The Last of the Wilds

:Yes. Take Kilcarn. Contact me as soon as you find her.

:I will.

Opening her eyes, Reivan found Kuerres staring at her. She smothered a smile at his curiosity.

“We will deal with this right away,” she told him. Servant Kikarn made a small noise of protest. She guessed he was thinking of the visitors still waiting to be seen. “Servant Kikarn. Tell the Dekkan domestic to wait until I return but let the others know I have urgent and unexpected business to attend to and will see to them tomorrow morning. Assure Ario he will be first.”

He smiled and bowed his head. Reivan rose and Kuerres jumped to his feet.

“Do you want to accompany me?” she asked him.

He hesitated. “I should return to my home,” he said doubtfully.

She moved around the desk. “Then go. I will send news to you when we return. I will use an ordinary messenger, not one from the Sanctuary.”

He looked relieved. “Thank you, Reivan - Servant Reivan.”

She smiled. “Thank you for bringing this information to the Sanctuary, Thinker Kuerres. You are a good man and I hope this action doesn’t work against you.”

“There are those who will support me,” he assured her. He turned to the door, then paused and looked back. “Just as there are those who support you.”

Surprised, Reivan watched him leave, wishing she could bring herself to ask who her supporters were, but knowing he would say no more.

* * *

With Tyve constantly advising him on the terrain ahead, Mirar had been able to travel faster than he and Emerahl had during their journey into Si. The boy circled above, warning of dead-end ravines and guiding Mirar to valleys that provided easy travelling. Each night Tyve slipped away to visit his village and each morning he returned more worried than ever. More of the tribe had fallen ill. A young baby had died, then its mother, weakened by a difficult birth. Veece was failing fast. At each report Mirar grew more certain the Siyee were facing a plague. He travelled from first light to dusk, stopping only to drink and eat, knowing that the situation in the village was worsening every hour.

He had seen many plagues before. Injuries, wounds and minor diseases were easy enough for a sorcerer with healing knowledge and magical strength to treat, but when a disease spread quickly it was not long before there were too few healers capable of fighting it to treat all victims - when they were not battling the disease themselves.

And here in Si you are the only one, Leiard added.

Mirar sighed. If only I could have prevented Siyee from leaving the village and spreading the disease.

He’d sent this advice ahead, but the news Tyve brought back had been alarming. Some families had fled to other villages already. Messengers had been sent to the Open.

They’re already panicking, Leiard said. You’ll have as much work dealing with their fear of disease as the disease itself.

Mirar didn’t answer. The rocky slope he was descending had become an enormous, roughly hewn staircase that took all his attention. He jumped from rock shelf to rock shelf, each landing jolting his entire body.

The steps became steadily shallower as the trees around him grew larger. Soon he was walking on smooth leaf-covered ground, surrounded by the trunks of enormous trees. The air was moist. A stream trickled slowly nearby, dividing and rejoining and forming pools here and there.

It was a peaceful place and would have made a pleasant camping site - apart from the lingering smell of animal feces. The area must be a thoroughfare for forest creatures. Remembering the reason for his journey, he quickened his pace again.

Then he heard a Siyee whistle a call of warning and he halted.

Looking up, he blinked in surprise as he saw that platforms had been built between many of the tree branches overhead. Faces peered over the edges of these, gazing down at him, and he sensed fear, hope and curiosity.

He had reached the village.

From the right a Siyee glided down to meet him. It was Tyve.

“Some have hung ropes for you to climb,” he told Mirar. “Others are too suspicious. They’ll change their minds once they hear you’ve cured some of us.”

Mirar nodded. “How many are ill now?”

“I don’t know. Ten the last time I counted.”

“Take me to the sickest, then fly to all the people and find out how many are sick or are showing the first signs of it.”

“Yes. I will. Follow me.”

Tyve walked through the trees for several hundred paces. A rope hung down from one of the platforms. Mirar tied the end of the rope to the handles of his bag.

“Who lives up here?”

Tyve swallowed and looked up. “Speaker Veece and his wife and her sister.”

The old man. Mirar smothered a sigh. Even among landwalkers, Hearteater most often claims the old and the very young.

He took hold of the rope and began to climb.

It was a long climb. Halfway up he looked down and considered what would happen if he slipped and fell.

I’d definitely be injured. Probably badly. Probably to a point that would kill mortals.

But he would not die. His body would repair itself, though gradually.

Like it did after they took me out from under the ruined Dreamweaver House in Jarime. I was a bag of broken bones, not quite dead, not quite alive. Mirar shuddered. A mind fixed only on keeping alive enough to regenerate, parts of me decomposing while others healed...

Think of something else, Leiard suggested.

Mirar drew in a deep breath and concentrated on hauling himself upward. When he reached the top he pulled himself onto the platform and lay on his back, panting. Once he had caught his breath he rolled over and found two elderly Siyee women hovering nearby.

They have it, Leiard observed.

He was right. Their faces were pale and shone with sweat, and their lips were tinged with blue. Despite the name of the disease, it actually attacked the lungs. As it ate away at them the victim was less and less able to breathe, causing their blood to weaken. In some places it was known as the White Death.

He stood up. A bower had been built on top of the platform. From his high position he could see bowers on most platforms - and many Siyee watching him. He looked at the two women.

“I am Dreamweaver Wilar. I will try to help Speaker Veece, if you wish me to.”

They exchanged a quick glance, then nodded.

“Thank you for coming. He is inside,” one croaked. She lapsed into a wracking cough.

Mirar nodded. “I will bring up my bag of cures, then I will go in and see what I can do for him.”

He turned away and began to haul on the rope. It seemed to take hours to bring up the bag. Untying it, he carried it inside the bower.

On a blanket in the middle of the room lay the Speaker. Though Mirar hadn’t met the man before he doubted he would have recognized him if he had. Pale, bloodless skin stretched over the man’s bones. His lips were a deep blue and his breath came quickly and painfully.

He’s near death, Leiard murmured.

Yes, Mirar agreed. But if I don’t save him, will the rest of the tribe trust me?

Maybe. Maybe not. You best get to work.

Mirar opened his bag and began sorting through its contents. A thump outside distracted him. He looked up to see Tyve standing in the doorway.