Degra jerked awake to the distinctive sound of someone being noisily sick. She scrambled to her feet. Carefully she parted the leather and bone hangings that gave her apprentice corner the small illusion of privacy.

In the dim glow of the banked wallfire, she could see Vetrik Bonewatcher, still hunched over a bucket; his muzzle still parted, tail shivering. One clawed hand was splayed against the wall, and it looked as if that was the only thing holding him upright.

“Pandita Vetrik.” She approached him, noting that despite the loudness of his retching, very little in the way of food had come up. That was worrying as it meant his appetite had gotten worse. “You are not well. Let me assist you.” She tried to keep her tone calm, but the lashing of her tail-tip betrayed her worry.

He waved his other hand in her direction. He meant the gesture to be either reassuring or to dissuade her attention. But the chiton he was wearing left his arms bare. Even in the dim light, she could see the greyish tone to his scales. The way the skin hung loose along his arm now. He had lost weight. Weight he really couldn’t afford to lose.

He also almost fell, and Degra stepped forward, gripping his arm to help his balance. His skin was hot.

“Blade and Bowl,” She cursed, “You are ill.” Unspoken but in the air between them was the thought that he was just like the others. Too many of the tribe had been struck by this illness.

Vetrik glanced at her, but remained where he was supported by the wall, and by her, his apprentice. He clearly did not have the strength to argue.

Coldness grew inside her. He was always strong. Always.

He carefully shook his head. “I am not ill.” He said. It was a flat statement, and so ludicrous that her own muzzle parted. “We are not ill.”

“It is not an illness that has come upon us. It is a curse.”

She would have answered him but she had no idea what to say.

An illness could be fought, could be nursed, could be survived. She shook her head.

“Unsui Degra,” His voice wavered just as his balance did. “I have Listened, and the those who have gone before do not lie.”

“Have you then told Brug Steelbelly? Do his chosen even now seek out the one who has cast such a curse?”

The corners of his mouth curved slightly, and he nodded. “A good question, Unsui.”

She thought about it. “But a foolish act. A curse cast can be fought, a curse anchored by death cannot.”

“True.” He blinked slowly. “I am weary, my student, and you must prepare.”

Her own eyes narrowed. “I will not build your cairn while you live. There must be a way.”

“This curse, it seeks out the old, the very young, the infirm. It is,” He tilted his head thoughtfully, “A very well made casting, that was unlikely to be discovered. Still, it must be answered, and the magicks that will be needed to do so must be sought, and quickly.”

“I will fetch them.”

“You know they are not to be found amount the people, or we would have used them; you know that the nearest to us, the Goblins, would overrun us if they knew our weakness.”

She loved Vetrik, but she could see the start of a lecture about politics and territory and she wasn’t really in the mood to listen to a long dissertation. She waved the hand not supporting him. “I know all this. No one shows weakness to a foe.”

“Therefore you must seek succor in the Stone Nest of the Softskins; you must find a Servant of the Bowl among them, and bid her to help us.”

Shocked, she stepped back from him, not noticing that without her support her nearly fell.

“But the Stone Nest; there are none of the people there. You want me to-.” She could barely say it, “you want me to seek help, from … humans?” She put all the disdain, the disbelief that she could into her voice.

He leaned against the wall. “Yes.” His voice was barely a breath. “And you must do so quickly”.