City of Sorcerers (10 page)

"Lady Gabria!" Gehlyn called again. "Is Lord Athlone awake?"

"I am," the chieftain called sleepily. He rose and stretched as Gabria and the hearthguard outside moved away from the entrance so the healer could enter. The three younger ones got up also and stared curiously when Gehlyn and Savaron dashed into the tent. One look at their faces told everyone there was bad news.

"The other six men who reburied the mound have come down with the sickness,"

the healer said without preamble. "All of them fell ill during the night."

Gabria's face turned deathly pale. As if preparing for battle, she silently tied up her hair and began to gather her small stock of herbs, medicines, and cloths for bandages.

"That's not the worst of it, Father," Savaron said. "I've heard one of the Pra Deshian merchants in the bazaar is sick with a high fever."

"O gods," Athlone groaned. He pulled on his boots and a clean shirt while he tried to muster his thoughts. "Savaron, ask the chiefs to come to the council tent.

Gehlyn, take someone with you. Check the merchants and the whole bazaar."

"Do I tell them what is happening?" questioned the healer.

Athlone stifled a curse. If the merchants were told that a deadly and possibly virulent disease had shown up in the clans, they could panic and flee---at best leaving the gathering without a market, at worst running the risk of spreading the illness to other places. On the other hand, was it fair not to warn them? They would find out soon enough and probably blame the clans for negligence.

"Yes, tell them. But assure them there is no need to panic. And if you can, ask them if they know what this disease might be. Maybe it's something they're familiar with, or maybe they brought it in themselves unknowingly. "With a speed bordering on fury, he buckled on his belt and hung the gold chieftain's torque around his neck.

Gehlyn nodded. He didn't think the foreign merchants had anything to do with the disease, but he understood the need to ask. "Yes, my lord."

"Thank you," said Athlone. "Report back to me as quickly as you can." Both men saluted and hurried out.

"Is there anything we can do, Father?" Lymira asked.

Lord Athlone looked at Gabria, at her bloodless lips, at the unyielding, upright slant of her jaw, and at the tenseness in her movements as she collected the supplies.

"Help your mother," he ordered, and with a swirl of his golden cloak, he strode from the tent into the morning.

That day in the summer, which dawned like so many others before it, became a day the eleven clans would never forget.

Before then, "plague" had always been a vague word used to describe something frightening that happened somewhere else. Plagues struck cities like Pra Desh or the heavily populated areas of the Five Kingdoms and the Turic regions. Not once in the long history of the clans had a devastating disease struck at the entire population.

Each clan had its share of influenza, yellow fever, or the red rash Piers Arganosta had called measles. But the semi-nomadic clans were often widely scattered and on the move. An epidemic had never caught up with them---until this gathering.

That day, under a hot, dry, clear sky, the clans learned for the first time the terrible reality of a plague.

In the morning the situation did not appear to be out of hand. The six men who had fallen ill---two Jehanan, a Dangari, and three Khulinin---were brought to a spare tent set up away from the other camps. The healers hoped that putting them in quarantine would stop the spread of the disease. They were soon joined by the Pra Deshian merchant who had accepted the stolen grave-goods, as well as his young apprentice.

The news of the new victims swept through the camps and bazaar like a storm, and the chiefs spent a busy morning reassuring everyone, including the merchants, that there was no reason to expect the worst.

The lords were still gathered in the council tent at noon when several girls brought jugs of cooled water and wine and platters of food for the busy chiefs.

Lord Morbiar of Clan Wylfling was the first one to reach for the water. He grabbed a jug and drank almost frantically. "By the fires of Gormoth, it's hot in here,"

he complained. He stood in the center of the tent, his face flushed an angry red and sweat running down his face. All at once he swayed and staggered, then collapsed unconscious to the floor.

No one in the tent moved. Horrified, they stared at him, seeing clearly for the first time that the disease had gone beyond the bounds of the ten young men and was striking into the heart of the clans.

In that stricken moment, the healer from Clan Ferganan burst into the tent and cried frantically, "Lords, I have two women with the fever. What do I do with them?"

Before anyone could speak or react, Lord Athlone said, "Bring them here."

The other chiefs looked at him as if he had lost his mind. "What for?" demanded Lord Fiergan.

"This plague is spreading," Athlone answered as calmly as he could. The other men winced at the word "plague," for it was the first time anyone had spoken it aloud.

"We need to contain it quickly and get the victims away from the healthy. The only tent large enough to hold the eleven people we have now is this one, and there will probably be more sick to come. Clean it out, set it up as a hospital, and keep everyone but the healers away."

"I think we should leave," Lord Terod said, his voice loud with nervousness.

"There are none in my clan sick yet. I'm going to pack and get away from here."

Two or three other chiefs muttered in agreement.

"That would not be wise," Athlone stated flatly. "What if your clan is stricken?

How would you deal with the sick while you're on the move? How could your healer take care of them by himself? What if you came in contact with a caravan or a band of Turics and spread the sickness to other people?"

"You're assuming my clan already has the disease!"

"How do you know they don't? Look at Morbiar. Did you know he was sick this morning?" Athlone pointed out.

Terod looked around wildly as if seeking support, but the other chiefs only watched in silence. "No!" he cried. "But I see no reason to stay here and risk dying!"

Athlone strode up to him, his expression as unyielding as a granite wall. "I see many reasons! We cannot split up. Not now. We have to fight this together. Join our minds and our healers and our prayers to find a cure. If you leave, where will you go?

We are surrounded by leagues of emptiness! If your clan is out on the trail somewhere, dying for lack of help, and we find a way to stop this disease, we might not be able to reach you in time!"

From his position near Lord Athlone, Sayyed saw the war of indecision on young Terod's face---fear of the plague if he stayed, terror if it caught his clan alone out on the empty plains, and a flicker of hope that they just might find a cure. Sayyed understood how he felt. Anxiety for Rafnir had preyed relentlessly on his mind since Ritan had died. He wanted more than life itself to get his family out of the path of the deadly pestilence, but he knew Lord Athlone was right. Their only hope was to stay together and look for some means to stop the epidemic.

The other men seemed to accept that, too. They stirred and nodded among themselves, the immobility of shock wearing off as they realized there was a war to be fought. Terod backed away from Athlone and stamped to the entrance of the tent.

"Clan Amnok will stay,” he said, his words harsh, "But I am posting guards around my camp. No one goes in or out without my permission." He turned on his heel and left.

"Actually that's not a bad idea," Koshyn said, moving to help the fallen Morbiar.

"We should postpone the rest of the gathering activities and limit movement of our people until we see how far this disease is going to spread."

His suggestion was immediately accepted, and within the hour, the vast, busy gathering began to take on the appearance of a besieged encampment. The council tent had been cleared of the rugs, cushions, and trappings of a meeting place to make way for the sick. The race grounds, the shallows where the women gathered to chat and wash laundry, and the meadows where the children liked to play were all empty.

Armed men guarded the camps' perimeters and patrolled the virtually empty bazaar.

Only the outriders who rode guard on the herds grazing in scattered pastures along the valley were allowed to leave the area. The women and children stayed close to their tents. The priests of Surgart and Sorh and the priestesses of Amara gathered on the sacred island of the Tir Samod to pray for aid from the deities. That day, and through the coming days, their fires burned within the temple of standing stones, and their voices were heard in an unending chant of supplication.

By nightfall, eight more people had been brought to the council tent.

Sayyed was helping several other men haul water to a large barrel for use by the healers when he heard a small, feminine voice calling his name. He hesitated, peering into the thick twilight. The unfamiliar voice spoke in his mind in the manner of the Hunnuli.

Then he heard a yowling noise.
Sayyed!
He saw a flash of white, and a small creature charged from the grass to his boots. It meowed sharply.
Come! Come!
the voice cried in his thoughts.
She needs you.

In a flash of dread he recognized Tam's cat. His bucket dropped to the ground, and he raced after the dimly seen form running ahead of him. Rafnir! his heart cried.

Not his son, please! They reached the Khulinin camp, charged past the guards without stopping, and ran for his tent.

The dogs were cowering by the entrance when he arrived; even the goats were quiet, huddled in a wide-eyed group.

Sayyed was so upset, he paid little attention to them or to the two Hunnuli standing by the tent. Tam's black horse was perfectly still, his head held high in distress. Afer, Sayyed's stallion, neighed urgently for him to hurry.

Sayyed dashed after the cat into the tent, expecting to see his son, and stopped dead in his tracks. His soul was struck with a numbing despair. All the time he had worried about Rafnir, he had never imagined his wife could get sick.

Yet there she lay on their pallet, her face scarlet with the heat of her body, tears welling from her eyes. When she saw Sayyed, she tried to rise in a vain attempt to keep away from him. "No, no, my love," she whispered hoarsely when he knelt by her side. "Do not come near me.

He ignored her pleas and gently pushed her back onto their bed. Using a handy cloth, he began to wipe the perspiration from her face. The little white cat crouched by Tam's head, her golden eyes enormous. She was purring frantically as if trying to reassure her mistress.

"Maybe it's something else," Sayyed said desperately. "A cold, bad food, or an insect bite. Spider bites always make you sick."

"It's not spiders and you know it," she replied with a flash of her old spirit.

Sayyed did know it. He could see the track of the disease in the heat of her skin and in the swellings under her jaw. "Then you know what I have to do," he said, his voice breaking.

Her chin trembled. "What you must."

Never in his life had Sayyed had to do anything so difficult as pick up Tam's slight form and carry her in his arms from their tent. She clung to him while he walked slowly down the path, the two Hunnuli close behind. Neither one could find the words they wanted to say. The Khulinin guards at the edge of camp took one look at his burden and stepped sadly out of his way. Sayyed didn't even see them through the dark fog that was descending on his mind. Almost blindly he bore his wife down to the council tent and into the dimly lit interior. Three rows of pallets had been laid down for the sick, and a fire was burning in the central hearth. The four healers on duty were so busy caring for their patients they did not notice Sayyed come in.

With shaking hands he laid Tam on a pallet beside the tent wall. He knew he had only a moment to say something to her before one of the healers saw him and forced him to leave, but how could he put twenty-three years of friendship and love into a few meager words? This woman had saved his life, loved him, borne his son, and given him a world of laughter and joy. How could he leave her here alone to die?

Tears clogged his throat, and he groped for her hand.

Something soft brushed past his arm. The white cat had followed him down from the camp and was nestling into the blanket by Tam's shoulder. Just outside the canvas walls the two Hunnuli nickered to her.

Tam tried to smile. "I am not alone now. Go my husband. Care for our son.

Remember our love," she whispered.

Sayyed's head dropped. "I'll be back when I can." He brushed a finger over her cheek, then stumbled to his feet and fled from the tent.

CHAPTER FOUR

Kalene woke in the middle of the night feeling uncomfortably hot. Her eyes opened blearily to an unfamiliar glow, and she saw her mother hunched over the
Book
of Matrah,
trying to read the pages of the old tome of sorcery by the light of a single hand lamp. She blinked her eyes and dazedly wondered why she was so hot.

Her blanket was soaked with sweat, and something heavy lay pressed against her left side.

All at once she sat up, her heart pounding. Coren had crawled onto the pallets beside her that evening and fallen asleep. At some time he had rolled over almost on top of her. He looked strangely flushed in the dim light of the lamp, so Kelene laid her hand on his damp forehead. It was the first time she had ever tried her empathic touch on a sick person. The results shocked her. She could sense the symptoms of Coren's illness as clearly as his fear and confusion.

"Mother!" she cried.

Her voice woke everyone in the tent. Gabria rushed to her feet and hurried to kneel by Kelene's side. Coren was half awake and breathing rapidly. "My throat hurts, Mama," he mumbled.

Kelene eased out from under him and gently stretched him out on the pallet. "His temperature is rising," she said to her mother, trying to keep the fear from her voice for Coren's sake. "His throat is starting to swell, and he's losing consciousness fast.