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One day, Dawsyn will finally lay down every tangible and intangible weapon before him, and he will say,See? Do you see now, how exactly right we are?

And until then, he will scratch. He will pull the hair from his scalp and curse the Holy Mother until there is no more resistance.

“Riv,” Ryon calls, finally finding the male. He has been searching each crevice of the Chasm for him.

Around them, people are gathering their meagre belongings, preparing for another endless trek. More than once, he hears the discontented murmurs – some angry, but mostly tired.

“What use is there walking onward?”

“She told us it would only take several days.”

The sixth day inside the Chasm dawns, and Ryon cannot shake the feeling that it may be their last, whether the end comes or not.

“Brother,” Rivdan says as Ryon approaches, nodding solemnly.

“How many?”

“I counted two,” he says in answer. “Tash found one other.”

Ryon sighs. Three more dead. “How?” he mutters quietly, carefully, aware of lingering ears.

“One tied a leather swath around his face. He was blue when I found him. Not certain about the others. Seems as though they died in their sleep. Many of them were already weak when we brought them here.”

Ryon nods. “I’ll tell Dawsyn.”

“Today, it is three. Tomorrow it may be ten.” Rivdan is quiet a moment. “It is odd,” he says, “these deaths.”

“Suicides,” Ryon corrects. “Though I do not think we could call it deliberate.”

Rivdan raises his eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” comes Tasheem’s voice. She joins their halo of light, brow furrowed.

“It’s this sickness spreading among them,” Ryon tells them. “I think it may be driving some to insanity. I’ve heard mentions of voices.”

“Voices?” Rivdan says, and then he falls quiet again.

Rivdan has always offered few words by nature, but his silence now alerts Ryon. He has known the male long enough to be able to discern the subtle differences in his quiet. The set of his lips, the distant stare; he can see the contemplation, some spark that has been ignited at the mention of hearing voices.

If there is one among them who knows tales of a contagion such as this, it is surely Rivdan, the storyteller.

Ryon grasps his shoulder. “Riv? Do you know any stories like this? Of people plagued by delusions? Possibly madness?”

Rivdan seems to chew on his tongue for a moment. “There isone.”

Dawsyn eyes Ryon warily when he finds her, but he doesn’t allow her time to speak before he grasps her upper arm and lifts her from the ground. “Come with me,” he says simply, ardently. “And for once, just do as I ask without arguing.”

Her eyes dilate, startled. He hauls her away without waiting for a response.

They wind their way back through the clusters of bodies, sitting and standing, until Ryon finds Tasheem and Rivdan again, waiting solemnly.

“What is it?” Dawsyn asks them all, her eyes flicking to each of them, but inevitably settling on Rivdan’s.

His are furtive. Unsettled.

“Rivdan may have some knowledge of… of a contagion. Just like the one spreading among us.”

Dawsyn raises her eyebrows. “Does he now?”