City of Sorcerers (9 page)

He had the opportunity now and planned to take full advantage of it. Tam was busy helping the Pra Deshian merchant with his horses, Rafnir was off somewhere with a friend, and Sayyed had just finished his duty as advisor and hearthguard to Lord Athlone during the long and wearying council meeting. He was ready for a well-deserved nap.

He tied the ends of the hammock to the two small cottonwoods and blissfully stretched out his length on the swinging bed. The trees overhead shaded him with dappled green; a tiny breeze cooled the sweat on his forehead.

He was just about to close his eyes when something small landed with a thump on the middle of his chest: Tam's cat. With a sound of contentment, she curled up on his tunic, her eyes half closed, her paws curled daintily under her chest.

Sayyed scratched her ears and let her stay. She was an odd animal, he thought, not at all obedient or willing to please like a dog. She walked on her own, as regal as a priestess, granting her affection to those few she deemed worthy. He, obviously, was acceptable. He had to admit he didn't mind. There was something very appealing about her soft white fur, her imperturbable gaze, and that strange, muted rumbling she made in her throat. The sound was peaceful, contented, like the gentle humming of insects and it affected his mood like the heat. In a matter of moments, he was asleep.

"Father!"

Sayyed heard his son's voice from far away and chose to ignore it. The arms of sleep were too comfortable.

"Father! Wake up."

The voice was closer now and insistent. Sayyed hoped Rafnir would see he was sleeping and go away.

"Father, please! I need help!"

The desperation in the words snapped the bonds of rest and brought Sayyed wide awake. He sat up in the hammock, still holding the cat, and saw Rafnir walking toward him from the meadows. His son was trying to carry someone over his shoulder.

"It's Ritan!" the young man shouted. The worry for his friend was plain in his face and voice. "He suddenly collapsed and I couldn't rouse him. I need help getting him to the healer."

Sayyed dropped the cat on the hammock, swung to his feet, and strode to help his son. They carried Ritan back to the camp, down the worn paths to the healer's tent.

The Khulinin clan healer, Gehlyn, was napping in his tent with his door flap wide open, so they brought the young man in and laid him down on an empty pallet. The healer woke immediately. He was an unexciting man in appearance, of medium height with an ordinary build, thinning brown hair, and a preference for dull colors. But what he lacked in visual appeal, he made up for in medicinal skill. He had been chosen and trained by Piers Arganosta, the finest healer in the clans, and his talent, persistence, and caring enhanced that training to a rare ability.

He rose from his own pallet, without bothering to put on his boots or tunic, and came over to look at his patient. "Tell me what happened," he urged the two men as he gently probed Ritan's throat for a pulse.

Rafnir answered hurriedly, "We were out in the meadows looking at a horse he wanted when he suddenly fell over. Just like this."

Gehlyn frowned. "Had he been feeling ill before? Did he cry out as if in pain? Or complain of anything?"

"Well, no . . . he didn't. . . I . . ."

Sayyed realized his son was badly shaken. Ritan was one of Rafnir's best friends, and it had to have been a shock to see him collapse for no apparent reason. He gripped Rafnir's arm with a steadying pressure and said, "Try to think. What has he been doing today?"

The hand on his arm was what Rafnir needed to settle his dismay. "He didn't do much today at all. He was too tired from yesterday. Remember, Father, he went out with the men who reburied that mound. They were gone most of the afternoon. Then he was up all night dancing."

"All night, huh?" the healer grunted. "Then walking around the fields in this heat?

Could be exhaustion or heat-fever. He does seem to be very hot." He lifted Ritan's eyelids, checked the inside of the warrior's mouth and throat, and felt the glands under his jaw. "Hmm. I don't like this."

"What?" Rafnir demanded.

"There are small boils in his mouth and lumps here and here." He pointed to places under Ritan's jaw. Sitting back on his heels, he pursed his lips. "You'd better leave him here so I can watch him."

The worry deepened on Rafnir's face. "Will he be all right?"

"I don't know. I'm not certain what's wrong."

Sayyed rose to his feet, pulling his son with him. "Thank you, Gehlyn. We'll go tell his family."

The healer waved without answering. His plain features creased with concern, he began to wipe Ritan's flushed skin with a damp cloth. Sayyed and Rafnir hurried away.

For two days Ritan lay in Gehlyn's tent while the healer tried desperately to ease his symptoms and learn what was wrong. Little by little Ritan's fever grew hotter until he tossed and moaned in a delirious frenzy. The lumps in his neck enlarged, and others appeared in his armpits and groin, and developed into hard, poisonous swellings that caused him to thrash with pain whenever they were touched. The boils spread over his body from head to foot in reddish yellow pustules that burst and seeped a foul liquid. The only blessing Rafnir could see when he came to visit his friend was that Ritan never regained consciousness.

On the third day, Gehlyn went to the council tent and requested entrance to talk to Lord Athlone. The healer was welcomed, but the noisy conversations in the tent came to a stop when he bowed to the Khulinin lord and said sadly, "Ritan is dead, my lord.”

Sayyed bowed his head not only for the loss of a fine young warrior but for the grief his son must be feeling. Then his head jerked up and his skin grew cold as Gehlyn went on to say, "I've been talking to some of the other healers, and we've discovered that there are three more men who have the same symptoms."

The attention in the tent sharpened to a tense wariness.

"Who?" demanded Lord Hendrie.

"A Jehanan has been ill for two days with a high fever and boils over his upper body."

"And two in Clan Dangari," Koshyn added. The chieftain climbed to his feet, his face noticeably paler. "They have been bedridden since last night with fevers. One is unconscious."

Shahr above all! Sayyed said to himself. Rafnir had been with Ritan when he was stricken and visited him several times before the warrior died. Could his only child catch this strange illness? His fingers unconsciously clenched into fists.

"Do you have any idea what killed your man?" Lord Dormar of Clan Ferganan asked into the uneasy silence.

Gehlyn shook his head and began to pace back and forth.

"It is definitely a disease, not heat-fever or a bodily injury as I first thought.

Unfortunately, none of us have seen anything like it. None of our remedies have even eased the symptoms." A subdued murmur rumbled through the crowd of men, growing louder as they realized the possible import of what Gehlyn was telling them.

"Is it contagious?" Sayyed asked for them all.

Gehlyn threw up his hands. "I don't know. I found out these four men entered the burial chamber when the grave mound was covered over. Perhaps that is significant.

No one else has yet fallen ill."

The clansmen looked at one another worriedly, the same thought on all of their minds. Most of them had helped dig out the burial mound and had walked through the chamber. If this strange disease sprang from some foulness within the mound, then nearly everyone there was susceptible.

Lord Ryne banged his fist on a shield to draw the men's attention and said, "I suggest we end for the day and each chief return to his clan. Check your people. If anyone is ill, report it to the healers. The gods willing, the other three men will recover and that will be the end of it."

The chiefs quickly agreed. In little groups they hurried from the council grove and went their separate ways to the eleven different camps.

By that evening, Ritan's family had given him a quick burial, and Gehlyn learned that no one else but the three sick men had more than the normal aches or sniffles or monthly pains. He and every other healer prayed that might be the extent of their troubles.

For two more days the gathering continued as usual while the healers, priests, and chieftains anxiously waited. Then at noon on the third day, the two Dangari died.

Torel, the thin faced Jehanan, followed them to the realm of the dead that afternoon.

All three men died as miserably and inevitably as the young Khulinin, and not one of them responded to any medicinal herb or poultice or powder.

At Gehlyn's insistence, the relatives of the dead men agreed to a funeral pyre rather than a grave. He hoped the flames would help destroy whatever evil had stricken them.

That night, the chiefs and clan members of the Dangari and Jehanan clans, along with Lord Athlone and Lady Gabria, gathered in the meadows around a large pyre where the three bodies -lay with their personal belongings. Relatives brought bags of salt, loaves of bread, and small gifts to send with them to the realm of the dead, and Lords Sha Tajan and Koshyn laid weapons at their sides. Ordan and the priest of Sorh from Clan Dangari chanted the prayers of the dead.

Gabria closed her eyes when Ordan took a torch and lit the oil-soaked wood. She did not need to see the flames igniting or hear the sudden crackle and roar as the voracious fire consumed the pyre. She had seen it too many times before. Too many people dear to her heart had passed on to the realm of Sorh leaving behind only memories and an ache in her heart.

She felt Athlone's arm go around her waist, and she leaned into his protective warmth. At least she hadn't had any more of those hideous feelings of dread. Perhaps a premonition of the deaths of these four young men had been what had triggered those strange episodes. Perhaps now it would all be over, and things could return to normal.

With the softest sigh, Gabria turned her head away from the flames and opened her eyes to look past Athlone's shoulder to the dark beyond. Her sigh turned to a frightened gasp.

Athlone's arm tightened around her. "What's wrong?" he whispered urgently.

"I thought I . . . saw something. Out there in the darkness." The hearthguard accompanying them took one look at her face and put his hand to his sword.

Athlone turned to look and saw only a few campfires and the dim, distant shapes of the camps faintly illuminated by the light of a dying half-moon. "What?" he asked.

Gabria squinted hard into the night, but whatever she had seen was gone. "It was there!" she insisted fearfully. "A shape like a man standing in the shadows." She shuddered. "It was glowing, Athlone, with a horrible reddish light. Like a deadlamp in the Goldrine Marshes."

With an overwhelming rush of dread, Gabria suddenly knew that the vision of her brother, the feelings of dread she had experienced, and this sighting of a half-seen fearsome light were somehow connected. The fear and tension that had been churning inside of her since the day of her vision burst loose, and she hid her face in Athlone's shoulder. Her tears wet his tunic and leather vest; her shuddering sobs shook his whole body. He cradled her close and silently cursed whatever agent had brought her to such anguish.

"It's not over," she forced out between gasping breaths. "Something horrible is out there."

Some of her fear reached with icy claws into Athlone's mind. Gabria had been right too many times in the past to ignore her warnings as foolish imaginings. If she insisted some evil was lurking in the night, it was. But by all the gods, what was it?

And what were they going to do about it?

He glanced at the guard by his side and saw the same apprehension in the man's wide gaze and tight jaw. "Come on," Athlone said sharply. "Let's go home." With a nod to Lord Koshyn, he steeled himself to leave the crowd of clanspeople and walk out into the darkness. His arm still around Gabria, he led her silently away from the pyre, the guard walking close by her other side.

The hearthguard drew his sword as they stepped out of the light. The rustling sound of leather and the rattle of his mail shirt drew Gabria's attention. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her blue tunic, took a long breath of the warm night air, and laid her hand on his arm. "You won't need that. Whatever hides in the night cannot be beaten by swords."

The hearthguard and Athlone both shivered at the cold, hollow tone of her voice.

They shared a look over her head and walked a little faster through the darkness toward the fires and tents of the Khulinin camp.

Nothing bothered them on the way back, and Gabria did not see the strange form again that night. But she knew it was there, somewhere, waiting beyond sight for something she could not understand. She managed to hide her anxiety by the time they returned to their tent and was able to smile at Coren's antics when he tried to get out of bedtime. She talked to Lymira about her betrothed, helped Athlone feed the dogs, and settled her home for the night.

Only Kelene, sitting by a small lamp and mending Ishtak's halter, noticed the odd glitter in her mother's eyes and the tight lines of tension around her mouth. Gabria was still awake and standing by the open door flap, staring out into the darkness, when Kelene was ready to sleep. Kelene hesitated, then in a rare gesture, she quickly hugged her mother good night.

For just a moment, Gabria clung to her with a desperate strength that surprised her. Through their touch, Kelene sensed her mother's feelings as powerfully as her own, and the turmoil scared her. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but something in her mother's stiff expression told her that she would get no answer that night. Maybe Gabria would feel better in the morning when the sun shone and the black shadows of night were gone.

Kelene slipped into her blankets with a sigh and for a long while watched her mother standing motionless by the open flap.

* * * * *

"Lord Athlone!" Gehlyn's shout from outside startled everyone in the tent awake.

Kelene sat up, wondering if they had slept only a few minutes. Her mother was still standing by the door, and the lamp on the clothes chest was still lit. Then she noticed the pale light of dawn glimmering outside and felt the coolness of early morning.