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 have 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.