Wolf's Blood (29 page)

Firekeeper nodded. “Good and good. Also, I bring letters for you and for Harjeedian. And to tell that the baby Elexa is now crying as she should and there is hope she will be strong.”

Derian felt his cheeks ache with the force of his grin.

“Letters and a healthy baby. Wonderful!”

He accepted the precious letter from his family in Hawk Haven, savoring its weight. He glanced at the cover sheet. He had suggested to his mother—his most usual correspondent—that she start each letter with a cover sheet that would provide a quick status report on each member of the family. After he had reassured himself that his parents, his sister, brother, and various relatives had been well when the letter had been sent, Derian put the packet down, promising himself that he would savor the contents at his leisure.

Firekeeper had stood patiently through this inspection. Whatever her flaws, she understood the importance of family, and wouldn’t have interrupted his reassuring himself that all was well for anything less than an announcement of imminent attack.

They left his house, and Firekeeper told him how healthy Elise had looked, and how the baby had screamed, and how Doc seemed sleek and contented.

Perhaps Harjeedian had heard the wolves’ howl earlier. Perhaps someone else had alerted him as to their return, but the aridisdu met them on the ground floor of the large building in which he made his home, and where, conveniently, many of the documents they had needed to study had been archived.

After welcoming the travelers, and congratulating them on their safe return, Harjeedian gratefully accepted the packet they had brought for him. Like Derian, he checked to make sure that neither the letter from his sister nor any of the ones from his associates in the Serpent Temple contained any bad news; then he gave them his full attention.

“Urgana insisted on making tea. Shall we sit in the kitchen?”

No one objected, and Derian found himself thinking how much he preferred this informal Harjeedian to the self-contained and ritualistic man he had first known. Of course, the situation was vastly different, but even a few moonspans ago Harjeedian would not have held a meeting over a kitchen table. Perhaps the periodic intrusions through the gates had unsettled the aridisdu as much as they had Derian himself, making formalities—and the sense of separation they created—much less inviting.

Urgana was pouring boiling water into a teapot when they entered. The scent of mint made the insides of Derian’s nostrils tingle. Firekeeper accepted a glass of well-water, and Blind Seer a bowl of the same. Then the wolf-woman launched into her account.

Derian listened, asking questions, and demanding clarifications when Firekeeper’s sketchy manner of speech made her meaning less than perfectly clear. She spoke mostly Liglimosh, probably because that was the language of the maimalodalum, but from time to time she employed a term or phrase in Pellish.

The early parts of her report met with nods from Harjeedian and Urgana. Clearly, they were not surprised to learn the fashion in which querinalo had manifested, or to hear confirmation of the old tales that the disease had taken the strongest first, moving on to the weaker practitioners only later. However, when Firekeeper began to tell of the strange reference to the mountain sheep, the two researchers listened intently.

“Wait,” Harjeedian said, raising one hand slightly as if he might stop the words physically. “I think there is more to this sheep than you are saying. You speak as if this is something about which we already know.”

Like Firekeeper, Derian had heard the tales of Vanviko’s death. Now the wolf-woman turned to him. She must have seen that he remembered, for she sighed in relief.

“You tell,” she said. “My tongue is thick.”

Derian grinned, rather liking the turn of phrase.

“I know Harjeedian has heard about New Kelvin,” he began, “but what do you know, Urgana?”

“I know that of all the northern New World countries, they are the only one that welcomes magic, rather than shunning it,” she said. “That has something to do with the man who ruled them first, after querinalo. Wasn’t he a spellcaster himself?”

“That’s what their legends say,” Deri in agreed. “The First Healed One was so ill that he couldn’t be moved when the rest of his people fled the New World. They expected him to die, as so many others had, but he managed to survive querinalo. Even though his power was gone, they called him the Healed One. As the only living spellcaster, somehow he managed to retain an element of prestige. I guess he must have been a good ruler, because no one threw him out.”

Firekeeper snorted. “I think they fear the return of the others—the Old World rulers—and when they realize these not come back, is too late. This Healed One is One in fact not just name.”

Derian looked down his nose at the wolf-woman. “I thought you said your tongue was thick. Are you telling this story or am I?”

“You,” Firekeeper said, making herself small for a moment. “You do better.”

“For whatever reason,” Derian said, “the Healed One of New Kelvin continued to reign, and because of precedents he set. New Kelvin is the only one of what you call the ‘northern’ lands not to be openly antagonistic to magic.”

“Do they have spellcasters there?” Urgana asked, leaning forward in her chair, her expression mingling interest and apprehension.

“Not that we saw,” Derian said. “In fact, they didn’t seem to know a whole lot more about how to make magic work than we did—and certainly a lot less than we here know now.”

“Ah,” Urgana said, allowing herself to relax against the chair back, her relief evident.

“Where was I?” Derian said.

“You were explaining where this mountain sheep fits into the lore of New Kelvin,” Harjeedian replied.

“Right,” Derian nodded. “Actually, the events hardly qualify as ‘lore.’ They’re from contemporary history. Toriovico, the current ruler of New Kelvin, was not the heir apparent. His much older brother was, but this brother—Vanviko—was killed in an avalanche when hunting.”

Harjeedian frowned. “Hunting a mountain sheep, I suppose.”

“That is correct.” Derian said. “A mountain sheep with hooves of gold and horns that sparkled like diamond, or so the story goes. Interestingly, the hunt didn’t happen by chance. A wanderer who had come to court brought the story with him.”

Firekeeper said, “Blind Seer and me, we wonder. Maybe this Vanviko go hunting not because is winter and he is bored, but because he has heard of this sheep before. The first Healed One, he had querinalo. Did he—like this mentor who Surf Hands tell us about—did he also see the sheep?”

“A very good question,” Harjeedian said. “It is not one to which Urgana and I have found an answer, but we have learned a few other things that might be useful.”

He looked at Urgana and the older woman nodded, then smiled mysteriously. “And with a little further labor, we may even be able to give your sheep a name.”

Derian stiffened, but Firekeeper bounced where she sat. Blind Seer’s ears canted forward and he tilted his head to one side in such obvious query that Firekeeper’s next words were hardly necessary.

“Tell! Do tell! Blind Seer and me both ask.”

“Blind Seer and I,” Derian muttered automatically.

Harjeedian permitted himself a single, thin-lipped smile, but clearly he was not going to be rushed.

“First, our own work confirms what the maimalodalum said about how querinalo manifested. Perhaps it did not strike each group all at once, as their smaller sample seemed to show, but the occurrences were closely grouped. Within a few days, traffic through the Nexus Islands increased considerably—and all in one direction. There is not one logged account of a person ill with querinalo—obviously it is not mentioned by that name, but the indications are clear enough—originating in the Old World. They all come from the New World.”

“The records are that detailed?” Derian asked, ignoring Firekeeper’s evident impatience at being told something she felt she already knew.

“Yes,” Harjeedian said. “Apparently, the gatekeepers routinely kept records of why a transit was being made, of goods being shipped, and the like. Sick people fell into the category of goods being shipped, so not only was this noted, but the type of illness or injury was routinely noted as well.”

“And they shipped them through?” Derian said. “No effort was made to quarantine them?”

Harjeedian gave a dry laugh. “Where? Other of the islands in this archipelago were inhabited then, but still this is not the most hospitable of lands. Urgana found cross references in various journals, and apparently those who operated the gates and coordinated the facilities wanted the ill off these islands as soon as possible.”

Firekeeper had stopped her impatient fidgeting, and now she frowned.

“Harjeedian, was querinalo in Old World, too? On Nexus Islands, too?”

Harjeedian nodded approval, as if Firekeeper was a student who had shown particular insight into a complex problem.

“Very good. From what we can tell, querinalo both was and was not in the Old World at this time. Wait. This is not as nonsensical as it seems.”

Firekeeper, who had been about to protest, fell into perfect, listening stillness.

“We found a record kept by one of the less powerful residents of the gate facility. She was not a spellcaster, not even talented. She simply resided here with her husband who was among those who worked the gates. This woman—her name was Fael—notes the following.”

He inclined his head toward Urgana, and the woman began to read aloud in a voice lighter and somehow younger than her own natural speaking voice.

“‘When the first of those with the New World fever came through the gates for passage home, none of those who were contacted in their homelands seemed to have heard of the disease—no more than had we here at the nexus. Within a day or two, however, word came to us that the disease was being found in the Old World as well. Curiously, it appears to have manifested without there being any contact with those brought from the New World.

“‘Questions have been raised as to whether the sickness might be being carried by some other than humans. Birds travel great distances, ignoring elements of the terrain that would slow human travel. However, there has been no report of mass illness among any of the creatures of air or field. Previously, when a sickness is shared by those of varied bloods, there is some evidence.

“‘The fever has touched its first victim here on the Nexus Islands. Victims, I should say, but one touches my heart so closely that when I see him, I must struggle to remember that he is not the only one so affected. Even as I write this, my dear husband, my Klart, tosses and turns on his pallet. We are long out of ice, and even towels dipped in seawater do nothing to lower his fevers.’”

Urgana skipped a few pages and continued reading, “‘Klart is dead. Yet in the midst of this horror, I find that something can touch me. Those who kept the gates closed all ways into the New World as soon as the first case of the fever manifested here, in this way hoping to halt the spread. Now we have clear proof that the fever will touch even those who have had not contact with land, or with the infection. One of the ships that patrols our seas and keeps peace with the sea dragons came into harbor. They had been gone from before the first sick one came through the gate, yet their windmaster is dead. He fell ill the very day Klart did, and nearly at the same hour.’”

Urgana put down the journal, and spoke in her own voice. “Because Fael herself did not contract querinalo, she goes into some detail about what happened next. I will summarize. The last of those who could operate the gates—a weakly talented spellcaster, a child hardly awakened to her power—opened the gates time and time after, so that some of the inhabitants could escape. Others took to ship, even though the weather made setting sail a chancy proposition, because there was no way that all could leave through the gates with the young spellcaster growing more and more feverish with every transition.

“Fael herself seems to have intended to leave by ship. She wanted some record of what happened here to remain, and she left this journal in the library. On the last few pages, she has done her best to mark where the dead were buried—buried, that is, before the situation became so uncontrolled that the dead were no longer being buried. She marks her husband’s grave in particular.”

Derian glanced at the writing in the book. “Pellish. No wonder she wanted the grave remembered. This Klart would have become an ancestor, and be due what respect could be given him. It must have been hard for Fael to leave without the proper ceremonies celebrating the transition. She probably hoped to come back someday and do them, or to send someone to do them for her.”

He set the book back on the table. “So, what is the significance of the mountain sheep?”

In answer, Harjeedian rose from the kitchen table and motioned them toward the door.

“There is a book in the library I wish to consult before offering my opinion.”

Without comment, Firekeeper and Blind Seer rose, falling back to let Harjeedian and Urgana lead the way. Derian followed in bemused silence.

The rooms that served as library and archives occupied all of one long side of the building. They had clearly been built for this purpose, lined with tall, wide windows. In some places, the original glass remained in place, having defied who knew how many years of storms and hurricanes. Derian suspected that the glass itself might have been enchanted to give it greater strength.

That was something he was coming to learn about the Old World sorcerers. The tales he had been told as a boy had highlighted the terrible and destructive things of which they were capable. How they could pull lightning from the skies, or make the marrow in the bones of a living person heat, so that the victim died from his skeleton collapsing around him, or how they had drunk blood from cups made from the skulls of those who thwarted them.

But those stories had left out the numerous practical uses to which magic could be turned. Lighting. Heating. Strengthening glass or metal. Summoning wind or rain. Easy transportation. Other comforts Derian could only just barely imagine. Without those aspects, the temptation magic offered was limited—the power only a bully or despot might crave. When one saw the myriad practical uses to which the same power might be turned, then truly did magic become seductive.