None of them knew the monastery's name, but it was a typical example of the sort of cloister that dotted the Chalk Hills. Ammas supposed it might have been a success story, its ranks swelled in the years after the dissolution and so its members moved to a larger institution elsewhere in the Anointed Realms. Or perhaps it had been something as prosaic as poor soil; a monastery that was not self-sustaining was impermissible under the holy orders of any of the Ninefold faiths.

But by the tenets of the Ninefold Vow even an abandoned monastery could not be allowed to fall too deeply into disrepair, and so this place had survived as a little-used waystation for lost or weary travelers. The old cemetery and nearby grove were a bit overgrown, but had probably seen token maintenance at some point in the last five years. There were no gaping holes in the ceiling of either the central tower or the adjacent wings. The outer walls were weathered, but not crumbled, though the gateway was only an open arch with neither door nor fence. What little decay the place showed was more likely due to its proximity to the Straits of Twilight than the mere fact of its abandonment.

A sparse courtyard, overgrown with parched grass, was formed by the outer walls and the central tower's wings. From the edge of the gate to one corner stood a low wooden structure that could only be a stable. Smoke from a cookfire rose from its edge. Carala and Casimir were standing nearby, Casimir arguing goodnaturedly with Barthim over just how much bacon they should cook.

"Lord Marhollow is not looking very hungry, Cass. I will cook it if you are insisting, but I think this is just your way of asking for seconds."

"It is not," Casimir said primly. "If he's really sick, he should eat."

"Listen to him, Barthim. He's the apprentice cursewright, not you." Ammas smiled from under his hat as he strode across the courtyard. Thankfully Barthim did not sweep him into a hug this time, though the bouncer's relief at Ammas's appearance was palpable. "Where are Denisius and Vos? I need to speak to them at once."

Barthim led him down the rows of empty stalls, several of which they had occupied with bedrolls. The place still smelled faintly of horse. Carala and Casimir followed close behind. Vos was seated on a low stool, toying with a cigar as his gaze moved from the stall beside him to Ammas and back again. "Morning, Ammas. How's the hand? Her ladyship bind it up properly?"

"She did. With your help, I understand."

Vos nodded, smiling vaguely, his eyes troubled. Carala looked away with a blush.

"Let me take a look at Denisius." Vos rose from his stool, arms crossed on his chest, still fidgeting with his cigar. Ammas stepped to the edge of the stall and looked down at its occupant.

Lord Marhollow was wrapped in a blanket and crouched over a splintered wooden bucket, a sickly odor of vomit lingering in the air. Sweat beaded on his forehead and when he turned his eyes up his face looked even paler than Ammas when he had collapsed at the tomb.

With a murmur the cursewright took Vos's stool and seated himself in front of the young man. "Not feeling well, I take it? What's the trouble?"

"I think nerves," he said in a papery whisper. "I've never seen anything like that before."

"Perhaps. But what are your symptoms?"

"Can't seem to keep food or water down. My head is spinning. And -- "

" -- and I imagine you have a wretched itch on your hands and feet, and it's spreading."

A little nonplussed, Denisius nodded.

"Give me your injured hand."

None of them missed how badly Denisius's hand was shaking as he extended it to Ammas. The cursewright had donned a pair of gloves forged from fine mail links, their metal surface lacquered a dull black. Carala hissed as Ammas examined Lord Marhollow's hand: his first two fingers were covered in hideous yellow blisters, and a few more had welled up on the back of his hand. Frowning, Ammas peered close, tilting his hat back a little so he could bring Denisius's hand nearly level with his nose. Clucking his tongue thoughtfully, the cursewright took from his belt his twinhooks. With its golden prongs Ammas lightly prodded the largest of the blisters. Denisius grimaced, flinching all over.

"Hurts, I see." Ammas sighed. "Well, my compliments, Lord Marhollow. You're the first known subject of the Anointed Realms to contract the Yellow Death in almost thirty years. That's quite an accomplishment, though not one I'm sure I'd boast about."

"What?" Denisius exclaimed. "You fed us a potion! You said it would keep us from catching it!"

"And so it did, and it's the reason you're still alive. When you were fighting those abominations, I venture that you stuck your fingers into an eyesocket? Or a mouth?"

Denisius gawped.

"It's where the purest concentration of the plague can be found. Without the elixir, the Yellow Death would have killed you in less than an hour, and you'd be fast on your way to becoming one of those things." Ammas pulled a fresh flask from his belt. "Drink it all this time. Even with the elixir such a potent infection is perfectly capable of killing you in few days."

Denisius muttered darkly as he swallowed the elixir, looking as though he didn't quite believe Ammas. But then, no one else seemed to be infected, and Ammas had correctly surmised how he had sickened. "I think I may have some on my ear as well. It -- well, it almost bit me."

Nodding, Ammas scraped his stool closer, gently parting Denisius's hair with his gloved fingers. Behind Lord Marhollow's ear, and nestled in the scalp around it, was indeed a small cluster of yellow blisters. "Not to worry. This is more of a surface infection; much easier to treat."

"That's good, I suppose," Denisius muttered.

"Anyone who is uninterested in seeing blisters burst may excuse themselves now," Ammas said cheerfully, rolling up Lord Marhollow's sleeve and inspecting his forearm. Barthim immediately stepped away, saying something about needing to check on the tea. Vos was dutybound to stay by his master's side, but he apparently decided that didn't extend to actually witnessing this unpleasant procedure. Casimir and Carala, however, drew closer.

"Are you sure you want to watch?" Ammas murmured to his apprentice.

"If I become a cursewright, will I ever have to treat the Yellow Death?"

"If you stay in Munazyr, you probably will."

"Then I want to watch."

Ammas smiled. "And you, Carala? So far as I know I have not apprenticed you."

"No," she replied, smiling fondly at Denisius, who looked most discomfited. "But Lord Marhollow and I were to be wed, before my own infection. And he fought bravely in the tunnels. I believe I owe him what comfort I might lend."

"He did fight bravely," Ammas said, retrieving several bandages from his belt and laying them across his lap.

"I am a fool," Denisius muttered at his feet.

"Why? Because you didn't know how the Yellow Death spread? Do you have any idea how few people have ever contracted it this way?" Ammas scowled. "Carala is right, Lord Marhollow. You fought very bravely. This is my fault if anyone's. I ought to have examined each of you before we ever settled down for the night." He grimaced. "I just had my own moment of weakness to contend with."

Denisius shivered as Ammas sprinkled a pale green fluid over the blisters. "Cold," he said. "Is it supposed to feel cold?"

"It's a numbing solution. You don't want me doing this without it." In his gloved fingers Ammas held up the twinhooks, its prongs glittering wickedly. "Might want to look away from this."

Denisius did as suggested. Ammas jabbed the largest of the blisters, pressing a folded bandage to it as a jet of yellowish pus spurted forth. Humming to himself, he went about the task of lancing and draining. "If you feel you might pass out, let me know. Wine can help."

"I think I'd like some wine," Lord Marhollow said faintly. Ammas nodded to Casimir, who darted off to Barthim for wine and a cup.

Carala watched, totally fascinated.

"Was it always like this?" Denisius said thickly as Casimir brought not just a cup of wine but a whole jug. (Having once suffered an infection from one of his earlier tattoos, Barthim was deeply sympathetic to a man in Lord Marhollow's straits.) "The Yellow Death?"

"If only," Ammas said drily. "If it had only been like this it wouldn't have nearly wiped Munazyr from the map."

"What do you remember of it?"

Ammas looked around at Carala, her question seeming to linger in his ears. "I suppose palace gossip has told you my history?"

"Only that you made your name as a boy, and that it was something to do with the plague."

Ammas half-smiled and looked at his apprentice, who looked as eager for a story of the cursewright's youth as he had been to watch Lord Marhollow's blisters be drained. "And I suppose you'd like to know what I remember of it too?"

"I asked you yesterday," Casimir reminded him. He pointed at the sun rising over the Chalk Hills. "You said you would when we could feel the sun on our faces."

"I did, didn't I?" Ammas bent to Denisius's arm, lancing again. The smaller blisters were deeper in his flesh and required more work. "If you both insist, I suppose. And if Lord Marhollow doesn't mind being a captive audience."

"Anything to take my mind off this would be more than welcome." Denisius shuddered and took a long draw of wine straight from the jug.

Ammas nodded, and after a moment, began to speak.

*