David Coe: The Sorcerer's Plague

Besh stopped. "We should turn back. She wouldn't have come this far on the road without her cart."

"She's not in the village."

"Maybe not. But she's nearby. Her horse looks healthy-she hasn't been here long."

Sirj nodded. "Should we split up?"

Besh took a long breath. "All right. You stay near the wash; I'll check the woodlands east of the village."

"Right," Sirj said. They started away from each other. "Call for me if you see anything. I'll do the same."

Besh began to wind among the trees, searching for any sign that Lici had been there, straining his ears for any sound. His hands trembled, and his knees threatened to give out at any moment. Already he wished he and Sirj hadn't agreed to search for the woman separately. He quailed at the notion of meeting up with Lici alone. The irony wasn't lost on him- at another time he would have laughed at himself. One moment he resented Sirj for having come with him; the next he wished the younger man were there just in front of him; he truly was acting like a child. But just then he couldn't bring himself to appreciate the humor.

A faint mist drifted through the wood and occasionally a gust of wind stirred the branches, bringing a cascade of water from overhead. Again and again, he thought he saw a figure moving furtively from tree trunk to tree trunk, as if hiding from him, but each time he convinced himself that he had imagined it. He took care as he walked to keep the sound of the wash on his right-on a day like this it would have been so easy to lose his way. He also tried to tread quietly, not only so he could listen for Sirj, but also because he didn't wish to alert Lici to his presence.

Seeing nothing unusual, he turned and wandered a bit farther from the river. Soon he reached a small hollow, and after just a moment's hesitation walked down into it. Doing so, he flushed a grouse, the bird exploding from the ground with a rush of wings and feathers. His heart abruptly pounding, Besh paused and leaned against a tree, his eyes closed.

And standing thus in the silence of the wood, he heard her.

At first he thought that her voice was coming to him from far off, and he considered going back for Sirj. But peering through the mist, he was amazed to find that she was only a few strides away. She sat at the base of a tree, staring straight ahead, her knees drawn up to her chest. She was whispering to herself. Occasionally she'd give a small shake of her head, or raise her voice slightly, as if in anger. But she gave no sign of knowing that he was there, and for several minutes he merely watched her, too fascinated to do anything more.

Her white hair was ragged and damp. Her face had a pinched look; the lines that time had carved in her skin seemed deeper somehow, as if she had grown ancient in the days since she left Kirayde. Besh stared at her, trying to catch a glimpse of the dark-haired beauty who had captivated him so in his youth. But she was gone, her place taken by this looked dull and empty, as if the magic had drained from her.

Perhaps he should have gone back for Sirj-just moments before he'd been terrified by the thought of facing the witch alone. But seeing her now, he realized that he was no longer frightened. She didn't look like a demon, or even a powerful Mettai witch. She merely looked old, and he sensed that she was barely aware of her surroundings. More to the point, he'd sworn an oath to Pyav that he would stop her, and he'd given his word to Elica that he wouldn't let her husband come to harm.

Stooping, never taking his eyes off of her, he dug through the leaf litter that covered the forest floor and picked up a handful of dirt. Then he pulled his knife free, cut himself, and mixed his blood with the earth. If he needed magic, he'd be ready, far faster than she could be.

Taking a breath, he started forward again, stepping carefully, watching her, trying to make out what she was saying. But even when he was close enough to hear some of the words, he couldn't make sense of them.

Still she spoke, seeming to look right through him. And Besh took another step toward her, and then another.

With the third step she finally saw him. Her eyes snapped up to his-and perhaps there was yet power in them after all, for he grew cold under her gaze. She scrambled to her feet, keeping her back pressed against the tree. Too late, Besh saw that she also had her knife' out. Her left hand was balled in a fist, and blood seeped from a cut on the back of it. No doubt there was dirt in that hand. And blood.

He wanted to shout for Sirj, but he didn't dare. What a fool he'd been.

"You!" she said, nearly shrieking the word. "You get away from me!"

Immediately she fell back to muttering under her breath. Besh was certain that she was whispering a spell and he expected to die in the next moment. But nothing happened, and she continued to speak, all the while staring at him, her eyes wide and wild, like those of some creature caught in a hunter's snare.

"Why are you here, Lici?" Besh asked, his voice quavering.

For just an instant her vision seemed to clear, and Besh had the sense that she could see him again.

"Mama brought me out here," she said. "I think she was angry with me. I didn't mean to lie to her, but what could I do?"

"Mama?" he repeated. "Who's-?" He shuddered. "Do you mean your mother?"

She didn't say anything. Besh found himself looking around, as if expecting to find himself surrounded by wraiths. He'd heard of people meeting their dead, although usually this happened on nights when neither moon rose. Had her mind failed her completely, then?

"When did you lie to her?" he asked, keeping his voice even, gentle. She shook her head slowly, her gaze drifting to the side.

"Is this Sentaya, Lici?"

The woman looked at him again, her eyes narrowing. "I know you," she said. "Who are you?"

He licked his lips. "I'm Besh. You know me from Kirayde."

"You're not one of them," she said after several moments, raising her voice once more. "You're one of us. Did you see him? The other one? The one who took the baskets?" She rushed forward suddenly and grabbed Besh's shirt with her blade hand, nearly cutting his face with her knife as she did, though it seemed to the old man that she wasn't even aware of the weapon in her hand. "You have to stop him! He's taking them to the Fal'Borna! They'll all die!"

"Wh-what baskets?" he asked, trying as best he could to keep from breaking free and running from her.

She smiled, a sly look creeping over her face. "I found a way," she whispered, her foul breath hot on his face. "They wanted me dead. They wanted us all dead, but I found a way."

"What way? What do you mean?"

She leaned closer to him, so that her mouth was just at his ear, as if they were lovers. "Baskets," she whispered. She pulled back to look at him, and nodded.

Besh shook his head. "I don't understand. What baskets? Who are you talking about?"

She opened her hand, revealing a dark clump of clotted dirt. For a moment she stared at it. Then she looked at Besh again, smiling. "Magic," she whispered. "Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought-"

Without thinking, he grabbed her wrist and gave her hand a violent shake, so that the dirt fell to the ground.

She glared at him and yanked her hand away.

"I know you!" she said again. "You're that dark-eyed boy who used to stare at me." She spun away and started running from him. "You don't know that they'll all die!" she shouted as she ran. "You don't know it! Maybe he'll just take them back to Tordjanne! Maybe they won't ever see them at all, and then it'll be all right!"

Besh ran after her, his mind racing. I found a way. Baskets. Magic. Was that how she had killed so many Y'Qatt? Had she placed a spell on the baskets she wove? Was she, in effect, poisoning them?