“I don’t have the fever,” the man said. “My name is Cecil. I was exiled for the crime of—”

“Enough,” Faiban said. “If you are not sick, you will be freed. For now, keep your distance, or your freedom”—the young guard brandished his sword again—“will be short-lived.” He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled for the others.

“He’s mad,” Healer Mabill whispered as Ashyn watched the governor interrogate the survivor. A guard stood at either side of the man. One held a sword at his throat.

“He doesn’t look mad,” Ashyn said.

“The fever sometimes hides. But the governor can tell.”

“How?”

Healer Mabill shrugged. “The eyes. The manner of speech. Little things.”

“Are there often survivors?”

Another shrug. “Perhaps one every third Seeking. But they’re always infected. They’ve been in the forest too long.”

Something moved deep in the trees. When Ashyn turned, she thought she saw a last ray of sunshine reflecting off a blade. But all the guards were here, and when she squinted into the woods, she saw nothing.

“Ashyn?” Healer Mabill said.

“I thought I saw someone.”

“It might be the two men we left with the first body. I hope so. If the fools got themselves lost, the governor will leave them here.”

“They haven’t returned yet?” Ashyn said.

Healer Mabill shook her head.

No matter how far Ashyn had wandered with Faiban, they’d been able to see the torches at camp, burning bright in the dim forest. If the villagers somehow could not see them, all they had to do was shout for help.

The bard hadn’t returned either.

Ashyn shook off the thought. No one else seemed worried. She turned her attention back to the survivor, Cecil.

“He truly does not look mad,” she said.

“Don’t let that fool you, child. It’s a good thing Faiban was there. If you’d been alone, you might have ended up like my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother?”

“She was a healer in the Seeking party. She came across a survivor who seemed well. Being a kindly woman, she knelt to give him fresh water . . . and he ripped out her throat with his teeth.”

Ashyn’s gaze swung back to the survivor.

“Yes, take a better look, child. I know he seems like a poor wretch, but don’t trust your own eyes. You can’t trust anything out here.”

“What happens if the governor thinks—?”

A gasp cut her short. She turned to see the survivor kneeling there. His head seemed bowed. Then his body fell forward, and the others staggered back out of the way, and she realized that he had no head. That it was lying in the moss. That one of the guards was wiping his bloodied sword.

“He was infected,” the governor announced.

“But . . .” Ashyn whispered, barely able to draw breath. I’m seeing a man’s head. Sliced from his body.

My lady, I have survived.