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reliance on Talent and embrace the new learning.
    That is, if we manage to survive both the plague and the Soldaran invasion.
    A three-quarter moon hung like a clipped silver coin amid a thick field of stars. The old healer led the way through a stand of trees to the side of a hill, holding a bull’s-eye lantern above his graying head to light their way. Its golden beam fell upon a stout wooden door set into the side of the grass-covered hill.
    “He’s right inside, milord Prince, lying on the lowermost shelf at the back,” the old man said. He gripped the heavy iron ring handle and heaved the door open, then led the way along a sloping passage deep into the interior of the hill.
    The passage ended in a circular chamber constructed of tightly fitted, whitewashed stone. Raidan looked around, impressed with the old man’s workroom. Wood shelves, filled with a variety of pots, jars, and caskets, ran along the curve of the walls on either side of the door. A complete kit of dissection tools hung on pegs attached to a table at the center of the room. At the very back, three shelves had been recessed into the wall. Only one held an occupant—the lowest, as stated.
    “I’ll need your assistance, healer,” Raidan said as he stepped over to the body and pulled back a fold of the heavy shroud, revealing the dead man’s face.
    “Of course, milord,” the old man answered. “I have specimen jars, salt, vinegar. Just tell me what you need.” He hung the lantern from a hook embedded in the ceiling, then turned to wait upon the prince, who stood gazing with pensive eyes at the waxen features of the corpse.
    “This is a man who’s been struck down in the prime of his life,” Raidan said.
    “Just so, milord. ’Tis a tragedy.”
    “Help me carry him to the table.”
    While Raidan managed the head and shoulders, the old healer took the legs and feet. Together, the two men wrestled the corpse onto the table, where Raidan pulled the sheet away to reveal the entire body.
    “I like the design of this dissection table,” he commented as he dropped the shroud to the floor and pushed it aside with his foot.
    The old man squared his bony shoulders and grinned. “I designed it myself, your Highness. The top is glazed ceramic, and you see here, these channels along the sides? Perfect for the drainage of body fluids. I also put drains in the floor…”
    “Yes, yes, very impressive,” Raidan cut in. The healer gulped and fell silent. “I need to get started now,” the prince added. “There’s a lot of work to do.”
    “I can hang your cloak on the peg by the door, Highness. I also have an extra apron if you would like,” the old man offered meekly.
    “Thank you, yes, and light another lantern if you have one.” Raidan eased his satchel off his shoulder and let it slip to the floor. As the healer scurried to comply, the prince continued his preliminary examination of the corpse. All the telltale signs of the plague were present—purplish swellings under the jaw, a blackened, protruding tongue, hemorrhage from eyes, ears, nose, and mouth.
    No doubt I’ll find blood at the anus as well , the prince thought.
    “Jashen,” the healer said.
    “What?” Raidan threw a sideways glance at the old man.
    The healer pointed to the corpse. “His name was Jashen. Jashen Hosha. He was a farmer. Owned a decent-sized spread just south of here.” The old man sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what his poor wife’s going to do. Two little ones and a third on the way.”
    Raidan rummaged in his bag and withdrew a small leather case. He eased it open and removed a pearl-handled scalpel. “Has the woman no other family to assist her?” he asked, brow furrowed in concentration as he carefully cut into one of the swellings, releasing a gush of black fluid.
    “Suka is a northerner,” the healer replied. “She’s got no family anywhere near Tono, sad to say, your Highness.”
    Raidan laid down the scalpel then reached into his