The Scarlet Bird

By Carol McLeod

A pandemic of unknown origin is sweeping the land of Adeon-Fjior, ruthlessly killing its youngest generation., Healers with magic-enhanced abilities are unable to save the afflicted children. Triona Rigfer, a young woman of considerable artistic skill, has dreams of becoming a scribe/illustrator. After losing her four younger sisters to the pandemic, Triona sets out on a journey to the Tower of Scribes, accompanied by a newly-adopted scarlet bird she befriends while sketching him. Their journey to the Tower of Scribes is interrupted when Triona and the scarlet bird find themselves unwittingly playing a key role in the much-needed eradication of the "unpeopling."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Feb 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662906886

Book preview

Zai-Mali

Chapter 1

‘T is always so easy , he thought, as the group of eager children migrated toward him . They don’t suspect a thing. A free taste of sugar is all that is on their insignificant minds. What beastly lack of manners they have as they push and shove one another to be certain of getting their grimy little fingers around one of the sugar treats!

He hated children; they were always too noisy. They were never still. They hovered about like pesky bees attracted to the sugar. They all spoke at once, creating a cacophony of high-pitched squeals which assaulted his sensitive ears like the screech of a Banshee. Even worse, they were clingers; attaching themselves like parasites to his woven robe, his knees, his hands. He never wore his best robes while contaminating the children. He smiled inwardly at the thought of the unrelenting discomfort these children would feel in a few hours. The panic and fear that would constrict the hearts of their parents. The exhausted confusion of the Village’s Healers.

But what is this? One who lags behind and doesn’t join his playmates? He will need a little coaxing. Put on your best smile, now, Fendi. Look into his eyes to give him confidence. Be like a grandfather; aye, that’s it, a grandfather. Ah, he’s coming closer now.

The children were just leaving their school courtyard. Guarded by a wrought-iron gate inset into a high stone wall surrounding the structure, the school was a fortress while in session. At the end of the day, the double gates were thrown open to swarming children and waiting parents. Anyone could easily penetrate the grounds at that time. Zai-Fendi, however, did not need access to the school building. He merely needed the children themselves and their own voracious desire for sugar. Fendi always knew exactly where to place himself. The sugar treats were guaranteed to attract the attention of even the most dispirited child. The colors were bright; the scents wonderful as they wafted across the air. He dispersed his treats with a sneer which passed for a smile to the unsuspecting children. Parents arriving to accompany their small ones home smiled their gratefulness to the old man as they moved quickly along, anxious to begin the evening meal. An older boy with pale, paper-thin skin peeked out between the iron bars of the gate and closely observed the crowd around the old man.

Oh, now, ‘tis a shy one, he is. Afraid to get too close. Ah well, doesn’t matter anyway. The others will share, in more ways than one.

Zai-Fendi gave all the children who approached him a special treat. He had taken on the form of a patriarch; long, flowing gray beard and hair; skin weathered and wrinkled by many passing years; soft blue eyes alight with a twinkle which bespoke the merriment of some hidden secret of life known only to those who have achieved a lifetime of experience. The disguise was carefully selected to assure confidence in children. It worked perfectly. The one small boy who kept his distance was not a problem to the Zai. It was not necessary to taint all the children. If only a few ate the offered sugar treat, all would suffer eventually.

It had been so easy in every village he visited. His oft-used disguise as a peddler won him instant access to the village as well as providing him with economic substance. His sugar-coated appearance as a kindly grandfather courted and won the confidence of the village children with little effort. He had a huge repertoire of disguises; some not even human. Zai-Fendi was a powerful shapechanger.

He was always well on his way to the next village by the time the first child became ill. No one suspected the traveling peddler of tampering with the health of their children.

If only she were still alive. She would see how my power grows. Soon, even Minolga will have to bow to me. Then ‘tis I who shall rule all of Aedon-Fjior and rightfully so. Minolga would not even be ruler if she had joined with me. Together, we could have made a magic so powerful, no one would dare stand against us.

The children ran laughing and squealing in separate directions; all but one smearing their faces with the sticky, sweet confections of the traveling peddler. It would be hours before the first symptoms would appear. One of the older girls had even smiled and thanked the old man. Her well-meaning phrase was lost on the Zai who was already turning his wagon toward the next village.

It was midnight. Velvet darkness encroached upon the small cottage of the village healer. Just returned from a difficult healing, Floria had not even the strength to unhood the lamp. The soft amber glow which leaked through the tooled holes allowed her to see vague shadows and outlines. She fell wearily into the first chair she found without removing her cloak. She heard the dog approach on soft, padded feet. Cold, wet muzzle nudged her ungloved hand. She stroked the silken fur of the only companion who shared her living quarters. The dog’s warm breath passed through the woolen cloth of her dress, leaving a spot of moisture. Idly, she scratched behind the dog’s ear, eliciting a soft whine of pleasure from the animal. Finally, as though sensing her weariness, the dog lowered itself to the floor and curled into a ball at her feet. Closing her eyes, she could feel her body drifting off to sleep. She struggled; an image of her soft, feather bed inviting her to move from the chair. The image soon faded and she fell into oblivion.

Until sounds caused her to awaken. Unfamiliar sounds alien to her nighttime hours. Rone lifted his head from his paws but did not bark. With a faint-hearted chuff, the dog rose and shook himself. Hoof beats. The jingling of harness. The soft snicker of a pulling-beast. Floria knew instinctively that there was a serious problem. No one visited her cottage in the dead of night for any other reason.

Rone was barking now. She lifted herself from the chair. Stumbling stiffly to the lamp, she opened the hood and turned the wick up nearly all the way. As the shadows of the night retreated to the far corners of the room, she removed her traveling cloak and tossed it upon the table. She passed both hands through her graying hair to return errant tendrils to their accustomed place. Crossing to the small front window of the cottage, she peered out into the night.

A lone traveler was approaching her cottage in a wagon drawn by two pulling-beasts. As the wagon passed through a clearing in the trees, the moon of Aedon-Fjior bathed the solitary figure in light. Floria could not see what he carried in his wagon, but she felt she knew.

Another sick one. Eln’s sake, let it not be too late!

She waddled to the door in advance of her visitor. Floria seldom moved with her former grace in this her fifty-ninth year. Her age, coupled with her inability to trim her weight, kept her from moving quickly. Rone trotted to the door to stand beside her, long tail wagging a greeting. Leaning her face against the door, Floria prayed. Give me strength for this Healin’, dear gods, and please, let it not be another wee one.

For thirty-two years, Floria had lived in the village of Kraede in the southeastern region of the kingdom of Aedon-Fjior. She had traveled once to the nearby city of Tiede to attend a Spring Festival, but she had spent the entire trip worrying about the people of her village. Would they need a healer while she was gone? An older, now retired healer of great age lived among the villagers. Floria had asked him to look after her patients, but what if some severe injury were to occur during her absence? How would she live afterward, knowing that someone had died because she had needed a holiday? She had left the Festival early and returned to Kraede. No one had become injured or sick while she was away, but Floria had never again left her people without their healer.

Being a healer in the village of Kraede was not a doorway which would lead her to great riches. Most of the villagers of Kraede could not even afford to pay her for her services. She dealt mostly in the form of barter. When her healing hands were able to help, the grateful villagers kept her supplied with firewood, candles, warm woolen blankets and fruits and vegetables from their own gardens. Occasionally a precious cow, chicken or sheep was offered by a grateful family. It was an arrangement which suited them all.

The art of healing was considered a gift of the gods. No one defined it as magic, such as the zais of the country were capable of. The gods decided who would be gifted in the art of healing others, and Floria went to the temple once a week to offer her thanks for her special skills.

Healing was refined in the ancient Tower of Caldrach. Floria had spent five years at the Tower, diligently studying the ancient volumes of medical anatomy and perfecting her gift of healing. Floria had quickly gone to the head of her class and was known throughout the kingdom as a talented, skillful and gentle healer.

After her service in the Tower, Floria spent three years in the Regional Care Center, under the guidance of the Supreme Healer, Abyrinth. Abyrinth had recognized her power immediately. Often, they had worked side by side throughout his most difficult healings. Had Abyrinth asked, Floria would have remained with the Regional Care Center. Alas, the words were never spoken. Floria had accepted a position in the south and never returned to Abyrinth’s region.

The visitor rapped upon the door with a booted foot. She felt the vibrations through her cheek. Rone gave a curt bark which might have sounded fierce in his younger days. Taking a deep breath, Floria opened her door. Her quick response startled the already over-anxious visitor. He had thought he might have to rouse her from sleep. Rone sniffed at the boots of the visitor, his tail offering welcome. Floria recognized villager Olnus Rigfer. He carried a heavy burden wrapped in a dark blanket.

Dame Floria, he greeted her breathlessly. We be needin’ yer help.

Come right in, she said.

She led the visitor with his cumbersome bundle to a pallet in the corner of the room, near the fireplace.

Put ‘er down here, she directed. Gently now, gently. Floria knew it would be a girl, for Olnus Rigfer and his wife, Elline had only daughters.

The villager placed his bundle upon the cot and stepped back with a weary sigh, as if he had come a long distance and not simply from his wagon. Floria understood that it was not fatigue but worry which showed itself in his sigh.

I don’t know how this happened, the villager explained. After the evenin’ meal, she played and chatted with her sisters, then sat down in me wife’s rocker with her sketchbook and drew pictures the way she does.

He paused for breath. Floria encouraged him with a nod as she began a superficial examination of the child. It was the eldest daughter, Triona, a long-standing patient. The child had suffered fierce headaches since she was a wee one.

I was busy with chores in the stable, Olnus went on. When I returned, Elline said Triona had gone to bed early, complainin’ she was tired.

One of her headaches? Floria asked. She guessed at the girl’s condition.

She never mentioned a headache this time, Olnus said. Jaune was listless this evenin’, as well. Not carin’ to play with her sisters. I carried Jaune up to bed then and laid her down next to Triona. I was worried about Triona. I tried to wake her then, wantin’ to ask her what was wrong. Eln’s sake, I couldn’t wake her, though I shook her roughly! I picked her up, wrapped in her blanket like she is and brought her here. Dame Floria, what is it! What be wrong with me girl? Why will she not waken? I fear it be the fever!

Nay, Olnus, Dame Floria reassured him. She placed a healing hand on the brow of the sleeping child. This be not the fever.

Olnus took another deep breath, sighing with relief. Can ye help her then? he asked.

Floria looked upon the face of her patient. A girl of fifteen years, Triona had long brown hair she usually wore in plaits down her back. It had been unloosed for the night’s sleep. She appeared to be merely sleeping, yet Floria knew the girl was unconscious. In the dimly lit room, with the lamplight playing upon her face, creating long shadows of her upper eyelashes, the youngling looked peaceful and content, belying the fear which filled the healer’s heart. A strange and devastating illness had lately come upon the village children. One which Floria had been helpless against, in every case. A hand on the brow of the unconscious child told her there was no fever. A small part of her relaxed. Triona was often debilitated by her devastating headaches, yet she had never been rendered unconscious. The healer examined any exposed skin for a red rash she had been finding on her patients this week. Triona’s skin was of a smooth, normal color and texture, though the girl felt clammy. Floria felt for the girl’s pulse.

’Tis perhaps only one of her common painful headaches, she said hopefully. The children of the village have been coming down with the Unpeopling, I believe, but it never starts like this.

Olnus sucked in a breath. Unpeopling? I heard such a rumor, but surely not. I thought such diseases of childhood were conquered long ago, in our forefather’s time.

Aye, so we assumed. I’ve never seen the likes of it meself, until the first case a fortnight ago. Why ‘tis recurring now is a mystery to me. I doubt that even Old Abyrinth would have an explanation.

For the first time since unwrapping the child, Floria turned her attention to the man who had brought her and saw the pain and anguish in his eyes. She stood, laying a hand upon his arm.

Olnus, be not afraid, I see no signs of the Unpeoplin’ in Triona. Let us not forget her tendency to extreme headaches.

Aye, the man responded with a nod, but if so, ‘tis the worst of ‘em yet. She’s never before been unconscious.

Let me see what I can find, Floria said encouragingly, hoping to ease his mind.

Floria again lowered herself to the straw pallet, sitting beside the girl. She placed the fingertips of each hand upon the girl’s temples. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on finding the source of the girl’s unconsciousness. Olnus remained very quiet. He had grown up with the importance of not disturbing a healer at work.

In her mind, Floria entered a place of darkness. She could see nothing about her, nor did she hear any sound. The place was like a void, silent and black, yet Floria felt not alone. Someone was within the darkness beside her. She prayed it was the girl. Come with me, she said aloud. I will return ye to yer father. She waited in silence. A buzzing began in the healer’s head. There was no response.

Floria assessed her feelings. There was pain, but the girl’s heartbeat was strong, perhaps a bit fast. She breathed normally. There was no fever, no infection, and no injury. Only this unrelenting darkness, as in the depths of a cave where no daylight penetrated. She felt movement, then a small frisson of fear, yet nothing assaulted her. The pain once again increased and she withdrew. She pulled away slowly, releasing her connection to the girl. When Floria opened her eyes, Olnus looked at her hopefully. She shook her head and attempted to stand. Olnus reached out a hand to help the healer.

What did ye find? he asked.

Floria gently placed one of her healing hands on the man’s arm and led him to the door. Her healer’s touch would serve as a small soothing for the overwrought parent.

Olnus, I believe she is merely sleeping, dreaming perhaps. But she is hiding from something she fears. And she is in great pain. Leave her in my care tonight, she instructed. "I can find no fever, no injury, no infection, but ye know how intense her headaches can be. Extreme pain can be a burden we don’t understand. Perhaps she was unable to withstand it this time and has retreated to unconsciousness as a means of defense. She will wake when the pain releases her and I shall examine her again. I will send word to ye and Elline as soon as I know anything more.

Perhaps I should stay …

Olnus Rigfer, she consoled, concern yerself no further with the health of yer wee one. She will be safe in my care. Return to yer wife and other daughters. Remember, there is a sickness about. Be alert for any signs of fever or listlessness in yer other family members. If any one of ‘em should demonstrate unusual behavior, even in the mildest way, bring ‘em to me at once. And as soon as ye get home, check again on Jaune.

I’ll do that, Dame Floria. Elline and I thank ye for yer quick and generous support in our time of need. We will be tryin’ to repay ye in some way, though we be not rich.

Be not concerned about that just now. Ye’ve other things on your mind.

They had reached the door. Floria gave the man a last reassuring smile and sent him on his way. She watched until his wagon disappeared down the path and then softly closed the door. She felt very tired. Her left hip ached where once she had suffered an injury in a fall from a riding beast. She wondered why she had never sought a healer to deal with it. Wincing from the pain, she shuffled once again to the pallet to gaze upon the sleeping girl. Her lips were dried and peeling from dehydration. Dark circles shadowed the eyes. The child was unresponsive to sound or touch. Floria felt a slight tinge of fear for the child. Had she missed something? Was there something more she could do?

’Tis sorry I be, child, for such a pain she whispered. I’ve never been able to heal yer headaches, so it seems. Yet, with luck, ‘tis a mere headache that bothers ye. Sleep well, child.

Am I losin’ me powers, she thought? Children in me village are dyin’.

Floria breathed a sigh and shuffled across the room. She had done all she could for the moment. She did not have the strength to try again. It would be hours before she could engage in another major healing. She needed sleep to regain her strength.

Reaching the one window of her front room, she pulled back lace curtains to peer into the night. Gazing toward the heavens, she whispered her prayers for the children she had recently lost and might yet lose to a fever she could not seem to conquer. Tears fell when she considered that her days as the village healer might soon end. Floria had never considered that her powers might wane. She had always expected to continue healing until she herself was called to the Otherworld.

Turning from the window, she wiped her tears with both hands, moved to stand over the sleeping child. She wondered if all healers experienced a similar weakening of their powers as they aged. If so, why had she not been warned? If not, why had the gods chosen this time of desperate need to deprive her villagers of the powers of their healer? Shaking her head and muttering to herself, she at last gave in to her fatigue. Tucking the blanket under the chin of her sleeping patient, Floria left a soft whisper of a kiss upon the child’s forehead.

Rone, she whispered. Come. Lie down here and keep this child warm. The dog rose, He circled twice, then settled in close to the girl on the pallet. Hooding the lamp once again, Floria headed to her sleeping chamber.

The sleeping chamber was no more than an alcove set into a side wall of the cottage. The alcove was enclosed with heavy draperies to keep out the cold, but it was also elevated. This made it difficult for the Healer to climb into bed, so she kept a small footstool beside the alcove for this purpose. After removing her shoes and stockings but keeping the rest of her clothing on for warmth, she wearily mounted the footstool and rolled into her bed. She pulled the woolen coverlet up under her chin and was soon fast asleep. The young girl and the dog slept undisturbed by her snoring.

Chapter 2

Little moanings and groanings awoke her. At first, the healer was not sure where the strange sounds were coming from. Disoriented, Floria rolled over in her bed, sat up and listened intently, hoping to identify the sounds. What she heard did not make much sense to her still numb mind until Floria remembered the previous night and all that had taken place. It was the child! The young one was stirring and trying to tell her something!

Quickly, she threw back her coverings, dangling her stout legs over the bed, feeling for the footstool with her bare toes. Judging by the dim light, it was still early morning. The cottage felt chilled. Floria had no idea how long she’d slept, but she had slept soundly without the dreams which so often plagued her after an unsuccessful healing. Her bare feet found the footstool. She stepped carefully down from the alcove without bothering to put on her shoes and heavy woolen stockings. She felt the familiar pain in her hip as she hurried over to the child on the cot. Rone rolled over and sat up, curious about the early rising.

In the pre-dawn darkness Floria stooped low to peer at the child. There was no movement, no sound but the panting of the dog. Floria placed an ear near to the child’s mouth. She listened carefully, but the young one was silent now.

Straightening up stiffly, Floria placed a hand upon her back and looked down at the sleeping girl. Had she imagined the sounds, then? Perhaps not, for though the girl appeared to be as silent and unmoving as before, she had changed her position sometime during the night. The blanket her father had wrapped her in had been cast aside and the girl lay uncovered except for Rone.

Floria had a quickening of hope. Sleepin’ peacefully, then ‘Tis good.

Rone stood then and shook himself, jumping off the cot. He stared up at his mistress expectantly. He nudged one of the healing hands with his wet nose, hoping for a pat on the head.

’Twill be fine now, Rone, whispered the woman. Me healin’ powers may have been useless, but she’s comin’ round on her own.

She gave the dog a scratch behind the ears. It was still early, not time to wake the girl. Perhaps me healin’ days are behind us, old friend, she whispered.

Rone, sensing the healer’s distress, gave off a low whine.

Absentmindedly rubbing her big dog’s head, Floria kept her attention on the sleeping girl. For a long time, she watched the still, unmoving form. This cannot be the Unpeopling, she thought. ‘Tis simply one of her horrible headaches. This one for some reason, worse than any other. It must be!

Triona Rifger had suffered from headaches since she was very young. Floria treated the pain of the severe headaches but had never been able to determine the source. Now, as the girl grew into a young woman, the headaches were becoming more frequent, as well as more severe, apparently. It had obviously been the pain of this latest headache which sent the girl into unconsciousness. Why? If they continued, would they worsen still? Could the girl live with such intense pain for the rest of her life?

Floria desperately wished she could help this child, but she was at a loss. When she wakes, I will give her the usual draft for the pain that is likely to linger. ‘Tis all I can do. Thank the gods ‘tis not the Unpeoplin’, as I feared.

Shivering, Floria began preparations to renew the fire in her hearth. Using still warm coals on the hearth, she brought a roaring fire to life. As she worked, her restless mind thought about the sick and dying children of the village. She knew of the Unpeopling which had once ravaged youngsters of her race in past generations. In her history lessons at the Tower she had learned of this dread disease which spread rapidly and fiercely snuffed out so many young lives. Because the disease had been eradicated (or so the healers thought) at the time of her education, Floria had treated it simply as past history. Now she wished desperately that she could recall more about the affliction.

It was one of those rare mornings when her back did not give her pain upon arising. She rubbed her hands together to warm them before the fire. Although it was earlier than her customary time to begin her day, Floria decided against going back to bed. She crossed by the light of the fire to her cookstove at the back of the cottage. Rone, however, would have none of this early rising. Preferring the company of those who still slept, he curled himself into a ball at the foot the sick child’s sleeping pallet.

Floria scuffled to the pantry to find her teapot. She added peat to the cook stove to heat water. As she mixed the herbs for her tea, she considered the cases of fever she had seen this week. The Aldrach girl had died before Floria could be summoned for help. She had been thirteen years old. Little Marya Quato was only twelve. Alyssa Powd was seventeen and about to be married. Lors Quist had died only two hours ahead of his brother, Len. All of them had failed to respond to her healing powers. All had suffered a raging fever, a bright red rash on the torso and a swiftness of unconsciousness which terrified her. In her search for the source, she had found all the major organs damaged beyond repair, yet the cause was yet to be revealed to her.

Floria thought about her former mentor and now Supreme Healer Abyrinth. The white-haired, bearded gentleman was getting on in years and some named him addle-brained and past his healing prime. Floria thought him merely absent-minded. Abyrinth, as Supreme Healer, should certainly be informed of the new fever stalking the children of Kraede. The news would downgrade her status as a healer, but she had no choice. She would send him a communication this very day. The Tower would send help that might save lives. She was to attend another funeral this morning and she wanted it to be the last.

She put tea leaves and the boiling water in her teapot and began preparations for a small meal. She had day old bread and raspberry jam, but there was no meat this week. She removed a tome of medical history from her bookshelf. She would study it as she ate her breakfast.

To refresh her memory, she turned to the pages devoted to childhood diseases. The Unpeopling had a long and unpleasant history in the kingdom of Aedon-Fjior and the surrounding areas. Appearing in every surrounding nation for centuries, the plague quickly wiped out great numbers of children between the ages of birth and late adolescence. The disease often skipped a generation or two, only to reappear in the next. Adults were never stricken with the illness. Medics and surgeons of all ages had been mystified by it. Healers with powerful hands had been helpless against it. Unconfirmed stories of the Unpeopling as a chaos spirit controlled by a powerful zai of each generation had accounted for rumors and false fears by the people of the kingdom.

When the Unpeopling skipped seven generations without rearing its ugly head, the medics, healers and historians had declared it eradicated. Was the current episode actually a reappearance of the Unpeopling or merely a pretender? A new strain of childhood disease, perhaps, with similar symptoms? She checked the list of symptoms. Eln’s sake, they seemed to match! Floria was hesitant to name it in her communication to the Supreme Healer. To do so might cause widespread panic among the people. And she wasn’t certain that she was actually dealing with an Unpeopling. Her message would have to be carefully worded.

She sighed. Rubbing her cold hands over the warm stove, she realized her bare feet were cold. Returning to her alcove, she found her discarded stockings. She had to sit upon the footstool to pull them on. The teapot began to whistle. She hurried back to the stove, not wanting yet to disturb the sleeping child. Using her skirt as protection, she lifted the pot from the stove. She dropped her mixture of herbs into a mug and filled it with hot water. Wrapping both hands around the steaming mug, she carried it carefully to the small oak table where she took her meals. Her fingers lingered a moment upon the warm mug, taking in the warmth.

Rone the Lazy had not yet attended to his morning business. Floria whistled softly. The dog opened an eye.

Ho, there, ye big ball o’fur, ‘tis time to rise, she said with a clap of her hands.

The dog rose and stretched. Shaking himself, he followed his mistress to the back door which led to a garden courtyard.

Chapter 3

He pulled out a map of parchment which he had stored under the bench of the wagon. For several minutes, he attempted to follow the tiny lines as the wagon bumped and jostled upon the road. His eyes were not what they used to be and he soon became frustrated. Angrily, he jerked upon the reins and called the pulling-beast to a halt. He was headed for the village of Tiede, where he had not yet dispensed his small, flavored treats. He cringed at the thought of the noisy children crowding around him and begging for sweets.

Once, I loved the crowds, he remembered. With a long, bony forefinger keeping his place upon the map, his mind wandered into the past. They were so easy to lead. A little display of power and they were all mine. He remembered the deafening roar of the large crowds which greeted him in the Palace. It had all been illusion, really. I simply gave them what they wanted to see. She would have been lovely by my side. Together, our powers would have produced more than mere illusion!

He had presented himself to her as a suitable mate. Most of the zai in the kingdom preferred to mate with their own kind. Using their powerful magics to enhance their own fertility, he knew they would have produced a talented and powerful heir. Fendi had felt the match to be god-sent. But she had seen it otherwise. Rejecting his advances, as well as his magic, she scoffed at his suggestion of a union. To Zai-Fendi, it had seemed calculatedly cruel. He became obsessed with his defeat in winning her. It had been the first time he had ever met with real opposition and it only increased his desire for her.

He found the past an unpleasant place and withdrew. Focusing again upon the map, he calculated the hours left in his journey before reaching an establishment where he could obtain reasonable sustenance. When he discovered it would not be before the morrow, he made camp.

Descending from the wagon, he led the pulling-beast off the road and into a clearing surrounded by tall cottonwood trees. The beast, being a grazer, would see to its own supper. The zai, facing reality rather than illusion, dug into his meager rations. He came up with a few crumbs of stale bread and some cheese.

I miss my palace. My servants, my books and my experiments. But this trip is necessary. A little more time in the next village, then. Perhaps a display of illusion with coins tossed by the crowd in appreciation. ‘Tis always profitable. Then, the sweets for the children, after I have replenished my own feedbag.

At the thought of the children and the despoiled sweets they would greedily grab from him, he smiled inwardly. Everything was working so well. It had taken him years of study and trial and error to disperse the ward she had set about the strange looking vial. But with the notes in her journals as well as his own powerful magics, he had at last succeeded in removing the ward. When he had discovered its contents and the power it contained, he knew that the kingdom of Aedon-Fjior was his for the taking.

Minolga is a fool, he thought. I am better off without him and his soldiers. When I am finished, the kingdom and its riches will be mine alone.

Chapter 4

Floria was ready to begin her day’s work. Soon, she would have to awaken Triona. When Minta, her housekeeper arrived, she would have several house calls to make as well as hiring a courier to carry her unfortunate message of death to the Supreme Healer. There was also the sad funeral to attend.

She whistled Rone in from the courtyard and gave the big tawny dog a bowl of scraps from last night’s dinner. He sniffed at it lazily. Apparently not interested, he gave the bowl a push with his nose. A second push sent the bowl clattering across the wooden floor, spewing its contents.

Floria clapped her hands noisily, startling the dog. Hey, now! Stop that, ye hear! What is it then? Not good enough for ye, I suppose, she muttered as she stooped to clean up the mess. Her back complained at the action. Rone tucked his tail and trotted out of her way.

Worse than a child, that one be. She continued to complain under her breath as she took a dampened rag to the floor. Occasionally, she yelled out a phrase or two just to let the dog know he was not yet forgiven. Rone had retreated to the pallet where Triona lay sleeping. He lay down near her and curled into a ball, completely ignoring the threats of his mistress.

Floria disliked having to bend over. Her age and her bad hip made the task almost impossible. Still, she did not want to leave the mess until Minta arrived. She soon became breathless with her effort at scrubbing the floor. However, this did not keep her from continuing to rant at the inattentive dog.

I’ll not be cleanin’ up after ye time and again, she yelled toward the curled-up animal.

Rone answered her with a soft whuff. When she glowered in the direction of the dog, the healer gasped at what she saw.

Triona was awake and wide-eyed, staring at the shouting healer with astonishment in her eyes. She stood then, not taking her eyes off the child.

Oh, Triona, she said gently. What a fright we two must have given ye. Fear not, she said as she slowly advanced upon the frightened girl. Your father brought ye in, just last night it was. Ye’ve been ill.

Triona blinked and took a look at her surroundings. She still had not spoken. Floria brought her a mug of cool water and instructed her to sip it slowly. The girl sat up, which gave Floria a sense of relief.

Thank ye, Dame Floria, Triona said. The disorientation she had felt upon awakening to an old woman who shouted from the floor was instantly dispersed. She felt only relief for the presence of her healer and the cool water she offered. Rone stood panting heavily beside the cot, seeking attention from her.

Mind yer manners, then dog, Floria scolded him. She was happy to see that the child did not seem bothered by the big dog. The girl reached out and began to stroke the fur of the animal. Floria smiled inwardly. She knew that children often responded to animals even better than they did to adults. Rone would be good for the recovering child. He was gentle in nature and loved all visitors to the cottage.

Floria took the empty mug from her patient. She was slightly concerned by the flush on the girl’s face. Was it the merely the flush of sleep or a fever?

That be all for just now, child. Lie back please, I want to have a look at ye.

Triona did as she was told. She had known her healer all her life and trusted her implicitly. Her head hurt, but she couldn’t remember why.

Dame Floria placed her hand upon the brow of the patient. Triona, ye’ve been unconscious for quite a while and the danger may not yet be passed. Tell me how ye be feelin’, lass.

Me head hurts, she told the healer in a raspy voice. And I be so warm.

There be no fever, Floria said, wanting to reassure the girl in case she had heard of the new fever sweeping the village. Ye be close to the fire and Rone was told to keep ye warm. Is the pain very bad, then?

Aye, she responded, not wanting to move her head again.

We shall remove it then, the healer said. And then I’ve some of yer potion ready to keep it from returning. As always, she went on, ye must remain very still while I work. A healer takes on the ills of the patient, drawing it into me own body, so to speak. Ye know can perhaps be frightenin’ to watch. I may look very strange. Even fall away, sometimes. But ye must not move to help me, nor interrupt the process in any way. Understand?"

Aye. It was what the healer always said.

That’s a good lass, then, Floria said, laying her healing hands upon the girl’s temples. Why not close yer eyes and relax a bit.

Triona again did as she was told but spoke as she did. Can ye not just give me a draught for the pain? she asked.

Aye, and I’ll be seein’ to that shortly, Floria told her, but I wish to see if I can discover the source of this pain which has been fiercer than ever ye’ve had before. Tell me how it came over ye, child.

Triona kept her eyes closed as she relaxed. She always felt a sense of deep peace and satisfaction when the healer touched her. She began to relate the events of the previous evening. She was unaware that after a few mumbled words, she did not speak her thoughts aloud. The healer had entered her mind and was reliving the event as Triona remembered it.

Evening. Firelight and warmth. Contentment. Triona’s remembrances came to the healer as brief images and emotions. Floria observed the hand of her patient as though it were her own, moving across a parchment on the child’s lap, charcoal lines quickly and skillfully forming a sketch of a group of people meeting outdoors. Most of the figures were mere suggestions of the human form, background to the central figure, which appeared to be a man, commonly dressed, raising an arm to the crowd as he spoke from beneath a tall oak. An orator of some sort or minister of the temple? The face had no features as yet.

None of the faces had recognizable features, yet Floria knew that Triona was a skilled artist. She had been drawing since her pudgy toddler fingers first picked up a piece of cool ash from her father’s hearth. Why was she not now filling in the faces of her figures?

Soft, childish voices in the background. A humming sound from a woman’s voice. Floria closed her ears to the remembered sounds of Triona’s family, concentrating instead on what the young artist was feeling at the time. Frustration. A bit of anger with herself that she could not get her drawing right. She watched as the young girl’s hand took a piece of cloth and rubbed away the beginnings of the central speaker’s face, only to begin again. A beard. Dark eyes, tented by hairy eyebrows, but no, not right. More frustration. The beginning of a light-headedness. Then, suddenly, fear and nausea! The girl’s stomach roiled. She felt certain she would be sick. Yet she struggled on, wiping away the central face and beginning once again.

The pain, when it began, was light; a mere warning. Stop! Stop this now! No, I must continue. Pain grew, insistent. Stop! Stop drawing. The pressure on the girl’s fingertips holding the charcoal increased. Sweat broke out upon her brow and trickled down a temple. The nausea rose as the pain increased. The girl struggled to complete her drawing, bearing down hard on the charcoal stick, breaking it in two. Then, the pain was too much. Darkness. Retreat. Don’t come out. The pain was unbearable. Don’t come out. Stay where you are! No, run! Hide! Hide in your bed! Quickly!

Floria withdrew her hands in shock. What she had seen confused her. A healthy young girl, engaged in a pleasurable activity, suddenly overcome by intense pain. True, the child had felt great frustration at what she perceived as her own limited ability, but that should not normally bring on such pain. What was going on here?

The village of Tiede was sufficient to supply all his needs. In the busy marketplace he managed to find an unclaimed corner. He performed a few simple magic tricks and feats of illusion to the delight of passersby who dropped coins into a pewter cup placed near his feet. He would perform only long enough to gain a few coins. He did not wish to call attention to himself. Although Tiede was more than twenty leagues from his home, he did not want to run the risk of being recognized.

Once, my name was on the lips of every man, he mused during an idle moment. He had gained the confidence of both the Noble King Ellsworth and his favorite general, Minolga. It had been a dual role in which he had been forced to profess loyalty to each, but then, he’d always been successful at deception. She was my only mistake.

Hey, Mister! Someone said there was a magician at this corner. I don’t see nothin’ but a bony old man!

He heard laughter which brought him back to the present. A well-dressed lad of about fourteen, accompanied by two armed guards stood before him, arms folded across his chest.

Well, let’s see what ye can do, then, the boy taunted. Give us a show, old man,

A nobleman’s son, then and spoiled rotten for sure. The old man gave him one of his warmest smiles, which came off looking more like a sneer.

Aye, indeed, lad. ‘Tis magic in this place, for those who have a coin or two.

The boy made a quick gesture and one of the guards flung a gold coin into the pewter cup. A small crowd had gathered about the boy and his guards. Fendi smiled at them all. He waited patiently as a few more enticed him with an offering.

Get on with it, then, old man, the insolent boy shouted.

Fendi reached out swiftly and grabbed the boy’s fancy plumed hat. The boy made a swift protest which was cut short when Fendi began to chant and pass the hat about in the air. The crowd became silent in anticipation. Fendi concentrated. These spells were becoming harder as he became older. He hated wasting his energy to be part of this haughty boy’s personal circus, like a trained monkey. He closed his eyes, still chanting loudly for the crowd.

With a poof! that startled the crowd, the plume on the boy’s hat burst into flame. Fendi held it high above his head and circled to the applause of the astonished crowd.

Hey! That was my best hat! the boy cried out in alarm. He was not at all impressed with Fendi’s magic, since it was his hat being destroyed.

Guards, take back my coin and a few others as well to pay for such a fine hat!

Before the guards could react, Fendi caused the flame to disappear as quickly as it had appeared. It was simply an illusion, after all. The plume had never burned and Fendi was able to return the lad’s hat in the same condition in which he had swiped it away. This brought on another cheer from the crowd and a look of astonishment from the boy as he examined his hat. Several more coins fell into the pewter cup. The now speechless boy reached out carefully for his hat, as though it might again burst into flame.

For your distress, lad, the crafty zai said, ‘have a sweet, then. I make them myself."

Fendi offered a handful of his tainted sweets toward the offensive child, still smiling. The boy hesitated, then grabbed the entire handful. With a nod to his guards, he sauntered off, stuffing the treats into his mouth.

Fendi glanced at his pewter cup. It was near full and would suit his purposes. Although the crowd begged for more demonstrations of his magic, he packed up his belongings and left the square.

Chapter 5

It had been an irritating day so far for Abyrinth. He had spent the morning seeking peace and solitude in the Garden of Hedges outside his tower. The garden was perfectly landscaped and carefully tended by a team of workers selected by the Supreme Healer himself. Its coolness and symmetry usually brought him great pleasure, as well as serving to calm the anxieties of running a large medical complex. His ever-present personal valet, Andre was seated within sight of the healer, yet far enough removed to allow a respectful sense of personal space he knew the old man needed. Just behind Andre, a tall, statuesque young woman with a sword at her side stood with a straight back, her eyes constantly searching. Her name was Daneal. She had been warder to the healer for less than a year, having replaced the Supreme Healer’s long-standing Warder of twenty-five years upon that man’s retirement to a quiet coastal village. She took her job of guarding the Supreme Healer very seriously but found it extremely boring. Old Abyrinth seldom left his chambers these days and never appeared to be in any danger. She suspected she’d been placed in this assignment because she was a woman and it rankled her that she never saw any action. She felt she could fight as well as any man and itched for the chance to prove it. Instead, she was stuck following an old man through his gardens.

Today, however, Abyrinth did not find peace in his lovely gardens. Eln’s sake, the messengers! They appeared constantly, it seemed, to rattle his nerves. Every message had been the same, making it appear that he had been repeatedly visited by the same fellow throughout the morning. The messengers, after all, did not appear much different from one another to him. Each was dressed in a tunic of forest green. Each wore a cloak of gray wool held fast by a brooch of winged feet. Abyrinth could not even distinguish a difference in the mud of the calf-length riding boots and they all arrived bearing a parchment tucked under one arm.

Each parchment bore the same message: trouble was at hand in the entire country of Aedon-Fjior. Its children were dying. Swiftly and meaninglessly. Throughout the region, all expected him to provide an answer for them. In truth, he could do little to help them. His own health was not good. His aging body was moving beyond the simple repairs his healers could affect. His mind would no longer concentrate with great focus on even the simplest of tasks. He was forgetful, he knew, though Andre did his best to cover it up for him in front of others. Worst of all, his powers to heal were fading. When he laid his hands upon a sick or injured one nowadays, it took far too long to contact the source of disease or injury. He had to concentrate for longer periods of time and the healing sessions left him feeling dizzy, disoriented and more than exhausted. Most infuriating, however, were the number of recent cases in which he had lost his patient. Abyrinth was afraid. A Supreme Healer was not expected to fail

The messengers of the past few weeks all carried the same terrifying word for a fever now sweeping the land; the Unpeopling. The old man felt a shiver run through his body at the thought of the word. Seeing this, Andre half rose to attend to the healer, but Abyrinth motioned him away.

The Unpeopling. If not checked, the illness would wipe out the present generation of youth in the country. Only the parents and grandparents would remain to mourn the loss of their children. He must save the children, as the country expected him to. How would he do this, old and feeble as he was and without the Mantle of Healing?

For seven months, Abyrinth had been unable to locate the Mantle of Healing. He had shared this fact with no one. He did not even ask his faithful servant Andre if he knew the location of the Mantle. Feeling the hardness of the cold stone bench beneath him, his aging hips began to complain. He tried to recall the last time he had seen the Mantle. It had been a miserable Feast’s Night Eve with sheeting rain driving into his face and soaking his bony frame when had returned from attending the birth of a Noble Daughter.

The child, Alwynna, had been birthed without much difficulty. Abyrinth had seen to both the child and the mother without calling upon the powers of the Mantle he had worn, just in case. With his body growing older, his powers seemingly lessening, he had taken to wearing the Mantle to every healing. Walking home in the storm that night, with Daneal behind him, the Mantle had served merely as protection from the weather.

He recalled feeling grumpy when he returned to the tower. Called out on a stormy night to birth a daughter was the work of a mid-wife. One did not need a Supreme Healer for such an event. Yet the grandfather of the new babe was a staunch supporter of the Tower of Caldrach. He had endless funds in a family fortune and the Tower was his favorite charity. Abyrinth could not refuse to attend his granddaughter.

He recalled carelessly throwing the Mantle of Healing on a hook near the hearth in the small antechamber just off his sleeping room. Exhausted from the birthing as well as the journey in the rain, he had not taken his usual care to return the Mantle to its proper and secure place. He had been too weary. He had fallen into bed and slept soundlessly without dreams.

The Supreme Healer tried now to remember the following day. Had the Mantle been where he’d left it? He didn’t know. It had been a day without any unusual requests for healing. He had been able to handle the small cases which did show up with his own supernatural powers. In fact, several weeks had passed, he recalled, before he felt the need of the additional powers of the Mantle.

Seated on the bench, his slump became even more pronounced as he recalled the event which had led him to search for the Mantle. A minor skirmish had occurred on the western border of the region and one of General Minolga’s favorite soldiers had been wounded in battle. The wound was of great proportions and he was sent for immediately. Abyrinth had known with the first laying of his hands upon the wounds of the beloved knight that he would be unable to heal his patient. Not without the Mantle of Healing, which he had been unable to locate that morning.

Staring at his booted feet, the sadness engulfed him once again as he relived the death of the brave soldier. He had immediately penned a note of sympathy to the soldier’s family apologizing for his inability to heal the wounded man. He sighed audibly and Andre glanced his way. Daneal stood still as a statue, only her brown eyes moving. Abyrinth knew she was unhappy with her assignment. She was a beautiful woman and if only he were younger …

The Mantle of Healing had been passed to him some forty years ago, upon his selection as Supreme Healer, awarded in a special ceremony known as The First Wearing. He knew he should be passing the Mantle on himself. It was time. The country, especially now, at this time of great need, should have a more capable Supreme Healer. He knew this, but he had not yet acted to name his successor. Because Eln’s sake, the Mantle was unavailable for passing on. He had never found it.

He had thoroughly searched every inch of his chambers. He had then extended his search to the rest of his suite, then on to the entire Tower, searching every room he ever set foot in, in case his memory of where he had left it was incorrect. The Mantle was nowhere. And he had yet to inform anyone that it was missing.

He knew this was astounding news he would soon have to present to the Council, to the Tower healers, to the world at large. How could they forgive him? How could he forgive himself? Why couldn’t he remember? Where was the blasted thing?

Another audible sigh escaped his lungs. Andre approached.

Sir, the servant said gently. Perhaps ‘tis time to return inside. The garden grows chill.

In a few moments, he replied.

The servant stepped a respectful distance away. Daneal had not moved. She watched a white butterfly flit about the head and shoulders of the Healer. She imagined the butterfly as an enemy who had succeeded in getting too close to the Healer, saw herself drawing her sword swiftly and slicing the butterfly in half. Eln’s sake, she was bored to death with this job! The Healer did not look well at all. He had lost weight. He shuffled instead of walking. His breathing was ragged, even at rest. The one thing she could not save him from was the ravages of time.

Abyrinth pulled his thoughts out of the past. There was a present crisis to be solved. Children were dying. He could not ignore this because he had forgotten where he put something. He watched as a nearby gardener trimmed a tall hedge from atop a wooden ladder. He felt as stumped by the current illness as his healers indicated they felt. but he held one piece of knowledge that his underlings did not know. He never expected, in his lifetime, to have to deal with such a sinister force, daring to single out little children. He needed his Mantle now, more than ever.

Unable to form an immediate plan for conquering the malignancy of the killer disease, he settled upon easier choices. He would make another search for the Mantle this very day. He would admit to its loss and use every soldier in the castle for the search. He would not allow himself to consider the possibility that they might never find it.

A breeze lifted his long white beard and sent a leaf scurrying across his booted toe. Winter was on its way and would only worsen attempts to rein in the sickness. He needed to act and it needed to be today. The healer rose stiffly and stretched his back. Several parchments fell from his lap and he felt too weary to retrieve them. Quickly, Andre was at his side, bending to pick up the scrolls.

Andre, he said. I will be needin’ my Mantle of Healing.

Aye, sir, the servant responded.

Ye do not understand, old friend. I know not where it is.

Do not fret, Andre told him, thinking it merely a matter of the forgetfulness his master had been displaying, we shall find it.

I hope so, said the healer. I hope so.

He allowed the servant to take his arm. The support was well appreciated. He felt such fatigue. He moved in slow, shambling steps as Andre led him out of the garden. His relief at sharing the problem was immense. Daneal followed the two older men steadfastly.

Chapter 6

Floria busied herself in her small herb garden just off the courtyard of the cottage. She’d given Triona a draught for the residual pain of her headache, then left the child to sleep a bit more. The early morning sun promised a fine day, yet the healer’s heart was heavy. Before sunrise, she had crafted a note to Abyrinth, explaining the health crisis overtaking her patients. The small parchment rested within a pocket of her tunic. She would take it to the innkeeper when she made her daily rounds. From there, the letter would be sent on the next coach headed north.

Too long, she thought. ‘Twill take too long before help can be sent.

Sitting upon the cool ground of the herb garden, she mindlessly pulled weeds, heedless of her skirts. She was getting too old to stoop. The skirts would wash. Rone sat nearby, attentive to the morning sounds and smells. He was an over-sized dog with a huge head. His look was fearsome, but no gentler pet existed. Floria loved her companion, who had been given to her as a puppy, in exchange for her healing. He made the loneliness of her life more bearable.

She looked up from her work as Rone gave a sharp bark. It would be Minta, her housekeeper. Floria rubbed her hands together to loosen some of the soil. Then, stiffly, she got to her feet. She had many instructions for Minta and was anxious to get about the village, checking on her patients. Rone waited for her at the door to the cottage, his heavy tail wagging back and forth. He rushed into the cottage as soon as the door was opened wide enough.

The dog made a beeline for their new visitor. Minta was used to his enthusiastic greetings. Before he could reach her, she commanded, Sit! When the dog obeyed, she patted him on the head. Good lad, she said, finding a bit of dried meat in the pocket of her apron. Rone expected the treat whenever she arrived. He grabbed it with gusto and retreated to a far corner to enjoy its savory taste.

Ye spoil that mutt, Floria said, dumping her gardening tools on a strong wooden table near the back door.

I see ye have a patient, Minta replied, ignoring the reprimand.

Aye, Floria said, glancing to the sleeping girl on her cot. Triona Rigfer. Her father brought her in last night. Another of her headaches.

A shame, Minta said. Young lass like that to be havin’ such headaches.

Floria sighed. She went about giving instructions to Minta. What needed