been. His establishment was better stocked, with neat shelves full of bowls and boxes, each labeled with a picture of its contents and the symptoms those contents were purported to relieve. One smallish box bore one picture of a yawning moon and another of a crying baby with an oversized tooth. She nudged Yohan gently and made arrowlike movements with her eyes to direct his attention to the proper place. He acknowledged with a deliberate blink.
Yohan and the elven proprietor observed all the rude forms of Urikite conversation. They traded smooth insults and sly insinuations, but the result was the same: the apothecary had no Ral’s Breath in stock—the box she’d noticed was, in his words ‘as empty as our Lord Hamanu’s tomb.’ And the elf was adamantly uninterested in purchasing anything they might have to offer.
“Too much trouble,” he insisted. “If you’re in pain, go to a sawbones healer, or buy yourself something that works—” He gestured toward a shelf of amber bottles, each labeled with a sleeping or smiling face.
“And that doesn’t attract too much attention?” Yohan inquired.
“That’s always wise, isn’t it? Who but a fool wants to attract attention?”
Yohan pointed at the empty Ral’s Breath box. “A fool with a baby that’s cutting a tooth? There’ll always be mothers with babies, and always the fathers who provide them. How does a licensed apothecary meet the demand when yellow-robe scum take away his goods?”
It seemed for a heartbeat that the elf was going to give them a useful answer, then shouts erupted outside. Akashia instantly recognized the distressed voices of the Quraite farmers and feared the worst. The elf didn’t know about the farmers or the loaded cart they guarded, but he came to the same conclusion.
“Get out!” he demanded and took one threatening step toward them and the door before clapping his hands hard against the sides of his head.
She felt the mind-bending assault too: a burning agony that lanced her eyes and roared in her ears. It threatened to engulf every mote of knowledge and identity in her mind, but it was not the worst she’d encountered: when Grandmother taught the Unseen Way she hadn’t pulled her punches. After an eyeblink of monsters from the mind-bender’s nightmares, Akashia successfully wrapped herself in a fortress of peace. The attack beat harmlessly against her defenses, which, in the nature of the Unseen Way, formed an invisible sphere around her body that extended to Yohan and the apothecary, both of whom had fallen to the floor in screaming terror.
The power of an Unseen attack was such that the invading images summoned up the victim’s direst memories that continued to wreak their havoc after the mind-bender had withdrawn. Akashia had thrown up her fortress before the invasion took root; she cast out the mind-bender’s repulsive images one by one.
Yohan’s lesser defenses had been overwhelmed. His mind radiated gore—a gathering of dwarves cut down and mutilated by mounted soldiers—until she pinched the bridge of his nose. His thoughts righted themselves quickly and he caught her hand before she could administer a similar mercy to the writhing elf.
“No time! Which way? Where’s it coming from?”
She swung her mind’s attention from the visible world to the Unseen one where an evil drone echoed everywhere. No matter what she did, she couldn’t localize the attack, which was continuing. “I—I don’t know. It’s everywhere—” Then another, more horrible thought rose from her own imagination. “We’re surrounded.”
“We’ve got to try—” Yohan towed her toward the door. “Maybe they’re not looking for us.”
But she knew, as soon as he said the words, that the attack had been directed at them—even though it caught the apothecary and a dozen street-side passersby in its net. And the Quraite farmers, as well. They’d both collapsed beside the cart. Blood seeped from the nose, mouth, and ears of the man who’d lost his knife. Akashia touched him lightly and withdrew. His life essence had been driven out; there was nothing she could do for him.
The other farmer was still alive, but his mind remained empty after she banished the ravening beasts of his nightmares. His sense of self might come back of its own, given enough time—but there wasn’t any time at all. Luckless city-dwellers lay on the ground, a few of them bleeding like the first farmer, the others wailing in their misery as the attack continued.
A ragged, half-grown boy crouched warily a short step away from one of the fallen passersby. He reached for the coin purse looped over