City of Sorcerers (39 page)

With a whoop the warrior dashed away to seek out the clan's priestess of Amara, and Gabria and Kelene continued to the grove.

The grove of trees by the river was not hard to see in the darkness, for it was surrounded by a chain of fires that stretched in a great half circle from one riverbank to the other. Priests in red and black robes were tending the fires and pouring jars of incense on the flames to keep the pungent yellow smoke rising to the sky. In the night, the fires cast a ghastly glow on the rows and rows of tents that filled the grove and on the few people who moved slowly through the dancing shadows.

Kelene couldn't stifle a shudder. The scene looked like something from a hideous nightmare or Valorian's tale of Gormoth. And worse than the view was the stench.

The breeze had died to a mere breath; the smoke, the odors of sickness, and the stink of death layover the area like a noxious fog.

Gabria entered the grove and strode to the big council tent without a sideways glance, but Kelene slowed down to stare at the area in dismay. The grove was a shambles of trash, fouled clothes, and filthy blankets. Debris from trees cut down to feed the fires littered the trampled grass. Tents, large and small, had been pitched everywhere with no thought to organization. Worst of all was the pitiful pile of bodies heaped near the council tent. This was far worse than she'd expected from the tiny images in the Watcher. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep moving through the wreckage of the plague.

She saw her mother disappear into the council tent and hurried to catch up. The tent's interior was much the same as Kelene remembered from the jewel. It was still crowded with the sick and dying and with people trying to help---only the faces of the patients and the caretakers had changed.

There was one caretaker in particular that caught Kelene's attention. She had to stare at him for a long minute before she recognized the Reidhar chief, Lord Fiergan.

He, too, had changed in the past days, having lost weight and much of his bluster. He was bent over a pallet, carefully helping a woman drink some water, when he glanced up and saw Kelene. To his credit, he did not startle or drop the cup or shout in surprise. He laid the woman's head down, patted her arm, and came to meet the young sorceress.

Gabria was talking to three very tired-looking healers, so Kelene held on to her leather bag and bowed politely to Lord Fiergan.

He did not dither, but went straight to the point. "You found something in Moy Tura?"

Kelene indicated her bag, not sure what to expect from the burly chief, who hated sorcery and had been against the journey to Moy Tura. "We found some healing stones. They are not an instant cure, but there are some that break fevers."

Fiergan shot a glance at the woman he had left and back to Kelene. She was startled by the look of hope and relief in his dark, heavy-browed eyes. "I know there are others you must help first, but when you have time, will you see to my wife?"

Kelene nodded, too surprised to speak. Lord Fiergan had asked her---a woman, a magic-wielder, and a Khulinin---to help? She noticed her mother was still talking to the healers, and she made a quick decision. She had to start somewhere, and Lord Fiergan's wife was as good a patient as any. Besides, if the lady was recovering, Lord Fiergan might be more inclined to turn some of his energy and authority to helping organize the shambles in the council grove.

"Come on," she said, leading Fiergan back to the pallet. His wife been sick for only a day and was still coherent enough to understand Kelene when she took the stones from the bag and carefully described what would happen. She stared hopefully up at her husband who indicated to Kelene to proceed.

By the time the golden light of the Lion's Eye had faded back into the stone, there was a crowd of people standing around the pallet watching Kelene; the entire tent was silent. The sorceress picked up her stone. “She can rest now, Lord Fiergan.”

"Thank you," said the Reidhar chief with genuine gratitude.

"Lord Fiergan," said Gabria, who had seen the whole incident and understood her daughter's reason. "There is a young man in your camp named Alanar. Is he still alive?"

Fiergan hesitated while he tried to think. "Yes," he finally growled. "He was yesterday."

"Good. Then please bring him here."

The chief bristled at Gabria's tone. Alanar, a magic-wielder, had left his clan against the chieftain's orders and studied sorcery with Gabria. When he returned to Reidhar Treld to try to talk some sense into Lord Fiergan, the chief had all but exiled him from the clan. "Why?" demanded Fiergan.

"I believe he might have a talent to heal like Kelene. With so few magic-wielders and healers left, we shall need all the help we can get," Gabria replied evenly.

Fiergan felt his wife's fingers slip into his hand, and his old resentments retreated a step. He realized this was no time to renew his animosity toward sorcery. "I'll get him myself," he agreed and stalked from the tent.

By the time Fiergan returned with Alanar, Kelene was taking her stones from one plague victim to the next, starting with two sick healers and working her way around the tent. As soon as Alanar arrived, she handed him a second Lion's Eye.

The young Reidhar gripped the stone in his long hands like a lifeline, but Kelene was pleased to see there was no fear or hesitation in his eyes. He knelt down with her beside a tall Ferganan girl barely out of childhood. Sweat matted the girl's long hair, and plague sores disfigured her fair face.

Kelene gently mopped the girl's skin. "Place the stone on her forehead," she told Alanar. He followed her directions exactly as she explained the rest of the spell. To Kelene's relief, the stone flared under his touch. As soon as the golden light faded and the girl was resting more comfortably, Alanar's round, serious face broke into a grin of delight.

They set to work in earnest then. With Gabria beside them working tirelessly to organize help and make tea and medicines, Kelene and Alanar moved methodically from tent to tent in the council grove, treating anyone who was sick.

As Kelene had hoped, Lord Fiergan marched himself into the effort. He found every chieftain who still lived and alerted them to what was happening. In just a few short hours, the rest of the surviving magic-wielders had come to help, and one older woman from the Wylfling clan surprised everyone by revealing a talent to heal. She joined Kelene and Alanar with the last Lion's Eye and calmly settled into the routine as if she had known all along she would be a healer.

Before long, the word that help had arrived spread; people came clamoring to the magic-wielders to come to their camps first. The situation could have gotten out of hand, but Lord Fiergan found warriors to escort the small party of healers and organized the healthy clanspeople into groups to find the most seriously ill victims for faster treatment.

Midnight came and went with few noticing it was late night. There was too much to do, too many sick to treat, too many living who felt the first stirrings of hope in days. The camps came alive with activity as people came from every corner and cranny. Some passed on information, some started cooking fires and heated food, and some furnished wine and honey for Gabria's tonic. Many others just watched in a welter of emotions while the clans crawled slowly back to life.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rafnir looked up at the three men watching him and grinned triumphantly.

"Kelene and Demira made it," he said, pinning the Watcher to his tunic. "They're at the gathering."

Sayyed slapped his knee. "That's it, then. We're leaving. Kelene is at the Tir Samod, and the wraith is right behind her. We can't wait any longer."

Rafnir opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. He and Savaron had been arguing with Sayyed for two days to keep him in bed and resting. Their insistence had worked for a while, but no longer. Although Sayyed was still weak, he was able to ride. Nothing was going to keep him from returning to the gathering. Rafnir glanced at Savaron and shrugged. Sayyed was already on his feet, dressing and packing his gear. The white cat sat patiently by his bedroll. There was nothing Rafnir could do but get ready for the journey.

While the Korg packed food for them, the three men collected their belongings and ate a quick breakfast. When they were prepared to leave, Sayyed clasped the Korg's hand in thanks and climbed slowly onto Afer's back.

"Are you sure you won't come with us?" Rafnir asked the old sorcerer one last time.

The Korg bowed his head. "There is little I could do to help. I will be here if you decide to come back."

"Come back?" Morad snorted. "I never want to see this pile of rocks again!"

The men waved good-bye and rode rapidly through the ruins toward the southern gate. Morning sun from a perfect summer sky streamed on their backs, but the men paid no attention to the beauty of the day. All they saw was the road ahead and the open archway leading from the city. The four horsemen charged out the gate and galloped away from Moy Tura as if all the fury of Gormoth were at their heels.

* * * * *

Kelene, Alanar, and the Wylfling woman, Pena, finished with the patients in the council grove shortly after sunrise. They were about to move into the camps when there was a stir on the sacred island in the rivers and a group of priests came wading through the rapids to the grove.

A worn, thin, and weary priest came slowly up to Kelene and Gabria and bowed before them, leaning on his staff for support. The priests behind him were silent, but the clanspeople watching murmured in surprise. Ordan, the holy one, had never before accorded obvious respect to magic-wielders.

Kelene and Gabria were taken aback and quickly returned his bow.

"I won't keep you for long," Priest Ordan said in his dry voice. "There is much to do and we have come to share in the work. But I must ask you something." He spoke to Kelene.

"We have seen strange visions in the smoke and felt the wrath of our god. Lord Sorh is angry, and we do not know why. Did you learn of something that could have caused this plague?"

Kelene arched an eyebrow in a gesture so like her father's that Gabria had to smother a smile. "Do you know the name Bitorn?" she countered.

Ordan visibly paled. His eyelids lifted, and he straightened slowly. "We are aware of the name," he said warily.

"It was he who lay in the mound we opened. It was he who followed us all the way to Moy Tura to stop us from finding the help we so desperately needed. He is growing stronger, Priest Ordan, and I'm afraid he's coming back."

Ordan couldn't have known all the details about Bitorn's imprisonment and his powers as a wraith, but he obviously knew enough to understand their danger for he asked, "How long do we have?"

"A day, seven days, I'm not sure. The Korg said he would keep him there for as long as he could."

Gabria nearly choked. "The Korg?"

Kelene smiled. "The legends were right, Mother. He was a shapeshifter and a very sad, old man. He and Bitorn were sworn enemies."

"Gods above!" Gabria exclaimed.

Ordan made no further comment about the wraith. He only said, "We shall have to talk of this later." Then he and the remaining priests and priestesses rolled up the sleeves of their robes and joined the work.

By late afternoon Kelene and her two companions had attended to the worst cases in the eleven camps. Bone-tired, they stopped long enough to sleep and eat, and by nightfall they were again visiting the clans to treat the remaining sick. Although some of the sicker patients died before they could be helped, and some succumbed in spite of the stones' magic, the old spells proved to be reliably effectual. A few new cases of the plague appeared around the camps, but not in the previous uncontrollable numbers. Slowly and surely the plague was losing its grip on the clans.

Activity in the clan camps began to reflect the new hope. Everywhere people were taking stock of the devastation and working hard to bring the clans back to order. One of the first and most distressing problems the living had to face was the vast numbers of the dead.

"We gave up burning and burying the bodies when we ran out of people to do the work," Lord Sha Tajan told Kelene that afternoon while she aided the sick in the Jehanan camp. "Sorh knows how many people have actually died. We've burned them and buried them and piled them in the meadow and left them in their tents. Some crawled away to die, and a few even threw themselves in the river."

Kelene looked alarmed. She hadn't had time to think about anything other than the sick, and now she realized the clans had to get busy on something else very important. "The bodies should be removed immediately!" Kelene told the chief.

"Piers told me a long time ago that bodies left to rot can cause
more
diseases."

That threat so horrified the Jehanan chief he wasted no time forming grave parties to find, identify, and remove every corpse in the gathering. The leaders of the clans went from tent to tent, taking names and counting those who had died.

When night came most of the camps were cleared, and the meadow where the funeral pyres had burned was filled with wrapped bodies. While most of the people went to their beds for the first good night's sleep in days, the priests began the dismal task of compiling the sobering tallies.

At noon the next day the surviving clanspeople gathered in the meadow to make their final farewells to the dead. Overhead, the sun beat down on the meadow and on the heads of the mourners. It glinted on the spears and polished mail of the honor guard from each clan and gleamed on the colored banners. Its bright beams streamed into the huge pit that lay at the clans' feet, filling it with warmth and light for the very last time.

The pit had been a joint effort of every clan. Excavated with magic and dug with shovels, knives, and even bare hands, it represented the last effort made for all the fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters that had died. In its cavity were the ashes from previous funeral pyres and on top of that lay the dead, wrapped in their blankets or cloaks like so many colorful cords of wood.