by DAVID B. COE
The Sorcerer's Plague
( Blood of the Southlands - 1 )
David B Coe
David B. Coe enthralled readers and critics with his Winds of the Forelands, an epic fantasy full of political intrigue, complex characters, and magical conspiracy. Now he takes the hero of that series to new adventures across the sea on a journey to the Southlands.
Grinsa, who nearly single-handedly won the war of the Forelands, has been banished because he is a Weaver, a Qirsi who can wield many magics. He and his family seek only peace and a place to settle down. But even on the distant southern continent, they can't escape the tension between his magical folk and the non-magical Eandi. Instead of peace, they find a war-ravaged land awash in racial tension and clan conflicts. Worse yet, his own people try to harness his great power and destroy his family.
Amid the high tension of clan rivalry comes a plague that preys on Qirsi power across the Southlands with deadly results. When the disease is linked to an itinerant woman peddling baskets, one old man takes it upon himself to find answers in the secrets of her veiled past.
With wonderfully creative magic, dark secrets, and engaging characters faced with a world of trouble, Coe deftly weaves an epic tapestry that launches a richly-entertaining new saga in an unknown land.
David B. Coe
The Sorcerers' Plague
Book One of Blood of the Southlands
Prologue
SENTAYA, NEAR SILVERWATER WASH,
FERTILITY MOON WAXING, YEAR 1147
She could hear the last of the thunder rumbling in the distance; she could feel it pulsing in the ground beneath her feet, as if the earth itself trembled at the storm's fury. The forest flickered with lightning, strange, frightening shapes flashing before her and then vanishing like wraiths. The rain had ceased long ago, but a cool wind swept among the trees, carving through her damp clothes, chilling her like death.
She still carried the torch, though it offered no light. She didn't remember it dying out. She should have thrown it away, but she couldn't bring herself to let go of it. There was comfort to be found in the feel of that rough wood, in the faint smell of oil that still lingered in the burned remnants of cloth. She should have taken something from the house. There were clothes she might need, toys she still loved, tokens that would help her remember Mama and Papa, Kytha and Baetri. As if she could forget.
Fear had kept her from going inside. She'd gone in once, seen that they were dead. She hadn't found the courage to go in a second time. Then Mama had died, the last of them, and she had run from the village. Was it even a village anymore? The houses remained. The lanes, the marketplace, the garden plots. But with everyone dead, was it still a village?
A moment later she was crying again. How many tears could a girl shed in one night? Did grief and shame know any limits? Did fear and rage?
She didn't know where she was going. She knew only that there was nothing left for her here, and that she couldn't go to the white-hairs again. Not after what had happened this night.
She crumpled to the ground, overcome once more with anguish. She wanted to be sick or to scream or simply to die. Yes, that would have been easiest. Better death than living with the knowledge of what she had done, and what had been done to her. There was no one left to mourn her and there was nothing left for her but to mourn the others. What kind of life was that?
She knew that she couldn't take a blade to herself. She wasn't brave enough for that. But she could throw herself in the wash. Or could she? Even that thought made her quail.
Maybe if she went back. Maybe if she returned to the house and laid herself down beside her dead sisters and her father. Maybe that would be enough to kill her.
Another gust of wind made her shiver, made her teeth chatter. Perhaps she didn't have to move at all. She'd heard of people dying in the wild, killed by cold and hunger and thirst and wild dogs. That could be her.
But just thinking it made her sit up straight and grip her torch tighter. Even wanting to die, she was too much a coward to do anything but survive. She felt that she was betraying those who were gone, though Mama and Papa wouldn't have seen it that way. Young as she was, she knew that much. They would tell her to get up, to start walking again. It doesn't matter where, they would say. Just walk. Find another village. Live!
They were dead because of her. The taste of failure in her mouth was enough to make her gag.
"It wasn't just me," she said aloud, angry, hurt, desperate to believe it. "It's their fault, too. Maybe even more than mine."
Then why did you lie to Mama?
"I didn't mean to lie," she whispered, tears streaking her face.
Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the wood and making her flinch. Pale faces seemed to loom among the trees, watching her, laughing. She covered her ears and closed her eyes, but it was several moments before the thunder finally rumbled its answer. Eventually she opened her eyes again and her hands dropped to her side.
She sat there for what seemed a long time. Lightning lit the forest several times more, and still the thunder retreated. No more rain fell. Even the storm was leaving her. How she wanted to lie down and close her eyes and never wake again. But as frightened as she was of being alone, death scared her more.
Eventually she climbed to her feet, and still gripping that dead torch, she started down the path once more. Yes, walk, the voices said, urging her on. Find another village. Live.
Chapter 1
KIRAYDE, NEAR THE COMPANIONLAKES,
THUNDER MOON WAXING, YEAR I 2 I I
What are we, Grandfather?"
Besh sat back on his heels, wiping beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and looking over at the boy. "What are we?" he repeated. "We're sheep, of course. Why else would we live in the highlands and eat roots and greens?"
Mihas giggled, but quickly grew serious again. Whatever had taken hold of the boy's curiosity didn't want to let go.
"You know what I mean," he said. "What kind of people are we?"
The old man leaned forward again, his knees and elbows cushioned in the soft black earth as he pulled clover and thin sprays of grass out of his garden. The goldroot looked healthy, the tops of the tubers firm and plump. In another half turn he'd harvest them. The time for pulling weeds had long since passed. Was it then vanity that had him crawling about in the dirt, peering into the shadows of the root greens? Ema would have thought so. She would have teased him day and night had she seen him now, an old man too proud to share the earth with clover and grass.
"Grandfather?"
"We are Mettai, Mihas. You know that."
"But what does that mean?"
Besh sat up again. "Why are you asking me this?"
Mihas looked down at the ground, kicking at a clod of dirt with his bare foot. His fine long hair, black as a raven's feathers, hung over his forehead, concealing his eyes.
"Do you remember the peddler who came through here just after the dark of the moons?" the boy asked.
"The old Qirsi?"
"Yes, him. He said something."
"Come here," Besh said, waving the boy over to him.
Mihas walked to where his grandfather was kneeling and sat beside him, looking solemn.
Besh smiled to show the boy he wasn't angry with him. "What did he say to you?"
"He said we were like the creyvnal, that we really didn't know what we were."
"Perhaps he meant it as a compliment. The creyvnal is a powerful beast. Wouldn't you like to have the body of a lion and the head of a wolf?" He smiled; Mihas didn't.
"The creyvnal isn't real, Grandfather. Even I know that."
"You're right. It's not real. But still, the peddler was also right, in
a way. The Mettai are like the creyvnal."
"How?"
"Well, we're Eandi. We have dark hair and dark eyes, we live long lives, we're strong like other Eandi. But like the Qirsi, we can use magic."
"But did he mean that we're not real? I mean, I know we are. But was he saying that our powers aren't real?"
Besh eyed Mihas briefly. Then he reached for one of the clovers he had pulled from the ground and held it out to the boy.
Mihas frowned.
"Take it," the old man said.
The boy held out his hand and Besh placed the clover in his palm. "What does `mettai' mean?" he asked. "Do you know?"
"You mean the word?"
"Yes."
"It means blood of the earth."
"Good. Put some dirt in your hand with the clover."
As Mihas did this, Besh pulled his knife from the sheath on his belt and dragged the blade across the back of his own hand. His skin there, tanned and brown from the Growing sun, was scored with dozens of thin white lines, all of them running parallel to the cut he had just made; evidence of a life spent drawing upon earth magic. Like rings within the trunks of the great firs and cedars growing in the forests around Kirayde, the lines on a Mettai's hand could be used to judge his or her age.
A man could even trace the history of all his years, if only he could recall the conjuring made whole by the blood that flowed from each of those scars. Some would claim that unnecessary conjurings like this one were a waste of blood and earth, that they were frivolous expressions of Mettai power. But wasn't there value in helping a boy find pride in his heritage and in the power that flowed in his veins? Besh had been conjuring for most of his sixty-four years. This, it seemed to the old man, was as valid a reason as any for drawing forth his blood.
He let the blood well from the wound for several moments before carefully gathering some on the flat of his blade. He held the knife over Mihas's hand, balancing the blood on the steel.
"Blood to earth," he murmured. "Life to power, power to thought, color to clover."
He tipped the blade, allowing the blood to drip off the knife and onto the boy's hand, where it mingled with the earth and the flower. For a moment nothing happened. Then the blood and soil, blended together now in what looked like rich crimson mud, began to swirl slowly in the palm of the boy's hand. Four times it went around, and then it vanished into the roots of the flower.
An instant later, the soft pink hue of the clover gave way to brilliant sapphire. The flower appeared to come to life again, its color dazzling, its leaves opening once more. In the center of the bloom, amid the blue, there appeared a small spot of bright yellow, as perfect and round as the sun in Morna's sky.
Mihas laughed aloud.
"If our magic isn't real," Besh said, "how do you explain that?" The boy reached for another clover. "Do it again, Grandfather!" "No. Once is enough. One should never trifle with Mettai magic." "Can you teach me?"
"Not yet. You know that. When you begin your fourth four you can start to learn. And when you complete that four, you'll have earned your blade. All right?"
Mihas nodded, looking glum. No doubt five years seemed an eternity to the child. Little did he know how quickly the time would pass.
Besh glanced at his hand. The bleeding had slowed. Another scar to mark the years.
Sixteen fours. How quickly they'd gone by. Many among his people lived to be this old. He wasn't so unusual in that respect. If anything, he was more fit than most. Sixty-four was said to be a powerful age for those who reached it, a time of wisdom and enhanced magic. For most it was actually a year of endings. How many men had he seen live out their sixteenth four only to weaken and die soon after?
Besh had no intention of being one of them. He planned to guide Mihas into his power. Better him than Sirj, the boy's father. The man would make a mess of it, and in the process he'd do the same to the boy. Besh had never liked Sirj's father-he was as stubborn as he was stupid, and he could never manage to keep his mouth shut. It was bad enough that the man had built his house just next to Besh and Ema's back when she still lived and Besh still worked as the village cooper. But that Elica should marry the man's son… Besh shook his head. He would have spit at the thought of Elica's fool of a husband had Mihas not been there, watching him. No, Besh couldn't die yet. Once Mihas came of age he could go and join Ema in the Underrealm, but not before.
He licked the blood from the back of his hand and from his blade, as was proper. A Mettai never wasted blood, and by licking the wound, he stopped the bleeding. From what he'd heard over the years, he gathered that this wasn't true for other Eandi or for the sorcerer race. But it worked for a Mettai every time.
"Can I see your knife again, Grandfather?"
"Have a care with it," he said, handing it to Mihas, hilt first.
Mihas's brown eyes danced in the sunlight. "I always do. You're the one who's always cutting himself."
Besh had to laugh.
Clever boy. His mother's child. Dark-skinned and long-limbed, like Elica and like Ema, and as quick as both of them. Ema would say that the father of such a child couldn't be all bad. As far as Besh was concerned it meant only that Elica's blood was stronger than her husband's.
The old man turned his attention back to the clover and grasses intruding upon his goldroot, and for a long time he and the boy said nothing. The sun burned a lazy arc across the sky, blue save for a few feathered clouds. Swallows darted overhead, wheeling in the light wind, chattering and scolding like children at play.
"Are you the oldest person in Kirayde?" Mihas asked suddenly.
The boy was sitting in the dirt, still toying with the knife. The blueand-gold clover lay on his knee, a prize that he would show his mother and father.
Besh laughed at the question. "No," he said. "I'm not the oldest."
He turned and sat, stretching out his stiff legs. An old man shouldn't kneel for so long, Ema's voice scolded in his head. If you're not careful, you'll wind up bent and lame.
"That little girl you play with, the one with so many older brothers." "Nissa?"
"Yes, Nissa."
"She only has four brothers."
"Only four?" Besh said. "I thought it was more than that. Anyway, her grandmother is older than I am. And so is the herbmistress."
"She is?"
Besh raised his eyebrows. "Is that so hard to believe?"
"Not really. I just…" Mihas shrugged. "If you're not the oldest, then why are you one of the village elders? Nissa's grandmother isn't."
"No, she's not, but the herbmistress is. Truly, Mihas, I don't know why the other elders chose me to join their circle. But I do know that there's more to the choice than just a person's age."
"Oh." Mihas turned the knife over in his hands. "What about Old Lici? Is she older than you?"
Besh glanced at the boy again, but Mihas seemed intent on the blade. Most likely he was curious and nothing more. Besh had seen several children shouting taunts at the old woman just a few days before, and he had warned Mihas to stay away from her. When the boy had asked him why, he hadn't been able to give a good reason. This was the first time either of them had mentioned the woman since then.
"I believe she is older," Besh said, trying to keep his tone light.
Apparently he failed.
"You don't like her, do you, Grandfather?"
"I don't really care for her one way or another."
"It seems like you don't like her."
Clever indeed.
Mihas was right. Besh didn't like the old witch who lived at the southern edge of their village. Or more to the point, he didn't trust her. He might even have been afraid of her. Besh had been no more than a babe suckling at his mother's breast when Lici first came to Kirayde, but he'd heard others speak of her arrival enough times that he could almost claim as his own other people's memories of that cool Harvest day.
Lici was but eight years old at the time, a pretty girl with long black hair and fair features. But somethi
ng dark lurked in her green eyes-the memory of tragedy, some said-and for some time she refused to speak. It was clear to all that she had wandered alone in the wild for many, many days, perhaps as long as an entire turn of the moons, and that she had been without proper food and clothing for all that time. She was emaciated. Her arms and legs were covered with insect bites and scarred as if from brambles, and her hair was matted with filth. Most likely she had kept herself alive by eating what roots and berries she could find.
Many speculated on what might have happened to her. Some assumed that she had survived an outbreak of the pestilence that claimed the rest of her family and village. Others wondered if she'd been the lone survivor of an attack by brigands. There were darker suggestions as well-even then, when Lici was but a child, a few wondered if she might have been responsible for whatever doom had befallen the rest of her people.
To Besh's knowledge, though, the full tale of Lici's past was known only to two people: Lici, of course, and a woman named Sylpa.
Sylpa had been the leader of the village elders at the time Lici came to Kirayde. That first day she took Lici in, and during the years that followed raised the girl as she would a daughter. Gradually, as Lici's strength returned, and the memories of whatever tragedy she had endured faded, she began to speak. She took her lessons with the other children and grew to womanhood. Besh remembered thinking her beautiful when he was a small boy and easily impressed by long silken hair and eyes that sparkled like emeralds. But he also recalled that, even then, he never spoke with her, or rather, that Lici never spoke with anyone other than Sylpa.
She rarely smiled, and she had a discomfiting habit of looking a person directly in the eye as she walked past in utter silence. Though Besh dreamed of marrying her, he also began to fear her.
Over time his fascination with her waned. He married Ema, had children of his own, made a name for himself among the Mettai as a skilled cooper and wise leader, and eventually was selected as one of the elders. Lici never married. She had suitors, including an Eandi merchant who saw her one morning as he drove a cart loaded with his wares into the village marketplace. He returned to Kirayde several times during that one Planting season, hoping that this dark, beautiful Mettai woman might deign to speak with him. She did not. After a time, he stopped coming.