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that, but he was certain it would take more than his meager talent.
Aaliyah appeared at the top of the stair with a tray of food and a fresh jug
of wine. She set them on the table by the couch within Ronal's reach and went
to Spyder's side. He slipped his arm around her and drew her close. "
Quanali muriel maha elberab canta
," he whispered.
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A sudden chill touched the air, but this time he wasn't the cause.
"It's beginning," he told her as he glanced toward the sky. Slowly the sun
began to weaken and fade. He swept his gaze over the harbor below, then
westward toward the Maze and the Bazaar, then toward the palace.
"Why do I have a feeling you don't mean the eclipse?" Ronal said as he bit
into a roll.
"Witches, wizards, demons even shapechangers." He forced a smile as he tilted
Aaliyah's face toward his and kissed her forehead. "The Nisi covens are
finished for good, but the things I've seen in two weeks' time. The things
I've heard. We're all being drawn to Sanctuary again. It's as if we're being
assembled for something. For what, I don't know."
The sky grew sullen and cool. Birds took to the air and flew in confused
circles. Dogs barked.
Everywhere Spyder looked people stood in the streets, on the docks, or on
their own rooftops. They watched, too, with an uncharacteristic hush.
Slowly, the sky darkened, and the shadows of Sanctuary twisted into strange
shapes as a black disk crawled across the sun. When it was finally in place
all that remained where the sun had been was a flickering blood-red ring.
Spyder was not looking up, however. The placid, almost mirror-smooth surface
of the bay held his attention. It reflected the spectacle in the sky with an
uncanny precision. He wondered if anyone else saw it. He wondered if Aaliyah
noticed.
On the bay was another ring of sea and fire.
Doing the Gods' Work
Jody Lynn Nye
"Thank you, healer," the gray-haired woman whispered as the potion took
effect. Pel Garwood straightened his long back and stood up, taking the empty
cup away from her lips.
"That should ease your back for a good week, until the full moon. You can chew
this then," he held up a twist of green and gold herb strands, "to take away
the pain for a day or two. I need the moon to make a potion that will last you
a whole month. I can't cure what ails you, you know. I can only ease it."
"It's the penalty for living so long," Sharheya said. "I'm too old to expect
miracles. I'm grateful for the relief."
"How much?" asked Carzen the sawyer, Sharheya's son-in-law, eyeing the
apothecary warily. Pel's mass of black-and-silver hair and smooth face
confused people as to his age, but his calm bedside manner gave him the air of
a sage, too dignified to argue with.
Pel held up long fingers to count. "Nine padpols for today, another for the
twist. A bright silver soldat for the month-long cure."
"A soldat! Too much!"
"Pay the man," Sharheya said, her eyes narrowing as if the pain had returned
suddenly. Pel knew there was little love lost between his two visitors, but
the widow Sharheya owned the wood and the lumberyard attached to it that was
the family's fortune. If Carzen wished his wife to be disinherited and all
passing to Sharheya's scholar brother, all Carzen had to do was infuriate
Sharheya at the right moment.
Accidents happened, especially in such a dangerous place as a sawmill. The
woman was always changing her will. Pel had been in and out of it for a year.
He had never cared whether a bequest was forthcoming;
he would have provided care for those who genuinely needed his gift. If he
liked them it would cost them less than it cost Carzen. He didn't like Carzen.
The man had all the conscience of a scorpion.
"What's in it?" Carzen asked, peering at the taller man from under his shaggy
brown eyebrows.
"Willowbark, dark-well water, cider, poppy, feverfew picked at the new moon,
sgandi leaf& "
"Sgandi? You mean stinkweed? I could make your potion, for nothing!" Carzen
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snapped his fingers under the healer's nose. "I could throw those weeds in a
jug and save myself the price, as well as the trouble of coming to you."
Pel just raised his salt-and-pepper eyebrow. "In what proportions would you
mix them? Too much of one thing, not enough of another would be fatal. And do
you know the propitious times to gather each plant? Where to get the most
potent weeds?" It had been so long since he'd been here in his home city that
the local Ilsigi the Wrigglie dialect felt strange and slippery in his mouth.
What was the commonplace insulting term they used to one another? Yes, that
was it. "Pay up, pud, or take your problems home with you. Fair for fair. If
you won't pay, then I have no obligation to you. I don't care."
But he did. He could feel the suffering of the people who came to him, and he
wanted them whole. His hand sought out Sharheya's, and held it tightly. All
their pain resonated in him. It was part of his punishment, and his salvation.
The old woman gave her son-in-law a disgusted look.
"Pay him and let's go home! I don't trust the apprentices to make that
rosewood table for Lord Kuklos without supervision."
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