Craer looked down, and then away into the trees, and sighed. "I'm sorry, Em. I-My tongue, it just rides away with me…"
He fell silent, and so missed the looks of amazement both sorceresses gave him. They'd never thought to hear any sort of apology from Overduke Delnbone, who delighted in saying the most merrily rude or scornful things to the wrong folk at the very worst of moments, and-
Blackgult was turning over moaning, twitching bodies as Hawkril watched over him, a sword held ready to throw. Suddenly there came a fresh crashing through the trees, and the Golden Griffon hastily backed away to where he could stand free of corpses or almost-corpses, and took up a defensive stance.
Another man burst into view, running raggedly. He was barefoot and straggle-bearded, and the homespun of a backcountry Aglirtan farmer, torn and covered with mud and blood, hung from his limbs. He groaned with each breath, his eyes wild-
"Craer!" Hawkril snapped. The procurer plunged from his saddle, raced through the underbrush, and took the running farmer's legs from under him in a deft tackle that spilled both of them through a thornbush, into a welter of wet dead leaves and moss-cloaked, rotten deadfalls.
The man tried to rise and run on, arms flailing, but was too weak and dazed to resist Craer's swift ensnarement of his wrists. The procurer hooked a leg around the man's thigh, rolled him over into a helpless trussed state, and kept him there, panting, as Embra rode carefully over and dismounted.
"Thank you, Craer," she said warmly, clapping a hand to the procurer's arm as she knelt beside them both.
" 'Ware! He's changing!" Tshamarra snapped, pointing. The fallen man's limbs were acquiring scales, here and there-and as the overdukes stared, they thickened and shortened.
"But of course," Blackgult murmured sarcastically. "The Three cease not to smile upon us, hmm?"
"You stand guard," Hawkril told him, "and I'll hold the horses. Tash, watch for anyone approaching, hey?"
"My," Craer said, shifting his grip to keep tight hold of the panting body in his grasp as its shape altered, "this is a new feeling. Very strange."
"Don't get any ideas," the Lady Talasorn told him in a voice at once both soft and iron-hard. 'Just don't."
The procurer gave her a swift, fierce grin. "I hadn't. Truly. But thanks for that one. Hmm."
"Belt up, Lightfingers," Embra snapped, busily casting swift, wary glances at the trees above and all around. Satisfied, she held out the Dwaer and put a firm hand on the brow of the moaning farmer.
The Stone in her hand glowed, silence fell, everything was falling and…
She was plunging into warm red darkness, at once pulsing with life and quivering with fear. It was a darkness that should be brighter, that knew this and was alarmed, and yet could not think, could not hold to thoughts, could not…
Could not…
Shuddering, the Lady of Jewels threw herself over onto her face in the forest loam, breaking the contact.
"Em!" Hawkril cried, bending toward her with force enough to drag seven horses in her direction. "Are you-?"
"F-fine," his lady told him, managing a wry grin as she rose with dirt all over her forehead and an array of leaves in her hair and sticking to her chin. 'Just… whew. It feels… different from what afflicted us. 'Tis a magic that twists the mind-and its unraveling is beyond me, without time and quiet and the right books and such, to cast the spells I'll need. It seemed almost as if the plague itself can sense, and think, there in his mind…"
"A Serpent-priest, watching us through him?" Tash asked sharply.
"No, not that sort of awareness. Just the plague itself, stirring and flowing. Craer, let him go. He means us no harm-and no, he's not running from anything he remembers, he's just seeking 'away' as strongly as he can cling to the thoughts he has left."
"Can he… give the plague to someone else, by biting or touching them, or…?"
Embra sighed. "I think so, Tash, but I don't know. That's why I wanted us in Glarondar. If the Three smile on us more widely than they've ever been known to do before, we just might find some answers in certain books in the baronial library there."
"Might?" the Lady Talasorn echoed with a smile.
"And how is it," Craer said gently, freeing the man and letting him stumble away, "that you know the contents of a library in Glarond? Not meaning any offense; I'm just ruled by curiosity, that's all."
The Lady Silvertree gave them both a thin smile. "The 'might' is because those books may not still be there. All my knowing of Glarondan libraries is that these particular books were once held by a previous Baron of Glarond. Ambelter wanted my fa-that is, Baron Faerod Silvertree-to send agents to steal them, long ago."
"There've been several Barons of Glarond since then," Hawkril rumbled gently.
"So we mustn't get too hopeful," Craer agreed. "All right: what was or is in those books that you're after now?"
"Castings of, and notes on, some spells associated with the Blood Plague that afflicted Aglirta long ago," Embra replied. "Now please find us a hollow, here in the woods, or some other place the horses can't easily get free from."
The procurer rolled his eyes. "But of course, lady fair," he fluted, flawlessly aping the elaborate gestures of a mincing courtier as he strolled forward. "Might I ask why?"
"You might," the Lady Silvertree agreed, and then chuckled. "I… saw enough inside that farmer to know I must use the Dwaer on us all, as soon as possible. The plague still lurks in us, awaiting future weakness to rage again-and ready, even now, to spread to others we have dealings with."
"Ah. Upon reconsideration," Craer announced solemnly, "I've concluded that I won't ask you why, after all."
"Get thee to a hollow!" Tshamarra snarled, pointing into the woods.
The procurer rolled his eyes again and fled. His return was almost immediate. "There's one just beyond yon stump. Go around to the right a bit, to lead the horses down; there're moss-slick boulders everywhere else. If Hawk and Lord Blackgult shift one of the dead trees down like a bar behind us, the horses'll be penned in. Right where their hooves can do us the greatest harm, might I remind you, if we get them scared. That is why you want a horse-pen, hey?"
"It is," the Lady of Jewels agreed rather grimly, and they descended into the hollow.
"Link to me, Tash," Embra said gently, "and see just how I do this."
"So I can do it to you?" Tshamarra asked softly.
Blackgult looked up sharply at something in her voice, and put his hand on the hilt of his dagger.
Embra nodded. "Last, after I purge you. On the ground, all of you men."
Cheek to cheek and hip to hip, the two sorceresses touched the Dwaer to each of their companions in turn. Each man shuddered, stared wide-eyed at nothing, and then convulsed and started to flail and writhe, clawing at the ground in pain. Craer whimpered, but the two larger men growled, loud and long, like angry wolves. The horses snorted and stamped nervously at that, tossing their heads.
"Burning it back," Tshamarra murmured, going reluctantly to her knees and then sinking down into a sitting position.
"Yes," Embra agreed. "No, right down. This'll hurt some."
"No lie?" the last living Talasorn replied sarcastically, giving the nearest horse a doubtful look as she took herself to the ground. Then she bit her lip at the Dwaer-touch, shook, and sobbed, thrashing and arching back and forth. Embra shielded her head from a root, and waited for Tash to recover.
The horses tried to bolt several times, and had taken to milling about the hollow in great haste, neighing frantically and recoiling whenever Embra used the Dwaer to shove them away from a human shuddering on the ground, ere Tshamarra Talasorn drew in a deep, tremulous breath, blinked eyes that were awash with tears, and reached out to clasp Embra's hand.