“So it was a disease of some kind?”
“Not a disease. Disease itself, or some pitiful entity that it had become attached to. I am not really sure what it was, Simna. But there was no mistaking its effects. Even as I ran to help you I felt myself starting to grow weak and uneasy. If I had not been able to deal with it we might well all have died.”
Feeling none too energetic himself after the mephitic encounter, the swordsman sat down on a rock. Nearby, Hunkapa Aub was studying the increasingly steep slopes that lay before them. The black litah was sunning itself on the brackish ground.
“The butterfly—” Simna looked up sharply. “Hoy, I remember you putting something on my hand! It set me free.”
Ehomba nodded. “A salve prepared for me by Meruba. I was told that it was useful for dealing with cuts and scrapes, burns and punctures. When I saw what had caught ahold of you it was all I could think of to use.” He gestured downward. “It cured your arm.”
Holding his right hand in his left while gently rubbing it, Simna nodded gratefully. “My arm, yes, but that doesn’t explain the butterfly.” He shuddered once. “What I saw first, when it was visible to me, was no butterfly.”
“No,” the herdsman agreed solemnly. He smiled as he reminisced. “Meruba is known for her salves. It is said that, if applied in sufficient strength, they can cure anything. I used all that she gave me.” Turning his head, his braids bouncing slightly against his neck, he gazed thoughtfully at the northern horizon. “Whatever it was that had hold of you, I think we healed it.”