wound. An owl called from far off and some creature-a fox perhaps, or a wildcat- growled low and harsh from the brush beyond her old house.

"You lied to me."

She started at the voice, her heart pounding in her chest. A figure loomed beside her, dark, insubstantial.

"Mama?" she whispered.

"You told me that you brought healers."

"Is that really you?"

"You lied."

She peered at the form, trying to make out a face.

"I was scared," she finally said. "I'd gone the wrong way. I didn't know what else to do."

"You lied to me!" the voice said again, loud and shrill.

Even as Lici flinched away, she felt herself growing angry. She wasn't the little girl anymore. She was old and tired, and she had done far worse in the years since leaving Sentaya.

"Yes, I lied," she said, sitting up straighter. "It was too late for all of you. I told you what you wanted to hear."

"And now you've condemned thousands to a death as terrible as mine."

"He said he was going to the Y'Qatt! It's not my fault that he lied to me!"

"Isn't it?"

"No!" She launched herself at the dark form, trying to take it by the neck. But there was nothing. She was grappling with air, flailing about in the dirt and leaves. Lici stopped herself and sat up again, her chest heaving, tears on her face. "Mama?"

Nothing.

"I didn't mean it."

She heard whispers coming from nearby, and, forcing herself to her feet, she started toward them.

"Mama?" she called. "Papa?"

The whispers seemed to fade, as if to draw her deeper into the gloom.

She halted, refusing to play their game. "Baet? Kytha?"

Was that a giggle? Were they teasing her?

"Come here!" she said, trying to sound stern.

She heard them on her right now, closer to the house, and she hurried after them.

"Let me see you! Show yourselves!"

Now they were to her left. Not in the house, but on the far side of it. She strode toward them, tripped on something, pulled herself to her feet, and trod on. It was so dark. Lici could barely make out the houses and trees, and soon found herself walking with her arms outstretched, to keep from walking into anything. But the voices continued, gentle and elusive, coaxing her on. The lane was behind her and to the left. Or perhaps it was more directly to the left. She wasn't quite certain.

But there was laughter before her, not playful anymore. Mocking.

"Stand still! Who are you?"

No one answered, but Lici thought she heard footsteps on the dry leaves. Slightly to her right now, and still ahead, always ahead. Arms reaching, fingers splayed, eyes wide, sightless, straining in the dark, she followed.

He had long since crossed the bridge and had put nearly a league be- tween himself and the wash when he finally slowed, allowing his horse to graze on the long grasses. His hands still trembled, though not as they had before.

"Damn crazy woman."

The horse looked back at him for an instant, chewing loudly.

He had forty-seven baskets to sell. Fine ones-quite possibly the best he'd ever seen. He'd gotten them at a good price, and would probably manage to sell each at twice what they had cost him. That was what mattered. The rest was nothing more or less than the ranting of a mad witch.

Death and ruin. It was laughable. These were baskets, not blades or spears.

But they come from a Mettai.

He'd been searching for her people. Isn't that what he told her? Blood magic. It sounded strange and dangerous, and just slightly alluring. Selling Mettai goods, even things as harmless as blankets or baskets, was always profitable in Tordjanne. People there didn't quite believe in blood magic-most of them had never seen a Mettai. But they wanted the goods. They wanted to be able to point to something in their home and say, "That was made with blood magic." Here on the plains, merchants paid less for Mettai goods that they suspected had been made with magic rather than by hand. But in the Eandi sovereignties, especially those that were farther south, items made by magic often sold for more, simply because people there wanted to believe that they were buying something… well, magical.

But what was blood magic, really? Was there blood on these baskets? Is that what she was saying?

"She was mad," he said, scolding himself. "That's all."

Brint snapped the reins, forcing his horse into motion, though he sensed that the beast would gladly have eaten more.