Brook isn’t a botanist, or a scientist, or even remotely curious about plants, but she knows the basics. Tajss flora doesn’t rot unless it has a reason—parasites or blight, usually—but none of those cause this. I shift back, wiping sweat from my brow.
“We need to get this to Calista and Jolie,” I say.
Brook nods, but she’s distracted.
“Yeah… well… the hunters came back.”
I freeze. “Already? That was fast.”
She bites her lip, uneasy. “Lia… some of them are sick.”
A cold knot forms at the base of my spine.
“Sick how?”
“They’re throwing up. Dizzy. Some can’t stand.” She swallows. “It’s not just Urr’ki. Two Cavern Zmaj too.”
That knot tightens until it hurts.
Zmaj don’t get sick. They heal faster, get hurt harder, fight longer. A Cavern Zmaj being ill is like watching a mountain crumble.
“Come on,” Brook says, voice cracking a little. “Calista sent me to find you. Said you’d know what to look for.”
My stomach flips. Praise and pressure roll together unpleasantly. I’m the youngest botanist, the least experienced, and the least impressive compared to Calista and Jolie, but they trust me. They gave me this chance, and I won’t screw it up. I quickly cut the pod and tuck it into my basket.
“Let’s go.”
We’re not far outside the valley that houses all the refugees. I’m not stupid, and wandering into the desert alone would be about as dumb as you could get. Tajss is beautiful—amazing, even—but none of that lessens the fact that it’s also deadly.
Making our way up the final dune is exhausting. My thighs burn long before we reach the top. The loose sand is an absolute bitch. Every step forward is accompanied by a half-step slide backward. And all the while my mind is a storm of thoughts, worried about all the things everyone is concerned with: food, water, and shelter. But the worst is that I know things most don’t.
Something is poisoning every possible food supply we’ve found. The hunters have been coming back empty-handed because the creatures that would normally supply us with meat have moved on. Something has to change, and soon.
Coming down the opposite side of the dune is much easier since the sliding pushes us forward. Then it’s a simple matter of traversing the edge of the canyon back to its entrance, and we’re home. As soon as we pass through the canyon’s mouth, we hear the shouting. I glance over and see Brook grimacing too.
The settlement is makeshift and meant to be temporary. Canvas tents, stretched hides, structures built from scavenged cavern metal. One massive tent holds the infirmary, and that’s where the shouting is coming from.
Zmaj shouting. Which means things are bad.
Brook and I hurry forward and duck inside the tent. The air hits me like a wall—hot and humid, heavy with sickness, thick with herbal steam meant to cool fevered bodies.
Two Urr’ki lie on pallets, limbs shaking, long talons gripping the earth as if anchoring themselves. Their green skin is a pale, sickly color, their features drawn tight with fever and pain.
Addison is kneeling between the two Urr’ki, tending to them. Standing over her is a Cavern Zmaj, distinguishable by his dark claws and the pale tint to his scales. That’s Tsi’tel. He’s a healer, and he looks troubled—eyes narrow, frown deep.
Three Cavern Zmaj are near them, talking low and tense. The Cavern Zmaj always huddle together, generally preferring to stick to themselves. The Surface Zmaj stand farther off, arms crossed, watching. Stiff and aloof. United in geography, divided in history. As usual.
One of the Urr’ki jolts, vomiting black fluid into a bucket, and the smell hits me like a blow. It’s the same shade of black as the vine. My stomach is so tight it hurts.
I spy Calista off to one side, her jaw clenched. Jolie is at her side, talking to Tsi’tel in Zmaj, not Common.
“Lia,” Calista says, spotting me, the tension on her face easing if only slightly. “Thank the suns.”
I rush to her side. “What’s happened?”
“They returned from a short-range hunt south of the ridge,” she says, voice brisk but strained. “Began vomiting within minutes of returning.”
“It’s not a fever,” Jolie adds, her tone softer but worried. “Not a stomach parasite. And their bodies aren’t only rejecting food—they’re rejecting everything.”
