When Zulron turned back, his eyes fell on Hadrian, who he openly studied. “So, you are the legendary Galenti.” He raised an eyebrow. “Looking at you, I would say Joqdan is mistaken, but I know Joqdan is never mistaken. Still, you don’t look like the Tiger of Mandalin. I’d thought you would be much bigger.” He turned abruptly back to Fan Irlanu. “The leaves, burn them.”
As Fan Irlanu moved to a stone box, Zulron asked them to take seats around the glowing coals of the fire ring.
Hadrian took Royce aside. “Perhaps we should go. I can’t say I like Mr. Witch Doctor’s attitude much. Seems like he’s up to something. The fact that he’s been spending time with Thranic doesn’t help.”
Royce glanced at Fan Irlanu. “No, I want to stay.”
“What’s all this about?”
“The tattoo—Gwen has the same one.”
Reluctantly, Hadrian sat.
Fan Irlanu returned with several large dry leaves. Even withered and brittle, they were a brilliant shade of red. She held them over the coals and muttered something while crushing the leaves and letting them fall onto the embers. Instantly a thick white smoke billowed. It did not rise, but pooled and drifted. Fan Irlanu used her hands to contain the smoke, wafting it, scooping it, swirling it into a cloud before her. Then she bent and breathed in the ashen mist. Repeatedly, she swept the smoke and inhaled deeply.
The last of the leaves burned away and the smoke faded. Fan Irlanu’s eyes closed and she began swaying on her knees, humming softly. After a few minutes, she reached out her hands.
“Touch her,” Zulron instructed Royce.
Royce hesitated briefly. He looked at her the way Hadrian had seen him eye an elaborate lock. The greater the potential treasure behind the door, the more tension showed in Royce’s eyes, and at that moment he looked as if Fan Irlanu might hold the secret to a fortune. He reached out his fingers. At his touch, she took hold of him.
There was a pause, and then Fan Irlanu began to moan and finally shake her head, slowly at first but faster and faster the longer she held on. Her mouth opened and she groaned the way one might in a nightmare, struggling to speak but unable to form words. She jerked, her eyes shifting wildly under closed lids, her voice louder but saying nothing distinguishable.
Joqdan’s face was awash with concern, making Hadrian wonder if something was wrong. Fan Irlanu continued to struggle. Joqdan started to move, but a quick glare from Zulron held him back. At last, the woman screamed and collapsed on the pillows.
“Leave her alone!” Zulron shouted in Tenkin.
Joqdan ignored him, rushing to her side. Fan Irlanu lay on the ground thrashing. She cried out and then became still.
Joqdan clutched her, whispering in her ear. He held her head and placed a hand near her mouth to feel for breath. “You’ve killed her!” he shouted at Zulron. Without another word, he lifted the seer in his arms and ran out into the rain.
“What’s going on? What’s happening?” Hadrian asked.
“Your friend is not human,” the oberdaza declared. Zulron stepped up to face Royce. “Why are you here?”
“We’re part of the crew of the Emerald Storm, on our way to deliver a message to the Palace of the Four Winds,” Hadrian answered for him.
Zulron did not take his eyes off Royce. “For three thousand years the ancient legends have told of the Day of Reckoning, when the shadow from the north will descend to wash over our lands.”
Derning, Grady, Poe, and Bulard entered. “What’s going on?” Derning asked. “We heard a woman scream and saw the big guy carrying her away.”
“There was an accident,” Hadrian explained.
Both Derning and Grady immediately looked at Royce.
“We don’t know what happened to her,” Hadrian continued. “She was doing a kind of spiritual demonstration—reading Royce’s fortune or something—and she collapsed.”
“She collapsed?” Derning said.
“She was breathing tulan leaf smoke. Maybe it was a bad batch.”
Zulron ignored their conversation and continued to glare at Royce. “The Ghazel legend, preserved by oral memory from the time of the first Ghazel-Da-Ra, tells of death and destruction, revenge unleashed, the Old Ones coming again. I have seen the signs myself. I watch the stars and know. To the north, there have been rumblings. Estramnadon is active, and Avempartha has been opened. Now here is an elf in my village, where one has never walked before.”
“An elf?” Derning asked, puzzled.
“That is what killed Fan Irlanu,” Zulron told them. “Or at the very least has driven her insane.”
“What?” Hadrian exclaimed.
“It’s not possible to use the sight on an elf. The lack of a soul offers up only infinity. For her it was like walking off a bottomless cliff. If she lives, she will never be the same.”
“You’re the village healer. Shouldn’t you be trying to help her?”
“He wants her dead.” Royce finally spoke. Then, looking at Zulron, he added, “You knew.”
“What did he know?” Bulard asked, tense but fascinated. Grady and Derning also leaned forward.
“You knew I was elven, didn’t you? But you told her—no, coerced her—to do a reading,” Royce said.
Outside, there were sounds of commotion, running feet and raised voices. Hadrian heard Wesley saying something over the heated shouts of Tenkins.