Mika allowed Starr to lead him back to the village and tuck him into bed. He fell asleep instandy and did not waken until the following morning, his exhausted body doing its best to catch up on lost sleep.
When he wakened, he jumped out of bed, thunderstruck that he had slept so long. There was still much to be done! He dressed hastily, glad to see that his gaundet had not been removed, unable to remember undressing-or anything else for that matter. Much to his surprise, the magic gem had been returned to him as he slept, the gold circlet atop the gem affixed to a brand-new chain of finely forged links. The gem felt warm against his chest, and Mika felt better than he had in days, even though his head still ached with the remnants of a headache.
Starr watched him from the low doorway as he struggled to cram his foot into his boot.
"The princess and I decided that you should keep the stone for safekeeping, Mika. But remember that it's hers, and you must give it back once she is safely home."
Mika sat down on the bed, waiting for the catch, wondering what additional price they were going to extract from him. Getting the stone back couldn't be that simple! Tam snoozed at the end of the bed, and even he opened one eye and twitched an ear.
"What else?" Mika growled suspiciously when nothing else seemed forthcoming.
"Nothing else," Starr said with a gentle smile. "Just keep your word, or you'll be sorry."
"Of course I'll keep my word," muttered Mika as he slipped past Starr and hurried out the door, unwilling to meet her steady gaze. "What do you think I am, untrustworthy?" Fortunately, he was halfway down the path before she answered. He barked a command to Tam and somehow managed to miss her reply.
Mika stopped long enough to pull on his second boot before wandering through the village to look for the shaman's dwelling. Like it or not, he still had to refill his supply of healing herbs and hopefully pick the man's mind for a cure for the awful demon fingers. His task would be complicated by the fact that the shaman did not seem to like him and had voted against him in the council, although Mika did not understand why he had done so.
He found the shaman's dwelling by following the directions of a small child. Like all nomad dwellings, it was constructed of roanwood posts driven deep into the ground and then interwoven with smaller branches and plastered over with moss and mud. He called out. and when there was no answer, he stepped over the broad sill and entered with Tam at his beeb.
Considering the sour nature of the shaman, it was a most pleasant dwelling. He found himself in an unusually large room, with windows the length of one wall. Under the windows was a broad, wood slab, half of a roanwood trunk that served as work space for the preparation of ungents, tinctures, potions, and possets, many of which were placed neatly on the shelves that lined the walls in a wide variety of tiny botdes, horns, vials, and tubes.
Strange plants, only a few of which Mika recognized, grew in moss-lined niches carved in the wooden pillars that supported the roof. Large bunches of dried herbs and medicinal weeds were suspended from the beams. Sacks labeled bat's wings, spider's legs, salamander eyes, and other ingredients necessary for the working of spells were stacked in an orderly fashion under the bench.
A small, gold and silver pseudodragon was perched on the window sill, preening itself in the warm sunlight. The creature hissed at Mika, its long, forked tongue flicking in and out as though tasting his blood, and its poisoned tail quivered nastily above its head. Mika gave it wide berth.
Oban's workshop also featured a large, stone hearth in the center of the room, raised to waist level, bringing it within easy reach. Even now, an immense cauldron hung over the coals, emitting a dank, sulfu- rous stink. Tam backed away, pawing at his nose as a yellow cloud belched out of the pot and rolled over them.
Mika was bending over the cauldron, trying to figure out what was being brewed, when a voice spoke out behind him, calling his name. He turned, wondering why Tam had not warned him of the shaman's approach, but he saw no one.
The voice called his name again. Searching the room, he saw the pseudodragon hovering in mid-air, scarcely a hand's width away from his face, the dangerous, barbed tail ominously close. He flinched back and tried to speak in a level tone.
"Your pardon, honored shaman. I called before I entered, but no one answered. I have come to consult with you on business. Your helper is most impressive, but may I beg your presence in person?"
The pseudodragon darted forward, its little, brightly colored wings vibrating so swiftly that they could barely be seen, its deadly tail positioned to deliver a fatal sting. Mika shielded his face with his gaundet, knowing that to be stung on any portion of his body was to die. Tam snarled and lunged for the effervescent creature, his teeth snapping on empty air.
"No, Tam, down!" cried Mika as he batted at the creature, trying to knock it out of the air, alarmed that Tam might actually catch the dangerous thing.
"Mika," it said just as Mika's hand struck it full on the body. Abrupdy, amazingly, the pseudodragon turned into the shaman right before Mika's startled eyes.
The man's face was set in a grim frown, his attitude unimproved by the fact that Mika's hand was still resting heavily on top of his head.
"Uh oh," gulped Mika as he began to brush the shaman down, whisking non-existent dust off the man's wolfskin cloak. "I've been looking for you, honored one."
The shaman struck Mika's hand aside and drew himself up to his full height, his dark, beady eyes flashing angrily. "What do you want?"
"I need to replenish my supplies. All of my healing herbs and potions were destroyed," Mika replied politely, knowing that he must not lose his temper. "I worry about the safety of my party, traveling with my medicine pouch empty."
"From what I've heard of your skills, your party will be immeasurably safer without them," said the shaman, his wattled neck quivering with anger.
Mika stared at the man in bewilderment, unable to figure out why the shaman seemed to dislike him so much.
"I am not that bad," he said cautiously.
"That is not what my brother says," sneered the shaman.
"Who is your brother?" Mika asked, mystified.
"Whituk, shaman of the Far Fringe Clan," said Oban, watching Mika's face to measure the impact of his words.
He was not disappointed. Mika blanched and the blood left his face at the mention of the hated name. Whituk! The mealy-mouthed assistant who had become shaman and magic-user upon the death of Mika's father, thus casting Mika out of the clan without a hearth to call his own. Whituk! Whituk who had always been jealous of him. No, he would find no help from these quarters.
Mika turned on his heel without a word and made as if to go. The shaman's voice rang out again. "Why have you come to see me?" he asked harshly. "Do not speak of potions and healing herbs. These things are helpful, but you have a spell book. With the gem to aid you, you do not need such things. What is the real reason you have come? Speak truthfully, with none of your guile, and mayhaps I will help you."
Mika hesitated, desperate for guidance from one skilled enough to know the answer. The man hated him, that was clear, but he was a professional; his impressive laboratory spoke more eloquently than any words. His pride in his calling might cause him to help solve Mika's terrible problem. Deciding that he had little to lose and everything to gain, Mika turned to face the shaman. In an open and honest voice he told Oban about his encounter with the demon Maelfesh, sparing none of the details.
The three-fingered demon hand rested on the table between the two men, Mika's own two remaining fingers dwarfed by the larger, green digits; his palm seemed too small to accommodate such monstrosities. The shaman turned the hand over one last time and then set it gently on the table with a sigh.
"I'm sorry," he said, looking Mika straight in the eye, all sign of his earlier hostility gone. "There's really nothing I can do. It's a clear cut case of demon digititis. The prognosis is not good. The possession will continue to advance, finger after finger, then hand, arm, and so on."
"You mean… all of me?" Mika said in a small voice. "I–I could turn into a demon? Isn't there anything you can do to stop it? And how come the demon knows every thought I'm thinking the very heartbeat that it comes to mind?"
Oban, now just a harmless old shaman forced to deliver bad news to a patient, sighed again and rubbed his eyes. "I don't know how the demon knows. It could be any one of a number of devices; something that you possess, carry with you always, must be acting as a window and enables the demon to know what is happening. It could be some article of clothing, or something as mundane as your knife. But even without the window, the demon would still be all but invincible, for his powers far outweigh those of any mortal."
"Then what am I to do?" Mika asked in desperation.
"You must do what the demon ordered," said Oban. "Go to Exag, find this king, and wait for further instructions. And when they come, follow them to the last dot or you will surely be demon fodder."
"But what are the chances of his releasing me unharmed, even if I do as he says?" asked Mika.
"Not great," admitted Oban. "But what are your chances otherwise? I know of only one thing that will undo the damage."
"What?" asked Mika, gripping the table tightly.
"Something or someone of greater power," answered Oban.
"What about the stone that matches this one?" asked Mika, holding up the magic gem. "Would the two of them together be strong enough?"
"Perhaps. I do not know what their properties are, what they are capable of," Oban replied. "But it would certainly be worth trying. Just remember one thing: the demon will know the very instant you deviate from his instructions, and he will act accordingly."
With those words hanging heavy in his heart, Mika left the shaman's dwelling, his pouch swelled to overflowing with an abundance of healing potions, ungents, herbs, and tinctures, none of which could assuage his problems.
With the revelation of the dread demon fingers, Oban had lost his earlier hostility; he watched Mika go with a look of pity on his face, knowing that the man was as good as dead. Whituk would never have to worry again.