“This is admirable. I now speak. Let it be done. Alpèasak will be cleansed of vermin and rebuilt. So when the cold winds come to Ikhalmenets, Ikhalmenets will come to Alpèasak. Do this thing now.”

“It begins, Eistaa,” Vaintè said.

It begins—but does not end there, she added, but in unmoving silence so that none could hear her thoughts. The city will be cleansed and will be Yilanè again. When that is done I will ask a boon and it will be granted. I will ask the eistaa only that I be permitted to use the seed-lizards to make the rest of this land uninhabitable for ustuzou. Then will I seek them out and destroy them. Thus will I kill the Kerrick-ustuzou at last.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Saagakel was swollen with anger, her pendulous cheeks trembling with rage. The ambesed was empty and so silent that the bubbling of the water beneath the golden bridges could be clearly heard—since all had fled at the first signs of her great displeasure. Only the single, helpless fargi remained, the one who had brought the displeasing message. In silence Saagakel fought to control her emotions: this simple creature was not responsible and must not be made to die because of the information that she had brought. Saagakel believed in ruling justly, and there would be no justice in killing the young thing. But she could kill her, indeed she could, with a single word. Knowing this she took pleasure in her power and leaned back on the sunwarmed wood, took pleasure from its warmth as well and from her city that surrounded the ambesed. When she spoke again it was with clear strength.

“Rise, young one, and face your Eistaa and know that your life will be a long one in her service and that of her city.”

At this the fargi stopped trembling and stood, her eyes moist with adoration of her Eistaa, her body shaped to receive any command. Saagakel accepted her due and her voice was still gentle when she spoke.

“Repeat again what you were instructed to come and tell me. No harm will befall you—that is an Eistaa’s promise.”

The fargi’s body grew rigid with concentration as she fought to remember the exact phrasing. “From one who serves lowly in the service of Saagakel, Eistaa of Yebèisk and highest. Motions and colors of greatest sadness. In two days a sickness has descended upon the groves where the okhalakx graze and many are unmoving. Even more dead. Aid is sought to save the living.”

It could be no accident. Saagakel’s eyes blazed with anger—but her body was unmoving, under control. The fargi waited in rapt silence. No accident. Some years ago this same sickness had spread among the okhalakx, but Ambalasi had cured it. Now, just a few days after Ambalasi’s imprisonment, the disease had returned.