"Then is good?" Firekeeper said. She stepped closer and looked down at Derian, her lips pursed in concern. "He not look good. His ears is wrong. So is his hair, I think."
The doctor stepped back a step. "All I can tell you is what I know from the cases I have observed. Most who develop this melted skin recover."
"Most?" Firekeeper asked.
"Sometimes," the doctor looked increasingly nervous, "sometimes the melted skin heals in a manner that. that..."
"Speak," Firekeeper growled, "I do not bite." Then don't look like you're going to do just that, Plik thought, but he didn't blame the wolf-woman for her reaction. Derian looked very strange. Zebel reeked of fear sweat. As far as Plik knew, Firekeeper had hardly dozed since Blind Seer's collapse. This did not make for an even temper.
Zebel swallowed, then went on, "Sometimes the melted skin heals in a manner that is fatal in itself. One woman's nose grew so long that it folded over onto itself and she smothered. A man grew fangs that pierced the roof of his mouth and curved into his brain. Those are extreme cases, though. You have seen how many of the Once Dead survive intact, if altered in appearance."
"I see," Firekeeper said. Again she inspected Derian, but although his exposed flesh showed that strange softness, there was no sign of disfiguring growths.
"We watch," she said, and turned to go back to Blind Seer.
Plik looked at Isende.
"Would you like a rest?" he asked, for although he had been up doing the night watch and had planned on sleeping, he didn't think he could now.
"No," Isende said, giving him a brave smile. "I don't want to leave now. Finish your meal. I'll call if anything seems to change. You can be sure of that."
Firekeeper looked over at Isende, and to Plik's surprise gave the younger woman a tired smile.
"I know you will call," she said. "I know."
XXXIII
FIREKEEPER HAD HEARD ALL of the softvoiced conversation by the hearthside, but she had not felt any desire to participate. How could she? To answer would be to give away more about herself than she cared for any - other than Blind Seer - to know.
Querinalo had bitten into her soon after it had bitten Blind Seer. She had felt it probing through her system, chewing along her nerves, browsing for what would feed it, and then a rhythmic chant had started in her head: "Only a wolf may live. Only a wolf may live."
They were words that had haunted her dreams since her childhood, words she now knew had been spoken by the maimalodalu called Questioner when he sought a way around her stubborn refusal to accept the fresh meat that she needed to recover her strength after barely surviving the fire that had killed her human parents. Sickened with the deaths of friends and family, Firekeeper had revolted against living at the expense of another's life - yet Questioner had known she could not hope to heal without it.
He had charmed her into believing herself well and wholly a wolf, and now it seemed that charm was coming to her aid again. Firekeeper felt her own conviction that there was nothing magical about her, that she was wolf in mind and blood and soul, block querinalo of the sense that there was anything in the least magical about her. Querinalo quested, sought, probed, but finding nothing of the magic that was its anchor, it could not ravage her as it did its more usual prey.
Firekeeper, racked with fever, but knowing even at the worst that she would survive intact, supposed she was grateful.
On one matter, Plik was absolutely right. It was her intense fear for Blind Seer that kept her from sleeping. More than once since her vigil had begun had she cursed the impulsive revenge that had slain the three humans best schooled in the treatment of beasts.
True, they might have been more cruel than a weasel with rabies, but they knew things, and Firekeeper would have made certain they did not lie to her. As it was, she had to go by what Harjeedian and the doctor said, and both admitted that they knew little about illness in canines.
Harjeedian, who had studied some veterinary medicine in preparation for the venture that had brought Firekeeper and Blind Seer into the land of the Liglim, had been the most helpful. He had assured her that the willow bark infusion that they were using to bring the fever down in the humans should not harm Blind Seer. He had suggested placing cool, damp cloths on the wolf's ears, nose, and paw pads - places where the skin was close to the surface.
Plik had advised against shaving the wolf, saying that he recalled his own fever as being mingled with chills, and that there would be times when Blind Seer would welcome his fur. Firekeeper had agreed, for she was not certain that she could tell the difference between shivering from extreme heat or from the illusion of cold.
What no one but herself realized was how much pain Blind Seer was experiencing. He panted almost continuously, and not only to shed heat. He shuddered, and when Firekeeper stroked his flanks great washes of fur came loose, mostly from his undercoat, but tufts containing thick guard hairs as well. Wolves regularly shed - almost molting as birds did - but never when winter was coming on. This shedding was a response to pain, and probably to fear.
Unlike Derian, who had muttered in his sleep, Blind Seer was silent but for occasional whimpers. Usually Derian spoke in Pellish, although sometimes he spoke in Liglimosh. At these times, Firekeeper thought he might be talking to Rahniseeta, and she was saddened to think how her friend's heart still bled for the woman he had thought would be his mate.
Now, as Firekeeper resumed her watch beside Blind Seer, easing more water between his jaws, stroking gently along his ears, gazing down at those familiar blue eyes that tracked nothing she could see, Firekeeper thought how odd it was that apparently querinalo could give one the ability to alter one's physical form.
Could this much-feared disease actually be the means to the thing she had longed for as long as she could remember? If she had opened herself to querinalo's fires, could she have burned away her human form and given herself a wolf's in return? The idea was tempting, so tempting.
Firekeeper longed to lay her head on Blind Seer's flank and give herself to sleep and whatever came with it. Knowing what she did now, surely she could make use of it.
So easy, Little Two-legs? she chided herself. I think not, pup. If querinalo was so easy to control, would those monsters you saw - those who boasted themselves Once Dead to hide their revulsion for themselves - would they have chosen those forms? I think not. There is a cost. Perhaps you could make yourself wolf indeed, but might you lose something else? What if you became as a Cousin, lacking in sense? What if you lost your memory? There are worse things than being human.
But she couldn't help but wonder.
More time passed. With the wet weather blocking the sun, those within the cottage were trapped in an eternal, unchanging twilight. Time's passage was marked only in increasing exhaustion, in how the level of water in the pitcher dropped. In mild surprise when it rose after someone filled it.
Firekeeper ate what was put in front of her, but she didn't taste it. Her only exercise was rising to check on Derian, to use the pot, to throw away some rag soaked in wolf piss after Blind Seer urinated.
Isende kept her own vigil long after Harjeedian urged her to rest. Something was happening to Derian, but in
Firekeeper's exhausted state all that registered was that whatever was happening did not seem to be threatening his life. Occasionally, one of the wing6d folk came to report that Truth continued to live and breathe, but that the jaguar had not stirred from the den she had made herself near a spring.
Firekeeper wondered what the jaguar saw in her hallucinations. She hoped it was more pleasant than whatever Blind Seer was encountering. The wolf's paws now moved as if he were running and climbing. Periodically, he snarled. Once, when Firekeeper was giving him water, he snapped, and the cut seamed across the back of her hand, missing the tendons, but drawing quantities of blood.
Firekeeper would take nothing for the pain, fearing it would dull her ability to stay awake, but she did let Harjeedian clean the wound and stitch it. She a
lmost welcomed the pain of needle and thread moving through her flesh. It brought her the closest to alertness she had been for hours.
Zebel had warned them that the crisis in querinalo's progress should come that night. He also warned them that he was speaking mostly about Derian. Although some of the yarimaimalom had certainly passed through the disease, he had not treated them.
Tiniel replaced Isende when evening came, but Isende was back again by midnight, stating she could not sleep knowing what was happening. The winged folk reported that Truth was tossing and turning. They had carried small buckets of water and thoroughly dowsed her, but they had not dared draw too close. For all that Truth seemed to be in another world, she was too aware what was close, and had nearly taken Night's Terror on the wing.
"Derian's skin is changing again," Harjeedian said. Like Isende, he had napped following his shift, but returned. "It's losing that waxy look. I fear it is going to firm up in its current shape."
Firekeeper tried to remember what that shape was, but she could not. Something about ears. Nose. Hair. Fingernails?
Her focus was on Blind Seer. He had been running harder for a while now. The cloths with which she cooled his feet had been damp with blood the last few times she had changed them. There was not much blood; the appearance was as if those thick pads had been run raw.
There were other signs of a struggle. For a time Blind Seer had growled, but now the only sounds that came forth were whimpers. Firekeeper longed to hold him close, but the throbbing in her injured hand reminded her to take care near those formidable jaws. She settled for breathing on him, keeping her scent near his nostrils.
Come home to me, sweet hunter. Come home. Come home. Don't run away. Come home. Come home.
Firekeeper chanted the words softly under her breath, plucking occasionally at the stitches on her hand so the pain would keep her sharp and alert. Even so, she nearly missed the crisis when it began.
Blind Seer's paws flexed in one last convulsive effort. Firekeeper saw the stain of blood through the cloths on his feet. She saw pink in the foam on his jaws, pink darkening toward red. Blind Seer coughed, then growled. Then he wrenched upright, almost onto his feet.
"Firekeeper!" he howled.
Then, his last energy spent, he collapsed. Firekeeper clasped him up and to her, no longer dreading what those jaws could do to her fragile human skin, indeed, welcoming the rending if it would take her to him.
After a long moment, she realized that the wildly beating heart was not hers alone. Blind Seer was still breathing, more easily now, something almost like rest coming into his muscles.
She lowered Blind Seer back onto the floor, and saw him relax into real sleep. Looking up, she saw a circle of faces looking at her. Human, beast, and maimalodalu were weirdly alike in their expression of worry and fear.
"Derian?" she asked.
"He's going to make it," Plik said. "Altered, but alive. Blind Seer?"
"He will live," Firekeeper said, lowering her head and pillowing it at last on Blind Seer's flank. "I must sleep."
DERIAN WOKE SLOWLY, his muscles and joints aching as if he had spent the past week teaching a particularly stubborn horse how to jump. He opened his eyes carefully, and was relieved to find that his eyelids, at least, didn't hurt - much.
Isende was sitting in a chair near his bed, gaze unfocused, her fingers busy knitting a stocking from extremely fine yarn. She saw him shift, and a smile blossomed, rounding out her cheeks.
She's lost a little weight, Derian mused, aware of the inanity of the thought. But then she would. We've been running her hard since we came to the "rescue."
"Water?" Isende asked, filling a mug from a pitcher near at hand.
"Please," he croaked.
His voice sounded odd in his ears. In fact, everything sounded a little strange - sharper than usual. The water splashing into the pitcher plashed and gurgled like a stream running over rocks. He wondered if he still had a touch of a fever.
As she poured, Isende spoke, "Blind Seer seems to have made it through querinalo, but he's still asleep, so we don't know what it may have done to him. Truth is still in her self-chosen exile, but the ravens seem to think she's come through her crisis."
"Firekeeper?" Derian was again aware of the strangeness in the sound of his voice.
"Oh! That's right. You wouldn't know. She's either through it or she never got it. We can't tell."
Derian thought uncharitably that this was typical of Firekeeper. She seemed to thrive on being unpredictable. What had the Meddler said in that dream? Something about Firekeeper causing things to change around her?
Had it been a dream? He found himself hoping not. He'd rather liked talking with Blind Seer and Truth. It had been a confirmation that all those times he'd tried to speak with them as if they were - well, sort of odd humans, if he were honest with himself - hadn't just been craziness on his part.
"So we're all fine," he said, "or nearly so."
"At least no one has died," Isende said, and something in her expression made Derian instantly wary. "Are you hungry? The doctor said you could eat now that the fever has broken."
Derian realized he was starving.
"Do we have any porridge? Maybe oat porridge with raisins or grated carrots."
"I can manage that," Isende said with a smile. "There's a kettle going in the main kitchens."
That made Derian remember the tense, unbalanced situation before his collapse.
"Are we still in charge?"
"Fairly," Isende said. "Our prisoners are beginning to get restive, but so far the yarimaimalom are enough to keep them in line. It will be good to have more humans active, though. We're going to need to decide what to do with the Old Worlders. Now, let me go and get you that porridge."
Derian settled back on his pillows, vaguely pleased to be back in the present moment. He could hear Firekeeper's breathing across the room, Blind Seer's almost matching in cadence. Someone, Harjeedian, probably, from the clipped pace of the shod feet, had just come in and was crossing to his bedside.
"How do you feel?" the aridisdu asked.
"I hurt all over," Derian replied. "Even my finger joints ache, but otherwise, I actually feel pretty good. Am I the first to come around?"
"That's right. You were also the first to go down, and your recovery is right on the doctor's schedule."
"So I'm recovered," Derian said. "I wasn't sure. I still feel sort of weird. Sounds are sharper, light seems a bit odd."
He was watching for it, so he saw the flicker of discomfort that crossed Harjeedian's features, similar to that he had seen on Isende'* face. The aridisdu had better control, but Derian felt no doubt.
"Harjeedian," he said, "what has happened? What aren't you telling me?"
Harjeedian drew in his breath, and almost visibly shrugged into the mannerisms he used when acting in his role as aridisdu. Reaching for the chair Isende had been using, he sat down so his gaze was closer to level with Derian's own.
Derian felt his heart racing with dread. He felt as if he should know what Harjeedian was about to tell him, that he already knew on some gut level, but he couldn't retrieve the memories, so he looked at the other man, waiting for revelation.
"You must thank the deities, or your ancestors, who you believe act as intercessors between you and the divine," Harjeedian began, "that you still have your life."
Derian stared at him, refusing to say anything, willing the other to speak further.
"These people here - the Old World natives - would say you have something further for which to feel gratitude," Harjeedian went on. "We will not know until you are able to be up and about, but the indications are that you have also kept your talent."
"My talent," Derian said.
He remembered the conversation with the Meddler on that hilltop. He remembered saying how he wasn't sure he could sacrifice his talent even to save his life. He remembered other things, too, and found himself lying as still as he could.
"Your t
alent," Harjeedian repeated. "You see, every visible indication seems to show that you are Once Dead, not Twice."
"Visible indication," Derian repeated.
He flattened his ears in distaste, felt himself starting to show his teeth. Realized what he was doing, and froze.
"What has happened to me? Harjeedian, you've got to tell me!"
"Easier, perhaps, to show you," Harjeedian said reluctantly. "I have a mirror set by."
He bent and lifted a large hand mirror from below Derian's line of sight. He raised it and held it so Derian could see his own face. Derian drew in his breath and forced himself to look.
His own face looked out at him, but although it was unmistakably his own, it was also transformed. His ears were the most visibly changed. They were shaped like those of a horse, covered in short red - or chestnut - hair identical in color to the hair on his head.
That hair had also changed, not in color, but in how it grew from his scalp. Previously, it had tended toward a slight center part, making it easy for him to brush it back and tie it into a queue. Now a portion flopped across his forehead in a distinct, unmistakable forelock. The rest had been braided back, but Derian didn't doubt that in subtle ways it would resemble a mane.
His eyes had also changed. They had been a green-brown hazel. Now they were purely brown, the irises filling his sockets more fully, showing less white.
He raised his hands to touch this altered face and saw that they, too, were different. The nails were heavier, harder, the tips a bit more blunt. He didn't doubt that his toenails were the same.
"I... I look like a human horse!" Derian exclaimed. "I remember telling the others that I didn't know if I would feel like myself if I didn't have my talent, but I don't remember asking for this!"
Absorbed in his self-inspection, Derian had ignored the sounds of others entering the cottage. Now a new voice, that of Zebel, the doctor, spoke from near the foot of the bed.
"This is often the case with those who become Once Dead. Some remember making a deal of some sort - sacrificing their sight or hearing or some physical feature in order to maintain their magical ability. Others, often those who have a talent specifically tied to some specific skill, find the transformation is less predictable."
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