Superstition-or perhaps premonition-had made him change the herbal mixture he'd given the miller to one designed to encourage and not break fever. But Bram's hope had faded when the old farmer's sweats and chills ceased abruptly and unexplainably on the evening of the first day, as Hoark Sivesten's had. It was a bad sign.
Bram understood how bad it was when, later that same night, the village bells chimed, signaling the miller's death.
Knowing what was ahead, Bram had sent for Nahamkin's family the next morning. Delayed by farm chores, or so he said, the son had arrived alone much later. Bram peered briefly over the edge of the loft to see Nahamkin's son standing in the doorway, obviously reluctant to enter the cottage. His eyes had darted everywhere and nowhere, as if he were afraid of what he'd see if they settled.
Bram had neither the time nor the patience to leave the loft to coax Nahamkin's own flesh and blood to see him one last time. The old man was halfway through the skin-shedding stage of the disease, and Bram had to call on all his strength just to keep his friend on the cot. When the first skin split on his leg, Nahamkin had brayed, and Bram heard the door slam shut below.
The nobleman paused for a moment, eyes closed, and reflected that blood wasn't any thicker in families where it wasn't blue. If Nahamkin knew his son had run away, he didn't mention it. Bram suspected that, inside, Nahamkin had known at the onset of the fever that his son wouldn't stand by him, since he'd sent for Bram.
Following the pattern of the illness, Nahamkin was quiet, lucid even, on the evening of the second day after the skin shedding. Bram brought stew up to the loft, though neither of them did much more than push the potatoes around in their bowls. They talked about flowers, and slugs, and summer heat, anything but what was happening now.
For the second night Bram stayed by the old man's side. Nahamkin dozed fitfully, but sleep came nowhere near Bram. He spent most of the night with his feet dangling from the edge of the loft, swinging them back and forth in a hypnotic, numbing rhythm; they were the only part of the nobleman to fall asleep.
Bram saw the sun rise now through the rotted thatch and closed his eyes tightly to the light, as if he could stop the day.
You're still here, lad.' Nahamkin turned to Bram with the slowness of seasons revolving. His eyes held an odd clearness.
'Of course I am.' Bram smiled encouragingly and soueezed Nahamkin's leathery hand.
Nahamkin laid a weary, raw-red arm to his forehead. '1 m so thirsty, I swear I could drink an entire bucket of water Be a good lad and bring me some,' the old man said
'Must be from the fever,' Bram remarked as he tbe CDeiwiSA plague
slipped down the ladder. He took a wooden bucket outside to the well, blinking in the bright, cold sunshine. Should he tell Nahamkin that Hoark Sivesten had died of the disease? Was it more cruel to tell him or not? Bram slapped his face with frigid water to chase away the tumult in his head.
He had no answers as he carried the filled bucket back into the dimness of the cottage. The young nobleman nearly gagged at the foul stench of sickness that his nose had grown used to before the brief breath of fresh air. His eyes watered, and when they adjusted enough to see, his gaze came first upon the tallow candles they had made just days before. Four days of witnessing unexplainable sickness had nearly erased the memory.
Bram jumped when a knock rang out against the wooden door. He opened it slowly, half-expecting Nahamkin's son to have sheepishly returned. The face was Herus's, eyes sunken, face gray. Bram wondered fleetingly if he looked as bad as the physicker.
'I've… finished with my other patients,' Herus announced wearily. 'Two more have died. I'm sorry to have left Nahamkin to you. Is he-?'
'No.' Bram looked up at the loft over his shoulder and held a finger to his lips. He left the door open and crossed the small room for the stairs, the bucket of water sloshing at his side. Taking the open door as invitation, the physicker stepped inside.
'Bram!' Nahamkin called plaintively from the loft. 'Where is that water, son?'
'Coming!' Bram snatched up a mug, Nahamkin's best pewter one, and put a foot on the first rung.
The physicker's hand grasped Bram's calf, stopping him on the ladder. 'He has a great thirst?'
Bram nodded. The physicker's expression worried him more.
'Kill him,' Herus whispered. 'It'll be merciful compared to what I have witnessed with the others.'
Bram was so shocked by the pronouncement that he nearly dropped the bucket of water. 'What have you seen? Tell me what you know about this sickness.'
'It is always the same/' sighed Herus. 'First they have the fever, the next day they shed skin, then on the third day-'
Herus was interrupted by Nahamkin howling again for water. Jumping as if burned, Bram readjusted the bucket in his hand and took another anxious step up the ladder.
'You can't help him,' Herus said softly behind him. 'The sickness is caused by magic more powerful than any of your herbs.'
Bram paused but did not turn around, his heart hammering. 'How do you know that?'
The physicker visibly paled. 'Just take my advice, young man,' he said. 'Kill him before he slakes his thirst and the real pain starts, or he will die a hideous death at sunset.'
Fury at Herus's callousness drove away Bram's exhaustion. 'Get out,' the nobleman hissed. 'I'd sooner kill you, you fraud.' Bram gave a humorless laugh before continuing up the ladder, slopping water. 'And to think I was worried about not being a real physicker.' Herus muttered something a bit profane before stomping out the door. Bram dimly heard it, but didn't care.
Nahamkin saw Bram's head cresting the floor of the loft. 'I thought you'd never come with that water,' he panted. 'Who was at the door?'
Bram was thankful Nahamkin showed no sign of having heard Herus's words. 'Just someone asking me to give aid at their house,' he said. The lie came out easily enough, though the hand that poured water into a mug shook.
Nahamkin gulped greedily, water spraying from his mouth in his haste. 'You should go to them, Bram. You've stayed with me long enough.'
Bram's dark head shook as he refilled the heavy mug. 'There is no one I care about as much as you, Nahamkin,' he said honestly, his voice breaking. 'I'll stay with you until you're well again.' The words stuck in his throat past Nahamkin's seventh mug of water.
Bram sat stiffly while the old farmer tried to quench his thirst. Every muscle was tensed with dread. The pewter mug fell from Nahamkin's aged hands midway through his ninth drink. It fell to the floor with a dull ting that sounded like a bell of doom in Bram's head. He fingered one of a handful of small flour sacks he'd fetched to mop up the water Nahamkin had spilled while he drank. Bram twisted the sack so tightly the flesh of his palms began to burn.
Nahamkin's body abruptly shuddered, and his arm began to twitch. The raw flesh of his forearm undulated with hideous, unnatural spasms. Nahamkin groaned, a small, dry sound in the back of his throat that abruptly changed to a full-fledged shriek. Both men watched in horror as the thrashing arm began to bend and twist in ways no human arm was ever meant to. Bram struggled to grab the limb and pin it to the bedding, but his effort netted him a punch in the nose that left him dazed and bloody. As his eyes refocused, he saw the arm, thrashing left and right like a whip being played across the ground. The first and second fingers closed together and fused into one mass of flesh, then the third and fourth did the same. The thumb folded back on itself, becoming shorter and thicker.
Bram covered his mouth as the arm began splitting open between the newly formed digits. No sooner did the flesh split apart than it resealed itself, forming three distinct appendages all the way up Nahamkin's forearm to his elbow. Like three eyeless worms, the limbs writhed across Nahamkin's pallet. Quickly the color and texture changed from pale, fleshy white to green- brown scales with a pattern of red and yellow stripes. Two bulges appeared near the end of each appendage and popped open, revealing pure black orbs. Three fully formed snakes writhed from the stump of Nahamkin's arm, their forked tongues flicking in and out as they scanned their new world with unblinking eyes.
Wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve, Bram stared in transfixed horror at the creatures that Nahamkin's arm had become. He was relieved to see that Nahamkin was unconscious. But the old man's eyes slowly opened under Bram's scrutiny. Dazed, Nahamkin searched for the cause of the pain in his arm. When he saw the snakes resting in
