by DAVID B. COE
Giraan and Aiva ate a modest supper of smoked fish, black bread, and steamed greens. They had their meal outside, on the steps of the house, where they could enjoy the cool evening air. Still, throughout the meal, despite his best efforts, Giraan could think of little besides his encounter with the Mettai woman. And each time he relived their conversation, the memory of it grew darker, until he began to wonder if he should burn the baskets she had given them and run through the village shouting for his neighbors and friends to do the same. He tried to laugh off his fears, but they clung stubbornly to his mind, souring his mood.
So it was that he didn't notice how quiet Aiva had been during the evening until she actually said something.
"I don't feel well."
He looked at her. "What?"
She'd barely touched her food, and her face looked pale in the shadows of the cedars and hemlocks growing beside the house.
"I feel ill. My stomach."
"Maybe you're hungry. You haven't-"
"No, that's not it."
He held the back of his hand to her brow. "You're burning up!"
"Damn," she whispered. She stood abruptly, spilling the plate that had been resting on her lap, and ran around to the side of the house. Giraan heard her vomit.
He put his plate aside and followed her. His hands were trembling; was it a response to hearing her be sick, or was he starting to feel ill as well?
"Maybe I didn't smoke the fish enough," he said.
She shook her head. "You said I was feverish."
"That damned woman brought the pestilence. She'll be the death of us all.
"Don't be a fool, Giraan," she said through clenched teeth, breathing hard. "She wasn't sick at all. A woman that old. She wouldn't have been able to walk."
She spun away and retched again.
"Should I get the healer?"
Aiva nodded, her back still to him.
He strode away, making his way quickly toward old Besse's home, west of the marketplace. Was that ache in the pit of his stomach fear or illness?
The walk seemed to take ages, but at last he came within sight of the small cottage. The healer's door was open and a thin, curving line of blue-grey smoke rose from her chimney, but Giraan saw no sign of Besse herself.
He stopped a short distance from the house. "Healer?" he called. After a few seconds, she emerged from the house, straight-backed and alert, in spite of the deep lines on her face.
That you, Giraan?"
"Yes. Aiva's sick. I think… I don't know… It might be the pesti-
lencShe nodded once. "I'll come with you. Just let me get my herbs."
Besse disappeared into the house.
Giraan took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. If anyone could help Aiva, it was the old healer. She'd been caring for the people of Runnelwick since before Giraan had finished his fourth four. Always she had put the needs of the village ahead of her own. She had never been joined to anyone, though he knew there had been men in her life. She'd never had children of her own, though she'd been there for nearly every birth in the village for the last twenty years. Even now, hearing Giraan say that the pestilence might have come to his home, she didn't hesitate to follow him to Aiva's side.
She stepped out of the house and bounded down the stairs as if she were closer to five fours than ten. Giraan actually had to hurry to catch up to her as she strode up the path toward his house. As he did, he noticed that she bore her herbs and oils in a new basket. His heart sank.
"What are her symptoms?" Besse asked, whatever fear she might have felt masked by the crispness of her voice.
"She's vomiting and she's burning with fever."
Besse nodded once. "And you? Are you feeling ill, too?"
He was. His stomach was churning and he could almost feel the bile rising in his throat. But was he imagining it all? "I don't know," he finally said.
Giraan had expected that she'd think him a fool, or worse, a coward. But she merely patted his arm and nodded again. "I know," she said. "Our minds do strange things at times like these." Then, almost as an afterthought, she raised her hand to his brow. Immediately, she frowned. "You're warm. Hot really."
He felt his innards turn to water. It seemed he really was a coward. For all his concern about Aiva, it was the prospect of his own death that brought panic.
"I'll come see Aiva, but then I have to leave you. The elders need to be told."
"Yes, of course," he whispered. His eyes flicked to her basket, and he almost said something about the old Mettai woman. But she would probably think him foolish, just as Aiva had.
"It might be something else, Giraan. I'm not certain yet that it's the pestilence. But even the possibility…" She exhaled. "You understand."
He nodded, fighting to keep from being ill right there on the path.
They walked the rest of the way in silence. By the time they reached Giraan's house it was growing dark. A faint light shone from within the house, and the door still stood open, but there was no other sign of life. They hurried up the stairs, and found Aiva lying in bed, her face damp with sweat, her eyes half closed. A single candle burned on the small table beside her.
Besse sat on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on her brow. After a moment, she leaned closer and looked at her eyes.
"How are you feeling, Aiva?" she asked.
"Great," Aiva said weakly. "You?"
Besse grinned briefly. "Good for you. I deserved that."
Aiva squeezed her eyes shut and grimaced. "It's getting worse." "What is?"
"The pain."
"In your stomach?"
She shook her head slightly, her eyes still closed. "No. My head. My head is hurting."
Besse frowned. "Your head?"
Aiva pulled a trembling hand free from the blanket, and raised it to her temple. "Right here. And the other side, too."
"What does that mean?" Giraan asked.
Besse didn't even look at him. "I don't know."
She lifted the blankets off of Aiva and began to examine her limbs. "Light another candle," she said. "I want to see if I can find evidence of a bite."
"A bite?"
"The pestilence comes from vermin, and it often begins with a flea bite." After several moments she shook her head. "But I don't see anything."
"Maybe she caught it from someone else."
"No one else in the village is ill."
"Maybe it wasn't someone in the village."
"Oh, Giraan," Aiva said. "Not this again."
"What?" Besse demanded, looking from one of them to the other. "That Mettai woman," Giraan said. "The one who made the basket you're carrying. I… I think she brought the pestilence to Runnelwick." "Impossible," Besse told him. "A woman that old wouldn't have been able to walk had she been as sick as Aiva. And you can't pass the pestilence to anyone until you have it yourself."
Giraan knew that she was right. She had to be. Besse knew far more about these matters than anyone else in the village. But still, he couldn't let go of his suspicions. He fully intended to argue the point further. But in that moment, he felt his gut spasm. He stood and lurched to the door, just barely making it outside before emptying his stomach.
He leaned on the railing of his small porch, retching until his body was sore. Eventually, as the spasms passed, he realized that Besse was with him, steadying him.
"Come on," she said. "You need to lie down."
She led him back into the house and soon had him lying beside Aiva, cold, damp cloths on both of their brows. "I need to speak with the elders," she said, "but I'll send for Oren."
"No!" Aiva said. Giraan felt how her body tensed, but she could barely manage more than an airy whisper. "I don't want him coming near us."
"He's grown now," Besse said. "I'll leave that choice to him." Before Aiva could argue more, the healer had gone.
"He'll come," Aiva whispered. "If she tells him to, he'll come. That's the kind of boy he is."
"He's not a boy anymore. He'll ha
ve a child of his own before long." "All the more reason to keep him away from here."
"So he should let us die alone?"
"Of course, if that's the choice."
Giraan knew that he should have been thinking the same thing. Again, he wondered at his own cowardice, his willingness to save himself at the expense of those he supposedly loved.
"You're right," he said, hot tears running down into his white hair. "Forgive me."
She took his hand.
He could feel the pain building in his temples now, just as Aiva had described. I'm dying, he told himself. In these last hours, I must make peace with that. He heard Aiva's breathing slow, felt her grip slacken. She had fallen asleep. He wondered if she'd ever wake again. He almost woke her then. Perhaps sleep would hasten death's advance. Perhaps he was merely afraid to be alone.
He must have fallen asleep himself, for the next thing he knew, Oren was there, sitting beside him on the bed, trying to spoon hot broth into his mouth. Giraan tried to swallow one mouthful, but as soon as the liquid hit his stomach, it started back up again. He turned his head and retched onto the floor. After a moment he settled back onto his pillow.
"I'm sorry," he said. He could barely hear his own voice.
"It's all right," Oren told him. "Mama couldn't keep it down either. My cooking isn't as good as hers." He tried to smile, but there were tears on his cheeks. "Seslanne has it, too."
"You should be with her," Aiva said.
"I have been. Her mother and father are there now. But I wanted to see you."
"Did she see the Mettai woman?" Giraan asked, his heart laboring. Oren narrowed his pale eyes. "VVhat?"
"Seslanne. Did she buy a basket from a Mettai woman today?"
"No. Well, she bought a basket, but from one of the peddlers in the marketplace. She said nothing about a Mettai woman. Why?"
Giraan opened his mouth to explain, but at that moment Aiva went rigid beside him. For a moment Giraan thought she was going to be sick again. But she didn't so much as move.
"Oren, you must leave at once!" she said, her teeth clenched. "But, Mama-"
"Leave! Now! I beg you!"
"Aiva-" Giraan began. But in that instant he felt it, too.
It had been so long since he'd even reached for his magic, since it had occurred to him to wonder how powerful he was, or even to think of himself as a sorcerer. He was Y'Qatt. As a boy, of course, he had dreamed of wielding his magic in battle or perhaps using it to save the village from brigands. No doubt all children did, including those in an Y'Qatt village. But he hadn't yet come into his powers then-he hadn't known that he was a shaper, that he could bend matter to his will, or that he could call to the wild creatures of the wood with language of beasts. Once he was old enough to understand what it was to be Y'Qatt, he had put such notions out of his mind. The urge to use his magic had left him years ago.
Or so he had thought. For suddenly, he felt power building inside of him, like floodwaters gathering behind an earthen dam. He tried to resist. Qirsar knew he did. He had spent years disciplining himself, refusing to give in to the temptation to use his powers. But that had been a matter of choice, of denying himself the luxury of laziness. This was something else entirely, like holding one's breath until the urge to breathe overmastered one's will. He struggled against it, but he knew from the start that he would fail in the end. It was too much; there seemed to be a greater force at work, as if the god had chosen to punish him for a lifetime of abnegation.
"She's right, Oren!" he managed to say. "You must leave! Now!" "But, Papa-"
"You feel it, too?" Aiva asked. He could hear the strain in her voice. "Yes. I can't fight it much longer."
"Fight what?" Oren asked, gaping at both of them, looking so terribly young.
Before Giraan could answer, a wind began to rise, making the candle flames dance and rattling the chairs and tables. Aiva's wind. That was one of her powers: mists and winds. And fire.
"Leave now!" Giraan shouted, though it took all his strength to make himself heard over what was fast becoming a gale. And in making that effort, he felt his control over the storm of magic raging within him waver. It was only for an instant, but that was enough. He heard the rending of wood as if it were thunder, and he saw a crack open in the roof of his home.
Aiva's wind keened like a wild beast, extinguishing the candles, so that the only light in the house came from Panya, the pale moon, whose glow filtered through the trees.
Oren was on his feet, his eyes wide with fear, but still he wouldn't leave. "What's happening?" he cried. "I don't understand!"
"The fever is attacking our magic," Giraan said. Again his grip on the power failed. It was all he could do to direct the magic at the table by the bed and not at his son. The table crumbled as if hammered by some unseen demon. "We can't control it!"
"My god!" Oren whispered. "Seslanne!" He backed toward the door. "I'm sorry…"
"Don't apologize!" Aiva told him. "Go to her!"
Giraan tried to pour out the magic inside him by calling upon his other power, knowing that he could do no further damage to the house with language of beasts. But he hadn't the control. He knew that he was speaking gibberish to the wild creatures in the woods around Runnel- wick, but still shaping power coursed through his body. So he wasn't at all surprised when the ball of fire flew from Aiva's side of the bed and crashed against the opposite wall. Immediately, flames started to climb the wood, licking at the ceiling and filling the room with thick smoke. Between her fire and winds and his shaping, their home would soon be a pile of charred ruins.
"We have to get out of here!" he said, taking her hand.
"What's the use?" she said, coughing.
"Maybe Besse can find a way to help us."
"Besse will be sick before long."
Rather than argue the point further, he pulled her out of the bed and toward the doorway. More power slipped out, but he managed to direct it. He heard the ceiling above the bed groan and collapse. Another fireball crashed into the floor near them. The wind howled at their backs. They made it outside, though not before both of them had been singed. Aiva fell to the ground, gasping for breath, and Giraan dropped to his knees beside her.
He could feel his power spilling over and it was all he could do to keep directing his shaping magic at something other than himself or Aiva. All around him tree limbs were shattering, splinters of wood floating down like snow. He could hear birds crying out. Wolves howled in the distance. Fire shot into the sky from Aiva's hands and still the wind blew, buffeting the trees. Looking toward the marketplace, Giraan saw that the sky was aglow with fire magic. Voices cried out in pain or fear or both.
"How many are sick?" he whispered.
"Giraan."
He crawled to Aiva's side. Her eyes were fixed on the sky above her, but he wasn't sure that she could see anything.
"I can't stop it," she said. "I'm so tired, but I can't stop. It's like I'm bleeding."
He couldn't either. The dam had broken. Trying to stop the flow of power now would be like standing in the center of Silverwater Wash at the height of the thaw, and trying to hold back the waters with his hands. His shaping magic still battered the trees and the remains of his home, but he could feel it weakening. The fire rising from his beloved was dimming; her wind had slackened.
"Aiva, no! Fight it!"
"I don't know how, Giraan! Do you? Can't you help me?"
She sounded so frightened, so weak, so far away. Clenching his fists, feeling tears on his cheeks, the wheelwright looked up at the fiery orange sky and roared in his anguish. Because he didn't know how. He couldn't stop his own magic from flowing, much less hers. He couldn't stop any of it. It seemed that his entire village was at war with a foe they couldn't see or understand. He could hear it so clearly now: the screams and the rending of wood; the sounds of a town under siege. His nostrils stung with the smoke of a hundred fires. And he could do nothing but kneel there watching the light in Aiva's eyes die away. After
years of holding his magic inside, he could feel it lashing out at his home, at his trees, at the earth beneath him. But it was of no use to him in this fight.
He saw Aiva's lips moving. Giraan. She was saying his name, but she hadn't the strength to make herself heard.
"Yes, my love. I'm here." But even as he said it, he felt himself fall onto his side. He was too weak to kneel anymore. V'Tol. Magic. Life. It was leaving him. He was nothing but an empty vessel, a husk.
"Why, Qirsar? Wasn't it your will that we live thus? Did we fail you in some way?"
But no answer came. Just the cries from the village marketplace, and that baleful orange glow flickering above the trees.
She sat on a small rise overlooking the river, gazing northward, her hands working the rushes into place. Occasionally she reached for her blade to thin a strand or cut off a frayed end. But she never looked away. She didn't have to, not with hands as deft and sure as hers. She'd been weaving baskets for more years than she cared to count. She knew her craft. Just as she knew magic.
From her perch above the gently flowing waters, she could see and hear her spell at work. Let the Qirsi dismiss Mettai blood magic as a lesser power. Let the Eandi-her own people-make outcasts of the Mettai. Lici knew just how potent her magic could be.
Now the people of Runnelwick knew it as well. Their cries floated up to her. The glow of their fires danced in the night sky. The forest swayed with their winds and shuddered with the power of their shaping magic. All because Lici had decided that it should be so. They were her puppets, her playthings. She could make them do anything she wanted.
She lifted a hand. "Look," she whispered to the night. "No strings." Then she laughed.
Her cart horse stamped and shook her head. Lici had left the cart outside the village, venturing into its lanes on foot. That way they'd think her poor, they'd buy her baskets out of pity, out of desire to do good. That was what she had decided, and she'd been right. They were as stupid as they were weak, and now, because of this, they were suffering the fate their kind had earned so long ago.